𝐎𝐑𝐏𝐇𝐈𝐂 | (adj.) "Otherworldly."
In an alternate version of present-day Britain, ghosts who are deadly to the touch have been rising from their graves for the past fifty years. Adults cannot sense the ghosts, but children can, so teenagers hav...
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𝐇𝐔𝐍𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐃 𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐊𝐈𝐓𝐂𝐇𝐄𝐍 table with her head in her hands, Erin listened as George sighed, sifting through the papers spread out all across it, "This job is gonna kill us."
"I'm sorry to hear that," came Anthony's voice alongside the squeaking of the kitchen door hinges. Erin turned her eyes away from the research piled high on the Thinking Cloth and found him strolling into the kitchen, a large bag from Satchell's in his hands. When his eyes fell on the table, his expression shifted from vague amusement to surprised confusion. "Wow. This all on Combe Carey Hall?"
"Yeah, everything Fairfax forgot to mention," George replied as Anthony set the bag down and moved toward the refrigerator. "It's not just a country house. It used to be a satanic priory of medieval devil worshipers."
"Oh, good. Evil monks," Anthony teased, his voice slightly muffled by the fact that his head was in the refrigerator, pulling out a bottle of beer, joining both George and Erin in their efforts to drink away the nerves of the upcoming case. "At least we know what we'll be facing. Anyone fancy another beer?"
"No, actually, we have no idea," George insisted, ignoring Anthony's question. "It's killed loads, including some at a party thirty years ago, but those deaths weren't blamed on the monks." George looked down at his notes. "No, they were blamed on a Screaming Staircase or a Red Room, whatever they are."
"Without flares, this job is suicide," Erin stated, quite bluntly, pulling her hair off of the back of her neck for a moment before letting it fall down her back.
Anthony tilted his head. "It's certainly an interesting requirement," he muttered.
Erin's eyes widened, her face incredulous. "Interesting?" she repeated. "It's outrageous!"
"It would be insane to go in without every single weapon available," George agreed and Erin pushed the sleeves of her gray sweater up, nodding toward him while giving Anthony a look, almost as if to say when George and I agree, you know you should rethink this.
When Anthony didn't say anything, Erin sighed, rolling her eyes. "No one takes on a Type Two without canisters of Greek Fire," she reminded him, leaning back in the kitchen chair.
"Right! And this is a cluster of Type Twos we're talking about—"
"With a proven death count to its name—"
"Plus, we're not getting anything like enough to do some—"
"Research in the historical records," Anthony finished. He sighed. "Yes, I know. But as eccentric as he seems, Fairfax is our client, and we have to go along with his wishes. We'll have our swords, won't we? And plenty of defensive chains. So we're not exactly going in unarmed." Erin was staring at him, eyes bulging in disbelief. He caught her gaze, frowned and flinched. "Erin, you're doing that starey thing with your eyes again."
