The Ghost Host: Episode 1 (The Ghost Host Series) Read online

  Malachi scoffs, but is purposefully not looking at the blood running down his arms. “Yeah, and then they’ll want to know what happened. And call my dad after they ask why we’re even here.” He flinches, going even paler than he already is. “I’d rather not get my parents involved in this.” He shakes his hands lightly, but it does nothing to dislodge the muck on his arms and inflicts more pain. Sighing, he shakes his head. “The utilities should be on. The people who’re supposed to come and clean this place out will be here on Monday, but my dad had everything turned on early just in case there was a problem with the gas or water pipes.”

  Thankfully taking charge, Agent Morton gives a curt nod. If anything that just happened shocked or affected him, it certainly doesn’t show in his expression. Handing out directives, he puts Zara in charge of attending to Kyran while Holden and Cerise are put on clean up duty. Turning back to us, his eyes narrow at Malachi for a moment before turning to me.

  “I assume there’s a bathroom somewhere upstairs. Help Malachi clean up. I’ll bring up a first aid kit in a few minutes. If we can avoid involving the local police, all the better, but if he needs medical attention, I’ll arrange for something more discreet.”

  While that freaks me out a little, it’s oddly comforting at the same time. “Sure, okay.”

  Malachi takes a step toward the stairs, but the black muck follows with him. Grimacing at the mess, he kicks his shoes off and stares at his pants. They’re soaked in the stuff and I think we both realize right then that he’s going to have to take them off. The entryway is hardly the place for that. Scrambling for an alternative, I squat down and gently roll up the hem of his jeans so they hopefully won’t drip all over everything. It’s the best I can do for now.

  When I stand, Malachi tilts his head toward the stairs, trying to avoid moving his arms, and steps toward them. A million things about our relationship have changed, but not so much that I don’t rush to his side and help him up each step. It’s a long trek and he looks ready to drop by the time we finally reach the landing.

  With his arms hanging limply at his side, he only has enough energy to look at a door just to the right. A few more steps and I’m pushing the door open. Hoping Malachi is right about the water being on, I settle him on the toilet lid and twist the faucet handle. A groan is followed by a fitful burst of water that looks a bit rusty, but we both sigh in relief. I twist the handle back off and step over to the shower instead. There’s no way the sink is going to cut it for this mess.

  It seems to take an eternity for the water to finally warm up. Then it takes a ridiculous amount of adjusting to find the singular spot where the temperature is neither burning hot nor ice cold. By the time I turn my attention back to Malachi his eyes are closed and I fear he’s fallen asleep. I have no clue what time it is after that weird time warp or whatever it was—another question with no answer. The battle was enough to drain all our energy. We can’t stay here all night, though, and I seriously doubt Agent Morton is going to let Malachi back in the car like this.

  Reaching for him, I touch his shoulder as gently as I can, but Malachi startles back awake, hissing in pain a second later from having jerked his arms in surprise. “Sorry,” I say with my hands held up both in apology and in preparation to catch him if he loses his balance.

  Malachi shakes his head. “Sorry, nodded off I guess. Didn’t mean to scare you.”

  “I’m fine.” I do have to take a deep breath, though. “The shower is ready for you.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Malachi moves to stand, but falls back to sitting almost immediately. Frowning, he stares at his clothes. It takes him a few seconds to realize the problem—no doubt the same thought running through both our minds in that moment. If he can barely stand, how’s he going to get his clothes off and step into the shower? Looking up at me, Malachi says, “Maybe you should go get Kyran.”

  The defeat in his voice tears at me. Part of me would love to do as he says, run from even thinking about his naked body, but I can’t leave him here like this. I don’t want to. Kneeling down next to him, I reach for his t-shirt. Malachi can’t move to stop me, but he shakes his head. There’s fear in his eyes, and this time it has nothing to do with ghosts.

  Ignoring his protests, I hook the hem of his shirt and begin inching it up his chest. He doesn’t say a word as I work. I’m the one flinching when I see the beginnings of more than one bruise marring his ribs and stomach. I get the shirt up as high as I can, but once I get there I have no idea how to get his arms through without hurting him. Nothing I try is going to make this any less painful for him. “This is going to hurt,” I say with a grimace.

  “Yeah.” He sighs.

  I grip the ends of his sleeve and screw up my face as I await the pain I know this is going to cause for him. Malachi takes a deep breath and then yanks his arm through in one smooth motion. He groans and pinches his eyes closed.

  “One more,” I say apologetically. I reach for his sleeve, but give him as much time as he needs to psych himself up for another round. After taking in two short breaths to prepare, he yanks that arm through as well and falls back against the toilet with a growl.

  Tossing the disgusting shirt in the sink, I sigh in relief. “At least your pants will be less painful,” I say.

  Malachi’s eyes pop open. “You don’t have to…”

  “You can’t do it on your own,” I argue.

  His jaw tightens, but he doesn’t argue. As much pain as his torn up arms have to be in right now, there’s no chance of him reaching down and wriggling his jeans off his body on his own and he knows it. I’d say I’d already seen everything he had to offer anyway, but I wasn’t exactly paying a lot of attention to him in that moment. Right now, a flock of seagulls seem to be fighting over the bits of embarrassment swimming around inside me at the moment, but I stuff that all away and get to work.

  My fingers fumble with his belt buckle more than once. When I finally handle that challenging piece of apparatus, I’m even more of a dunce with the button to his jeans. The zipper pull seems ridiculously small as I try to grab hold of it, but I finally manage to carefully inch it down. Then I really start trembling.

  If Malachi notices, he doesn’t say anything. Given that his eyes are closed and his jaw set, he really may not be aware of how shaky I am. He seems to be struggling with what’s going on in his head right now, too. It takes several attempts grabbing at the sides of his jeans to find a place loose enough to grab. All my missing the mark tenses Malachi’s body to the point I think he might snap in two if I touch him one more time.

  Trying to avoid exactly that, I tug on his jeans. Finding it impossible to get them off while he’s sitting, I start to ask him what to do, but he’s already identified the problem and sets his elbows on the back of the toilet tank with a groan and lifts his body just enough that I can yank his pants past his hips. From there on out, it’s nothing to slide them off his legs and toss them into the sink as well.

  When I turn back to Malachi, he’s watching me with an expression so full of conflict I don’t even know where to start pulling out meaning. “I’m so sorry about all of this, Malachi.” It bursts out of me like a geyser. “I’m sorry about everything. About pulling you into my psychotic life. About tricking you into having sex and causing everyone to be so horrible to you. About you getting hurt tonight. About…Archer.”

  My voice cracks on that last one and I fall back against the sink. Pressing my hands to my face, I have no idea where to even begin with making up for everything I’ve put him through. How many mistakes can one person make? How many people can I unintentionally hurt? First Archer, now…can I really kid myself and say Malachi won’t end up with a similar fate?

  “Echo,” Malachi says with a sigh, “first of all, you didn’t trick me into having sex with you. I was clearly willing. Too willing. It was a mistake…”

  “It wasn’t for the right reason,” I interrupt, hating that I made a mess of that more than almost anything else. “And I think mo
re was going on than either of us realize, and I’m sorry about that too because I’m sure it was my fault.”

  He shakes himself and says, “Regardless, I don’t blame you for any of this. One way or another, I was going to become your Keeper. I think Grandma Maddie’s box proved that. You act like that’s a bad thing, something you have to apologize for, but it’s not. None of this was a mistake. I chose to get involved in your life. I invited you to come here. I wanted a relationship with you and I wanted to protect you. I had a choice, Echo. I’m the one who picked up the talisman and chose my path. No matter what happens between us after tonight, I choose to be a part of this, and I don’t regret it even though my arms feel like they’re going to fall off right now. So stop apologizing.”

  “But…”

  “No,” Malachi says with more force behind his words than I’d think he’d be capable of right now. “I mean it. I don’t want to hear another apology come out of your mouth. Ever. Not even for something as silly as letting Kyran get blown to bits online or misinterpreting one of our weird local sayings. You’ve done enough apologizing and taken enough blame for ten lifetimes. That’s enough. I won’t stand for it anymore. No more apologies, got it?”

  The corner of my mouth twitches at the reminder of me being startled when Kyran said he’d Sallyjacked the spaghetti the night before. Why that means he made too much, I will never understand. The rest of what he said sinks into me in a way that hits home.

  I’ve spent my life feeling like a problem, a mistake, something that could never be fixed. But it’s not true. The ghosts aren’t an affliction. Being able to see them isn’t a curse. My relationship with the ghosts isn’t a mistake, it’s who I am. I’m not anyone’s problem. I’m the ghosts’ protector. Tears well in my eyes at the realization.

  “I don’t mean to upset you,” he says quietly, “but I am serious about the apologies. No more, okay?”

  I nod, unable to force any words out of my mouth and explain the reason behind my tears. He’s right anyway. It’s time to stop apologizing for who I am and start fulfilling my purpose.

  For several minutes we sit in silence. Our hands are covered in ghost guts and a few of Malachi’s cuts are still bleeding a little, but we need this moment badly. I realize I’m not the only one shaking from the aftereffects of tonight when Malachi’s fingers gently quiver as he touches the back of my hand.

  “I’m sorry about Archer,” he says quietly.

  In his voice, I can hear how much he means it. I know watching me say goodbye must have killed him, but there’s only shared pain in his voice instead of jealousy or judgment. “Later,” I say, my voice quavering, “when things have calmed down a little, I want to tell you about what he showed me after the hypnotherapy.”

  “You don’t have to do that, Echo.” His trembling fingers rub back and forth across my knuckles.

  “I do. I want you to understand, for more than one reason.”

  He doesn’t ask me what those reasons are, because he knows his fate could easily mirror Archer’s. I think he also knows I need to tell him and share that part of me with him if we have any chance of figuring out our relationship in the middle of so much chaos.

  “Okay,” he says, “but can it wait until after I shower? This stuff’s starting to itch.”

  Smiling, I nod and help him stand. He keeps his boxers on as I guide him carefully into the shower and leave to see if I can dig up any clothes for him to wear on the ride home. What I end up finding in the attic isn’t stylish, or even from this decade, but it will work. After that, I get to work cleaning up the mess we made in the bathroom—mainly to keep my mind focused on the good we managed to accomplish so the bad can’t pull me under completely.

  We saved Archer tonight. We even discovered a few answers, though the price was much too high. I fear that happening again and again if we don’t figure out a way to stop it. For every answer we got, another dozen questions sprung up in their place. Whittling them down won’t be easy on our own. The Ghost Host show was meant to be an outlet, a method of control. Starting now, it has a new purpose. Keeping Malachi alive and saving as many ghosts as we can. Tune in for the next episode, I think to myself. It’s going to be a good one.

  The End

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  Keep reading for a preview of Episode 2!

  If you enjoyed The Ghost Host: Episode 1, keep reading for an excerpt of The Ghost Host: Episode 2, and if you want to keep reading, pre-order the next ghostly installment now on Kindle.

  The Ghost Host: Episode 2

  Chapter 1: Worse

  (Echo)

  When Agent Morton told me he’d pulled some strings and gotten me into college at Georgia State, I’d wanted to kiss him. Now, I’m leaning more toward punching him in the face. I blink to clear my vision so I can see the pages of my textbook. I had seven to eight class a day in high school. Four college classes hadn’t seemed like too much of stretch. Morton’s advice that I only take two classes, start out part-time, had earned him a scowl. I’m sure the words “I told you so,” are on his lips every time he sees me hunched over textbooks scribbling out notes and highlighting until nearly the entire page glows fluorescent yellow.

  Pulling my feet up to a crisscross style, I pull the book off the desk and settle it in my lap. I sigh, wishing that if I’m going to kill myself for this degree I could at least skip all the boring stuff and just study chemistry. Why do I need a foreign language or interpersonal communication? Paranormal communication, now that I could master in about a day. How come that can’t be a class?

  My phone, still sitting on the desk, buzzes. I ignore it. I know we’re recording a new show tonight. I don’t need text reminders every ten minutes. I’ll be there. Zara knows that. As busy as school and an internship/consulting job with the F.B.I has made my life, I can’t miss a show. The Ghost Host episodes keep me sane. After what happened with Archer…. I shiver thinking about the last time I saw him. The last time I would ever see him, and the oily black monsters who nearly killed me and Malachi in their attempt to destroy what was left of Archer’s soul.

  “What are you doing here?” Morton asks, his voice startling me so badly my book bounces from my lap when I jump.

  I reach for it, a less than pleasant response on my lips, but another hand darts in and picks it up. The smooth skin of the hand says it’s not Morton. Pulling back more quickly than a normal person would, I hesitate half a second before looking up. A young, suit-clad guy looks down at me. His patient, understanding expression creeps me out a little. There’s something about him that looks familiar, but I can’t figure out what.

  “Echo,” Morton says with a hint of amusement in his voice, “meet Griffin.” When he sees me hesitate, he rolls his eyes. “He’s not here to study you. I didn’t even know you were here. Don’t you have a show tonight?”

  “Yes,” I snap. The sharp look I get from him reins in my irritation. “Sorry, Zara’s been hounding me all day and I have a ton of homework. I came here to get away from her so I could study in peace.”

  Morton cocks one eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything in the face of my scowl.

  “What are you studying?” Griffin asks.

  His question reminds me I never acknowledged his presence, which makes me sigh. Good first impression aren’t really a strong point of mine. “Sorry,” I say as I extend my hand. He takes it, unfazed by my rudeness. “Thanks for picking up my book.”

  He shrugs and hands it over. “Sorry for scaring you.”

  “You didn’t,” I say. “It’s just…well, never mind.” No need to go into my high level of weirdness attracting entirely too many people who want to see what I can do. Morton’s keeps them at a minimum, but a few have slipped by when he’s not around and the results haven’t been great.

  Seeking a distraction, I say, “Chemistry, but I have to do all these ridiculous classes along with it.”

  “French is a little ridicu
lous,” Griffin says seriously. “They don’t pronounce half the letters in their words.”

  He keeps such a straight face, I can’t immediately tell whether or not he’s joking. Not until the corner of his mouth twitches do I finally laugh. Griffin relaxes a little, though I hadn’t noticed until then that he was tense. He gestures at the book in my lap. “If you need help, let me know.”

  I scoff. “I’m sure you have better things to do than help me with my vocabulary.”

  “Actually,” he says, “I’m on vacation for the next few weeks.”

  Glancing at the suit he’s wearing, I can’t help the skepticism that takes up residence on my face. “Must be some boring vacation if you’re going to spend it in a suit hanging out at an F.B.I. field office.”

  Griffin laughs. “I had to run into work this morning and didn’t have time to change before I caught my flight, and if I want to see my dad for more than a few minutes, looks like I’ll be spending vacation hanging around here.”

  “Dad…?” At first, I’m confused, then I realize what he means and look over at Morton in surprise.

  “Oh,” he says, enjoying this, “did I not introduce him properly? Echo, meet Special Agent Griffin Morton. My son.”

  I stare at him for a few seconds before saying, “I thought you only had daughters.”

  Griffin’s expression morphs into one of mock offense. “You’ve been working with her for almost four months and you’ve never mentioned me once? Why do Cas and Brit get all the attention?”

  “You’ve never come up,” he says drily.

  There seems to be some kind of shared joke between them, one they don’t let me in on. Whatever.

  Another buzz sounds, but it’s not my phone this time. Morton glances down at his phone, then takes his keys from his pocket and tosses them to Griffin. “This meeting shouldn’t last more than an hour, but if you’d rather head out, I’ll catch a ride with Agent Gill.” His gaze drops to me. He frowns. When he speaks, it’s not to me, but to his son. “Ask her if she doesn’t mind. I’ll text you when I’m heading home and we can grab dinner.”