Nothing but the Ghosts

Chapter 2-1

Chapter 2

I’m uncertain how long we stand in the living room; Malcolm’s gaze is focused on the outside, while mine flits back and forth between him and the man on the sidewalk. Now that he’s said the word, called this man father, I see the resemblance. In fact, I can’t believe I didn’t before. It’s there in the tilt of the chin, the solid jawline, and the stance. More than once I’ve seen Nigel tuck his hands into his pockets and affect that very pose.

It’s a deliberate move, one designed to make him look harmless.

The man doesn’t budge, but then, neither does Malcolm. There are the wards, of course, the one around Sadie’s house that Nigel put into place, and then my own that surrounds my property.

Malcolm’s father hasn’t dared to cross either. In my case, that makes sense. He’s a stranger, and my ward is particularly strident when it comes to stranger danger, especially of the necromancer variety. But he’s also Nigel’s father. From what little Malcolm has told me, I know they had a falling out.

One so big he won’t cross the ward and knock on the door?

“Should I invite him inside?” I ask, pitching my voice low so he can pretend not to hear the question.

Malcolm’s mouth is nothing but a grim line, but he gives the slightest of nods.

I head for the door. I’m about to pull it open when I realize my state of dress—or undress as the case may be. I consider rushing upstairs to pull on some clothes. But really? That doesn’t change the situation. Besides, Malcolm is still in his boxers and T-shirt and shows no signs of panic or embarrassment.

The porch is cool beneath my toes. A breeze catches the shirttails and chases them around my knees. I grip the rail for support and call out.

“Excuse me, Mr. Armand? Would you like to come in for some coffee?”

He abandons his contemplation of Sadie’s house and turns toward me. He walks a careful line along the sidewalk until he reaches the walkway to my house.

“Are you granting me entry?” he asks. His voice is deep, a rich bass with a hint of an accent.

“I am.”

He nods and continues up the walkway. At the porch, he pauses. He has the same eyes as Malcolm, dark and piercing, but where Malcolm’s are so often filled with warmth and humor, his father’s are flinty. Up close, I can see the years spent outdoors written on his face—entrenched grooves around his mouth, crows feet that deepen when his gaze takes me in.

“You’re a Lindstrom, aren’t you?” he says.

“I am.”

His lips compress into a line. In that moment, he definitely resembles his son. “I was afraid of that.”

I’m not certain what to say to this. I’m not certain I should even invite him inside. But he’s here, on my porch, and whatever happens next, it’s probably better if it happens inside.

“Malcolm’s in the living room,” I say. “I’ll go get you a cup of coffee and be right there.” I gesture toward the living room with the vain hope Malcolm will appear and do something about his father. He doesn’t, so I’m reduced to asking, “How do you take it?”

“I don’t suppose you have any tea.”

I open my mouth, but before I can respond, he speaks again.

“No, I don’t suppose you would. Extra sugar, no cream.”

I give a numb sort of nod. My pulse is thrumming in my throat. My feet feel awkward and clumsy, and I’m afraid my next steps will send me tripping into the kitchen. I have no idea why this man is judging me—well, other than the fact I’m wearing his son’s rented tuxedo shirt and not much else—but his gaze is not kind.

So I jut my chin forward and say, “I’m Katy Lindstrom, by the way.” I hold out my hand.

He stares at it for a long moment. “Darien Armand.” With what feels like reluctance, he takes my hand. “Short for Katrina?”

“It is.”

He drops my hand as if he’s just discovered it’s covered in slime. “Like the hurricane. Seems appropriate.”

Without another word, he turns toward the living room and vanishes inside.

I tiptoe a few steps closer, but nothing but silence comes from the room. I wasn’t expecting a tender father-son reunion, but the absence of any reaction makes my stomach tighten once again, the dread heavier than before. There’s something worse about no emotion at all.