To his credit, Kingsley really thinks about this. I’ll give the man one thing: he always gives me thoughtful answers. “It would have to be a coincidence, right? I mean, how would your client’s father know about the minotaur?”

  “Yeah, other than the ‘bull’ part, I don’t see a connection. I just think it’s a bit odd.”

  “A bit odd, true. You going to look into it?”

  “I’ll see if there’s something to it. Do you believe in curses?”

  He takes a long swallow from his wine, turns his head this way and that, cracking his neck. As he does so, his mane falls forward, covering most of his face. He throws it back a second later, and I damn near get pregnant. What a man. “I want to say no, Sam. I want to say I don’t believe in curses. But often there’s something to them, right?”

  “Like maybe in this case.”

  “Maybe. The death of her parents in rapid succession, the killed groundskeeper, and now, an injured worker. Is your client worried about the curse aspect of it?”

  “I don’t think she was, but she’s getting there. I need to help her, one way or the other. She has good intentions for this arena, and wants to honor her father.”

  “Ask yourself, Sam: why did her father feel compelled to bring what was, in essence, a burned-out tomb halfway across the world and rebuild it here?”

  “What are you getting at, wolf?”

  “I don’t know. You’re the investigator.”

  I thought about his question while the food cooked, and while we all ate together, and even hours later, while falling asleep in his arms...

  Chapter Five

  It’s the next morning.

  Tammy drove the kids to school, which I appreciate. Giving my daughter the used Prius wasn’t so much a gift for her as it was for me. I still pick up Paxton in the afternoons, which is always a good time. No, really. I adore her youthful energy. She’s surprisingly non-bitter, considering her circumstances. She’s generally cheery, dresses like a Disney princess (loves pink and sparkly things), and always wants to tell me about her day. What more can a mom want?

  I turn off Carbon Canyon and follow the GPS to a dirt road. The stadium has been dominating my windshield and side window for the past ten minutes. Absolutely impossible to miss, and I can’t be the only one to have wondered why the hell it’s here.

  Well, now I know, along with anyone who watched any of those ghost shows. I’m sure word will continue to get out about the history. It will either help or hinder its success. Time will tell.

  I’m really here.

  The place is bigger than expected. Not sure what size I was expecting, but certainly nothing this big. It’s hard to grasp its enormity when driving by—or flying by. All told, tens of thousands can be comfortably seated here.

  I park at the main entrance. At present, the parking lot is nothing but dirt and grass. As I step out of the minivan and into the light of the May sun, I shield my eyes and take it all in—or what I can see of it. There is still plenty of structure that wraps around out of sight. Fresh paint covers much of the wood. Hard to know what’s the original stadium and what’s new. The lower-level walls are composed of brick and mortar. Cracked and stained bricks. I’m going to hazard a guess that this section of the arena hadn’t burned down. There is a modern-day ticket stand near the entrance, with glass windows.

  The main entrance boasts a high archway, itself made of cleverly placed bricks that would have done the Romans proud. Standing under the archway is Nancy herself, smiling, watching me. I hurry over to her, shielding my eyes out of habit, despite my shades.

  She moves out into the sunlight to meet me and shakes my hand. “This is it,” she says, spinning and sweeping her hand. I note the smile on her face, the pride in her eyes, the excitement in her voice.

  “Bigger than I expected.”

  “I always feel the same, despite being around when my father rebuilt it. He took thousands of photographs of each and every plank, brick, joint and screw prior to disassembling it in Spain. He always knew where each piece fit. He told me nothing was left over or missing. Not even a single nut and bolt.”

  I can’t imagine the work that must have gone into breaking this thing down, cataloging every damn rock and brick, and then shipping it overseas, likely through the Panama Canal, then via truckload after truckload to this very spot, in the back of beyond. “It must have been fascinating to watch the entire process.”

  “To say the least. Come on, let’s get out of the sun.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. Once under the brick archway and in the cool shade, I spy a bronze, lifelike statue of a matador in all his glory: cape raised dramatically, fluttering, the matador himself pirouetting on tiptoes, sword held at the ready, his decorative hat resting slightly askew. He looks both slight yet powerful, truly a remarkable display of artistic craftsmanship. The statue also looks very weathered, surely something that had been brought over from the home country.

  She says, “My father was the very definition of obsessed. The project consumed him completely. Luckily, his roofing business had an efficient and loyal manager who ran it for him, and my mother still taught the sixth grade. We had a steady flow of money, despite him being out here every waking hour of the day, seven days a week. Let me show you around.”

  We’re not in the arena proper; rather, in the main ground-floor passageway that leads off in either direction. We head to the left. Above are rafters and the underside of the seats. So far, the place is constructed of what appears to be newer wood, but it’s hard to tell. Some sections are painted, others are not. The bricks had survived the fire well enough, and so they had made the trip over. Only about half of the wood was brought over. And even then, most of it had to be propped up with newer wood.

  She shows me where adjustments to the stadium’s shape had been made, where the once-circular bullring had become an oval, of the size and shape approved by the national rodeo association. Her father had been forward-thinking in that matter. The other potential uses had been all her ideas.

  “Speaking of which,” she said, “we have our first event here next week.”

  “You mentioned that,” I say.

  We stop beside an aisle that leads down to the ground level seats. “A high school graduation, in fact. Fullerton Hills High needed a venue and reached out to us. I told them we would have it ready for them. That was about three weeks ago. Sort of last minute. Their own school stadium isn’t ready.”

  I take that bit of news in. “That’s my daughter’s high school.”

  “Will she be part of the graduating class?”

  “She will be. I hadn’t heard there was a venue change.”

  “They will be announcing it in a newsletter this week, I believe. We’re really not terribly far from your daughter’s high school. Maybe five miles. As you know, a lot of schools in the area share on-site stadiums.”

  I snap my fingers. “My daughter’s stadium is undergoing its own renovations.”

  “So they say. I was happy they reached out. I gave them a deal, especially since it will be our first event. You can see why I’m so keen to make sure the place is safe before all those families and kids arrive.”

  I catch her meaning: safe from curses and the paranormal.

  “I’ll show you where the worker was hurt last week.”

  She continues along the main tunnel around the lower section of the stadium. We pass a plumber working under the sink of a concession stand. Soda machines have been installed. Unfortunately, he sports the mother of all butt cracks. Nancy hurries me along.

  Various work crews are set up throughout the structure. Some paint. Some hammer. Most look very serious. Not very many look spooked, and all need belts. I swear, if I see one more man crack, I’m commanding all of these guys to buy better-fitting jeans tonight.

  We get to another open space, and what looks like a rear entrance. She points to a high ceiling filled with halogen lights. Rickety-looking scaffolding is still braced against the wall. “He was painting up there when he fell. We still don’t know what happened. It doesn’t look safe, but I assure you that scaffolding is up to regulations.”

  I eyeball the distance from the lights to the concrete floor. “That’s got to be twenty feet.”

  “Just about, and he didn’t quite fall all the way. A safety harness absorbed some of it, but that snapped a few seconds later.”

  “What were his injuries?”

  She makes a pained look, shakes her head. “Broken arm and ankle. Could have been worse without the safety harness.”

  “He said something whispered in his ear?”

  “Yeah.”

  “But he didn’t see what?”

  “No, unfortunately.”

  “I think you should use the restroom,” I tell her.

  She nods. “Say, would you mind if I pop into the lady’s room and powder my nose?”

  “Don’t mind at all,” I say, smiling.

  She nods, slightly confused, and heads off to one of the many bathrooms that line this outer ring passageway. Once gone, and with no other workers in the vicinity, I unfurl my wings. Thanks to some neat angel magic, they hover just off my back, not really touching, which allows me to summon them without disrobing.

  I rocket up with two powerful downstrokes and soon land atop the scaffolding, tucking my wings, though not quite putting them away. The structure creaks and wobbles. Hell, even I’m nervous and I can fly. I could have been a gargoyle watching over the inner workings of the stadium. A cuter-than-average gargoyle, mind you.

  I study the contraption. All it would take would be one jolt, one sudden shake, one inopportune movement, and someone could easily lose their balance. It could be something self-inflicted, like a sneeze. Or it could have been the whisperings of a phantom. The Phantom of the Stadium? Okay, now that could be a big draw.

  As I perch there on the wooden beams, my dark wings tucked in behind me, I suddenly wish I could see the universal energy again... and thus, ghosts, too. But my life is much different now. No ghosts for me.

  “Sam?” says a voice below me.

  I peer down to the ground floor where Nancy’s scanning the tunnel in both directions, never once thinking of looking up. With nothing more to see up here, I leap down, extending my wings and drop in just behind her, my knees bending as the wings slither out of view, returning from whence they came... wherever that is.

  “Right here,” I say.

  She gasps, spinning. “Heavens to Betsy, you scared the life out of me.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Been told I walk on cat feet.”

  “Boy, do you.”

  “Are the police involved?” I ask.

  She shakes her head, looking sick. “No, but the insurance company is suspicious as hell. Their investigators already inspected the scaffolding. Not sure what they found, if anything.”

  “It’s their job to look for ways not to pay on a claim,” I say.

  “They’re sure looking.”

  She next leads me to a side door and back into the heat of the sun. On go my sunglasses. We head over to a storage shed, though a good deal bigger. She points to some corrugated siding near the roof.

  “This is where the panel blew off, and, you know...”

  I know. Poor guy lost his head. I make sympathetic noises as she continues around the stadium, pointing out the old animal stalls, and also where most of the lives had been lost due to the coordinated fire attack. More sympathetic noises from me. Finally, she leads me out into the arena itself and onto hard-packed earth. Vertigo threatens to hit me at the size and scope of the stadium. Though much of it is new, a lot of it is the old stadium as well. A weird thrill courses through me. I can almost feel the energy of the place, despite the earth itself never having witnessed a bullfight.

  “What’s the next step, Sam?” she asks me.

  “I have some very gifted friends who I need to bring by. Is that okay?”

  “Of course. Anything that helps this problem go away. Time is of the utmost importance. May I ask the qualifications of your friends?”

  “Sure,” I say. “Both are witches.”

  Of course, one is a dead witch, but I keep that to myself.

  Chapter Six

  It’s late evening, and Allison and I are in her apartment, drinking some fresh squeezed orange juice and vodka watching a movie called Bachelorette. No, not the TV show. A movie. It’s darker than expected, but I like that.

  We’re also talking. A lot. Pretty sure I haven’t a clue what’s going on in the movie. Allie now has the weekends off, thanks to a fairly firm Monday through Friday schedule at the radio station. She reserves her Saturday mornings for her personal training customers, of which she’s down to just two, a number she prefers.

  Mostly, we’re waiting for 8 p.m. to roll around, since that’s the time I agreed on with Nancy to show up tonight with my crew. My supernatural crew.

  While we wait, we decide to switch things up. Instead of wine, we have mixed drinks. Since neither gives me a buzz, it doesn’t matter to me. With all the pulp floating around in my glass, I’m reminded of my old blood packets and their bonus bits of flesh and fur.

  Allison, who has been about to sip the O.J., pulls away from it, spilling a little down her chin. “Gross, Sam. Yuck.”

  I shrug. “My life. Blood and all. It’s what kept me sane, and what kept Elizabeth weak.”

  “Still. You gotta warn a girl before you bring up images like that.”

  This ‘girl’ can, of course, hear my thoughts, thanks to our unique telepathic link. “Sorry,” I say, but don’t really mean it. Allison keeps a sort of low-grade mental channel open between us. So, she gets what she gets, bloody thoughts and all. Our ‘unique’ connection stems from her blood donor days, and the path it forged between us.

  “Can you believe you used to drink from me, Sam?”

  I cringe. “I drank from your finger. Like from a straw. Don’t make it weird.”

  She shrugs. “Not sure it matters where you drank from. Made me stronger. In fact, it awakened the witch in me. I have you to thank for that.”

  “You’re welcome,” I mumble.

  “I once went to a bullfight in Mexico,” she says. Not necessarily randomly, as we had been talking about my new case just prior. “Everyone was cheering, but I legit cried for the bull. So terrible.”

  I exhale some air. “It’s a fight the bull wasn’t looking for.”

  “Forced on them,” says Allie.

  “To call it an even fight is ridiculous. Sure, the bull does have a chance to win. Even if it did, more than likely it would be slaughtered right after, anyway. No, the moment it was chosen, it was dead.”

  “You wanted to say ‘dead bull walking,’ didn’t you, Sammy?”

  “I reserve the right not to answer. Anyway, the bullfighting came to a halt with the fire.”

  “So, the activists were successful in one sense.”

  “At too high of a cost.”

  “You think some of those poor people are haunting the stadium now?” she asks.

  “As in, they traveled with the torn-down arena?” I shrug. “I don’t know. I didn’t see anything. And they don’t have anything on their security. Granted, much of their security system is still being installed.”

  “Do you miss seeing ghosts?” asks Allison.

  “Yes and no. They were often on hand at crime scenes, but most couldn’t speak or communicate and often faded out of existence on a whim. Seeing them randomly appear in my life was weird, but I got used to it. I was able to help a few solve their murder cases and to move on, so that was cool.” I check my phone. “It’s seven. Will take us at least an hour to get there.”

  “No teleporting?”

  “I can’t teleport a ghost,” I say. “Speaking of which, where is she?”

  “In the house somewhere. Probably sitting next to you.”

  And just as she says, the lights in Allie’s apartment flicker, and a young woman materializes next to me on the couch. Millie is a Grade A ghost. As in, she can materialize with the best of them, often drawing energy from the electricity around us—or from us directly. In that sense, she’s like me: an energy consumer.

  “I’m ready when you two lushes are,” she says quietly. I always feel like I need to turn the volume dial up when she speaks. Makes sense. She’s drawing all the energy she can from where she can, just to make an appearance.

  With that, Allison and I knock back our glasses and head out.

  Yes, I’m driving.

  Soon, Allie is in the passenger seat next to me, and Millie is hovering somewhere in the backseat, looking out the window. Little do the other drivers out there know that a ghost is watching them.

  Millie has manifested totally, generating a full ectoplasmic body, complete with clothing. None of it’s real, though you would never know it. No, not all ghosts can make such an extensive appearance. Then again, not all ghosts were once skilled witches, either. Millie knew, perhaps from information provided to her from the ‘other side’, that she could be of greatest use in this lifetime as a ghost. A ghost witch, to be exact. As such, she prepared while living for these moments, mastering the spells necessary to manifest, communicate, and travel.

  “I’m pretty sure you can’t teleport a whole car, Sam. Only, you know, whatever you’re holding on to. Like maybe the steering wheel. But like you said, you haven’t tested it out.”

  I’d broached the idea of teleporting the entire minivan a few minutes ago. Allie’s been pondering ever since. I play the devil’s advocate. “When I teleport others by holding their hands, their hands don’t come off.”

  “Because hands are connected.”

  “By ligaments. Really, aren’t nuts and bolts just a car’s ligaments?”

  “But it’s not living.”

  “You’re telling me the Momvan doesn’t have a soul? Pretty sure she does.”

  “I can’t tell if you’re kidding.” Allison squints at me. “Even with access to your thoughts. Wait, you really think your minivan has a soul?”