The sun gleams off of the crystal clear, blue water of the castle pool. Maka stretches out on her favorite lounge chair, the one that gets the most sun. The book in her lap lays, ignored, as Soul raises the boom high over his head, the fuzzy head of the large mic shading her face.
Maka smiles.
Mysteriously shirtless, Soul grins back, his biceps straining with the effort of holding the boom in place.
He looks at her from behind pale lashes, with his deep, reddish eyes. His large hands frip the thick steel boom pole. His tongue peels out from between his lips, moisenting the thin skin. His lips part, and, in his high pitched, amused voice, says "Maka, you're drooling."
Maka wakes from her vivid daydream with a start. Her back protests loudly from tiredly slumping over her desk as she straightens. Her hands try to find purchase on her desk, but the carefully organized piles of paper cause her to fail and slip forward.
Liz snorts and sits in the armchair across from Maka's desk. She swings her legs up and over the thick arm of the chair, her back cushioned on the opposite arm.
"Let me guess," Liz says, mockingly contemplative. "The guy with the thick pole?"
"Classy," Maka replies, trying to subtly wipe the splittle from the corner of her mouth.
Liz laughs, and kicks off her black kitten heels. "One of us has to get laid around here. It's been a hot minute since I got any. There are no hot guys touring. Or hot girls," she adds. "Just a bunch of families."
"That is our target audience," Maka points out.
"So boring," Liz sighs, rolling her eyes. Suddenly she sits up. "We should host parties. Imagine!" Her hand outlines the potential markee. "Party at Death's Door. Rent Shibusen Castle for a night of drinks, food, and 35 empty bedrooms."
Maka shakes her head. "I'm not sure Kid could handle the stains."
"Fiiiiiine." Liz turns her attention to her nails, picking up a pen from the mug on Maka's desk to push back her cuticles.
"How was business?" Maka asks, failing to keep the nervous tinge out of her voice.
Liz doesn't look up from her nails. "You know how it was."
Disappointment sets in Maka's mouth.
It was getting harder and harder to ignore the lack of ticket sales and, as a result, the cut hours. The Thompson had been working at the castle the longest, even before Maka, but even they felt the sting of a smaller paycheck.
"Sorry," Maka musters.
Liz shrugs, nonchalant as always, but she can't hide the tension on her shoulders. "At least the Ghost Busters are here."
"Spirit Slayers," Maka corrects. "Hopefully we'll get more tourists when the episode airs."
"And we'll keep the ones we have, thanks to them sucking up the ghosts with their vacuums."
Maka wrinkles her nose. "They didn't have any vacuums with them, just cameras and stuff."
"Whatever. They just better exorcise the hell out of this place so I can get my nails done again." Liz returns the pen to the mug. "Oh, I found another damaged item on my last tour."
Maka groans, loud and tired. "Tourists can't keep their hands to themselves. I just finished restoring the last vase!"
Liz swings her legs off of the arms of the armchair. She stands and toes her heels back on. Without looking at Maka, she says, "Tourists are stupid, but none can rip off the head of a marble statue."
Maka's eyebrows disappear into her bangs.
Working at the castle as long as she has, Maka hears every rumor. Ghosts have long been a part of the castle's lore. When she visited the castle as a young girl, the towering stone walls inspired wild stories, told in hushed whispers by tourists and docents alike. Maka had clung to every detail, every little note of strangeness, and drank in every word of the docents, so wise and knowing. As an adult, she had taken on their job with enthusiasm, her art history degree coming in handy. Surrounded by art, filled with stories and secrets, she had found her place. Now, she giggles at rumors of ghosts and ghouls with her coworkers, teasing the visitors about the cold drafts and portraits who's eyes seemed to follow the patrons with their eyes.
But in recent months there had been more… physical evidence of paranormal mischief.
Liz was the one who found the severed head of The Huntress in the breakroom.
"All this stress is going to give me wrinkles. It's too late for you," she says, tapping Maka in between the eyes, right on the little furrow Kid offered to have erased with a little Juvederm as an early Christmas present.
"We have help now," Maka says, shaking off Liz's touch.
"Yeah, the store brand Ghost Busters seem very competent."
"Spirit Slayers," Maka corrects once again. "At the very least we'll get free advertising."
"And maybe you'll get a nice orgasm- ah, exorcism," Liz teases.
Maka blindly grabs a pen from her desk and throws it at her.
Cackling, Liz leaves the room. As she passes through the door, Liz calls over her shoulder, "Take one for the team, Alsborn. Tap that skinny-jean ass and call us in the morning."
Maka flops down in her chair again. "I ain't afraid of no ghost," she mumbles to herself.
During late nights, when she's alone in her office, she runs her finger tips along the cold stone aching to know the secrets it knows, the things it's seen. She's read obsessively since she was a child, books on the subject towering over her trundle bed in precarious piles. Under her pillow, she would lay premature plans for moving in, and justification for why a ten-year-old would be the perfect candidate for a junior docent.
For her efforts, she got a letter from the owner, guaranteeing her a job upon graduation and a book, written by the owner himself, about the history of the castle.
And now she might see it die without help from the nimrods with the cameras.
The night hangs heavily in the castle, and Maka's eyelids begin to droop. She checks her watch, and decides that 13 hours of work are enough for the night.
The walkie talkie hanging from the waist of her skirt remains silent, so she gathers her things, and locks up her office for the night. Maka unplugs the lights off on her way out, watching the hot bulbs fade to black. Her hand glides along the wall in the pitch black up and up and up staircases, to the favorite room. A shiver runs down the length of her spine as a cool breeze enters from….
Maka stops, her hand hovering in the air.
There are no windows in this hall.
The door door behind her flies open; it hits the wall and the knob leaves a dent behind.
Maka sucks in a sharp breath and dives behind a brocade chaise, throwing her backpack at whatever just entered through the door.
Black Star, breathing hard, her backpack in his sausage fingers.
"Whoops," he says, spotting Maka behind the chaise. "Did I scare you?"
Her heart pounding in her ears, Maka growls, "That door was shipped in from a Belgia Monastery!" It comes out more high pitched than she wants it to, but Star has the decency to look taken aback.
"Dang." He peers at the dent in the wall, and the plaster crumbles to the carpet. "My bad."
Maka tries to shake off the surprise and glares at Black Star. "What are you even doing here?" She snatches back her backpack. "Aren't you supposed to be busting ghosts?"
Black Star looks her dead in the eye, serious as she's ever seen him in the last 18 hours. "We need your help." He snatches up her hand and drags her through the door from where he came. Maka stumbles along the hardwood floors, the heels of her ballet flats digging into the floor but finding no purchase.
"Whateryou- stop," Maka protests. "Let me go!"
Star drops her hand and turns to look at her exasperatedly. "We're burning night time, and this place is a friggin' maze."
"I gave you a map," Maka says, crossing her arms over her chest.
Black Star scoffs. "Yeah, a map of a maze. Just come help." He smiles suggestively. "I'll make if worth your while."
Maka eyes roll so hard they nearly fall out of her head. "You have nothing I want."
Star pulls out of his phone with a flourish. "I'll give you Soul's number."
Maka purses her lips.
"Let me put my stuff back in my office."
Maka leads the way, as Black Star can't find where the crew set up their equipment. ("How do you even work here," Star grumbles. "There are thirty staircases.")
They squeeze their way towards the back of the castle, through narrow and twisting sets of stone stairs. They come across a makeshift tent on one of the less decorated landings, and carefully step over criss-crossing extension cords. The single table and vase of flowers have been shoved up against the wall, dusty orange fingerprints staining the porcelain-
Maka stops in her tracks. "Who touched the Guttenberg? Is that cheeto dust-?!"
Soul's pure white head pops out behind the flaps of the blue tent. "Hey," he says, greeting her with a wave of a spoon.
"Are. You. Eating in here?!"
Soul pauses with the spoon, laden with cereal, halfway to his mouth. "...No?"
Maka stomps over to him and snatches the spoon and bowl (19th century china), full of what looks like Captain Crunch, from his hands. "I am going to murder you."
Behind her, Black Star snorts. "Careful, he might like that." He steps around them and ducks into the tent. "Come inside, little birdy."
"I think that's you," Soul says slowly. He looks down at his wrist, where there is no watch. "Sorry about the bowl."
Maka clings a little tighter to the utensil and bowl. "It's fine, it's just a part of the Meissen dining collection, and worth more than your life and mine," she mutters, and follows to where Black Star has disappeared.
She hears Soul slump in after her, but doesn't look back.
"So," Black Star begins, clapping his hands together. "You're creepily obsessed with this place, right?"
Maka carefully sets down the china on an empty spot near a dim monitor. "What's your point?"
"You know where shit is supposed to go? Paintings and chairs and junk?"
"I just help plan the layouts, including the furniture in the dollhouse, and hang the paintings, and position the statues, and dust the books, so I guess so," she says wryly.
"So you know whether that's been moved or not." Black Star points to one of four small screens, the image grainy and tinged green. It's the double bachelor with the pink marble bathroom, one of the thirty-eight bedrooms in the main castle.
Maka frowns. "That," she says, jabbing the screen with her pinky nail. "Is not supposed to be there."
The painting in question usually hangs in a quiet corner of the castle, away from the harsh light of day that might spoil the blood-red paint of the single blossom surrounded by black.
Maka doesn't turn around to make sure they're following her; Black Star's heavy strut and Soul's shuffle echoes around her in the otherwise empty halls.
As they come upon the pink marble double bachelor, Maka slows. She touches the knob (old, vintage, priceless).
It falls off and hits the ground with a thunk.
"That's not supposed to do that," Black Star says unnecessarily.
Maka stifles an angry scream and gently pushes the door open.
Then she screams for real.
The Red Camellia is slashed, top to bottom, right through the center of the blossom.
"What the fuck, what the actual fuck-" Maka exclaims.
"Spirits," Star says sagely.
"Bullshit," Maka spits, turning on them. "Who staged this? Which one of you did this? The Red Camellia is hundreds of years old! I'll kill you-" Maka lunges at Star, but Soul is slightly faster. He grips her tightly around the waist, leaving her to claw the air, her toes dangling in the air.
"It wasn't us," Soul says, straining to hold her back. "We've been with you the whole time."
"Duh, baby girl," Black Star says, tapping her on the nose. "That there was a ghosty."
A black lens and a bright light makes its presence known; Harvar's carefully aimed camera rests squarely on Maka's burning face.
"Where did you come from," she says, swatting at the camera.
Harvar shrugs. "I heard a scuffle."
"Dude," Soul says firmly.
The camera's lens swings up to gaze at the ceiling as Harvar hoists it onto his shoulder, one hand on his hip. The sunglasses perched on his nose, pitch black in the dimly lit double bachelor, stare at them, judging.
Soul quickly sets Maka down, putting his hands in his pockets like they weren't wrapped around her waist 2.3 seconds ago.
"This is why we're here," he says solemnly.
"We're getting the ghosties," Black Star says, whipping out a little bundle of sage and a lighter. "Beating the boogiemen." He lights the dry bundle. "Slaying the spirits." The sage smokes, and Star slowly waves waves his hand in circles to spread the smoke.
"That's stupid," Maka says flatly. "You're stupid."
Star raises an eyebrow. "Tell that to the pretty flower there."
The light of the camera flickers violently from Harvar's shoulder, calling everyone's attention. He light stops abruptly, drowning them in pitch black.
Maka stretches out a hand to touch the wall. "What the fuck-"
The room begins to shake. The stone groans as the room trembles, the sound of rock against rock emanating seemingly from deep within the ground. Winds flood the room, the air screaming in their ears. The Red Camellia crashes to the floor, the frame smashes to pieces on the stone floor.
Maka grabs the back of Soul's collar and yanks him towards the wall. His body crashes into hers, but he quickly regains his senses the presses his back into her, pinning her to the wall. She peeks over his shoulder, and watches as Black Star scrambles towards the door, his hands tight on the frame, staying out of the way of the remaining furniture of the room, which are bouncing around with the force of the earthquake. Harvar struggles to raise the camera, shaking making him lose his balance. He falls on his back, his camera aimed at the painting splintered on the ground.
The shaking stops as soon as the light of the camera turns on. The only sound left in the eerie quiet is the sound of their heavy breathing.
Soul springs into action, leaving Maka against the wall. "Harvar, get a shot of Star next to the painting. Star, get in here." Soul turns to Maka, and gives a little two finger wave in front of her dazed eyes. "Can we film you? We could use some historical background on the painting. It might be connected."
"Duh, again," says Star heading for the center of the room.
"I don't know much," Maka admits, pushing off from the wall. "Eleventh century Japan, unique. Kid might know more."
Soul nods. "Can you call him to get the info?"
Maka gives him a strange look.
He shrugs. "You're… better for the camera."
Heat creeps up Maka's neck at the semi-compliment.
She'll take it.
Maka steps out of the room to make the call, watching Soul direct out of the corner of her eye.
Kid answers on the second ring, but he doesn't know much more than she does.
"Dad used to joke that he bought the painting and the castle came for free," he says wistfully. "The castle was empty otherwise. Just the painting and the stones."
Maka relays the conversation to the crew, and a slow smile spreads across Star's face.
"A mystery," he says gleefully.
"We're going to need another week on the schedule," Soul says, shaking his head forlornly. "I'll call Wes."
"Soul," Star says suddenly, and takes both of Soul's shoulder firmly. "You need to put off your sexual tension with the blonde until we're done filming."
"Star, please-"
"Silence, peon," Star says dramatically shoving Soul out of the way. "I am an artist. Let me work." Star whips crystals and candles out of the pockets of his tight leather pants and sets up a makeshift altar right next to the painting. He sits, legs crossed, his little set up in front of it with his hands resting on his knees, palms up.
He is as still as Maka has ever seen him.
Soul lets out a huge groan. He stretches his arms over his head, reminiscent of a delicious daydream Maka had in her head not too long ago.
"Now we wait," Soul yawns and throws himself onto the nearest couch.
Maka resists the urge to hiss as his full body weight hits the delicate fabric.
"Please be careful," she says. "That's 18th century-"
A look from Soul cuts her off.
"Do you ever just relax?" he asks with a crooked grin.
"Not when there's earthquakes with zero fault lines within 150 miles." She pauses. "But I do puzzles."
"That's… not fun, that's work."
"It is too fun," Maka insists. "It challenges your mind."
"Come on," Soul says, pushing himself up all the way. "If you could do something crazy, impulsive, and stupid, what would you do?"
Maka's lips purse, the first thing that springs to mind going against every rule built into her bones.
The moonlight streams in from the open patterned walls, making little fleur de li spots of light on the light blue carpet. The summer breeze flows through the open air room, warm and flowery. It made the four poster bed, with its cream colored sheets, look so inviting. Maka floats over to the bed, and strokes the sheets delicately. Her fingers trace the intricately beaded pillows.
Then, she flops down on her face, her body releasing all of the tension it's been carrying since she walked in to the double bachelor. Her fingers trace the intricately beaded pillows, the pearls cool in her finger tips.
She imagines her tiny, baby self finally crawling into the sheets, rosy little face utterly delighted.
It's perfect.
Maka can feel Soul's eyes, a shade of amusement in his eyes. It occurs to her that she is lying on a bed, in front of a rather attractive man, her modest length skirt slid up her high in a not-so-modest way. A shiver rolls down Maka's spine, and she kind of hopes it's a ghostly draft rather than a premature crush.
She rolls so her back is flat on the bed and silently begs the ceiling Gods to come get her.
"Oh my god," she moans. "I just ruined centuries old silk."
"Yeah, well," Soul says, sitting down on the bed beside her. "It was yellowing anyway. Too much light."
Maka sits up, trying to subtly tug her skirt down her thighs. "How do you know so much about antique sheets? Cool guys like you should know more about motor oil or whatever."
"I am a complex man," he replies, very seriously. But he cracks a grin when she directs an elbow into his side.
The room is dark, but Maka is close enough to make out his ruddy irises. Impulsively, she taps him between the brows. His eyes cross as he tries to keep his focus on her fingertips.
"Your eyes are red," she whispers.
Soul nods, his brow hitting Maka's fingertips a couple of times.
Her fingers float up to the hair grazing his forehead, almost like bangs but definitely overgrown from lack of attention. "And your hair is white."
"All natural," he says, and uses his hand to lower hers away from his face, his palm warming the back of her hand.
Maka imagines a bubble around them, closing them off from the rest of the castle, keeping them safe from whatever made the room quake.
"This is cool." Soul says, reading her mind. "Quiet."
The long white curtains hanging from the four poster bed move gently with the breeze; the air shifts Maka's bangs away from her face.
Soul lifts his hands and pokes Maka between the eyebrows, right on the little wrinkle Liz teased her about earlier.
"There's stuff for that, you know," he says.
Maka swats his hand away, stifling a giggle.
A scream rips through the air, rupturing their bubble. They quickly leap off of the bed, and bolt towards the sound.
