Ник Сайнт - Purrfect Heat

Ron joined Harry at the bar, and they both watched Le Miffre carefully. The criminal mastermind was tapping his chin, which was his tell, Harry knew. He shared a look of understanding with Hermione. Le Miffre was going to go all in now. Time to up their game and get in on the action. He casually got up and crossed the casino floor to the poker table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked Le Miffre.

The evil genius gave him an appraising glance, then nodded. Harry sat down. Time to show Le Miffre who he was dealing with. It was do or die.

“Oh, Harry, do be careful,” Hermione’s voice trumpeted in his ear.

He locked eyes with the fair-haired beauty and nodded. “Always.”

Just then, the ghost of a fat man came bursting through the table, upending the entire game and sending chips and cards flying everywhere.

“What the…” Harry cried, and even Le Miffre seemed miffed.

The ghost howled a startled cry, apparently as surprised as they were, and howled, “He killed me! The Dark Lord killed me! Killed me dead!”

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!”

Myron Catling heaved a weary sigh and got up from his seat to stretch his limbs. The young actor, chosen to follow in the footsteps of Daniel Radcliffe and play the legendary Harry Potter, was frankly getting sick and tired of this nonsense. This was the third time already that this poltergeist had interrupted his key scene, and he was losing his patience.

Devin Design, the actor who played Ron, walked over. “What’s all this nonsense?! Why can’t they get rid of this bloody nuisance?”

“It’s not a nuisance, Devin,” he said. “It’s a poltergeist.”

Devin laughed his trademark whinnying laugh, very different from the character he was playing, and a lot more annoying. “That’s impossible! Ghosts don’t exist!”

“Ghosts do exist, Devin,” Christy Gyp said prissily. Christy had been selected from thousands of actors to step into Emma Watson’s shoes as Hermione Granger, and was doing a good job of imitating the part she was supposed to play. “Can’t you see? This poor soul probably died in this studio and now he’s trapped here.” She looked properly concerned as they all watched the poltergeist dive back into the table and disappear from sight, leaving a large glob of green goo on the poker table and on everyone who was so unfortunate to stand too close.

“Well, bloody hell!” Sam Carr cried. He played Le Miffre and was now covered from head to toe in the green slimy substance. “He slimed me!”

“It’s ectoplasm,” Christy said knowingly. “It’s supposed to be great for your complexion.” She dipped a finger into the slime and rubbed it across the back of her hand. “Has both exfoliating and hydrating qualities.”

The director stalked up to them. He was a rail-thin man in his mid-fifties and was famous for having directed more than a few James Bond movies. In fact most of the people working on the new Harry Potter movie— Harry Potter and the Dark Lord’s Return —were veterans of the James Bond franchise. They’d even rehashed an old James Bond script.

“This is the third time today that horrible beast has done this!” the director fumed. He stared at the table, which was now a mess. “We’re going to have to get the set decorators in here and redo the entire set. Again!”

There were groans of exasperation from the extras who played the other casino guests and players. They’d been on their feet for hours, trying to get this scene right. Myron wasn’t too well pleased either. He was starting to lose his focus, and since this was a breakout part for him, he couldn’t exactly afford to drop the ball. He was, after all, playing the lead.

“Can’t we film this scene another time?” he asked. “Maybe move on to the next scene on the schedule for now?”

“No way,” said the director, upsetting his tousled head of gray hair. “The next scene requires even more preparation. It’s the scene where Le Miffre tortures you in the casino basement and Hermione and Ron save your life by knocking him out with the Hellfire curse.”

Yep. The script wasn’t exactly adapted from a JK Rowling book.

Just then, Myron’s eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where a crimson spot had appeared. He pointed at it. “Has that always been there?”

The others’ eyes also rose to check out the spot.

“I think it’s more of that slime,” Devin said.

“Ectoplasm,” Christy corrected him.

“Whatever. I just think this whole thing is a joke. Something cooked up by the marketing department to drum up interest for the movie.”

“Yeah, because a new Harry Potter movie needs all the interest it can get,” Christy said with an eyeroll.

In the movie, Ron and Hermione might be an item now, but their actors didn’t exactly get along. Not that Myron blamed Devin. Christy could be a pain in the butt sometimes. She was a method actress, and liked to stay in character between scenes. And Hermione might be lovely in the movies—or the books—but in real life her know-it-all act could be grating.

The table moved again, and the ghost popped back out. “He killed me!” he was yelling. “The Dark Lord killed me! He killed me dead!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin said. “You said that already. Your stupid little party trick is getting old, buddy.”

The ghost hovered over the poker table for a moment, taking in Devin, Myron and Christy, then said, “Save me, Harry Potter. Save me!”

But instead of sticking around to be saved, he streaked into the ceiling, spraying them all with more goo. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he slammed into the ceiling so hard it burst open and something big and heavy dropped out! It landed smack dab in the middle of the table and, finally giving up the fight, the table collapsed and smashed to the floor.

“What the hell…” Myron said as he stared down at whatever had dropped out of the ceiling. And then Christy started to scream, and he saw what it was: the body of a very large, very dead man. A man who was the spitting image of the ghost.

Chapter One

I picked up my phone and saw I had three missed messages from Darian. I was hurrying after Jarrett as we walked past the guard station and into the studio. Pinewood Studios is famous for the James Bond movies, just like Leavesden Studios is famous for the Harry Potter movies. Why they were filming the ninth Potter movie here, I didn’t know, nor did I care.

We’d been called here to do a job. Ever since Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton and I—Jarrett is my best friend and associate—launched the Wraith Wranglers, our brand of ghost hunting had been in high demand, but this was by far our highest-profile job ever. We’d never been called in to drive away a ghost on the set of a major motion picture before.

“Do you think Harry Potter will be there?” Jarrett asked excitedly as we were led through a maze of corridors and sets to the main soundstage.

“I’m sure they’ll all be there,” I said. I was more concerned with Darian and why he’d left those messages right now. I hadn’t seen the Scotland Yard inspector in a couple of days, nor had I heard from him, and I was starting to wonder what was going on. Ever since we started dating, not a day had gone by when we hadn’t spoken on the phone or met either at his place or mine. I was starting to think he’d met someone new.

“I can’t wait to meet Hermione Granger,” Jarrett said. “She’s the bomb.”

Oh, in case you were wondering, my name is Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. I’m a twenty-three-year-old former antique store clerk who’d inadvertently landed a job as a ghost hunter when my former employer Sir Geoffrey Buckley was murdered. His ghost had come back to help me solve his murder, and from there Jarrett and I had gone on to solve more ghost mysteries than anyone could shake a stick at. With my fair complexion, blond bob and golden eyes, I don’t exactly look like a ghost hunter. Then again, what does a ghost hunter look like? I’d never met one before I became one.