Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) by Charity Tahmaseb

all-nighter? I feel ...”
    “Weak,” he finishes. “Me too.”
    The cries continue unabated.
    “I felt fine when we left,” I say. “Tired, but fine.”
    He nods and rubs his temples.
    Near the entrance, someone has left a walker. I stumble across the outdoor carpeting and make a grab for it. I miss. I tumble onto the ground and trigger the automatic doors. They whoosh open. From inside, the sound of crying increases, louder, more heart wrenching.
    I pull myself up and onto the walker, triggering the doors each time they try to close. By the time Malcolm reaches me, his skin has gone a horrid shade of gray.
    “You look awful,” he says.
    “That makes two of us.”
    We hobble toward the facility entrance, the doors wide open now. With each step, the cries grow until I’m certain the sound is thickening the air around us.
    “I have the strangest urge to tell you about the time I lost my shorts during a soccer game,” he says, his breath labored.
    “During the game? You mean on the field, in front of everyone?”
    “Yes, it was ... humiliating, to say the least, and I wasn’t wearing any—”
    I place a finger over his lips. “Not now.”
    “But—”
    “Someday, when this is all over, if you still want to tell me, you can. But not now. She only wants to feed on your shame.”
    Understanding dawns in his weary eyes. “Of course. That explains why I want to also tell you about all my bad dates.”
    “I can’t believe you ever had a bad date,” I say. He’s too smooth and charming.
    “I’m refraining.” Somehow, he manages a wink. “Later, and you can tell me about yours.”
    “There isn’t anything to tell.”
    I start up our trek again. We’re almost to the lobby and the carpeted floor there. I’m not certain how much longer I can walk, and falling there, rather than the hard tile of the entrance, feels like the better option.
    “So all your dates have been amazingly good?” he asks.
    “There haven’t been any dates,” I say, palms sweating against the walker’s handgrips. “Good or bad.”
    Malcolm halts, so I plunk the walker forward a foot or two without him. I’m on the carpet now, and the surface steadies my footsteps. When Malcolm doesn’t catch up, I crane my neck to peer at him.
    “You’ve never been on a date?” His gaze surveys me, from wobbly feet to the top of my head, his look incredulous.
    “No.” Only now that I’ve confessed do I realize how odd it is for a woman my age to have never dated. How … humiliating.
    Something crackles in the air, raises the hairs on my arms and the back of my neck, like a surge of electricity. A second later, a force knocks me across the room, into the reception desk and onto the floor. I fight to regain my breath, my bearings. My vision tunnels to a single point before expanding.
    “Thank you, ghost hunter,” a voice says, melodious and feminine, and just this side of seductive. “That was a most delicious bite of shame you served up. I do hope there’s more where that came from.”
    Mistress Armand is still lithe and tall, her glossy black hair streaming down her back, her white caftan fluttering around her. And yet, something about her is massive. I’d call it her aura, but I don’t believe in such things; my grandmother never did, anyway. Something surrounds Mistress Armand like a force field. It glows and crackles and gives off the occasional spark.
    Any words I might say would be lost in the electricity that fills the air. Silence may be golden; in this case, I suspect it may be the only thing that saves us. Don’t speak . Don’t utter a word . Don’t feed her . I frown, hoping to convey this idea to Malcolm with thought power alone. All I get for my efforts is Mistress Armand whirling to follow my gaze.
    “Oh, and there he is, the man with so many secrets, and some of them are oh, so shameful, you bad boy. Do tell, Malcolm. I’m certain Katy will want to hear all of them. You know I do.”
    He is a man frozen, is what