Page 5 of Kestrel & Kee

Clad in the red British revolutionary army uniform he died in, Reggie gave us a saucy wink over his shoulder as the other two looked suitably horrified. And that was saying a lot, considering one of the specters had a stoved-in head from a horse and the other’s head lopped off to the side in a distressing manner. I don’t want to say I’d grown hardened to the horrific ways some poor souls died but spending time among the dead blunted the impact slightly. The older ghosts were less grisly than the newly departed. Those made me wince yet, and any way a child was killed impacted me strongly.

Sir Thomas, the lingering spiritual familiar cat of a long-dead neighboring healer—deemed witch by the ignorant of her time—lifted his head from his nap on the back of the second-hand sofa the ghosts were seated on to give Phil and me a feline glance of disinterest. The cat was not limited to this street or shop or even a parcel of land like Thistle the grim hound who guarded the Liverswell Cemetery was. Thomas could prowl about the neighborhood. He just seemed to prefer being close to where his mistress had lived.

“Philip, Archie, well met, come have a seat,” Reg called out, patting the already filled couch. “I’m reheating this hockey romance show. That’s what the fans on the internet coined a secondary watch. Reheating. Clever minxes! Caleb and Eloise have yet to see it, so I thought, why not invite them over? Nothing gets the old fluids bubbling like a show with hot buggery! Reminds me of a soiree I once attended during my days at boarding school. I was quite the sought-after chap among the lads, obviously, as my cock is well known for being one of the finest to be found on the British Isles. And that is no fallacy. The Duke of Dorby Hill once professed to me that my robust conquering of his crupper had sucked ten years off his life! I was quite chuffed to hear him say so for his arse had been mightily plowed by his handyman, a brute of a fellow with a pizzle the size of a—”

“Reg, not now, okay. We have important company coming right behind us. We need to tidy up the shop.”

Reggie gave the dank, dusty bookstore a withering glance. “My boy, this bookshop is far beyond a wiggle with a goose wing.” I shot the handsome blond ghost a dark look. He sighed as only a put-upon dead queer man can sigh. “Very well, there is no reason to be so boilish about it. My friends, we must reheat at a later date.”

Eloise gave me a weak smile and floated through the front door to walk the street where she’d been mowed down by a drunk driver. Caleb rose, placed his white cap back on his misshapen head, then bowed in a most courtly manner to Reggie. Reg, being Reg, was too busy huffing about and slapping the lid of my laptop shut to note the long look Caleb gave him before disapparating. I had no clue about romance between ghosts, but if ever a man was smitten, it was our sweet Caleb. Someday I’d have to start dropping hints, as the Marquis seemed to be oblivious to the man making doe eyes at him. That day was not today, though.

“Shall I go find a mop for you?” Reggie asked as he made his way to the new romance reads table to peruse the choices. Generally, he tossed a few aside as they contained too many glossy quims and not enough turgid pricks for his liking.

“No, just be cool,” I snapped as I raced upstairs but jogged back to kiss Phil on the mouth. “I love you.”

“Love you too,” he replied and darted a look at the front store windows. A black sedan pulled up out front, stalling Eloise in her tracks. Then another car, black as night, arrived. “Fuck,” I heard Phil mumble as his parents exited the ebony Lincoln stretch. Both gave the storefront a sour look.

“I can let you make the tea,” I offered, but he shook that suggestion off.

“No, you make the tea.” He didn’t go to the front door to hold it open or even greet them. He plunked his tight ass behind the register to glower at the bodyguards and his parents as they pushed into Kee’s Book Store.

“Welcome to our home,” I called, bowed out of ingrained training, and then waved at the reading nook. The purple couch was bowed in the middle. Stacks of books yet to be re-shelved sat around in uneven stacks. Sir Thomas watched them intently, his tail flicking back and forth as the Kestrels chose to stand. I heard Phil grumble. “I’ll be right back with tea and cookies.”

I shot Phil a look. He nodded for me to go, folded his arms over his Lions uniform top, and locked his jaw tightly. Two bodyguards stood outside the shop and two flanked the door. The air was dusty and thick with tension. I jogged up the steps, opened the door to our living space, and toed off my shoes with as much haste as I could generate. I did not want to leave Phil alone with his parents for longer than was necessary.

The race to make tea and scrounge enough cookies for a presentable platter for guests was slowed considerably because of a certain curious British officer. Reggie popped up beside me as I was sorting whole ginger cookies from the broken ones. He settled his lean ass on the counter, crossed one leg over the other, and primly watched me pick out the best cookies that remained in the tin. There weren’t many. Phil and I had hit them pretty hard last night after sharing mutual blow jobs.

“Who are those rather imperious-looking people looking askance at our humble stationer?” he asked while flicking imaginary dust from his trousers.

“They’re Phil’s parents.” I didn’t look up as that would entail taking my eyes from the cookie winnowing.

“Say what now?!” Reggie exploded off the counter with enough otherworldly force that the mound of crumbs and broken cookie bits flew all over. I shot him a dark look that faded instantly when I saw he was reaching for the rapier hanging off his hip. “Blackguard! Knave! Rotter!” The ghostly rapier left its scabbard with an eerie metallic ring only I could hear thankfully. “Fiendish dark cad! I shall skewer the knave and claim honor for young Philip who has been so thoughtlessly cast aside as one does a leaking chamber pot! There shall be no recompense of fair play for that knave who calls himself father is an unprincipled villain and a bigoted buffoon!”

“No! No, there will be no skewering of anyone inside this shop!” I threw my crumb hands up as he made a few circles with his rapier. The blade moved through the countertop, leaving a dark gash of ectoplasmic residue. I had no wish to test if the rapier of an irate ghost would cleave a human in half, nor did I have time to experiment. “That’s his father and mother.”

“They have no cause to claim such honorable terms. Only the blackest of hearts turns out their only son. The heir to their lands and titles!”

“We don’t have titles over here,” I reminded him. His long nose crinkled.

“Pitiful Yanks. Leaving the very best of the British peerage system behind in order to lark about like a woolen garderobe in your silly, mismatched uniforms, toting rusty muskets!”

“Reg, dude, I don’t have the time for this. Also, isn’t a garderobe a castle toilet? How can it be woolen?”

His frown grew deeper. “Archimedes, do not make jest at my passionate exclamations while I am so distressed.”

“Sorry, but just pointing out that a toilet made of wool would be—”

“Yes, I know, Archimedes! The statement stands. I would remind you that not only am I a marquis, I am also an officer and therefore will not be countered on my heated but wholly recognizable statement. I find your disrespect of my rank and station irritating, young man, and I shall take my leave. But be forewarned if you disallow my use of my rapier, I shall drop an encyclopedia on the man’s noddle.”

With that, he sheathed his rapier and disapparated with an angry POP.

“Whatever.” I heaved a sigh and returned to the tea and cookies. It felt as if it took hours, but in reality it was less than five minutes. It wasn’t the best pot of tea ever served in the Kee household. Yeye would birth a bison if he saw how sloppily I’d prepared things. There was no Cha Dao—or Way of the Tea—taking place. No warming of the teapot, no awakening of the leaves. Jogging down the stairs with the goodies on a tray, I entered a shop so filled with unease I could have choked on it. Most of it came from Phil, who was still seated behind the register, glowering at his parents.

“Here we are. Please have a seat,” I said, placing the tea service on the scarred coffee table under the stairs.

The Kestrels both moved stiffly from the spot they’d taken root to ease themselves down onto the sofa. The springs gave way under Mrs. Kestrel, who yelped in surprise as her backside sank down a good six inches.

“Sorry about that. The middle seat is the most popular,” I rushed to explain while pouring weak-ass tea into four small cups and presenting the cup with both hands to the lady first then to the senator. I made sure to keep my cup lower than theirs out of respect for their being older than me. Yeye taught me well. Phil’s tea sat on the tray, steaming nicely, as he kept his tight backside on the old stool behind the counter. “Your tea is ready, Phil. Can you join us?” He shook his head. Okay, fine, I could do this hosting solo. “Well, it’s here if you get thirsty.” I turned to the senator, who I was pleased to see was cradling his cup with both hands, as was his wife. They sipped delicately, just once, and placed their cups back on the tray. That was fair. The tea did taste like old dishwater. “Help yourself to a cookie. They’re ginger. My grandfather baked them before he and his lady friend left on a trip to visit her family down south.” Mrs. Kestrel chose a whole one to nibble on. The senator did not. “So, you mentioned you came to us about a paranormal situation that you needed help with?”