Ghost Killer Day 1, Enzo the Ghost Dog and the Knife

Enzo, her ghost Labrador dog, awaited her when she got home. He sat in the large entryway next to the stairs with cocked ears, though his cheerfulness seemed slightly subdued. His tail wagged a couple of times, but she heard no swish, just felt the standard chill radiating from her ghostly pet.

**You are really going to do this, Clare?** he asked.

She inhaled a quick breath, let it out choppily. "I am not going to let a boy be eaten by an evil ghost."

Her phantom dog rose and trotted up the stairs. **You will need the big knife, then. I will show it to you.**

"Knife!" For one brief instant, courage blazed inside of her. A weapon, she'd have a weapon! Then her stomach jolted and her throat closed again. She had no clue how to use a big knife.

But her lover, Zach Slade, would. If the knife was, say, a long dagger, it might be used as a sword. Zach used his cane was a weapon, he could teach her cane moves, couldn't he? She was sure he knew how to use a regular knife.

"Is the knife . . . supernatural?" she asked Enzo, following him up the stairs, turning right toward her bedroom. Perhaps if the weapon was supernatural, all she'd have to do was hold it and let it lead her to the evil ghost and dispatch it. Like the fairy tales great-aunt Sandra had told her as a small child. Fairy tales. Fiction.

Of course it wouldn't be that easy. And in fairy tales, the prince or princess had to overcome great obstacles. And if you weren't the right princess, you could die. Clare bit her lip.

**Clare! Focus! You can't daydream! We can do this. The knife will help!** Clare shook herself to find she stood in the tiny office she used for her ghost seer cases. Atop the battered desk lay her old laptop from two years ago. She'd tacked maps on the walls: a huge one of Denver that she'd shaded the worst areas for ghosts of her time period; one of Colorado; and one of the United States. Some smaller maps were reproductions of old ones, Denver in 1887, 1890, 1893, 1903, that last three years later than the last year of what she hoped was her sensitivity to ghosts, the American West . . .

**CLARE! You MUST pay attention.** Enzo had hunkered down near great-aunt Sandra's large carved chest, a gorgeous piece of various woods fanned out on the front around a small half-circle that had always seemed like the sun and rays to Clare.

Enzo pointed his paw at the chest. His eyes appeared to be more liquid . . . and he hadn't been as much of a cheerleader this morning.

He seemed to have recognized the danger and mixed a too-real determination in with his optimism. That was so not a good sign. He'd always been a happy dog, even when she'd been going insane . . . even when she'd been dying due to refusing her gift.

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