Ann Aguirre - Agave Kiss

It didn’t take long to check out, as we had been renting day by day; fortunately the hotel was booked light enough to accommodate this laissez-faire strategy. On the street, it was cool and damp, not quite raining.

I liked the ready access to public transportation here, however. We made our way to the tube, and with minimal effort got a train to Stoke. They ran regularly, faster than driving, according to Shan’s Internet search. In short order, we settled into the car along with the other passengers. Some looked like commuters; others were sightseeing, based on their luggage and camera addiction. Shan settled in the window seat, which left me on the aisle. The car was three-quarters full. I said little as we pulled out of the station. Butch stayed hidden in my bag as we hadn’t checked the pet policy before we traveled. But it was a short trip, so he could nap for that long.

“You want me to find somebody to pick us up?” She pulled up Booke’s address on her smart phone, mapping it online.

I leaned over to scrutinize the distance. “That would be good. Looks like it’s not in town.”

Shan was already searching. “So a car service, not a taxi.”

“Good call.”

The girl was remarkably efficient at finding information on her cell, and after a few moments of clicking, then one call, she arranged a ride for us. “See, Corine, technology is your friend.”

Because it was Shan, I dredged up a smile, even though my throat was always, always tight, as if the tears could start up at any minute. Sometimes it was hard to look at her, knowing I’d brought Chance with me, then he died saving her. It was supposed to be me, I thought in the heaviest despair. The sensation didn’t dissipate. Instead with it rose a profound nausea, possibly caused by the movement of the train.

I barely made it to the lavatory before emptying my stomach. Three more heaves and I had nothing left. Great. Though I’d never heard of grief making somebody physically ill, there was a first time for everything, right? Unsteadily, I pushed upright, then rinsed my mouth repeatedly. Washing my face and hands didn’t seem like enough so I used antibacterial gel when I got back to my seat.

“Everything all right?” Shan asked, her gaze skimming my face.

“Just not feeling well.” In so many ways. “I’ll get over it.”

“Do you want something to eat or drink?”

“God, no. After I catch a nap, I’ll be fine.” Listless, I turned my head against the window, saw nothing of the countryside, and willed myself to sleep.

I woke to Shan’s hand on my shoulder. “We’re here. Feeling any better?”

“I think so.” Blearily, I followed her to disembark.

We had no baggage to collect, so we moved quickly through the crowd of milling passengers. The train station was busy with people collecting friends and relatives, tourists poring over maps to figure out the way to their hotels, commuters striding with bold confidence.

A few paces on, the driver was waiting for us with a small sign. He was around forty with a crop of ginger hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles.

Shan nudged me. “Is it weird that I feel shiny over that placard?”

“No. It’s a first for me too. Very VIP.” I managed a smile.

He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but there was no question we were the Cheney party. At our approach, the driver reached for my backpack, but I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks. Just lead the way.”

“As you like, miss. The car’s parked over here.” He led us out to a gray sedan and opened the door for us.

I climbed in, Shannon after me. As we settled, he checked the address. “You’ve rented the ghost cottage, then? I didn’t know it was to let.”

Raising a brow, I exchanged a silent look with Shan, before replying cautiously, “It should be an adventure.”

The driver cast us a look as he pulled into the stream of traffic. I’d never get used to driving on that side. “The place is quite isolated. Are you sure it’s habitable?”

“We’re used to roughing it,” Shan said, hefting her backpack.

“Are you ghost hunters? Will you be doing EVPs?” It seemed like an odd logical leap until I remembered the reality shows devoted to that pursuit. Maybe it was mainstream enough these days that this became the natural assumption.

It seemed safer to play along. “Strictly on an amateur basis.”

He turned down a busy street with the confidence of one who had lived someplace his whole life. “Have you ever found anything spooky?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Shannon’s grin took the sting out of the rebuff.

“What’s the legend behind the ghost cottage?” I asked.

“You didn’t research it before coming all this way?” He sounded surprised.

A valid question, but I covered. “Of course. But I’d like to hear how local stories differ from what’s online.”

“Oh, good point. The story starts back in the early nineteen hundreds. The man who lived there was odd. Reclusive. People whispered all kinds of things about him . . . that he was a murderer, a wizard who practiced the dark arts.” The driver’s tone became self-deprecating, as if he was embarrassed to repeat such rubbish.

“What happened to him?” Shan asked.

“Nobody knows. He simply vanished one day. People say he disappeared on the day Aleister Crowley died, but I suspect they’ve embellished the story.”

I thought about that. The mysterious, vanishing mage must’ve had heirs. “Since then, what’s become of the property?”

“No relatives were found, so I hear. The land was auctioned, and it’s been bought and sold half a dozen times since. People can’t seem to live there. The last owner tried to renovate, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, but eventually she went back to Ireland in tears. Nobody from town will step foot inside the place, not to clean or keep watch, not for love or money.”

“That’s super creepy,” Shan said.

Belatedly, I realized he had been waiting for some response to his recitation. He nodded, as if gratified by Shan’s reaction. I didn’t know what to make of his account, but local lore wouldn’t stop me from seeing about Booke.

“I suppose the owner’s trying a turnkey business to recoup her investment?” He was definitely fishing, probably so he could report his findings at the pub later.

“Who could blame her?” I murmured with a friendly smile. “It can’t have been easy abandoning her dream of a bed-and-breakfast.”

“No, indeed,” the driver agreed.

Shannon and I made noncommittal noises, encouraging him to point out attractions that might be of interest, if we got a chance to explore the city at all. I didn’t think that was too likely, given my track record. The drive took us through town, which was probably charming, but I was too numb to appreciate such things—and out the other side, where the tighter streets gave way to country roads. Shannon watched the scenery with a permanent smile in place; like me, she had grown up in Kilmer, which meant she had never been anywhere. Chance had taken me to Europe once in celebration of solving a particularly difficult case, but that meant I saw echoes of him here. He haunted me.

The driver’s store of small talk dwindled the further we went from the city limits, and as we turned toward the countryside, he focused on driving. No more polite chat. He seemed tense too, as if he regretted agreeing to convey us out to the ghost cottage. I didn’t mind the silence, as it gave me a chance to evaluate what, if anything, I knew about Ian Booke. It wasn’t much. I didn’t have any idea of his age or appearance; at this point, I could only be sure that he was male and English. And he lived in a place the locals called the ghost cottage.