Charon's Crossing

Matthew frowned. "I told you, that was a dream."

"Now, who's handing out reassurances fit for a twelve-year-old? Come on, Matthew. I know it wasn't a dream. This is my house and that—whatever it was—came after me. I've a right to know what it is."

He sighed and got to his feet. She was right, and he knew it.

"It is Waring," he said in a low voice. "The man I found with Catherine, who killed me even as I killed him."

Kathryn felt her blood turn to ice. "You mean, he's a ghost, too?"

"Nay. Not a ghost. A thing, just as you called him, existing in a place different than this, as I once did."

She sank down in a chair. "I feel as if I've stumbled into a time warp," she said, with a nervous laugh. "I don't understand any of this."

Matthew leaned towards her over the wide oak table, his hands planted firmly on the scarred wood.

"I will tell you what I have surmised," he said. "Waring was an aristocrat, a son of a bitch who despised anyone not of his class. Can you imagine what it must have done to him, to have died on the sword of such as me and for a woman who was little better than a whore?"

"So he's here because he hates you?"

"He is here to avenge himself, if he can break through from where he exists to this place."

The day was hot, the sun bright. Kathryn could hear birds singing outside in the garden. But in here, in the kitchen, the air had taken on a chill as cold as the grave.

"You mean... You mean, he's tried to hurt you?"

Matthew showed his teeth in a chill smile. "To kill me. Yes."

"But how can he do that if you're already—if you're already—"

She couldn't say the word, but Matthew could, and without any sign of emotion.

"If I am already dead?" His shoulders lifted and fell in an eloquent shrug. "I don't know. I can no more explain the laws of the universe now than I could when I was mortal." His eyes darkened. "The only thing I'm certain of is that Waring has grown stronger in the past days."

"Since I came here, you mean."

He hesitated. "Yes."

"Why?"

The word was a whisper on the silence. Matthew shook his head.

"I don't know." He saw the look on her face, the sudden terror in her eyes, and he mentally cursed the table that separated them and kept him from pulling her into his arms. He reached out and took her hand. "Don't be afraid, Kathryn. He will not hurt you. I swear, I will not let it happen."

"I'm not afraid for myself," she said in a tremulous voice. "But if he were to—to..."

She caught her breath. An electric tingle seemed to flash from his fingers to hers.

"Kathryn..."

An acrid stench erupted in the kitchen. Matthew's gaze shot past her, to the stove.

"Hell," he said, and vaulted the table.

Kathryn spun around. The coffee she'd put up was boiling madly and spilling out of the spout. For some insane reason, the sight immobilized her. Matthew grabbed for the pot.

"How do you stop this damned thing?" he said.

"That knob..."