latest modern day R amp;B songbird. He couldn’t abide rap, though. He was just too old-fashioned.
Then there was his television. His DVD collection was extensive, racked in cabinets around his entertainment center. From time to time Conan Doyle or Clay might come up and take in a movie with him, relaxing in the comfortable chairs that decorated the room. They liked the old films just as much as he did.
Glorious black and white.
The curtains in the room were drawn, now, and familiar blue light gleamed from the television screen. Jimmy Stewart made his heartfelt plea in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington, Columbia Pictures, eleven Academy Award nominations. If he focused enough, Graves could feel the solidness of the chair beneath him, even the texture of the fabric. He liked that, settling in to watch one of his movies. His Gabriella had been particularly fond of Jimmy Stewart. Despite the struggles they had faced because of their race, the hatred Dr. Graves had engendered in many quarters even as he gained respect and fame in others, he still recalled the era of his life as a kinder time, and the late actor seemed to embody that kindness.
Gabriella. A bittersweet smile touched his lips as the movie played on before his eyes. He could almost imagine her beside him still, though her spirit had long since gone on to a better place.
One day, they would be together again. He had made that vow a thousand times. But he was bound to this plane for the time being by the tragedy of his death. His murder. His assassination. Dr. Graves would not allow his specter to slip from the fleshly world to the ethereal plane until he had solved the mystery of his own death. Only then could he be with Gabriella again.
For now, he had his memories. And the movies she had loved so very much.
As he focused once more on feeling the fabric of the chair beneath him and let himself get back into the rhythm of the film, there came a knock at his door. Dr. Graves frowned. They had been back from Greece only a handful of hours and had all agreed to get some rest. He did not sleep, but that did not mean he could not benefit from a period of relaxation.
The ghost floated up from the chair and then strode to the door. With focus, he grasped the knob and opened it.
Julia Ferrick stood in the hall, her features cast half in shadow by the dim illumination from the electric sconces on the walls.
'Dr. Graves,' she began in a tremulous voice. Her forehead was creased in a frown. He did not fail to notice that she had either forgotten or chosen not to call him by his given name.
'Julia? What is it? Danny’s all right?'
Graves had not seen the woman since their return, but he was not surprised that she had come so quickly. Her son had been cast into a situation of terrible danger. Of course she would rush to see him. But the ghost had assumed she would be pleased by his safe return.
'No,' she whispered, swallowing visibly. 'You’ve seen him. He’s worse than ever. Those… horns. They’re longer.'
His heart ached for her. 'Julia, we’ve discussed this. Daniel is what he is.'
She nodded. 'I know. It’s just… where does it end?'
The ghost had no response for that.
'And you,' she went on, her jaw set. 'You said you’d watch out for him.'
Dr. Graves blinked, and his spectral form rippled. 'He was with Conan Doyle and Ceridwen. And Eve, as well. They were all watching over him.'
Julia shook her head. 'But I don’t trust them. Any of them.' She searched his eyes as though trying to locate something she thought she had seen before. 'I trusted you.'
'You can trust me. And you can trust the others as well. I had to be where I could do the most good. As did Daniel. But we’re back. All of us in one piece.'
'And what about the next time?'
The ghost met her gaze steadily. 'No one can promise to return Daniel safely to you each time he leaves this house. When a crisis arises, when there is real evil to be faced, the outcome is always uncertain.'
Julia stared at him. For a moment she reached out to touch him, mouth working as though searching for the words to express what she felt. It seemed to Graves as though she desperately wanted something from him then, some assurance, some solace, but he hesitated.
She shook her head, dropping her hand, and backed away. Dr. Graves could only watch her recede down the hall and then descend the stairs. Somehow he felt more had passed between the two of them than he realized, that Julia’s disappointment in him extended beyond her concern for her son. He did not quite understand, but it troubled him to have hurt her.
Dr. Graves found that he cared very deeply what Julia Ferrick’s opinion of him might be.
And that troubled him as well.
Clay stood in the kitchen of Conan Doyle’s home, peeling an apple at the sink. He had been talking for quite some time in the living room with Squire, but the hobgoblin had gone to bed. Sleep called to him as well, but all he had wanted from the moment they had returned to Boston was a glass of ice water and a fresh apple. On the granite countertop, his water glass sweated drops of cool condensation, waiting for him. He made a small game of peeling the apple, attempting to take it all off in a single long strip. There was something calming about the process, the methodical nature of it.
'Hey.'
The knife slipped, tearing the peel, and a long coil of it dropped into the sink. Clay felt a twinge of regret and smiled at the absurdness of it. He turned and watched Eve walk into the kitchen.
'Hey, yourself.'
She came to the granite counter and took a long sip of his ice water. Clay uttered a soft, surprised laugh.
Eve grinned, toasting him with his own glass. 'Sorry. It was just too tempting to resist.'
If she heard the irony in that, she made no indication. Clay lifted the half-peeled apple. 'You want some of this, too?'
A little piece of darkness flickered across her gaze and then was gone. 'No. Thanks. This is just what I wanted.'
Clay took another glass out of the cabinet for himself but went back to peeling his apple before filling it. Perhaps he ought to have been irked by Eve’s presumption, but in truth he was glad she felt comfortable enough with him to just assume he wouldn’t mind sharing. To be herself. There were very few people Eve could be herself with, and Clay understood what that was like. His life was the same.
Perhaps that made them friends. He would have liked to think so.
'Did Danny turn in?' he asked.
Eve nodded, but her smile went away. Though there was no romantic entanglement between them, Clay could not fail to appreciate her classic beauty. Her lips were lush and full, her eyes captivating, her raven hair perfectly framing and sometimes veiling her features. But Eve was never so beautiful as when the burden of worry lay heavily upon her.
'What is it?'
She shrugged, tossing her hair back, and took another long sip of ice water. They stood there across the counter from one another in silence a moment, Eve considering her words.
'I’m thinking you should talk to him.'
'Me?' Clay asked. 'Why? You’re much closer to him. Ceridwen even more so.'
Eve nodded. 'Yeah. But he wants to talk about… about God. And evil. He’s trying to figure some things out, Clay. I tried to tell him that it didn’t matter what he was made of, where he came from, who his parents were. But the more we deal with things we call evil, and the more he has to look at himself in the mirror, the more he wonders, you know? He’s still evolving. I think he’s just afraid of what he might become.'
Clay cut the last of the peel from his apple, but now he only held it in one hand, the knife in the other. He let the words sink in and then turned to face Eve.
'Maybe that’s okay. Maybe he should be afraid.'
Conan Doyle felt defeated.
