Ghostlight Read Free Page A

fringe to write about Thorne Blackburn had fortunately diminished over the years, although they’d never quite stopped. She might even have been willing to write a book—publish or perish, after all, even for those who weren’t academics on the tenure track—except that the publishers all made it very clear that they were not looking for accuracy, rather for a credulous panegyric they could pass off as gospel to their equally addled readers.
    And Katherine Jourdemayne’s daughter was damned if she was going to gild the reputation of a fake, a fraud, an Aquarian Age snake-oil salesman. Why couldn’t all those people see what a huckster Blackburn had really been?
    It was, Truth supposed, part of the reason she’d gone into parapsychology: find a way to debunk the frauds before they could hurt anyone. But sometimes she was so ashamed.
    Why couldn’t I be the daughter of Elvis instead? Truth thought forlornly. Life would be easier.
    She ran a hand through her hair, still trembling with repressed emotion. Why couldn’t they all realize that the only thing she wanted was never to have to think about Thorne Blackburn ever again? He haunted her life like the ghost at the feast, poised to drag her into his lunatic world of unreason.
    â€œHello? Anyone home? Ah, my esteemed colleague, Miss Jourdemayne.” Without giving her a chance to pretend she wasn’t there at all, Dylan Palmer slid in to Truth’s office and closed the door.
    Dylan Palmer—Dr. Palmer— was a tenure-track academic, a member of the teaching faculty at Taghkanic as
well as a fellow of the Institute. He was a professor in the Indiana Jones mold, being tall, blond, handsome, easygoing, and occasionally heroic. Dylan’s particular parapsychological interest was personality transfers and survivals—in more mundane parlance, hauntings.
    â€œHow’s my favorite number-cruncher today?” he asked cheerfully.
    Dylan leaned over her desk, looking more like one of the students than one of the teachers in his flannel shirt and baggy jeans. The small gold ring in his ear winked in the light.
    â€œHow was your summer project?” Truth asked.
    She could feel herself withdrawing, and knew that Dylan could see it too, but Truth found his zest for life as daunting as it was exhilarating.
    â€œWonderful!” If Dylan was hurt by her coolness he didn’t show it. “Twelve weeks in the draftiest Irish castle you ever saw—just me, three grad students, and seventy-five thousand dollars of cameras, microphones, and sensors. Oh, and the IRA.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œJust kidding. I think that’s who the locals thought we were, though—they did everything but cross themselves when we’d come into town to buy supplies.” He straightened up, looking pleased with himself.
    â€œThat’s just the sort of thing you’d think was funny.” Truth said. “This isn’t a game, Dylan—psychic investigation is a serious business, even if you treat it lightly.” She heard the condescension in her voice and winced inwardly, hoping Dylan would go away before she embarrassed herself further.
    â€œAh, Halloween coming early this year?” Dylan asked lightly.
    Truth stared at him blank-faced.
    â€œI couldn’t help but notice,” Dylan said, looking downward ostentatiously. “Thorne Blackburn time again, is it?”
    Truth followed the direction of his gaze, and saw a
small snowstorm of torn paper around her feet. Dylan bent down gracefully and retrieved a scrap. Truth snatched at it, but to no avail. Dylan brandished it theatrically and began to declaim.
    â€œWhen the frost is on the pumpkin, and Blackburn time is near/Then the ghoulies and the goblins, do jump about in fear/For Truth—”
    â€œIt isn’t funny!” Truth cried furiously. She jumped to her feet and snatched the scrap of Rouncival’s letter out of Dylan’s hand.