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  Ghost Avenger

  Jayce Ventura - Ghost Detective 2

  Serena Akeroyd

  Copyright © 2019 by Serena Akeroyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Epilogue

  Also by Serena Akeroyd

  Chapter One

  Jayce

  With a big yawn, I step out of the Learjet.

  It could have been for show. The yawn, I mean. A childish way of trying to imply that a fancy-schmancy, brand spanking new Learjet doesn’t impress me. Which it doesn’t. Not much. But the yawn isn’t for show. I’m tired as hell and traipsing across the country isn’t something I do for fun.

  Fun. There’s a word.

  Not something that’s been that big a part of my life, for a long time now. Until Drake, that is.

  A small smile twists my lips, but I don’t let flights of fancy get to me. Not when I need my feet fixed firmly to the ground. The stairs down to the landing strip are quite small, enough that I tell myself to take care before stepping on them. The last thing I need is for the waiting limo’s occupants to see me fall ass over tea kettle onto the tarmac.

  Yeah, great first impression, Jayce.

  Snorting to myself, because it wouldn’t be the first time I’d done something stupid like that, I take a look around the place we’ve landed.

  It’s a private airfield—go figure. I mean, I’d never have guessed that a dude with a private jet on call would have access to a runway 24/7. Cue eye roll. But around said airfield, there is hill after rolling hill of nothing, so maybe a private runway doesn’t mean all that much in these parts. Or maybe it does because this vast outlook of land has to belong to someone. What it’s worth? I’m not sure.

  Around here, it’s water access that’s valuable, I think. Or maybe I’ve read too many Wild West romances, which are skewing my vision. Not that I have a clue where I am. We could be in Montana or British Columbia for all I know. A Girl Scout, I never claimed to be.

  Thing is though, I’m a city girl. Born and bred. These hills should have me cringing, wishing like hell the Learjet would take me back to the pollution and cars, and instant access to even the weirdest of weird on the market—New York does have a way of spoiling a woman. But nope, I don’t cringe. Instead, I suck in a sharp breath, and even though it’s tinged with the shitty scents emanating from the plane, I can smell clean air waiting for me beneath the stinking gas leaking from this expensive rust bucket.

  That squeaky clean, fresh air beckons me, tempts me into moving forward, into stepping closer to the mystery guest tucked away in the limo. I’m not particularly intrigued as to why I’m here; if you’ve seen one ghost, you’ve seen a thousand. But that smell, damn, it’s fine. I could almost get high off it. It feels like a lifetime since I breathed such a bounty in. That alone is worth my interest.

  At my side, Kenna, my bud and longtime ghostly pest, hisses and disturbs me from my reverie, “There’s something weird about this place.” Her words tell me she’s been paying more attention to the world around us than I have.

  What can I say? When you have the undead on your side, you get complacent. I can afford to gawk at the magnificent vista before me because I know Kenna will be looking at the foreground, figuring shit out for me. Guarding my front as well as my back.

  “You can talk,” I chide her, busting her balls like I always do. “It’s not like you fit in, is it?”

  Kenna died in 1924. Replete in flapper gear, she sticks out like a sore thumb against the asphalt and Learjet. And, the rolling hills too. Oddly enough.

  But that might be because I know Kenna was a city girl also—Londoner, born and bred. Unlike me who likes the country, she hates it, and views it with distaste whenever we have to head for greener pastures, which, sadly enough, is very rare. Most clients come to me. Only the wealthiest, or the poorest, can induce me to leave my home and head their way.

  “I don’t have a choice of clothes,” Kenna says with a sniff, apparently my words stung. “Unlike some.”

  I freeze mid step and look down at myself. “What the hell is wrong with what I’m wearing?” I snap, feeling the pinch of the barb aimed my way. Sometimes, we drive each other crazy, but as we’re stuck together, it’s tough shit.

  “What’s that saying? You should never wear white after Labor Day?” she tells me, sweeter than saccharin.

  Narrowing my eyes at her, I retort, “Since when are you the Fashion Police? I don’t see Joan Rivers standing anywhere near here. And hell, you never know. I might end up with her on my entourage, and she can whip your ass into shape because mine looks fine in these pants.”

  Kenna snorts. “You’re only wearing them because Drake likes your butt in those white jeans.”

  A pleased smile crosses my lips, and I don’t even bother denying she’s right. Drake Edwins, my new boyfriend of just over a month, took me to the airport—ghostly entourage and all—and saw me off on the flight. So yeah, these jeans were for him. No way I’d wear them by choice. Denim stuck in my butt crack for the length of a flight isn’t my idea of comfort.

  It’s amazing what we women will do for beauty. Well, beauty and the need to make our partners drool as we walk off after waving farewell.

  “You leave my butt out of this,” I tell her snootily then shoot a look at David, Drake’s nephew, who is with me on this trip too, and the last person I want to be overhearing this kind of conversation.

  He’s one of the latest ghosts to become a part of my retinue. And to be frank, he’s a nuisance. The only reason I don’t mind putting up with him is for Drake’s sake.

  It’s worth it to make him happy, and knowing David is with us, well, Drake’s grief over his nephew’s abrupt passing seems to be easing. Thankfully, David’s adolescent need for independence has it so that we’re not always together. He likes me as little as I like him, but I can tell he wants to be close to Drake too, so we’re stuck with each other whether we want it or not.

  That’s pretty much how my life works, though.

  Me, stuck with the ghosts I don’t like, never being able to get close to anyone living because of the hang ups my weird gift has given me.

  It seems insane that I have a real-life, legitimate boyfriend. Last night, I pinched myself when we walked back to my apartment for coffee, and he left me with a gentle peck on the cheek and a promise that he’d see me in the afternoon—the time he’d come to collect me to go to the airport.

  Said pain in the ass, David, groans and breaks into my musing over last night’s date. “This looks boring.”

  “How do you know it’s boring when you’ve just stepped off the damn plane?”

  “He’s right,” Kenna agrees with her young protégé. “It looks boring. It’s so, so, well...so green.”

  I suck in a happy breath. “Yeah, it is.”

  The air is a little clearer of plane fuel as I distance myself from the jet, and it energizes me into taking the last steps toward the limo. A chauffeur is waiting to open the door for me, and he’s staring at me like I’m a demon.

  I’m used to it.

  Well, I try to tell myself that when his eyes—loaded with a burn
ing hatred, which seems to make the dark brown flicker red, as well as that evil sneer on his top lip—are aimed my way with laser-like precision.

  It cuts me to the quick, but I don’t let it show. I can’t.

  He probably saw me talking to air. Well, it looks like that to him, but for me, I’m talking to people. Ghosts are people too. At least they are to me.

  “Wow, that guy really doesn’t like you, Jayce,” David points out. I’m not sure if he’s trying to be helpful, or attempting and succeeding at pouring salt in the wound.

  I don’t reply, not only because it wouldn’t be polite to talk about the chauffeur when he’s so close I can smell his minty aftershave and see the fluff of missed shaving foam on his ear, but also, because I don’t want to talk to air in front of a man who apparently finds me repulsive.

  “You’ll get used to seeing that look, David. It’s par for the course in this game,” Kenna retorts, tone almost bored. I turn my head to the side and just as I thought, she’s checking her nails.

  I long to snap that her nails haven’t grown for nearly a century, but I can’t. Not if I want to look crazier to the chauffeur.

  Kenna is one of the few ghosts who can read my mind, so she knows what I think and smirks at me for having to keep quiet.

  “I like it when you have to keep your trap shut, Jayce. It’s such a break for me when I don’t have to deal with your petulance.”

  David snickers, and glowering at her, I jerk my attention to the limo.

  The driver, complete with a fancy cap, opens the car door, still maintaining the sneer that makes me wish I were a dude and could smack him square in the nose for being such a dickwad—hell, maybe it’s time I signed up for those self-defense classes I’ve been promising myself since I moved to New York? It would be worth it to put these bastards in their place when they dare to judge me. But just as thoughts of vengeance make me want to rub my hands together like Mr. Burns—excellent—my attention is jerked to the darkened cabin of the limo by the utter silence coming from within, and my curiosity tweaks.

  I don’t ordinarily accept cases from clients I’ve never seen or met or heard of. It’s not my style. That isn’t to say it doesn’t happen, but I like the personal touch because in this game, that’s all I have. So more mystery is intriguing.

  I wait, letting David, Kenna, and the other ghost who’s along for the ride, Casper, step in first, then climb aboard the limo after them.

  It’s still faintly dark inside. All the windows are tinted, and there’s no light to illuminate the cab. I might have stepped into a wealthy serial killer’s posh, murder-spree vehicle, but I doubt it. Serial killers don’t have rosebuds sitting in tiny pots integrated into the walls of their limos.

  At least, I don’t think they do.

  I really hope they don’t.

  “This isn’t a killer’s lair,” Kenna grumbles, reading my mind once again.

  “How do you know? It’s not like they’re going to decorate the damn thing with knives and blood.” David sniffs, sounding almost hopeful that I’ve just walked toward my doom.

  He’s really cheerful like that.

  “It was quite common back in my day to do this,” Kenna points out. “We always had a dash in the backseat and sometimes we had bottles of sherry and brandy, and always a little bud vase with a fresh flower in it.”

  I’m used to answering when these guys talk so it’s hard to remain composed and stay silent. Biting my tongue is always hard, but I like to make a fairly decent first impression, so I know the way to go isn’t by talking to midair before the introductions have been made.

  In the dark gloom, it’s actually easier to see the ghost of a small child, seated down the side wall of seats, than it is to see the person opposite them.

  I hate dealing with child ghosts.

  Kenna thinks I’m petulant?

  Ha!

  Imagine being a child for a hundred years.

  Having the mind of an adult and the body of a child…?

  It’s not as bad as Kirsten Dunst’s character in Interview with a Vampire, but it’s almost as bad. I mean, ghosts don’t have sex so being horny isn’t an issue, and they can’t cause havoc among the living, but still, kid ghosts are a nightmare.

  Throw in the trauma of an early death, they’re horrible spirits; they’re just not easy to work with, and stubborn mules were given a bad rep in comparison to these nasty little shits.

  Curiosity meter now fully engaged, I squint at the person in the cab and spy a fur coat. It’s ruffled up high so it’s covering the woman—I can tell from the posture—around her throat, décolleté, and upper jaw.

  She’s wearing dark sunglasses—even in this murky bleak light—and has her hair in a high bun.

  In this play of light and shadow, that’s about all I can make out. And all that comes with a hell of a lot of squinting.

  Clearing my throat, I decide to get the show started because my hostess certainly isn’t. I don’t want to be here for an eternity, beautiful fresh air or no. “I’m Jayce Ventura,” I tell her, chivvying her along. “But you know that already.”

  “I do,” comes the whiskey-rough voice. “Confirmation is always appreciated, however.”

  Her words were far coarser than I’d expected. The woman’s wealth seemed refined, but I could hear the tang of Alabama in her vowels, as well as signs of twenty cigarettes a day, and about forty years on this Earth…maybe more.

  I wait, wondering if she’d ever give me her name. Then she finally starts the ball rolling with this little hand grenade, “I’ve often felt like I have a ghost with me.”

  The limo had yet to move so I knew what was going on. She was going to test me, and if I failed, back on the jet I’d go. If I passed, I’d move on to round two.

  Fuck, life is boring when it’s predictable, and as a result, I’m a bit blunter than I should be. “You do,” I tell her, tone bland and hear a startled breath rattle out of the other woman in surprise at my quick confirmation of her belief.

  “Who is the ghost to me?”

  See, a test. You wouldn’t think a life spent with ghosts for companions would get tedious, would you?

  Sighing, I turn my focus to the child and sigh harder when I spot the sulky pout on the boy’s lips.

  “You heard the lady. What are you to her?”

  “Why should I tell you?” came the snarky retort.

  “Because she obviously wants help, and I can give it to her.”

  The child sniffs and folds wispy arms over his narrow sweater-covered chest. “That doesn’t help me.”

  “No, but you obviously love her enough to have stayed with her, so why be churlish when the woman needs my assistance?” I’d like to ask him why he was being a jackass, but my prospective employer probably wouldn’t appreciate my candor.

  Opposite the sepia-hued spirit, the woman shifts on her seat. The fine leather creaks a little with the movement, but she remains silent. I can hear her breathing though. In this place, there isn’t a sound to disturb the peace. The plane’s engines have stopped running, no one is talking around the limo, and then, you have the added bonus of being surrounded by nothing for a good ten miles.

  Man, that kind of peace is hard to come by.

  My eyes shift to her as the child remains silent. With each passing moment, the woman fidgets more and more, until finally, the boy lets out a sigh. It’s as long-suffering as my own was.

  The brat.

  “My name is Charles, and I’m her son.”

  “He says his name is Charles, and he’s your son.”

  A cry escapes the stranger and she sags in her seat. “I knew it. I knew he was with me.” She sucks in a huge breath of air, but her excitement is zipping through the cabin like an indoor firework display. “Tell me how he died.”

  I glance over at the boy who has started to pout. Truth is, I can’t blame him.

  We have a skewed view of the world of ghosts. Push aside the fact most people don’t believe in them, the ones
who do seem to think ghosts are like guardians. They watch over you, protect you, keep you safe or from making the wrong decisions. Almost like the ghost had a choice about being there, actively seeking to enrich their life.

  But those numbskulls couldn’t be further from the truth.

  There is no such thing as a guardian angel. Ghosts are dumb witnesses. Able to see the shit going on around the person they love and unable to do a damn thing about it. Can you imagine a more hideous fate? I know I can’t.

  Ghosts present in the half-world they subsist in are here thanks to a traumatic death, and or unfinished or unresolved issues. Kenna died when she fell off a bridge after imbibing too many cocktails one night. Back in the twenties, health and safety wasn’t exactly a priority.

  She came back because her death astonished her into existing in the plane she does now.

  David was murdered, and he came back because his murderer was still at large—and thanks to the bastard’s reputation and family name, still is.

  Does that sound like a nice reason to be dragged back into living a half-life? Does it sound like they have a choice?

  They’re watchers.

  That’s it.

  They don’t stand guard out of choice. They do it because they have nothing better to do than observe the miseries humans find themselves in. Some ghosts get a kick out of those miseries, others don’t. A lot love seeing their relatives grieve, enjoy their suffering because it’s the only way they can feel something, and something is better than nothing at all.

  That this woman thinks this child is there out of some need to watch over her and protect her, tells me she’s a fool.

  But so is most of the human race I’ve found.

  “How did you pass, Charles?” I ask, when no answer is forthcoming, and the brat is there, twiddling his thumbs.