Page 601 of Flirting with Darkness

“He wasdressedlike this? Outside?” the American demanded. “Holding a damned sword? Did you say he waswavingit at people?”

The second person sighed.

“He was in Hyde Park. And yes… he was gripping a broadsword apparently, not letting anyone bloody near him. Eventually, he just collapsed on his own, I’m told. Spencer called me. He didn’t know what else to do. I’ve told him before it was probably a bad idea to send your guy to a real hospital… not unless it was an absolute emergency, at least… and he couldn’t find anything wrong with him. Not physically, anyway. So he called me.”

Ghost could practically hear the first woman frown.

The second woman, the one with the British accent, ventured a question.

“Was he on a job?”

“I mean… yes. Obviously.”

“What kind of job?”

“Well,nota job in Victorian England,” the American voice retorted. “I thought it was a simple thing. Some old lady’s nephew who died in the seventies in the United States. He was supposed to try and find out who killed him.”

“Let me guess. The old lady ispositivea serial killer did it?”

The American’s voice grew wry.

“Son of Sam. The Hillside Strangler, maybe… even though he only killed women and operated on the other side of the country. Or maybe Charles Manson. The details were a little blurry. I think it was some rich woman in La Jolla or something… that’s in California,” the American explained. “Ghost seemed to think it would take him two days, tops. He was going to find the kid at UCLA a day or two before he disappeared and tail him.”

Ghost froze.

Had she just said––

The British woman exhaled in a sigh.

“Well, he must have been diverted. I mean, obviously, something came up.”

“He would have come home first,” the American insisted. “He would have left me a note at least. He wouldn’t just take a job in a totally different time period without telling me. Especially not that time period.”

“Well,” the British woman said, exasperated. “Clearly he did.”

“He wouldn’t,” the American insisted.

“Jesus, Nat. Look. Clearly he did…”

Her words trailed off when Ghost opened his eyes.

She must have been staring right at his face when he did.

Within seconds, a face hovered over his.

Dark brown skin, curly black hair, brown eyes.

Relief flooded through him, although his relief made no sense. He decided everything he’d just heard was codswallop, flotsam from his half-conscious mind.

“Mags,” he said in half a groan. “God Almighty. I could not be happier to see you. I’ve had the most insane dream…”

He trailed as the face came further into focus.

This woman was African-looking, like Mags, his friend from London.

But this woman most definitely was not Mags.

She was maybe ten years younger, for one thing. Her lips were painted a dark plum color. She wore gold accent powder over her eyes, and her eyelashes looked unnaturally long. She was shockingly pretty, and her hair hung in small, tightly wound braids all over her head.

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