Ghost of a Chance

Alex had met Sorsha in her capacity as an FBI consultant. She was the most incredible woman Alex had ever met, beautiful, sensual, and most important, dangerous. Sorsha was one of the New York Six, the six sorcerers who made their home in the greatest city in the world.

It was Sorsha that Alex had helped recover the missing plague last year. He’d thought she disliked him, but when Alex traded most of his life force to keep her floating castle from crashing into the city, she’d been very upset. The last time he saw her, she declared that she never wanted to see him again.

At the time, he’d thought that was a fine arrangement, but lately, he’d found himself missing her. He felt a connection to her that he could neither justify nor explain.

He sighed and picked up the phone, giving the operator the number. A moment later a cold, contralto voice slithered down the wire and into his ear.

“Hello?”

“Sorceress,” he said, in his most annoyingly cheery voice. “It’s been a long time.”

“Alex?” Her voice changed; it held none of the disdain he had expected. She seemed almost happy to hear from him. Alex suddenly became very aware of his own heartbeat.

“You do remember,” he said, trying to keep his voice easy and relaxed.

“I remember telling you never to call me again,” she said, her voice back to its usual imperious chill.

“Actually,” Alex said, a smile spreading across his face. “You said you never wanted to see me again. This doesn’t count.”

He didn’t know why he felt the need to antagonize a woman who had once threatened to freeze him solid, but it was an urge he simply couldn’t resist.

“This counts, Mr. Lockerby,” Sorsha said, her formal speech patterns reasserting themselves. “But since you’ve already interrupted me, why have you called?”

“I need a favor.”

Sorsha didn’t sigh, but Alex could feel her rolling her eyes through the phone.

“You are without question the most brash annoyance I’ve ever known,” she said. “And that’s saying something. What makes you think I have the time or the inclination to do you a favor?”

“It isn’t for me,” he said, then he explained about Bickman and his wife and their predicament.

“So, if I understand you,” Sorsha said once Alex finished, “you need help finding these people employment so they can pay you?”

Maybe that’s why he liked the sorceress so much — she saw through him so easily. That didn’t really make sense, but Alex couldn’t resist the thought.

He cleared his throat and forced himself to smile even though the sorceress couldn’t actually see him.

“That’s not exactly how I would put it,” he said. “These people need help and you’re the only person I know who travels in the circles that might need their services.”

The line went silent for a long minute and Alex could almost feel the chill on the other end seeping through the phone.

“As it happens, I might be able to help,” she said at last. “Tell Mr. Bickman to come by my office in the Chrysler building tomorrow afternoon. I’ll see him then.”

“Thanks, doll.”

“Don’t push your luck, Mr. Lockerby,” Sorsha said, then the line went dead with a loud click.

Alex replaced the receiver on the phone and looked around his room as if he expected there to be an audience.

“That went well,” he said to the empty air.

A knock at his door made him turn. Before he could respond, Iggy pushed it open.

“Are you finished?” he asked from the door.

“You heard?”

“Sorry, lad,” Iggy said. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. How is Ms. Kincaid?”

“Chilly,” Alex said with a grin. “What can I do for you?”

“You have a visitor,” he said. “From the police,” he added at Alex’s confused look.

“Wow,” Alex said. “Danny must really have blown it.”

“It’s not Danny,” Iggy said with a serious look. “It’s the Lieutenant.”

“Callahan?” Alex asked. Frank Callahan was Danny’s boss on the police force and definitely wasn’t Alex’s biggest fan. “What does he want?”

“I suppose he wants your help,” Iggy said. “Apparently the ghost has killed again.”

3 The Trail of the Ghost

Half an hour later, Lieutenant Frank Callahan’s car pulled up in front of a tidy Inner-Ring house just outside the Core. Unlike the Atwood mansion, this house was a tasteful Victorian, complete with a veranda. The only thing off-putting about the house was the number of police cars clogging the street in front of it. The coroner’s van was parked in the driveway, and half a dozen officers milled about outside. Alex could only imagine the mess they had already made of the crime scene.

“Okay,” Alex said, taking in the scene. “We’re here; are you going to tell me what this is about?”

He turned to Callahan and found the big man lighting a cigarette. He seemed cagey, like he didn’t actually want to tell Alex why he’d dragged him across the city after dark. Callahan was the quintessential police detective, big, square-jawed, and good at his job. Like most cops, he also actively disliked private detectives, so the fact that he came to Alex at all meant something important was going on.