How much longer can I fake it?

Isobel thought Chris had a plan. That would imply he knew what he was doing. Chris barely remembered what he ate for breakfast most days. How did she expect him to formulate a scheme to bring her dad back from the dead in the span of like fifteen minutes? But admitting that he didn’t have a fucking clue wasn’t an option.

And besides, she wanted to come with him, so even if he had to wing it, he’d figure something out.

He brainstormed quickly, urging his brain cells—some possibly permanently burnt from all the drugs he’d done—to think of something.

Problem: reviving a dead man.

Bringing back someone who’d left the mortal plane meant first finding his soul.

As they walked back up the drive to her house, he asked questions. “Before I divulge my awesome plan, are you sure your dad is dead?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “We don’t know the details. Papa often went on mysterious missions. He’d be gone for days at a time. Until the last one, where he never came back.”

“So you don’t know he’s dead for sure,” he prodded. “He could be alive.”

Whirling on him, her eyes were bright with anger. “If you’re implying my father abandoned us for another life, then you’re wrong. He’s dead.”

She sounded so certain. “But you don’t know where his body is?”

She shook her head.

“If you don’t know where his body is, then how the hell am I supposed to do anything? I mean, at the very least, I’d need to find his spirit.”

“Oh, that part’s easy.” Isobel laughed. “Papa is in the house most of the time.”

“Don’t you start with that nonsense again,” screeched Mother, who’d swept up behind them. “I thought you told the doctors it was just your imagination.”

“No, you wanted me to tell the psychiatrists I was imagining it. The truth is, Papa has been haunting us for years now.”

“The mediums we brought in all claimed differently.” Mother planted her hands on her hips, which might have looked more impressive without the smudge of dirt on her cheek.

“And they were wrong.” Isobel shrugged. “I don’t know why they can’t see him.” She pointed to a spot behind her mother. “He’s standing right there.”

At that, Marya’s face crumpled. “He can’t be. I would know if he was near.”

Shouldn’t Chris know, as well? He peeked at the area around Isobel’s mother. Strained to see, and thought that perhaps the air seemed a little denser, but… Yeah. No. He didn’t sense a bloody thing.

“Are you sure he’s hanging around? He was your dad. Maybe it’s just wishful thinking. And without a body, you can’t be sure he died. It’s not uncommon for men to have a mid-life crisis and take off.”

At that, Marya screeched. “He would never abandon us!” With her head held high, she swept off into the house, Rasputin right behind her, leaving Chris alone with Isobel.

Sweet. Since their audience was gone, Isobel could properly thank him for vanquishing War.

Instead, Isobel slapped his arm. “Watch what you say. Can’t you see this is a delicate topic?”

Sensitive subject matter didn’t mean he wouldn’t question—and push. “No one can see his ghost. Just you.”

“Then look harder,” Isobel exclaimed. “He’s right there.” She grabbed his face and turned it. A jolt of energy zinged through the skin-to-skin contact, and he opened his mouth to speak, only to blink.

He blinked a few times more before saying, “Holy shit. I see him.”

More disturbing, the ghost, his appearance translucent, but still distinctly male and large, fixed his gaze on Chris and said, “Get away from my daughter.”

Isobel gasped. “Papa?” She took her hands from Chris and stepped away from him. “You can talk. How come I’ve never heard you before?”

The ghost shot her a look full of longing and despair—a look Chris knew all too well—and faded out of sight.

“Papa, don’t go,” Isobel uttered in a mournful tone before turning on Chris. “I told you he was real. You have to help him.”

He didn’t have to do shit.

But… He sighed. “I’ll help.” He didn’t know how, but he’d try.

Gag. That sounded kind of weak. Fuck trying. He’d get Isobel’s damned father back because he was the Prince That Shall Come. And his daddy owed him a favor.

Now, if only he knew how to call his dad and ask him to cough up the goods.

Arriving at the house, they swept in, and while Isobel bounced off claiming, “I need to pack a bag,” Chris was left alone with Rasputin.

The man simply glared at Chris.

Bored, he walked away into a rather messy parlor—someone was paying their staff too much for too little—and hit a decanter on a sideboard for a drink.

“You need to marry Isobel.”

The alcohol went down smoothly, as opposed to being sputtered out at the bald statement.

“I’m working on it,” Chris replied as he poured another.

“You won’t find her father.”

“We don’t know that for sure.”

“I do. He’s dead. He’s not coming back.” Rasputin’s lips pressed together tightly, and his brows hung low over his eyes.

“Yeah, well, maybe it’s time she accepted that. What can it hurt if we try? Go on a little road trip. Talk to a few witches and shit.”

“You would give her false hope?”

“How about thinking of it more in terms of closure? Look, maybe you didn’t see it outside, but I did. She’s not lying when she says there’s some ghost dude hanging around. One that she says is her daddy. Now, I don’t know why no one else can see the spirit, but surely it can’t hurt to check into it a bit. You know, let her truly find out for herself that he’s dead and gone forever.”

“Some secrets are best left untouched. And there are more important things afoot. The horsemen have returned.”

“And?”

“They are harbingers of the apocalypse.”

“I hate to break it to you, old man, but my birth was the first sign it was coming.”

“Now, events are beginning to spiral, yet you are not ready.”

“Says who?”

The pointed peak of Rasputin’s eyebrows said it all.

“I’m learning as fast as I can,” Chris replied, more defensively than he liked.

“It’s not yet time.”

“Says who? You? If you ask me, the only person who’s going to decide when it happens is me.”

“If you live that long.” Rasputin uttered a disdainful sniff.

“What’s that suppose to mean?”

“It means you are weak.”

“Um, did you not notice who just kicked War’s tin butt and sent him galloping back to my mommy?”

“She is testing you, and you fell for it.”

“Bullshit. No one expected me to control those ghosties.”

“No. And now that you’ve revealed you can, you’ve lost that advantage.”

“What would you have suggested I do?”

The old man shrugged and snared his own glass of aged brandy. “Damned if I know. I’m not the one the prophecy is dragging around by the sac.”

“What would you have done if you were?”

“Probably the same thing.”

Chris blinked. “Um, then why the criticism?”

“Because that is what I do. Better get used to it if you’re going to marry my granddaughter.”

“About that, what do you think she’ll do when I can’t bring her dad back?”

Rasputin shrugged. “Who knows anymore with that female. She’s changed so much recently that I wouldn’t put killing you past her.”

“Isobel wouldn’t kill me.”

“Are you sure of that?”

The seed of doubt planted, Rasputin turned away and began to leave.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“To ready my robes. The black ones, good for war and funerals.” Rasputin rubbed his hands in glee while his brows danced.

Chris got the impression Rasputin didn’t speak of his own.

What the fuck have I gotten myself into?

Trouble. His familiar friend.