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Chapter III: Sam's a Horrible Storyteller. I'm Taking Over.

Right. My turn.

The trouble with letting Sam tell stories is that he never gets to the point. He complains, he rambles, he stops to comment on random paintings and string theory and the psychology of vampires, he does pretty much everything but actually tell people what happened.

And, in this case, he left out some very important facts about what I was doing. Not his fault, of course; he didn't know. Still, in the interests of complete disclosure (that's the lawyer term, right, Sammy?) I'm going to take a turn at this to explain stuff whenever Megatron decides to neglect important facts in favour of maundering about the nature of the cosmos.

So, Important Fact Number One: this was Sam's first solo hunt. I think he may have mentioned that, but only in passing and it was probably lost in the avalanche of random remarks. Dad was an hour's drive away, and I was right there, but we were just backup. It was Sam's job.

Important Fact Number Two: We really did think it was just a question of finding out which corner Adam Jefferson had stashed his 1950s porn collection in and burning it. I mean, come on, it was Sam. My kid brother. On my eighteenth birthday Dad had actually named me Sam's legal guardian in the event of anything ever happening to him. There was no way I'd even have considered letting Dad make this a solo job for Sam if I'd had even the tiniest suspicion of how out of hand it was going to get. (And, for the record, yeah, I did have the last word when it came to things concerning Sammy.)

Anyway, no matter what the Sasquatch tries to make you believe, the truth is that I'd never doubted his research or his powers of observation. The kid's annoying as hell, but he's good at what he does. He always has been. (Which reminds me – you are so going to tell me how you learnt to hack the FBI's servers before we're done with this, bitch.)

Important Fact Number Three: I really had no idea I'd clutched Sam hard enough to leave bruises. I don't think he's putting enough emphasis on that, or on how horrified I was when I saw them. Sam is my kid. (Yes, Sam, is.) Seeing my hands marked on his arms in purpling bruises was... Well, not something I ever want to see again.

After he fell asleep (and he was right that I was feeling guilty), I stayed where I was a little longer.

I hadn't been able to sleep the previous night anyway. I'd spent my entire life (or, well, the last fourteen years of it) falling asleep to the sound of Sam's even breathing. Or, if it was an insomnia night, to the sound of Sam's pissed-off breathing and the rustle of pages as he read a book. Whatever. One way or another, I was used to the sounds of Sam.

My big empty room with the soundproof walls was just depressing.

My hand stilled on Sam's head. Sam stirred, roused enough to say, "Go back before they catch you," and then promptly rolled over and went back to sleep with his forehead pushed against my knee.

When Sam was so deep that I was sure I could move without waking him, I left. Not to go back to my own bed. This was Sam's case, and I wasn't openly going to interfere, but I was going to make sure there wasn't more going on than he could handle. (No, that doesn't mean I didn't trust you to handle one freaking non-vengeful spirit, Sam. It means I didn't trust the case to stay that simple.)

I had no idea where to begin, so I decided to make like Sam and headed to the library.

It was a lot bigger than I expected – a lot bigger than any library in any school I'd ever attended. I suppose I should've expected that, since everything about the school suggested bigger and more.

The library was in a little building of its own, connected to the main school block by a broad passage. Most kids avoided the passage, preferring to take the gravel path through the lawn, but I didn't have time to admire natural beauties.

I hurried to the library. It was locked – fancy, state-of-the-art (for what Samantha calls the technological Dark Ages of the nineties) lock, too. This, in addition to being before Sam knew how to hack into government servers, was also before he was an expert lock-picker with his own set of custom-made tools. So I had to pick it myself. It took a while, but I got there in the end.

I went straight to the rack where they kept the school records.

I didn't know exactly what I was looking for, but I was pretty sure that if there was anything, it would be there.

I was intent on my job, so it was a few minutes before I realized I wasn't alone in the library.

One thing about being a hunter: you get used to the sounds of empty buildings. You know what it sounds like when the floor is creaking and curtains are rustling just because. You know what it sounds like when there's someone else in there with you making the floor creak and the curtains rustle.

Someone else was in there with me.

I shut the book I had open, turned off my flashlight, and got silently to my feet.

I heard a tiny sound from the stairs.

I padded softly in the direction of the staircase. Despite how quiet I was being the person must've heard me, because when I got there, he was waiting, hands on his hips.

"I've heard of students breaking curfew to use the pool or sneak some of that beer they think we don't know they hide in their studies," he said coolly. "First time I've seen someone breaking curfew to visit the library."

Clearly, this guy didn't know my brother. Equally clearly, he was a teacher. That meant I could talk my way out of serious trouble. I still needed to find out what he was up to, though. Like he'd said, students broke curfew for anyone of about fifty reasons, but teachers didn't sneak into the library and wander around with the lights out in the middle of the night.

I shrugged. "I had to study."

"In the dark?"

In answer, I flicked on the flashlight.

In its yellow beam I could see the man's face.

Jacobi. Daryl Jacobi.

I didn't have anything to do with him, but Sam was in his English Lit class. And, before you ask, yes, of course I knew all Sam's classes and his teachers. I always did, no matter which school we went to, and in this one, with a case? You really think I was going to let unauthorized people have access to my brother? My scrawny, fourteen-year-old, not-yet-the-size-of-a-tank brother?

I'd already made a few discreet inquiries about Jacobi. He'd been described as a nice guy, a little strict about deadlines and prone to handing out Ds.

Sam hadn't even had a B+ in his entire school career – I was pretty sure he'd be safe from Jacobi's Ds.

"So, what were you studying, then, Mr..." Jacobi looked at me questioningly.

"Peters," I supplied. "Dean Peters. I was studying History."

"You take History. With whom?"

There he had me. I could've named Sam's history teacher for him, and also told him the details of her prior employment, how many children she had, and where she was planning to go skiing over Christmas break. But the Senior History teacher? I didn't have a clue.

I opened my mouth to bluff my way out of it, but Jacobi wasn't buying it.

"I think we need to talk, Dean."

And that is Important Fact Number Four, which Sam would never have told you: When I wound up sitting in a teacher's office in the middle of the night, it was not voluntary. Even Sam isn't that big a geek.

However it happened, ten minutes later, I was sitting in Jacobi's office.

He sat across from me, leaning forward on the desk, trying to look sympathetic and understanding.

Yeah,right.

One thing Sam had perfected even at fourteen – had perfected at freaking four (and that's months, not years) – was the eyes. (I'm not talking about the puppy eyes. Sam didn't have to perfect those; from the day he was born he's known how to make me feel like I kicked a baby animal in its soft underbelly.)

No, even then Sam had perfected the I-feel-your-pain, tell-me-all-about-it-you-brave-little-soldier eyes.

Jacobi's? Not a patch on them. He just looked creepy.

"Dean," Jacobi said gently. "I can't help you if you don't trust me. What were you doing in the library?"

I was about to make a snarky comment when I saw something – I don't know what it was – something in his face, maybe. For just a moment, it was like he'd let his guard and his mask slip and I saw the man behind it. Not in a pansy way, obviously, but…

Well, I knew what I saw in Jacobi's eyes. It was the look of a man who'd seen more than he wanted to and fought more than anybody should have to, and was getting ready for another battle.

It was the look I saw in Dad's eyes, sometimes, or in the eyes of one of the hunters we sometimes came across.

I decided to trust Jacobi.

Not with everything. I'd seen that hint of truth, he'd let me see it, and that meant I was willing to give him the trust I'd give another hunter. I'd tell him who I was and tell him about the case (as much as I could without sounding insane) and ask if he'd seen or heard anything. I wasn't, absolutely not, not ever, going to trust him with Sam.

I didn't trust anyone with Sam.

I said, carefully, "I'm not a student. Not really."

"I didn't think so." Jacobi leaned forward, resting his elbows on his desk. "You're a hunter. Aren't you?" Before I could grab my knife, he held up his hands. "I'm a friend. I'm not going to out you to anyone if you're here on a job."

"If I – who are you?" I demanded.

"My name really is Daryl Jacobi. I'm not a hunter, but my wife was. I met her when I was on holiday in Europe with my parents. My father was killed by a lamia." I made an apologetic noise. Jacobi shook his head. "It was years ago. Anyway, Zoë was the hunter who came to clean up the mess, one thing led to another, and…"

"So where is she now?" I asked.

"Dead." He sighed. "She left her home for me, moved to California, became an American citizen… But she couldn't stop being a hunter. It was what she was. It was dangerous, and I begged her to stop, but she said she couldn't rest while innocent people were in danger. A werewolf ripped her apart five years ago." Jacobi looked down at his desk, eyes glinting too bright. "She was pregnant."

Sam would've known what to say to that. I just sat there like an idiot until Jacobi looked up at me again.

"Are you really a teacher?"

That's a good question to establish your empathy for the grieving man, Dean. Brilliant.

"I was never a hunter." Jacobi smiled. "I helped Zoë with the research sometimes, but that was all. Do you have a job here?"

"There's been a ghost sighting," I said. "It's not vengeful yet, but I'd like to take care of it before it gets that far."

"A ghost? Adam Jefferson?"

"You know about him?"

"It's not the first time someone's seen him. It's a popular ghost story for Halloween night. I can tell you, if you like."

"Yes, please."

Jacobi relaxed, clasping his hands on the desk in front of him. "Back in the fifties, Ellison took younger children – there was an elementary school as well, not just a high school as there is now. Adam Jefferson was a student at the elementary school. He was a brilliant boy, they say, and if he'd lived he would have been one of the great men of our country. One day he fell in the gym and cracked a few ribs. Very badly, badly enough that he damaged one of his lungs. He recovered, but he was never really healthy again. A few months later he came down with double pneumonia. He didn't even last a week after that."

I shivered. I couldn't help imagining Sam pale and wheezing in a hospital bed.

Jacobi nodded. "They say it was horrible. He knew he was dying and he didn't want to die. He was terrified. He cried and pleaded and begged – with his parents, with the nurses, with God, with anyone he thought would listen. His parents were wealthy and they did everything they could, but sometimes the best doctors can't do anything. Adam Jefferson died. Frightened of the beckoning darkness, desperately wanting to live, he died." He met my eyes. "They say, if you spend a night in the room where he died, you can hear him crying."

Ten minutes later, I was back in Sam's room, pulling him into my arms. Sam protested drowsily, but I ignored it, and a few seconds later he fell asleep again.

I relaxed, letting myself feel the comforting puffs of his breath on my collarbone.

Jacobi's story had spooked me more than I would ever admit aloud. Maybe it was the way he told it, his voice rising and falling in the dim light of the desk lamp. Maybe it was how raw with pain his eyes still were over his dead wife. Whatever it was, I couldn't stop imagining Sam with damaged lungs, Sam with pneumonia, Sam begging me to save him while I sat helplessly by his hospital bed.

I held Sam closer, murmured something soothing into his hair when he stirred.

I was calling Dad in the morning. Ghost, no ghost, didn't matter. I wasn't putting Sam at risk. We were done with this job. If it was that important, Caleb could come by and sort it out himself.


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