Shiver / Private Sessions: Shiver / Private Sessions. Tori Carrington

large cartoon creatures walking around, but because of the goodies at the end of the wait.

      “I’m getting one of everything,” Erin said.

      Carrie nodded. “I can get behind that.”

      “Do you think the food’s going to be like this every time there’s a talk in here?”

      “Nope.” Carrie sipped her coffee, very, very glad someone brilliant had invented Kahlúa. “I think this is a one-time deal. Next talk, we’ll probably get raisins and cold Pop-Tarts. It’s the only way they’re going to make any money off this conference.”

      “Hey.”

      It was a male voice, a little bit behind them and to the left. As a unit, Carrie and Erin turned. Surprise. It was Elbow Guy from the shuttle. His name, according to his tag, was Elton.

      “I remember you from the bus,” Carrie said.

      “Shuttle,” Erin said.

      “Whatever,” Elton added. He stuck out his hand to Carrie, although he stared at Erin the whole time. “I’m Elton.” He helpfully pointed to his name tag. “Like the singer. No relation.”

      Carrie managed not to laugh. “Nice to meet you, Elton. I’m Carrie. Like the book. Also no relation.”

      He nodded, causing his dark, shoulder-length hair to fall forward and back. “So you seen any ghosts?”

      “Not so far.”

      He seemed surprised that Carrie was talking to him. “I mean, ever.”

      Carrie shook her head. “Not a one. I’m just not lucky like that. But my friend Erin has.” She helpfully pushed Erin closer to Elton.

      “Yeah? What kind? Like, scary?”

      Erin faced her and scowled, but smiled before she turned back. “No, not scary. Why, was yours?”

      Carrie left the conversation in Erin’s capable hands as she moved closer to nirvana. She’d narrowed down her picks from six to four, eliminating the fruit category. The petits pots au chocolat was the current front-runner, with the napoleon inching up.

      “Right, Carrie?”

      She straightened. “I’m sorry, I zoned out on treat selection. Did you ask me something?”

      “Elton was saying that it’s really cool to be here where everyone knows that ghosts are real and living among us. Because sometimes, when he tries to talk to people about his experience, they don’t get it. And I was saying that he’s absolutely right. That every single person here knows ghosts are real.”

      “Right. Yes. Of course.” She looked at Elton, who must have been around twenty or so. He wasn’t a bad-looking kid, but his eyes were sad, and his shoulders slumped and his T-shirt was kind of generic. “I’d like to hear about your ghost experience,” she said kindly.

      Elton smiled. “It was more of a poltergeist than a spirit.”

      “They throw things around a lot, yes?”

      “I’ll say. My parents still don’t believe me when I tell them, but I swear it’s true. The poltergeist knocked over a couple of vases, broke a chair and kept tilting all the pictures in the hallway. It happened for almost a whole year. I kept getting in trouble, and they sent me to the school counselor, but even Frodo, my dog, he used to bark all the time at like, nothing. It wasn’t nothing, it was the poltergeist, but even when I showed my dad, he just said the dog was as crazy as—”

      A crash of breaking glass and thuds had Carrie spinning around to face the left corner of the ballroom. A big cleanup tray had fallen from a portable stand, leaving a mess of broken dishes. Only, no one was standing near that corner. Not a soul. The closest person was a tall woman with long dark hair who seemed as surprised as everyone else in the room. She couldn’t have knocked over the tray and gotten so far away in the time that had lapsed.

      Someone must have put one too many plates on the far edge of the unsteady tray. Bummer for the cleanup crew.

      Carrie turned back to Erin and Elton, but they were both staring wide-eyed and mystified at each other, then at the spilled tray and back again.

      A crackle, a piercing screech of feedback, then a voice from the stage. A low voice, filled with intensity and just a little bit of fear. “Ladies and gentleman,” the man on stage said, his gaze sweeping over the crowd. “The party has just gotten started.”

       5

      TDHE EVENING HAD GONE WELL. Sam slumped into the brown chair in his room. It wasn’t the room he’d grown up in, just a room in the hotel, the one that was always rented out last because of the noise from the ice maker and the elevator. He’d been staying in it since he’d come back, having moved Aunt Grace to his dad’s apartment.

      He could have stayed in what had been his childhood bedroom, but he didn’t want to change his aunt’s routine. He didn’t mind this place. So used to Brooklyn noises, the small sounds in here were like raindrops on a window. Sometimes, though, like tonight, he wished he could sit in his dad’s old recliner and lean all the way back. The fire would be going and maybe he’d listen to some Dave Grusin or Brubeck. Sip a little brandy.

      Instead, he just closed his eyes in the serviceable chair, too tired to get ready for bed, despite the hour. He checked his watch. It was even later than he’d thought. Just after one. The buyers must be exhausted, although neither one of them let it show.

      As he’d planned, the dinner had gone off spectacularly. Jody had outdone herself with a tasting menu for the three of them, and he’d never enjoyed food more. Heartly had tried to hire her as his personal chef, which she’d politely turned down.

      The three men talked about the ghost-hunters conference, the legends, everything but the brass tacks of the property. This was only a viewing; the final piece in a six-month-long process.

      Just because they’d laughed, shared wine, broken bread, it didn’t mean a thing.

      He should really get into bed. There was a lot to do tomorrow, and he didn’t relish the idea of the buyers traipsing about unsupervised. He wouldn’t necessarily have to go with them personally, but he sure as hell wanted to know what they were doing and when.

      He stood, rolled his shoulders, undid his top button. Stopped as it occurred to him that most of the conference attendees would still be in the ballroom, as only a few had been selected to sit in the mind-numbing cold of the Old Hotel. Those inside would also be waiting breathlessly for a spectral vision to float across the monitor screens. Or to hear a disembodied voice whisper something that could vaguely be interpreted as a word instead of the wind meeting wood.

      The night staff would make sure there was coffee for the intrepid, tea for the weary, and he was quite sure there was still food to be had. No reason at all for Sam to give them another moment’s thought. Except for that one thing.

      He still had no reason to go to the ballroom. Even if Carrie were there, he wasn’t exactly going to ask her to come back to his room. They’d met less than twelve hours ago, and just because his mind had gone straight to the getting-naked part, he couldn’t admit it so soon. Even if she did feel the same way. Which she might not.

      But then again …

      No. Going down there was ludicrous. Stupid in every way. After a heartfelt sigh at what a classic idiot he was, he turned off the light and headed for the elevator.

      CARRIE STARED AT THE blank page of her spiral bound notebook. It had been blank for far too long, and she was tired, dammit, so why couldn’t she get it done already? It’s not as if she didn’t have material to pick from. She had too much. That was it. Too many goofy things, from the shuttle ride to the programs, to the ghost-hunting equipment for sale—good god, the equipment—to the introductions and qualifications of the speakers, there was simply too much to mock.

      Not that it was all mocking,