Hellsinger 01 - Fish and Ghosts (P) (MM) by Rhys Ford

turning the greenery to dots and lines of pitch against a rainbow of grays. Spots of red poked out of the monochromatic sea, tired heads of cabbage roses bobbing under the touch of the mist’s creeping fingers. The silver light coming from the sparse clouds touched Tristan’s body, pouring shadows into the dip of his spine and brightening a hand’s width of skin above the waistband of his jeans, where his T-shirt was pulled up on his back.
    It was the perfect spot to place a kiss. The shallow crease of Tristan’s lower back begged for one, and Wolf’s mouth watered when he thought of his teeth scoring red lines on that patch of pale skin. Then his throat closed up, dry and wanting, as he realized he could just as easily tug down the man’s loose jeans and bite into the succulent rounded ass hidden below.
    He was going to hate hiding the man’s sensual lines under the swaddling fleece, but the wind chewed through Wolf’s face with icy teeth, and Tristan was probably freezing, even if he wasn’t paying much attention to anything but the dark swatch of a large pond stretched out in front of a small Gothic-style folly.
    “Here,” Wolf said, shoving the mug he’d brought at Tristan. “Got a hoodie for you to put on too. Gidget’s worried you’ll catch cold.”
    “Ah, thanks. Hold on, let me put that on first.” Tristan’s fingers brushed over Wolf’s, and they were as cold to the touch as he’d imagined they would be. Wolf watched Tristan shrug on the fleece then zip it up. He patted at the Hellsinger logo on his chest, then took the cup from Wolf’s clenched hand. “I didn’t expect it to be this cold tonight. You’d think I was a tourist or something. I’m never prepared for the weather.”
    “Where’s your furry companion?” Wolf looked around for the man’s overly large dog.
    “Inside, probably sleeping on my bed where it’s warm.” Tristan grinned. “I needed some air, and I like coming out here. The view’s nice.”
    “You often come out here at night to stare at… nothing?” Wolf leaned on the railing, looking down at the gardens. “Not much to stare at in the dark.”
    “I’m waiting for the fireflies to come out.” The man sighed as he cupped his hands and took a sip of coffee. “I used to think I drank too much of this stuff, but you guys got me beat.”
    “Comes with the territory. Most of what we do happens in the dead of the night.” He tried to ignore the man settling in next to him, but Tristan’s cooler skin gave him the shivers. Moving closer, Wolf told himself it was to help warm up the slender man, but the clench in his balls called him a liar.
    “That’s funny. Ghosts. Dead of the night,” Tristan snorted. “You know, ghosts are around during the daytime too. Especially around here. No people.”
    “You think people are the reason the spookies don’t come out during the day?”
    “People are noisy.”
    “Loud.” Wolf cocked an eyebrow at the man. “Ghosts like peace and quiet? They’re the librarians of the supernatural?”
    “No, not that the ghosts don’t like sound. Well some kinds of sound, I guess.” Tristan gave Wolf an unreadable look. “People make sub-physical sound. Not by talking or anything, just by being around. Their heat, their bodies… everything thrums. They echo against things. Ghosts can hear that… feel that. They exist in that realm of sound and light… and consciousness. Live people bleed into that space, making their rude little reverberations. It’s quieter when people are asleep. Ghosts can slip out and not be stolen into.”
    “So you think it’s Hoxne Grange’s quiet that draws your guests in?” Wolf mulled the man’s theory over. It wasn’t so much bullshit as some of the explanations he’d heard from other investigators. “Because people bleed into their existence?”
    “Yep.” Tristan nodded. “That’s what I’m saying.”
    “Huh.” He blinked, thinking on the matter. “Kind of makes sense. Never really