𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐎𝐍𝐈𝐂𝐋𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐄𝐔𝐋𝐀

ii. ...Ghosts?

Greyson walked down to the dining room in his pyjamas, passing the open kitchen door, where Fitz was stewing over a pot of something that smelled warm and delicious, and headed for the front parlour where he had left his book last night.

Then he paused. Walked slowly backwards. Walked slowly forwards. Paused again. Side-stepped, back-stepped, front-stepped. He walked about in a circle, then stopped, and retraced the circle slowly. Kiernan looked up from the couch, over his book, both eyebrows raised high.

"That's strange," Greyson said, looking up from his feet. "Fitz, did you see this?"

Fitz twisted away from the stove, where a spinach quiche was bubbling steadily as it cooled. "See what?"

"It's... cold here. Really, really cold," Greyson said with a frown. "It feels like January here."

She snorted, walking over anyway. "It can't be that-- holy shit that's cold." She jumped back, teeth chattering. "What the hell?"

"I don't know," Greyson stepped back into the cold spot, then out of it. "It feels... unsettling."

"Yeah, like cold fingers on your neck," she agreed, popping her knuckles in apprehension. "I don't like it."

"Must be the insulation. This house is old, it can't live up to modern-day appliances."

"Maybe, but it's also ninety degrees outside," she said, then glanced over her shoulder. "Oh, my quiche!"

"Perhaps there's a wine cellar below?" Greyson suggested.

But Fitz was already rushing away. "Dunno. Ask Andy, maybe they know? Sorry, Grey, I need to make sure this thing doesn't crisp. Don't worry! It's probably nothing!"

"Yeah," Greyson said to the empty hallway, nudging his foot into the cold spot one last time. "Nothing."

He started down the hall, a chill creeping up his spine. Something wasn't right.

Then Fitz yelled, jumping back from the stove, splattered in egg and chopped onions. "What the hell?"

Greyson ran to her. "What just happened?"

"It exploded!" Fitz yelped, staring at the cast iron pan with horror. The remains of the quiche were sliding down the kitchen wall and Fitz's broad shoulders, slumping sadly on the tile floor. It looked like a smashed pumpkin, the faint imprint of what could've been a fist in the middle.

"M-maybe you put too much baking soda?"

"You don't put baking soda in a quiche, Grey," Fitz said. "This is freaky. The quiche should've been perfectly cooled, nothing should've exploded."

Cold chills skittered down Greyson's spine, and he shuddered. "Perhaps we should leave the kitchen for a bit. I'm not sure what exactly is happening, but--"

"Let's split," Fitz agreed, and they both scuttled out of the kitchen.

Kip Valera Del Olmo chuckled, dusting his hands clean of quiche crumbs. "That was something of a stroke of brilliance."

His companion, a white woman with toasted blond hair and mild blue eyes, gave him a look. She held a bright pink Stanley cup in one hand, and picked at the ragged gash in her abdomen with the other.

"Please, Janice," Kip sighed. "At least admit my flair for the dramatic."

The woman arched an eyebrow.

"I understand that you consider me too dramatic, but might I remind you of your relative, who survived a car explosion and decided to turn it into a marketing campaign?" he said archly, strolling away. The woman trailed after him, her Stanley's straw bobbing as she walked.