Opposition Read online

  “What are the stores?” Rose asked.

  “In the mid-1800s, a gambler was a guest of the hotel. Roger Whitaker. He drank a lot and cheated even more in gambling, the stories say. And that he borrowed money to feed both of those habits. Well, one night, the creditors he owed money to demanded that it be returned. When he refused—either because he didn’t have it or didn’t want to give it up—they shot him. He ran all the way back to the hotel, his arm bleeding, and hid inside his armoire in Room 309. Now, the stories diverge here. Either he bled to death in his armoire or the creditors followed him and finished the job by shooting him dead in his armoire. Either way, he died there. And, supposedly, he’s haunting the Horton because of it.”

  It was a relatively straight-forward ghost story. One like Hell’s Gate back home. You had your violence, your death, all centered around a place.

  “Since then, we’ve had reports of the bed moving inexplicably during the middle of the night, of lights flickering on and off, items moving, the armoire doors opening and closing. We feed it, of course, in good fun. And that’s generally been the extent of it until recently.”

  “The maid,” Madame Amara said with a confidant shake of her head.

  “Maid?” Zach asked.

  Mackenzie’s grip on the table tightened.

  “Last week, one of my housekeepers was cleaning in Room 309. And she was shot in the arm.”

  The room stilled.

  “She insists Roger Whitaker stepped out of the armoire and shot her in the arm.”

  “I’m sensing a but,” Zach said.

  “But that’s absurd,” Mackenzie hissed, pushing off roughly from the table. “She was shot. A guest must have done it. Not a ghost. But she insists. And, naturally, when she went to the police and told them that story, all hell broke loose.

  “They spent a day going over the room, but found nothing. The shot went clean through her arm but there aren’t bullet holes in the room. We have video footage of the hallway, of her entering 309 perfectly fine and then running out of there with the gunshot wound to her arm. So, she was shot in there. But we can’t find any evidence of how the guest did it.”

  She said the words as if trying to convince herself more than us.

  “Now she’s threatening to go the press. She wants the hotel shut down or the ghost done away with, in order to prevent it from killing next time.”

  It wasn’t hard to follow what would happen if the maid went to the media. It’d be blown up. The hotel would have fanatics and the well-to-do all trying to either shut the place down or find the ghost. That would muddle up the police investigation. Nothing would get solved.

  Mackenzie straightened and pinched the bridge of her nose. “I know she was shot in 309. That’s a fact. I just need to figure out if the…” she sighed, “if the ghost of Roger Whitaker did it. I’ve convinced Gina—my maid—to give me this weekend. I’ve brought you four in for this purpose. Either find the ghost and get rid of it or tell me I don’t have anything to worry about. Gina’s promised she’ll go along with whatever you decide, whether it’s ghost or guest. She’s confident you’ll fall under the ghost column though.”

  “You want us to solve the case?” Zach asked.

  She shook her head. “Not necessarily. If the majority of you come back saying a ghost couldn’t possibly have been responsible, that’s fine with me. The police can find the one who did it. But if a majority of you say a ghost did it…well, supposedly two of you have experience with exorcising them.”

  Her eyes swept over us and Obscurity Consultants.

  Sebastian seemed unfazed by the weight of her gaze. “Four is an odd number to call in for a majority vote.”

  “I had only intended there be three,” she explained. “But I have a friend who recommended AI at the last minute. Said they’d did excellent work helping his daughter.”

  All eyes turned toward us.

  Rose sat a little straighter in her seat.

  “I just want this mess taken care of,” Mackenzie continued, weariness creeping into her tone. “But I want it done properly. I want the time and dedication put into it. I might not believe in ghosts, but you obviously do, so I want you to come at this with all the care and practice you’re accustomed to handling jobs with. If, after the weekend, you don’t have proof, that’s fine. But I want to be swayed one way or the other. That’s how you’ll be getting paid, ladies and gentlemen.”

  Chapter Eight

  Dinner ended shortly after. We were each given a set of keys that allowed us into 309. If we wanted to go into the staff only areas, all we needed to do was ask. We’d be escorted, of course, but nowhere was out of bounds except for occupied guest rooms.

  After making it back to our rooms, we filled Cyril and Oliver in on the case.

  “Easy enough,” Oliver said, raring to go. “Let’s get this started. Who wants to go to 309 with me?”

  Noah sighed and then retreated into his room.

  Rose watched after him. “I think we’ll stay here. Do some research into the building, Roger Whitaker, all that. See if there’s more to the story than what Mackenzie told us. Would you and Bronte check out 309? You can take the ghosts if they want to go.”

  “Oh, they want to go,” Oliver said.

  This time, Cyril sighed.

  “I think they should stay here,” I said.

  “What?” Oliver sounded betrayed.

  “Mackenzie said that there were two teams here with exorcising experience. We’re obviously one. And Obscurity Consultants is another. The last thing we need is the two of you running into Sebastian or Seth.”

  “But he was just a child,” Bronte said. “I think it’s sweet that he brought his younger brother with him to California. Like on a business trip.”

  “Sweet, huh?” Oliver grumbled darkly.

  There was hardly anything childlike about the kid. He’d played the little brother part perfectly at dinner: not eating his vegetables, asking Sebastian for his dessert, seemingly disinterested in the conversation when it’d turned to the case. But I’d seen him in the hallway. And I’d seen a flicker of what I knew to be his true personality at the restaurant, before the façade had fallen into place.

  He might look the cute little kid, but something told me he was just as dangerous as his older brother to any ghost that crossed his path.

  “I think we should go,” Cyril said.

  I blinked, startled by his 180-degree turn. “What happened to you agreeing to stay in the room?”

  “That was when you were headed to dinner with your client and other ghost hunting professionals. This is you going into a room where a woman was shot by a ghost. It’s dangerous.”

  “We aren’t going to get shot.”

  “You don’t know that. And the only one capable of defending you is staying here.”

  “I have the ghost’s name.”

  “But he didn’t give it to you.”

  “There are exorcists moving throughout the hotel. You can’t go.”

  Bronte slid out her cell phone and dialed my number. Frowning at it, I answered. But she just put her phone on the bedside table. “Stella and I will go to 309. We’re on the first floor, in 110, so just fly straight up if it sounds like we need you. We’ll keep the connection open as long as we’re in the room. Deal?”

  Her eyes tracked Cyril’s movements as he moved from just in front of me to the phone. It shifted slightly, barely noticeably except I was looking at the phone and expecting it.

  “Fine,” Cyril relented with a sigh.

  “What?” Oliver whined. “You can’t be serious, Cyril?”

  “Until we know the extent of the exorcists’ prowess, we should proceed with caution. This will work if…” he hesitated and then I felt a chill touching my cheek, “please be careful. There are dead things stirring in this hotel. Please be careful.”

  I clutched my phone tighter. “Of course. Bronte?”

  We made sure we had our room key and then the spare for 309. With
both in hand, we headed for the elevator.

  “He seems worried,” Bronte said as the doors slid shut behind us.

  I sighed. “He doesn’t like that I keep coming back from cases bruised and bloodied.”

  “Does anyone?”

  “I think he takes morality more seriously than we do.”

  “I can see that.” Her eyes dipped to the phone, still clutched in my hand. “He’s right, though. You do tend to act recklessly where other people are concerned.”

  “What does that mean?”

  She chuckled. “You just tend to prioritize other people over yourself. It’s not a bad thing, but yeah, Cyril’s right. I wish you’d be more careful on these cases.”

  The doors slid open and we stepped onto the third-floor hallway. Our eyes kept track of the numbers as we neared closer.

  “I’m working on it,” I mumbled.

  She gave me a playful shoulder-bump. “That’s all I ask.”

  And then we stopped outside of 309.

  Bronte took in a deep breath and reached out with the keycard.

  The door’s lock flashed green and the lock slid undone.

  With another breath, she pushed open the door.

  It slid noiselessly over the plush carpet, standing completely open without a doorstop.

  She reached in and flicked on the lights.

  We went in slowly.

  The room looked similar to ours, though smaller, and with only one bed. The main difference was the layout, flipped to accommodate the plumbing in the bathroom. The furniture was slightly different too. The same type of wood but slightly different styles of design. Which made sense, if all the furniture was custom made. The room had a cramped feeling. As if too much furniture had been put into too tight of a space.

  I tried to image a shooting happening here. I saw a maid, in my mind’s eye, open the armoire and then the force of the gunshot sending her staggering backward. Tasted the blood in the air. Heard her cries and then the screams of pain.

  The armoire stood closed.

  Bronte wrapped her arms around herself. “Something bad happened here.”

  I glanced at her nervously. “Don’t start bearing witness on me.”

  She shuddered. “Never again.”

  I inched closer to the armoire, my free hand stretched out. The phone in my other dug into my palm when I tightened my grip on it.

  How fast could they get here, if we screamed?

  I imagined Cyril and Oliver, poised to fly up, the second they heard us.

  How pathetic was it that I wanted them here?

  My fingers closed around the handle. It felt cool to the touch.

  Colder than normal? Or just cooled metal?

  God, I really wished I remembered how to control fire. Kinda hard to feel scared with fire wrapped around your fist.

  “Do it like a Band-Aid,” Bronte whispered behind me. “Just rip it off.”

  Deep breath.

  Then I yanked the door open.

  Chapter Nine

  It was empty. Well, aside from the wire hangers found in every hotel room across America. But empty of murderous ghosts, at least.

  Bronte let out a puff of air. “False alarm,” she said loudly.

  I looked at the phone in my hand and then held it up to my ear. “There’s nothing here guys. I’m going to hang up now. We’ll be back soon.”

  It took us a few minutes to look around. We weren’t sure what to look for, but we confirmed there wasn’t a bullet hole. So, chalk one up for the ghost-assailant theory.

  Bronte moved toward the window. “It’s a deep drop down,” she said. Then she tried to lift the window, but it was stuck firmly in place. “I don’t think they could go out this way.”

  Chalk two for the ghost shooter.

  “Didn’t Mackenzie say something about video surveillance watching Gina enter 309 without a wound and then leave with one?”

  Bronte stuck her head into the hallway. “Yeah, there are cameras out here.”

  “Do you think they’ll let us see the footage? If only people without heightened perceptions looked at it, they might not see the ghost.”

  “Worth trying,” she shrugged. “I saw the security office downstairs. I’ll go ask. Give me your jacket so I look professional.”

  I slid out of it and passed it to her. “Be right back,” she said, heading down the hall.

  I stayed in 309, studying the room. Nothing in here looked like it had been part of a crime scene. Granted, the only crime scenes I saw were on TV, but still. There wasn’t a sign of a struggle, blood on the floor—anything. If she’d been attacked by a human, I could see a struggle happening.

  If she’d been attacked by a ghost, I could see her running.

  But a ghost with a gun?

  When Nathan Elgin had attacked us, he hadn’t been human. His fingers had been stretched, filed into points like blades, according to Oliver and Cyril’s accounts. Something like that, I could easily see harming Gina. But a gun? Could ghosts even have guns?

  “I don’t see why not.”

  I jumped, whirling around, my phone slipping from my fingers. It skittered across the floor, stopping just short of Sebastian’s shoe.

  He bent down and picked it up. Then he held it out to me. His eyes had darkened to chocolate brown as he watched me, studying with the intensity of a hawk. “You’re Stella, correct?”

  I took it from him. “You gave me a heart attack.”

  “Better me than Roger Whitaker,” he said, coming into the already cramped room.

  He came in close to get around me, his arm brushing mine as he peered into the open armoire.

  I shuffled back as much as I could. The back of my legs hit the edge of the bed. “Wait. What did you say when you came in here?”

  “I don’t see why a ghost couldn’t have a gun. If he had it on him when he died.”

  “I didn’t realize I’d said that aloud.”

  “You mumbled.”

  “Oh. But why do you say that? About the gun?”

  “Have you seen a naked ghost?”

  I opened my mouth, about to tell him I couldn’t see them at all, but that didn’t sound like something a ghost hunter should admit. Still though, considering Bronte didn’t blush each time she saw Cyril and Oliver, I guessed they were clothed.

  And a gun, for all extensive purposes, really was just an accessory, right? It made sense that a ghost could have one once they died. As much as them wearing the same clothes they died in.

  God, this made my head hurt.

  I blinked out of my thoughts and realized he was staring at me. My face flamed red. “No, I haven’t seen a naked ghost,” I muttered.

  His eyes continued to watch me. It was an unpleasant feeling, like he could see more than I realized I was showing. Or like he saw things I couldn’t.

  Maybe that was his power, if he was a psychic? Seeing things…I don’t know, hidden things?

  He watched me for half a beat more before he stuck his head back into the armoire.

  “Where’s your brother?”

  “Playing video games in the room.”

  Video games? The boy hadn’t seemed the type to sit in the hotel room and play video games. If anything, I sort of imagined him lugging around Crime and Punishment or something. “Really?”

  He pulled his head out at my surprised tone. “Why shouldn’t he be?”

  Crap. Why would he need special eyes if I was practically giving myself away? “No reason.”

  “You do like questions.”

  “Don’t all investigators?”

  For the first time, I saw a smile quirk up at his lips that seemed genuine. “Point taken. But allow me to ask you one, if I may.”

  “You can ask. But I might not answer.”

  The smile deepened slightly. “I’ll take my chances then. But tell me: how does a group of friends sudden find themselves hunting ghosts?”

  My mouth moved, forming words, but my brain couldn’t supply them. It hadn’t b
een a question I’d been suspecting; I thought he might ask about the case. But it was a perfectly logical question.