"Do what?"
"Bustin'. I know it's a family business, but do you enjoy what you do for a living?"
Putting her coffee aside, Sam tried to explain her motivating factors in life, something both simple and complex. "Sometimes life just happens when you're living it; choices are made before you're born. Fighting tooth and nail with creatures that have bigger fangs and claws than I have can be tricky sometimes, but I use my head and experience, and I guess I've grown to love the adrenaline high. And I bust my gut to do a good job."
"But it's extremely dangerous. This isn't just dog eat dog. You're risking your neck for a business that could literally eat you alive!"
"Well, that's a drawback," she agreed. She thought a moment and added, "I think living life on the edge like this is part of the pull. I'm rarely bored, and worknights are never dull. Besides, my company has an excellent safety record. Nobody's ever died—except my parents. And that had nothing to do with Paranormalbusting, since a rogue Godzilla killed them when they were on vacation in Tokyo. Kind of ironic, isn't it?"
"I'm sorry for your loss," he said.
"It was a long time ago, but thanks. I loved them dearly and still miss them at times. Anyway, Bustin' isn't just all spills and thrills, I also get to help people. I'm kind of like the supernatural Terminex man. But I excel at finding supernatural pests a new place where they're wanted, which is extremely satisfying. Watching ghosts or gremlins find loving homes, or at least homes where they're not cursed or exorcised… I was born to this business. My earliest memories are of my parents traipsing about haunted houses or in cemeteries."
"Thrills?" Petroff echoed, grimacing as he recalled the state of his kitchen and his favorite sweater. "Ghosts can be a cantankerous lot."
"Depends on the ghost. Some spooks really are just high spirits. Others, the static ones, have a problem making contact—you know, projecting their image. With those guys you get a lot of white noise. It's strange, because most ghosts can manifest themselves A-OK. Like the ghost riders in the sky, or the specter that haunts Fort Phantom in Texas. And those nasty little spooks in Tombstone, Arizona. Only problem with those ghosts is that they have a western taste, spitting tobacco and beetle juice—not to mention their jangling spurs in the middle of the night. You try sleeping in any hotel in Tombstone after midnight with jangling spurs strutting up and down the hallway."
Petroff found himself grinning at the pictures she was painting with her words. "If I'm ever tempted to go to Arizona, I'll bring a soundproof coffin," he agreed.
She laughed and continued, encouraged by his interest. "I know a spook that has a thing for poultry. He keeps one around at all times and does a ventriloquist act called the Ghost and Mr. Chicken. Then there's this lady who is human, but her husband is a ghost. Well, they wanted to open a dance studio with both of them as instructors. Problem was, he was a newbie ghost and couldn't manifest himself. I sent him off to school."
"You did? Where?" The Prince fought a wave of hilarity. For someone with a balls-of-steel attitude in business, Sam's dry sense of humor was wonderful.
It was also clear that she loved her job—which was unfortunate.
"The City of Ghosts, where else?"
"Of course. How stupid of me not to figure it out," he teased. "Although, it's hard to believe that ghosts have cities now. Strange, that so many people who die can't find their way into heaven or hell."
"Yeah, and over seventy percent of those ghosts are male! That's why female spooks are at a premium. I can place a female phantom almost anywhere." She gave him a pointed look.
"Why is the percentage so high for men, do you think?" the Prince asked.
Sam grinned. "I was probably about twelve when I asked my mother that same question. I didn't really understand her answer then, but now I do."
"What did she say?"
"That ghosts were spirits who had gotten lost on their way to heaven and hell. They're mostly men because when did a man ever stop to ask for directions?"
Ninety-nine bottles of Beer on the Wall—And One Wine Bottle on the Toe
After sending Andy and his art supplies on their way to London, Sam spent half the next day and part of the night playing hide and seek with the temperamental but sly Chef Jules. It wore her out. It also left her slightly tipsy.
She had tracked the crafty spectral from the kitchen to the north tower and back to the south tower, and just when she was about to give up, she'd discovered him in the wine cellar. The Chef had been Machiavellian in his negotiation, and for a short time she had been afraid that she was going to have to give up the ghost. Fortunately, Sam's spunk and mule-stubborn nature outlasted the galloping gourmet's jackass nature, and four bottles of wine later, she had her deal signed and sealed.
Out of the four bottles, Sam had consumed one. Her logical arguments had become increasingly illogical as the night wore on. Still, she managed, and in spite of the overwhelming problems associated with dealing with the grasping ghost, she had finally worked out a deal juicy enough to be worth the phantom chefs wily while.
You see, Jules confided that he'd always wanted to go to Paris, which was where his cooking show would be produced. He was quite happy that the Ghost Network's regular host was Casper, whom he had long admired. Jules had also been impressed with the large quality of the mediums who would appear in small guest spots to do a little cooking, like Allison Dubois, and there were also going to be guest spots by the deceased alumni of Saturday Night Live.
It was a sweetheart of a deal. Still, Chef Jules, the picky phantom, had demanded yet more. He was a tough poltergeist with an insanely overinflated self-worth. So with her Bustin' business reputation on the line, Sam had quickly formed a brilliant scheme that probably, seen in the naked light of day and without the wine's influence, would not be as brilliant as she thought: She'd conceded to Jules—actually, bribed him with—five cases of fine old wine from Prince Petroff Varinski's wine cellar.
It was a fact she would mention to Petroff later; much later. Like, maybe when the pompous Petroff was in one of his better states: absent. Or when hell froze over.
Still, she laughed out loud. She couldn't wait until the sneaky Strakhov brothers found out she'd ousted two tenacious phantoms from their Prince's castle. Oh yeah, she'd show those slimeball Strakhov brothers who was the number one ghost-getter in town.
Sam took a moment to enjoy her victory. After finally ridding herself of the greedy, grasping ghost chef, she lay back on a barrel of wine with a pinstriped chair cushion propped beneath her shoulders and head, and she began to hum. A bottle of Zinfandel was balanced on her big toe, sticking out like a sore thumb. Well, no, it was more like a sore big toe.
Choosing a song, she let rip. "Ninety-nine bottles of wine on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of wine…"
When she reached thirteen bottles, the cellar door burst open and in stalked the Prince. Pointing a long elegant finger at her, he growled, "There you are. I've been looking all over this monstrosity of a mausoleum for you. You missed dinner with me!" He was clearly angry at being stood up; his dignity was dented.
She didn't know it, but Petroff was also angry because Samantha Hammett wouldn't quit walking around in his mind. He enjoyed women and lovingly lusting after them. But that lust was reserved to short spells when he would see them, and it generally lasted only until the morning light. He didn't enjoy thinking about a female during his daylight hours. He needed his rest. He was a busy preternatural predator. But busy or not, the image of Samantha Hammett didn't care; she kept popping up in his mind like a demented fishing cork.