Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete First Season (Coffee and Ghosts: The Complete Seasons Book 1) Read Online Free PDF Page B

it, too. I suspect this first volley is merely a hint of what his brother can deliver.
    The world around us has gone quiet. A breeze flutters my skirt, but I don’t hear the wind. No birds sing. It is nearly as quiet as I’m sure the inside of the mausoleum is. But this is where we need to be, if only because there are no ghosts here. My grandmother isn’t here. At least, I don’t sense her. Would she face off against this ghost eater if she thought he might hurt me?
    I know the answer and decide not to think about it, not now.
    “Why are we here again?” Malcolm asks.
    “Because this is where it started, because when you have so many different people inside you, you probably need a quiet place. Isn’t that right, Nigel?”
    Silence answers me. Malcolm eyes me. I want to protest that no, I have not suddenly lost my mind. Instead, I say:
    “Let’s set up the camp stove.”
    We are outside, in the parking lot. If someone protests, we can point out there isn’t a sign that states: No brewing coffee. Or tea, for that matter. Malcolm sets up the stove on the tailgate of my truck. I unpack the percolator and the Kona blend. A job like this, with an untold number of ghosts? Well, we need the good stuff.
    But his hands move slowly. His gaze darts to the bandages on my thighs. At last, he drops any pretext of starting the stove.
    “I can’t do this,” he says. “I can’t see you hurt again.”
    “I won’t be hurt.”
    He turns and cocks his head at me.
    “How about, I probably won’t be hurt. I’ll jump out of the way. We know what to expect.”
    “That’s just it, Katy. You don’t know him. I do. And he’ll go to any lengths—”
    “Ah, poor baby brother.” The strange voice is back. “Always trying to play knight in shining armor. It’s too bad your damsel in distress doesn’t want to be rescued.”
    It’s clearly the wrong thing to say, since the metallic words send Malcolm into a frenzy of activity, and soon the camp stove is pumping propane and heat into the air. I set the percolator on it, and the aroma of coffee joins the heat. Then I pull three more percolators from the front seat of the truck.
    Malcolm scowls at the sight. “Katy, what the—?”
    “How many years has your brother been swallowing ghosts?”
    His mouth draws into a thin, hard line. “I’m not certain. At least three, maybe more.”
    I expect that strange, metallic voice to cackle, but all is still. “That’s a lot of ghosts, and they’re going to want some coffee.”
    Malcolm blinks. “Or possibly some tea.”
    “Or possibly some tea,” I echo. I want to hug him, but I’m not certain I should. That might only give Nigel more ammunition, and Malcolm is already skittish.
    Wouldn’t I be? I scan the parking lot. If we can hear him, his brother must be close. “All those ghosts,” I say. “Do you think that helps him throw his voice?”
    “Yes, actually, it does.”
    I jump and whirl around, but no one is behind me. Malcolm stands next to the tailgate, clutching a samovar, one he’ll use to brew tea.
    “Oh, you’re clever,” I say. “Isn’t he clever, Malcolm?”
    Malcolm stares as if I’ve lost my mind. Perhaps I have. “But there’s a difference between clever and smart, and you’re not being very smart.”
    A howl of protest goes up, but it’s all air and golden leaves and little more.
    “Because it isn’t very smart to swallow ghosts.” When there’s no response, I continue. “How do you keep them all in check? Each one wants something, right? How do you manage? How do you keep them from leaving?” I return to the tailgate and the camp stove.
    There, Malcolm sets out the cups. I pour. He adds sugar. I add cream. We work like my grandmother and I used to, our movements like a perfectly choreographed dance routine. I smile at him. Worry crinkles the lines around his eyes, but he gives me a small smile in return.
    Scented steam fills the air. The parking lot is thick with the aroma, and combined with