Page 20 of Ghostridden
“Drivel.”
My hand froze on the keyboard. I hadn’t said that, and as brilliant as Gil was, he hadn’t mastered human speech. I turned slowly in the chair, wishing for my trusty poker.
A man stood behind the chair, peering down at the screen. He was tall—at least as tall as me, I’d guess—and slender, although his shapeless cardigan hid much of his physique. He had a shock of curly brown hair and pale skin, with wire-framed spectacles perched on his rather hooked nose.
He was also completely transparent.
I struggled out of the chair and backed away until my hip banged into the corner of the counter. “Who… What…”
The transparent guy—okay, I guess I could say it.
The ghost.
The ghost pointed at the screen. “Did you write this?”
“N-n-no?”
He straightened, folding his arms over his chest. “Did you write it or not?”
His voice had a breathy quality, but I didn’t think it was because he was trying to be flirty. In fact, his tone was decidedly severe. But it was as though he were speaking through some kind of filter or obstruction. The vocal equivalent of gauze over a camera lens.
“I didn’t,” I croaked. “I was just trying to decide whether to accept the job to rewrite it.”
He glanced down at the screen. “Don’t bother. It’s not salvageable.”
“I’d actually, um, come to that deci—”
Wait a minute. Why was I discussing this stupid project with a ghost? Weren’t there more pertinent questions to ask?
“Who are you? And why are you in my house?”
Unfortunately, we both asked exactly the same questions simultaneously.
“Your house?” Simultaneous again. “This ismyhouse.” And we might as well sign up for a hockey chorus because that made it a hat trick.
I edged further away, glancing around wildly for Gil. He was sitting next to the table, his fluffy tail wrapped around his feet, gazing up at the transparent guy. Considering he’d never come near Greg without the fur on his back erect like a ginger stegosaurus, that either meant the transparent guy—was Ireallygoing to accept he was a ghost?—was either not threatening, or else Gil was a terrible judge of character.
Then again, he’d been right about Greg.
Nevertheless, I didn’t want to take a chance. I darted forward and scooped Gil up, then backed away. What was a safe distance? How fast could the transparent guy—okay, okay,the ghost—move? Could he just pop up wherever he liked, or did he have to walk from place to place like any non-ghost?
Jeez, there was so much I didn’t know about this situation. And given that neither Saul nor Patrice, nor apparently anybody else in Ghost, had ever had a close encounter like this, it’s not like I could contact them for advice. They’d be just as clueless as I was.
I gave myself a mental facepalm.Why not ask the real expert, Maz? AKA, the one who’s standing right in front of you.
“So. Are you a ghost?”
He glared at me. “Are you?”
“No!”
“How do you know?” His tone was a combination of belligerence and what sounded like dread.
“Because… Because…” Okay, howdidyou prove you were alive and not a margarita-induced hallucination, which I still wasn’t sure this guy wasn’t? “Because I have a cat. I drive a car. I have past due bills. I have an ex-boyfriend who wouldn’t be able to torment me with his passive-aggressive behavior if I were a ghost. Only somebody who’s alive can have this much bad luck.”
He snorted a laugh. “I wouldn’t be too sure about that.”
“So, who—”
