Chapter 1 Whiskey and the Transparent Detective

The dead body lay sprawled across the marble floor, his arms outstretched as if reaching for salvation that never came. I took another swig of bourbon from my silver flask, letting the familiar burn steady my nerves. Death never bothered me—it was the living I couldn't stand.

"Another one for the Tribune?" Detective Mills grimaced as he approached, eyeing my flask with disapproval.

"Vivian Grey, crime reporter," I reminded him unnecessarily, tucking my flask into my coat pocket. "Mind if I take a closer look?"

Mills shrugged. "Knock yourself out, Grey. Just don't touch anything."

I smiled sweetly. "When have I ever disrupted your crime scenes, Detective?"

"Every damn time," he muttered, walking away.

The victim was Harold Blackwood, a wealthy banker with more enemies than friends. The official story was a heart attack, but the bruising around his wrists told a different tale. I glanced around, making sure the officers were occupied, then pulled off my glove.

Just one touch. That's all I needed.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," came a dry voice from the corner. "Though, to be fair, I'm not exactly in a position to judge poor life choices anymore."

I froze, my fingers hovering above the corpse's cold hand. Slowly, I turned toward the voice.

A man leaned against the wall, arms crossed over his chest. Tall and lean, with disheveled dark hair and piercing gray-green eyes. He wore a rumpled suit that might have been fashionable a few years ago. His entire form shimmered slightly, like heat rising from pavement in summer.

And I could see straight through him to the wallpaper behind.

"You're stepping on evidence, by the way," he added, nodding toward my feet.

I looked down. A small cufflink gleamed under the toe of my boot.

"You can see me, can't you?" he asked, pushing away from the wall and drifting—yes, drifting—closer. "How interesting."

I'd encountered spirits before, of course. It came with my particular... talent. But they were usually confused, angry, or desperate. This one seemed perfectly composed, even amused.

"Who are you?" I whispered, careful not to let the officers hear me apparently talking to thin air.

"Gabriel Blackwood, former detective." He gave a slight bow. "Currently deceased and, it seems, invisible to everyone but you."

I took another swig from my flask. "Wonderful. Just what I need. A ghost with a badge."

"Former badge," he corrected, then frowned at the corpse. "That knot around his wrist. It's a sailor's knot, specifically a double constrictor. Unusual choice for a banker's murder."

I glanced at Blackwood's wrist, then back at the ghost detective. "How do you know it's murder? Mills thinks it's a heart attack."

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Mills couldn't detect murder if the killer left a signed confession. Look at the pattern of lividity, the slight foam at the corners of the mouth. Classic signs of strychnine poisoning, followed by restraint to prevent convulsions from being noticed."

Despite myself, I was impressed. "You really were a detective."

"The best," he said without a hint of modesty. "Now, are you going to touch him or not? I assume that's your particular talent, given your hesitation and the gloves."

I narrowed my eyes. "You're awfully perceptive for a dead man."

"Death has improved my observational skills." His smile was sharp as broken glass.

With a sigh, I removed my glove completely and placed my palm against Blackwood's cold forehead. Immediately, images flooded my mind—a darkened study, a drink that tasted bitter, panic as his limbs began to seize, a shadowy figure binding his wrists with rope, whispering, "The Guild sends their regards."

I pulled back with a gasp, the connection broken.

"What did you see?" Gabriel asked, suddenly beside me.

"He was poisoned," I confirmed. "Something in his drink. A man tied his wrists while he was paralyzed but still conscious. Said something about 'The Guild.'"

Gabriel's transparent form seemed to grow even more insubstantial. "The Guild," he repeated softly. "Of course."

"You know them?"

"We should discuss this elsewhere," he said, glancing at the officers. "Unless you want Mills to think you've finally lost your mind."

As if on cue, Mills looked over. "Talking to yourself again, Grey?"

"Just dictating notes," I lied smoothly, standing up and brushing off my skirt. I started toward the door, then paused, realizing Gabriel hadn't moved. "Well? Are you coming or not?"

"I'm not entirely sure I can," he admitted, looking somewhat embarrassed. "I haven't exactly mastered the... logistics of my current state."

I suppressed a smile. "Just think about following me. That's how it usually works."

"You have extensive experience with ghosts, do you?"

"More than I'd like."

I headed for the exit, feeling strangely satisfied when I heard him call out, "Wait!" followed by a muttered curse as he presumably tried to figure out how to move.

Outside, the autumn air was crisp, carrying the scent of fallen leaves and automobile exhaust. I headed toward my favorite speakeasy, where I could drink and talk to my new ghostly acquaintance without seeming completely mad.

"This is fascinating," Gabriel said, suddenly beside me as I walked. "I appear to be tethered to you somehow. I simply thought about being near you, and here I am."

"Lucky me," I said dryly.

"I've been wandering that house for weeks, unable to leave," he continued, ignoring my sarcasm. "Then you arrived, and suddenly I could move freely."

"Why were you haunting Blackwood's house?"

"I wasn't. At least, I don't think I was." He frowned. "My memories are... incomplete. I remember being a detective, I remember dying—though not how—and I remember being stuck in that house until you arrived."

I stopped walking and turned to face him, not caring if passersby thought I was talking to myself. "Let's get one thing straight, Detective. I don't need a ghostly shadow following me around. I have enough problems without—"

I cut myself off as a businessman walked straight through Gabriel, causing his form to ripple like water. The businessman shivered involuntarily but continued on his way.

"That was unpleasant," Gabriel remarked.

"Look," I said, lowering my voice, "I need to file this story. You need to... do whatever it is ghosts do. Haunt a cemetery. Possess a doll. I don't care."

"I believe our interests are aligned, Miss Grey," he said formally. "You want the story. I want to know why I'm still here. And we both seem interested in this 'Guild.'"

I opened my mouth to argue, then closed it. He had a point. And having a detective's insight—especially one who could go places I couldn't—might be useful.

"Fine," I conceded. "But there are rules. No watching me change clothes. No commentary on my personal habits. And absolutely no possession."

"I'm a detective, not a peeping Tom," he said stiffly. "And I have no idea how to possess anyone, nor do I wish to try."

I nodded, satisfied. "Then we have a deal, Detective Blackwood."

"Gabriel," he corrected.

"I prefer Detective."

As we continued walking, I stumbled slightly on a loose cobblestone. Gabriel instinctively reached out to steady me, his transparent hand passing straight through my arm. We both froze, staring at the point where our forms intersected but didn't touch.

"Sorry," he said, pulling back quickly. "I forgot."

"It's fine," I replied, feeling a strange chill where his hand had passed through me.

For a moment, we just looked at each other—a living woman and a dead detective on a sunlit street, beginning what would prove to be the strangest partnership of my life.

I took another swig from my flask. I had a feeling I was going to need it.