“Take your time,” I say.

  She nods, sniffs, dabs at the corner of her eyes, and begins her tale...

  Chapter Two

  It had been a hot day, this much she knows.

  Of course, she had been a little girl when it all went down, and so she had to rely on old newspaper articles and even a documentary about the tragedy. She first heard the tale from her aggrieved father, though he had not been there at the time either. He would later travel home and speak with some of his family members. He would also speak with witnesses, especially those who had fought the fire.

  From all accounts, the blaze had started instantly. No surprise there, since it had been a planned, coordinated attack. Plus, the arena had been ancient.

  It had been midday, a Saturday. The weekends were always popular times for bullfights. The stands had been packed with cheering, ravenous, and undoubtedly drunk fans. Security was tight, as it always was with such events. Fights could break out at any time, after all, especially with copious amounts of booze flowing, as it had been on that day.

  Three people had carried out the attack, and it hadn’t been terribly hard to do, despite the security. They smuggled gasoline inside the stadium using whiskey flasks and waited until just before the first bullfight. Using torches tucked inside their jackets, the trio lit as many ignitable surfaces as possible: bales of hay, posters, sacks of supplies, awnings. Two of the arsonists were tackled before they could do too much damage, but the third had made it into a supply room under the stadium.

  The ensuing chaos was terrible, as one could imagine. Spectators were trampled. Fellow activists had shut and locked one of the gates, trapping many inside. Ironically, a charging bull had crashed through the gate, freeing those trapped.

  Four of the activists had been captured—and shortly thereafter, hanged. Nancy’s family had largely perished trying to help those escape. She’d always admired them for that, and so had her father. And so had the community. But that didn’t stop the lawsuits and insurance claims and the nightmare that followed. In total, forty-four spectators had burned to death, been trampled to death, or died of smoke inhalation.

  Lawsuits claimed the exit corridors should have been wider, or there should have been more fire extinguishers, more water lines, hoses and sprinklers. Still more turned on the ‘greedy’ family for taking shortcuts and abusing the animals. The activists had, in effect, won.

  And so, the insurance paid out what it could. Criminal cases were tossed out, as most of the family had perished in the fire. Funerals and vigils were held for years to come, all while the stadium sat there as a sort of shrine for the fallen. That is, until the city had wanted it to be demolished.

  With the immediate family members having died in the fire, her father would be the next beneficiary.

  She had, of course, attended the funerals on a trip to Spain. She had been eighteen at the time, and had never seen so much grieving. It was months later that her father received the call. What did he want to do with the stadium? The city had given him a month to decide: rebuild it or tear it down? The city preferred to turn the land into a memorial, and her father was all for that. And so, in essence, he decided on both.

  He decided to tear down what was left of it and rebuild it...

  Back home in Fullerton.

  Strangely, the City of Fullerton was amenable to the idea, but he couldn’t operate a bullfighting business. Of course, her father had been okay with that. Instead, they gave him a permit for a rodeo stadium.

  Her father had overseen the tearing down of the arena in Spain, keeping as much of the old structure as possible, and leaving behind the rest, some of which had been used to construct a somber memorial for the victims... many of which were her own family members.

  The material would be shipped by boat to America, arriving by the truckloads on the designated piece of land in Carbon Canyon.

  Her father, a roofer by trade, had a natural knack for construction and oversaw the reassembly of the arena. It had taken his crew just over a year to finish the project. That had been in 1985, which would have put me in my teen years and still living in Northern California, and completely unaware that something so strange was being erected in the canyon behind Kingsley’s home.

  But more tragedy was to come.

  Days after the meticulous rebuilding of the stadium had been completed, her father had died in a car accident. Her mother would pass six months later from a stroke. With both parents dead, she found herself the unlikely owner of something strange indeed: her ancestor’s rebuilt bullfighting arena.

  Believing it cursed, Nancy wanted nothing to do with it, and it would sit abandoned in Carbon Canyon for thirty-five years.

  That is, until a few years ago...

  Chapter Three

  “What happened a few years ago?” I ask on cue.

  She doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, she looks down at her clasped hands. Her right thumb rubs along the length of her left, as if comforting herself. Uh-oh. Finally, she says, “There was another accident, this time on the property... and I feel so terrible. Irving was a friend of mine.”

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  She takes another few seconds, gathering herself. Her aura ripples with oranges and greens. She’s hurting and feels responsible. “Irving had been my groundskeeper for the past decade or so. He lived in a trailer next to the stadium. It wasn’t much of a job, but he liked it, and he cared about the stadium and its legacy. I appreciated that so much. He had wonderful plans for it, though few were practical. I recall once he suggested hosting an alien convention there. Fun guy, crazy guy. You kinda had to be to live next to a stadium for ten-plus years.

  “He did more than live next to it, of course. He did landscaping, repairs, security, and just basically kept an eye on the place. I could barely afford him, but he helped keep away the lookie-loos. Like you, the place generated some interest.”

  More times than I care to admit, I nearly teleported my butt into the center of the stadium. I resisted, of course. I don’t generally trespass unless I have a reason to. That said, I might have flown over it once or twice (okay, a dozen or more times) and looked down into it, wondering all over again why there was a damn stadium in the middle of nowhere. Sadly, none of my fly-bys had given me any answers.

  “Anyway, Irving was the first to report strange sounds, shadows, and discarnate voices. Was never too freaked out, and worked for me until the very end. Basically, he confirmed my suspicions: the place was haunted. Of course, I take it a step further. I think it’s cursed.”

  I note the “to the very end” part. I say nothing, knowing she’s getting there.

  “Two years ago, there had been a windstorm. A Santa Ana, they call them. Irving had been inspecting the property, battening down some aluminum siding. Or trying to. One section had come loose. It killed him.”

  “Aluminum siding killed him?”

  “The edge. The police figure it had been spinning like a saw blade. It... it decapitated him.”

  “Holy shit,” I say.

  She nods. “I found him the next day. I will never, ever get over what I saw.”

  “I’m so sorry. That is horrific.”

  She collects herself for a few seconds. “His death renewed the ‘cursed’ rumors, and that’s when the TV shows came knocking. I denied them at first, but then they offered money. I’d been struggling on the upkeep of the place, and so I finally relented. There’s been three of them now. Have you seen any of the shows?”

  I shake my head. Having seen my fair share of ghosts, these shows don’t do much for me, though they can be entertaining.

  “The first and most popular featured four yahoos who ran around screaming at any cold spot, shadow, or blip on their cameras. God bless them. In between all the screaming and hootin’ and hollerin’, they came across some real evidence. A lot of evidence, actually. Though I had my suspicions about the place, I hadn’t realized just how haunted it was. I’d been leaning harder toward the cursed aspect.”

  Admittedly, I don’t know much about curses or how they work, though I have come across cursed objects before. From my understanding, someone has to go out of their way to curse an object or land. It doesn’t just happen because of bad luck.

  “The shows kicked up a lot of interest in the stadium. I opened it up to ghost tours, and that brought in some money. A lot of money, actually. So much so that I started thinking about what else I can do with the stadium. And then it hit me... duh, it’s a freakin’ stadium.”

  I smile at that.

  “I was able to get funding—a lot of funding—to update the stadium and open it up again for real events, big events, the kind of events my father always dreamed of.”

  “Rodeos?”

  “And dirt bike races, monster truck shows, derby races. My father had the foresight to extend the bullfighting ring—which is just that a ring or circle—into an oval, thus accommodating more events. Ms. Moon—”

  “Please call me Sam.”

  “Sam, I had been struggling so long. The death of my parents threw me. Any extra money I had went to paying the taxes on that damn stadium. It was an albatross around my neck that I could never—would never—get rid of. It was as if all of my family’s history was dumped on me. Except I’ve never been business-oriented or savvy or whatever. I literally didn’t know what to do with it. I considered tearing it down... but my father rebuilt that thing with his own hands. Re-opening it might not have been the greatest brainstorm a person has ever had, but I needed to see that it was still viable. The ghost-hunting tours started the ball rolling.”

  “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “I am, too. We broke ground, so to speak, about six months ago. The place is structurally sound and passes all inspections. But after forty years, it needs updating. The bank provided the means necessary for that, and I have every confidence the arena will be a hit. But...”

  I smile internally. And here it is.

  “There’s been another accident. A worker fell from scaffolding.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Broke his ankle and an arm. Says something whispered in his ear. He freaked out and fell twenty feet. Nothing too crazy. Certainly not another Irving situation, but I’m concerned.”

  “Concerned enough to talk to a P.I. who specializes in ghosts.”

  She nods solemnly. “I hear how crazy I sound.”

  “Hey, I’m the one who advertises that I can help you with your ghost problem.”

  She gives me a weak smile. “I’m not sure what I’m asking for, which is why I nearly turned away. Still not sure why I turned back.”

  “Because you need help. Even if it’s help of the supernatural kind.”

  “Right. We have a grand opening of the place next week. I just don’t want any more accidents.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Do you think you can help me?”

  “I think I can. At least, I can give you answers.”

  And with that, I give her my rates. Moments later, she deposits my weekly retainer straight into my Venmo, and just like that, I’m on the case.

  Chapter Four

  Kingsley and I are drinking wine in his expansive kitchen, both leaning hips against the center island.

  The kids are in his TV room, which now doubles as a game room. Anthony and Paxton are alternately screaming, cheering, and laughing at a video game. From what I can make out, they are shooting zombies. Having fought real zombies a few years ago, I’m surprised Anthony can take a game like that seriously. Then again, maybe it’s cathartic for him. Or maybe he hasn’t given the real zombies a second thought. Not a lot fazes my son.

  Tammy’s been working on her phone in another room in the house, planning a graduation party with some of her friends. I can hear her talking authoritatively with her friends, organizing them, whipping them into shape.

  Kingsley can hear her, too. “Did you just catch that?”

  “I did,” I say.

  “She’s not going to take the SAT?”

  “Nope.”

  He cocks his head, listening. His dark eyes suddenly shift to me, mouth dropping open. “And did you just hear that?”

  “I did, Kingsley. And would you please stop eavesdropping on my daughter?”

  He chuckles, and so do I. After all, neither of us can help eavesdropping with our super-duper hearing. His is quite a bit more sensitive than mine. Yes, we legit tested it once. He was able to hear a whisper from my son from all the way across his 15,000-square foot mansion. I heard the whisper, but not from quite as far.

  “You know what I mean,” he adds. “She’s really not going to college—like, at all?”

  “That’s what she says. Just wants to work for me. Wants to get her own license in a few years, but even then, still plans on working for me.”

  Kingsley shakes his head.

  “It’s okay, big guy. Breathe.”

  Tammy will need two-and-a-half more years of investigative work experience, basically three years of experience to qualify for the license. She’ll also need to pass a rather challenging test. Crazily, I didn’t pass it the first time around, assuming I knew it all. Turns out, I didn’t. Tammy likely won’t have to study up much, having learned the ropes with me, so to speak. But it wouldn’t hurt her to bone up. Having come from a federal agency, privy to all things associated with the feds, some of the private investigative stuff had slipped through the cracks of my brain.

  And yeah, I came into private investigations with a little bit of ego, thinking I was overqualified for the private stuff. Turns out, a case is a case. Meaning, whether it’s handed to me from my boss or offered to me from a client, the process of working a case is the same. Nose to the grindstone, feet on the pavement.

  So, yeah, she’ll qualify for the test in a few years. And with a license, she can legally stalk someone, including taking their pictures without consent. Plus, it would make her just that much more official. And, yeah, seeing my daughter flash her private investigator’s license is gonna just be too adorable. It’s times like this that I’m glad she can no longer read my mind.

  Meanwhile, Kingsley and I are waiting for four trays of enchiladas to bake. Necessary when feeding a werewolf and an angel-in-training. Kingsley’s kitchen would be the envy of most high-end restaurants. Top of the line everything, all working perfectly. He gave the night off to Franklin. Just as well, the patchwork monster has been grumpier than usual lately.

  That there is presently a cadre of Lichtenstein monsters living in his basement now was always a bit disconcerting. Luckily, most were simple enough creatures, all having imprinted, so to speak, onto Kingsley himself. Only a few were higher functioning, like Franklin.

  With the enchiladas cooking, we take our drinks to a small table in the kitchen nook. I catch him up to date on my newest case.

  “I could have told you all about the stadium, Sam. You never asked.”

  I shrug. “Guess it never came up.”

  “It was big news thirty years ago. I had just moved in to Casa de Kingsley—”

  “We need to work on the name...”

  “House of the Wolf?” he suggests.

  “A little better.”

  “After I moved in, there was an uproar about a stadium being built nearby.” He gestures out the kitchen window, toward rolling hills presently hidden under a darkening sky. “As the crow flies, it’s ten miles from here. Not sure why so many were up in arms. It’s a fairly out-of- the-way space.”

  “Probably worried about all that rodeo traffic.”

  “Yeah, I guess. Most seemed freaked out about it having been a bullfighting ring.”

  We drink from our glasses, both with an ear half-cocked in the direction of the kids. One pair of our ears has a bit more hair growing in and around it. I was gonna have to pin Kingsley down again and shave them again. I often reminded him that famous defense attorneys did not show up in court with tufts of fur sticking out of their ears.

  “But then tragedy struck both owners. Word got out the place was cursed, and there it sat for three decades.”

  “Were you aware the daughter had started updating it?”

  “Yes and no. On quiet days, I can hear something going on out there. Hammering, some voices.”

  “From ten miles away, with a bunch of hills in the way?”

  He shrugs. The things we can do only amaze others, not so much ourselves. Yeah, I can teleport. Big whoop, right? But certainly big for someone experiencing it for the first time.

  “What, exactly, did she hire you to do?”

  “She’s worried about all the accidents. She’s worried about a possible curse. Or just bad luck. Or a malevolent spirit or spirits. She’s worried those yahoos who made a documentary stirred up the spirits, too. She wants to know what’s happening and why it’s happening.”

  “Well, she certainly hired the right gal.”

  “Definitely not a case for Perry Mason.”

  “Perry Mason, my dear, was a defense attorney. Like me. Except he was fictional, and I’m all man.”

  “Half man, half wolf,” I correct.

  “My half man is a lot more than most full men.”

  “Oh, brother.” Truth is, I kind of agree with him, but I don’t want to let on. He’s already got a big-enough head. And no, I won’t say literally.

  Okay, fine. Literally.

  I take a sip of wine, realizing it’s been over a decade since I’ve had a good buzz. Of the alcoholic kind, that is. Human blood had been quite heady.

  “Want to check it out with me tomorrow?” I ask.

  “Wish I could. I have a court date, remember?”

  “Oh, right. The shady mayor accused of money laundering.”

  He chuckles. “He didn’t do it.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You know when you know,” he says, and weirdly, I know what he means.

  I let it go, trusting him. “Do you think it’s a coincidence that a bullfighting arena was built over where a real minotaur roams under Carbon Canyon?”