Grinder - Preview (new work)

A short preview of the new work, really just introducing a couple characters. The Grinder title's growing on me more.

(and, yes, I deliberately targeted Sunday morning, when you're waiting for Warlock 3 chapters and Warlock 2 audio, to post this, because I'm a sadistic asshole)

GRINDER

Book One

A reverse-portal Harem Fantasy

(c) 2025 Kensington. All rights reserved.

Chapter 1

“Hey, thanks for riding and I hope you have a good —”

SLAM

“— night.”

I shook my head and put my Prius back into drive to clear the club’s loading zone.

Driving rideshare at night sucked, especially weekend nights, but that’s where the money was — drunks. Saturday and Sunday mornings were good too, but I preferred the risk of drunk-vomit to the almost certain hangover-vomit. Plus there was the guy who’d still been drunk at nine a.m. the next morning and insisted on telling me all about his exploits while rubbing my upper arm and mumbling, “She was so smooth, man. Smooth.”

“Assholes,” I muttered, wondering if I was going to have to adjust the car’s rear passenger door again.

I drove the half-block to my next pickup.

“Alex?” a guy asked through my passenger window.

“Yeah, hop in.”

I drove him and his date a few blocks to their next club.

SLAM

What the fuck kind of cars did these people usually drive that they thought they had to slam the door that hard?

At the next stoplight, I checked the three phones I had going with different rideshare and food delivery apps to make sure they were all ready and waiting for my next gig, then checked the time. Almost time to pick Heather up from work, but I had time for one more ride or delivery, so long as it wasn’t too far. Things had slowed down a bit, anyway, since we were now in the sort of relatively dead time between everyone going out to the clubs and trying to get home at the end of the night.

“Fuck it,” I said, turning off the apps and setting my GPS to the 24-hour diner where Heather worked. I was hungry anyway, and sick of eating fast-food out of a bag while waiting for the next call.

The diner was about thirty minutes away, but outside the club district, so there was less traffic on the way. I was able to cruise along easily until I pulled into the diner’s parking lot and parked around the building’s side.

Inside it was brightly lit with lots of white tile and shiny chrome. The clinking of dishes and even the sizzle of the grill back behind the pass were the top sounds, not even a murmuring buzz of conversation, since the diner’s crowd at this hour was more interested in solitary sustenance than talking to anyone.

I found a seat at the counter with no one to either side and pulled a menu from behind the napkin holder.

“Well, hey there, stranger! What brings you in so late at night?”

I chuckled, eyeing the waitress.

She was a few inches above five feet tall and probably right at a hundred and ten pounds, with chestnut hair and brown eyes. One end of the red and black kerchief she had tied around her  neck dangled down to not quite cover the skin exposed by how many buttons of her white blouse were undone.

“You just saw me when I dropped you off a few hours ago.”

The waitress pouted her already bowed lips, set a coffee mug down in front of me with a dull clunk, then started pouring from the coffee pot she held in her right hand without bothering to ask me.

“You’re no fun,” Heather said. “Not even a little ‘mysterious stranger tries to pick up the cute diner waitress, setting the stage for a night of mayhem and mirth’ role play?”

“I have no mirth left in me tonight and the only mayhem I’m interested in would be tracking down asshole riders and slamming their dicks in my passenger door.”

Heather finished pouring my coffee and turned briefly to set the pot back on the warming plate behind her.

“Rough night?”

I shrugged. “No more than usual — I’m just more over it tonight.”

“Heard,” Heather said. “Food?”

I nodded. “Yes, please. I will have…” I perused the menu. “Cowboy Bob’s Super Gigantically Big Breakfast Platter, please. Double sausage.”

“Seriously?”

“I’m hungry.”

“That’s, like, five plates — between the pancakes, toast, hash browns, eggs and sausage, and the fruit cup nobody ever eats.”

“It’s right there,” Alex said, motioning to the pass behind Heather on her left. “You don’t even have to walk, just turn around.”

“Five times,” Heather said, turning to the pass and calling out: “Bob’s Obesity Starter Kit, double-pigs on white and wreck-‘em!” She turned back to me, shaking her head. “I can’t believe you stay that fit eating the way you do.”

“Start coming with me to training and you, too, could burn more calories.”

Heather’s eyes narrowed and I stifled a laugh for my own safety.

“Are you saying I need to burn more calories?” Heather asked slowly.

I held up a hand. “Nope! Not saying that at all.”

“Hmph. Good. And I don’t need a broken nose, either — it kind of looks good on you, but I don’t think I could pull it off.” She mimed shooting an arrow. “I’ll stay with sticking things at a distance.”

I felt at my nose, which had a little bump that signaled a change in direction.

“Hazards of MMA,” I said, “and you don’t have to fight to work out.”

“I think not.”

“How about kendo, then?”

It was an old argument between us. In my opinion, Heather certainly didn’t need to burn more calories. She’d grown up a lot in the years since she’d just been my best friend’s annoying little sister — more than made me comfortable, to tell the truth, because the visible skin and cleavage behind her kerchief was difficult to keep my eyes off of. Really I just wanted to spend some more time with her, since she was now one of the few friends I had left in town. Everybody else had either gone off to college or finished it here at the local community school, then moved away — even my best friend growing up, Heather’s brother Mike, had moved away.

“I’ll stick with my bow,” Heather repeated, then brightened. “Hey, are you going to the LARP next weekend?”

I thought about it for a second, but had to decide I couldn’t. Rent was due in two weeks and the weekends were prime rideshare time. Food delivery was active all week as people got home from work too worn out to cook, but the weekend rides were nonstop, especially now that the weather was cooling enough to make some of the outdoor venues more tolerable.

“I can’t — need to make rent.”

“Roommate — problem solved.”

That was an old argument, too. Heather had been suggesting we share a place ever since she’d turned eighteen and graduated high school earlier in the year, but I thought that would be too weird. How would I explain it to Mike?

Hey, your little sister’s moving in with me. Nothing hinky — swear it.

Even though I didn’t have anything hinky in mind with Heather — not anything I couldn’t suppress with a little logical thought, at least — a brother wouldn’t be cool with it. Neither would Heather’s folks, I thought, who had always been cool with me, but I thought I’d noticed Heather’s dad giving me a little side-eye lately as I started spending more time with Heather after Mike left town.

It was one thing when I was hanging out with Mike and Heather just tagged along, but in the two years since Mike had left for his post-doc schooling, it was just me and Heather hanging out … a lot. Probably more than we should — I was pretty sure if I spent as much time looking for a girlfriend as I did just hanging out with Heather, then my social life would be a lot more active than it was.

On the other hand, I really liked hanging out with Heather.

We both liked LARPs, though in different ways — I was into the swordwork, specifically kendo, while Heather was into archery — we had the same taste in movies, books, and music, and she was just fun to hang out with. If she hadn’t been my buddy’s little sister, if I’d met her at college, I would probably have asked her out by now.

“My place is a studio, remember? A two-bedroom’s more than twice the rent, so there’s no real savings.”

“Hmph.” Heather chewed on her lower lip, staring at him as though she had more to say, but then a bell rang as plates started landing in the pass. She turned and started passing them to the counter in front of me. “… four … and five,” she finished. “Enjoy — I’ve got tipping customers to take care of.”

I watched her walk away to fill a coffee cup at the far end of the counter, struggling to keep my eyes off the rolling of her butt beneath the short uniform skirt she wore.

Mike’s little sister, dude, I berated himself. You really need to get laid, for fuck’s sake.

I turned my attention to my meal, carving up the pancakes and pouring syrup so it would have time to really soak in, then slicing two of the sausages lengthwise. A couple sausage slices, some eggs, and hashbrowns went onto one slice of toast along with a jelly packet — another slice of toast on top of that and I had a sandwich. I grabbed it with both hands and raised it to take a bite.

“That is the grossest thing I’ve ever seen someone eat,” Heather said, returning from her rounds of the counter clientele. “And I’ve worked here for the 3a.m. Doctor Demento shift.”

“You’ve seen me eat this since you were seven,” I said, shrugging.

“And it hasn’t gotten any less gross.”

I took another bite and chewed, only this time staring right at Heather and doing it with my mouth open.

“Ew!”

I grinned as Heather hurried off to check on customers again, rather than stick around for more of my eating, not returning until I’d prepared and eaten the rest of my sandwiches and started working on my pancakes.

“Are you done driving for the night?” Heather asked, returning now that it was safe.

“Maybe? I might go back out again after I drop you at home.”

That’d be a chore, though — Heather still lived with her folks about forty-five minutes from the diner, so it would take me almost two hours to get back downtown to the clubs. Sitting around in the suburbs this late at night wouldn’t get me much business, either.

“Oh.” Heather chewed on her lip again. “Do you want to, maybe, just head to your place and watch a movie or something? We’re kind of slow, so I think Ed would like it if I left early.”

I considered what I remembered of my apartment’s condition. I thought there were just a couple dishes in the sink from this morning and I remembered putting my bed up because I’d just been hanging out until it was time to go driving — most of my “not quite dirty” clothing lived on one side of my sofa bed and got folded up with the mattress every day. One of the main reasons they didn’t get washed, because once they were folded away it was more work to get them out, even if I was doing a load.

I considered it for a second — yeah, I needed to make rent, but I was already irritated with the riders and didn’t really want to deal with the drunks on their way home, especially those who hadn’t managed to hook up with someone — men or women, those were the biggest problem riders and worst tippers.

“Yeah, that would be fun,” I said — I’d still have to drive Heather home later, and she wasn’t a paying ride, but she also wasn’t likely to vomit on me.

“Good — finish your fruit cup, it’s good for you.” She turned to the pass. “Ed! I’m clocking out — cool?”

A gruff sound that could be interpreted as agreement came from the pass.

I hurriedly finished my bowl of cantaloupe, grapes, and a solitary, rather sad, strawberry slice, and paid my tab — no tip. I’d tried to tip Heather when she first got the job here, but she argued that driving was my business and I didn’t charge her for the ride to work and back, so why should I tip her for her work?

Still, she gave me shit about other customers tipping when I didn’t — I think she just liked to tease me.

It was a short, fifteen minute, drive to my apartment, and once there Heather started digging around in the dresser that doubled as my TV stand.

The apartment was, charitably, four rooms. A bathroom was the only one that had a separate door and the others were the main living area that doubled as a bedroom, the kitchen, and a sort of intermediate space between the two that could be called a dining room if you never had dinner with more than one other person. I was glad to see my memory had been good and the place wasn’t too bad — a glass and cereal bowl in the sink waiting to be washed was the worst of the visible mess.

Heather took a pair of her pajama shorts and a t-shirt from the drawer. It made me wonder why I bothered to tell her she couldn’t move in when it seemed she’d been doing just that over the last several months. Half that particular drawer held her clothes — with the excuse that she came over so often after work and didn’t want to hang out in a uniform that smelled of the diner’s signature sauerkraut reuben — and my tiny shower had more bottles of her products than mine.

All of which she had perfectly logical arguments for that I’d never quite been able to counter.

If she was coming over after work, then she needed something to change into, right? If she was changing into something clean, then she should shower, right? If she was going to shower, then she certainly wasn’t going to use my disgusting guy-products, was she?

While Heather was in the shower, I got things ready to watch a movie, pulling the little, wheeled cart that acted as my coffee table away from the wall it was stored against when my bed was folded out and over to the sofa, then I microwaved a jar of nacho cheese and set it on a coffee cup warmer I had for just that purpose. The open bag of tortilla chips felt a little stale, so I opened a new bag, then grabbed a beer and settled myself on the couch.

A few minutes later, Heather came out of the bathroom squeezing her wet hair with a towel.

“Nachos — good idea.” She went into the kitchen and came back with a beer of her own.

“Really?” I asked. “I could get in a lot of trouble for giving you a beer, you know.”

“You didn’t give it to me — I took it.” Heather sat on the couch and scooted the table closer so she could reach the cheese, then tucked the bag of chips between us and took one for herself.

“Still.”

“It’s stupid — I’m eighteen. I can have sex, but I can’t have a beer?”

My face went hot at that and I had to clear a suddenly tight throat at the thought of Heather having sex with someone.

“I think the beer-ban is supposed to help avoid the sex-part.”

Heather made a rude noise. “Believe me, of all the things keeping me from having sex, a lack of beer doesn’t even make the list.”

“Yeah, okay,” I muttered, clearing my throat again and grabbing at the remote to put off any more of that particular conversation. “What movie?”

Heather shrugged. “I picked last time.”

I scrolled through the options until I found something I thought we’d both like and settled back, kicking my shoes off and putting my feet up on the table.

“Hey!” Heather yelled, pulling the coffee warmer and jar of cheese sauce closer to her. “Don’t put your stinkies in the cheese!”

“They weren’t anywhere near the cheese, and if they do stink, it’s because, unlike somebody, I didn’t get to take a shower when I got home from work.”

Heather shrugged. “Too late now — I don’t have all night to wait around on you to start the movie. If you want to shower next time then you’ll have to join me. No time wasting!”

I shifted uncomfortably and clicked play.

I might have to have a talk with Heather about her … jokes. They seemed to be a lot more edgy now that she was eighteen and that made it harder and harder for me to keep my thoughts in the friend-zone. On the other hand, talking to her might make her uncomfortable or self-conscious around me, which I didn’t want either.

Aside from a couple uncomfortable and, I thought, unnecessary sex scenes, the movie was pretty good and I enjoyed the evening.

“Alright, kiddo, time to get you home,” I announced as the credits started to roll.

Heather yawned and stretched while I hurriedly grabbed the bag of chips and the cheese jar to return them into the kitchen.

“Couldn’t I just stay here? I have the afternoon shift tomorrow, so you could drop me off on your way downtown rather than drive way up to my place to get me. I can text Mom I’m staying at Maria’s — she’ll cover for me.”

“And then your dad tracks me down and offs me like a rabid dog in the streets. No thanks.”

“Dad wouldn’t do that. He likes you.”

“Mike likes me, too, but I’d rather your dad got to me first. Come on, let’s get you home.”

Chapter 2

The next morning, I washed my cereal bowl and glass, then had a bowl of cereal and a glass of orange juice while I caught up on some emails cluttering up my box, then I drove over to my old neighborhood to pick up Heather.

The house I’d grown up in had been painted, I saw — my parents had sold it and retired to Florida while I was away at college. They kept nagging me to come down and visit, but also so I could go through all the stuff of mine they’d packed up when they sold the house, and get the boxes out of their garage.

Heather came out in response to my text and almost threw herself into the passenger seat before slamming the door and huffing.

“Something?” I asked.

“Mom wanting to talk about college again. Ggrrr! I don’t know what I want to do yet — I just graduated a few months ago — and I don’t want to spend money on a degree I might not use. What if I decide to become, I don’t know, a plumber? What good is college going to do me then, huh?”

“You want to be a plumber?”

“Maybe! Plumbers make good money. I just don’t want to spend money on college if I don’t have to.”

I couldn’t really argue with her — I had a degree in Computer Science and I was driving drunks and delivering fast food for a living — so I let Heather whine about it some more as I started driving toward the diner.

About half way there, my phone rang — I didn’t recognize the number, so I shushed Heather and answered via the car’s audio.

“Hello?”

“Is this Mr. Alexander Mercer?”

“Who’s calling?” I’ve always hated people who call you, then ask if you’re you before identifying themselves. Shouldn’t that be the first thing you do?

“Ah, yes, this is Jonathan Rawlin of Rawlin and Rawlin, attorneys. We represent your uncle’s estate — your uncle, Mr. Jack Mercer, that is.”

“Uncle Jack? Have you heard from him?”

That would be exciting news. Uncle Jack was the black sheep of our family and for years my younger self had listened eagerly for the next bit of news about him — usually prefaced by my dad getting a letter and yelling, “Olivia? You’ll never guess what that fucking moron Jack did this time!”

They even said I looked like a much younger Jack.

Those stories came to an end when I was sixteen and Uncle Jack disappeared without a single word to anyone.

“I’m afraid I can’t say anything about that except to Mr. Alexander Mercer — is that to whom I’m speaking?”

“What? Yeah, that’s me — so what’s the news? Is he okay?”

“I’m afraid I don’t have good news about your uncle, Mr. Mercer — no news, at all, in fact. Which, ironically, is the reason I’ve called you. It is, I’m sure you’re aware, a little over seven years since your uncle was last heard from?”

I nodded, disappointed there wasn’t news about Uncle Jack, then realized the lawyer couldn’t see me. “Um, yeah, I’m aware of that.”

“In accordance with Mr. Mercer’s instructions — Mr. Jack Mercer’s instructions, that is — a petition was filed once no one had heard from him for seven years. That petition was granted by the courts this morning, which triggered the next of Mr. Mercer’s instructions, those being to contact his nephew, Alexander Mercer.”

“Contact me? Why? What sort of petition?”

“The petition, Mr. Mercer, was to recognize your uncle’s seven year absence as evidence of his death — you, because you are Jack Mercer’s only heir.”

  *

Chapter 3

“Of course I’m coming with you!” Heather insisted.

“You’ve got work!” I argued.

“Pffft! I already texted Ed to call out today. I liked Uncle Jack’s stories, too, you know? I want to hear what he left you. Besides, you need moral support.”

She wasn’t wrong, I knew. I was still reeling a little from the news Uncle Jack had been declared dead — nothing had changed, really, they hadn’t heard from him, with or without that, but it was … somehow more final.

“Alright, you can come,” I said.

“Yay!”

I checked my mirrors and darted across two lanes to take the next off ramp and head more downtown. The address Mr. Rawlin had given me was there, but more in the business district than the club district I was used to driving in.

I found the address, then a nearby parking garage. Heather followed me inside where we found the elevators guarded by a security desk.

“Name and destination?” one of the guards asked.

“Alex Mercer — I’m going to Rawlin and Rawlin?”

The guard pecked at his keyboard for a minute.

“Go right in, sir — Rawlin and Rawlin are on the fourteenth floor.”

“Thanks.”

I passed the security desk with Heather close behind me. The elevator doors were already open when we got there, so we went in and I hit fourteen.

“This is a nice elevator,” Heather said.

I nodded, looking around.

The walls were black glass and panels that looked like real wood, while the floor even looked like real marble.

The elevator stopped at fourteen and the doors opened, but I didn’t see what I expected to when we got out — instead of a corridor with a bunch of different offices, there was simply one reception desk with a huge Rawlin and Rawlin logo on the wall behind it.

Uncle Jack’s lawyers had the whole floor? He must have done better for himself than we’d thought.

There was another woman by the receptionist who smiled as we got off the elevator and said, “Mr. Mercer? Right this way, please.”

She led us through a door behind the reception desk and down a long, dimly lit hallway with thick, plush carpet and rich wood paneling, to a conference room.

“Please have a seat, Mr. Rawlin will be with you in a moment. May I get you something to drink? Coffee, tea, water, soda?”

Heather and I sat — the chairs were leather, with high backs, and padded so that I thought they might be softer than my couch.

“Ah … coffee? Please.”

“Of course — cream? Sugar?”

“Just black, please.”

“And you, miss?”

I expected Heather to ask for a soda, or some godawful concoction of a coffee, but she surprised me.

“Tea sounds wonderful,” Heather said.

“Of course, miss — do you have a preference?”

Heather’s face went blank. “Um, Earl Gray? If you have that?”

The receptionist … assistant? … I wasn’t sure what she was, nodded.

“I’ll be right back with those,” she said, leaving and shutting the door.

“Since when do you drink tea?” I asked.

Heather shrugged. “I don’t — but this looks like a great place to start. I bet they have great tea.” She looked around at the wood paneling, then ran a fingertip over the conference table. “Was your Uncle Jack rich?”

I shrugged. “Maybe? Dad always said he had more money than sense, and he was always traveling someplace. The only times I saw him in person were when he came to our place for dinner once or twice a year.”

And not even that for a long seven years, I remembered.

In my memory, Jack Mercer had been a heroic figure. Tall and lean, as though a lifetime of adventure had scoured his frame of every spare ounce. His face and hands bore the subtle lines and scars of old injuries and missteps. Brown hair, darker than mine, but just as unruly, where my dad’s was always in place, but a well-groomed beard that framed a strong jawline.

He’d always worn a suit for those visits, but to my eye that had been out of place, as though Uncle Jack should have been in a leather jacket and hat, fighting the bad guys somewhere in the world. That was in sharp contrast to my father, who wore a suit to work every day, but not one as elegantly tailored as Uncle Jack’s.

“You okay?” Heather asked, putting a hand on my arm.

“What? Oh, yeah. I was just thinking about him, you know? It’s hard to believe he’s … well, could be dead.”

Even after seven years, I had just always assumed Uncle Jack could show up any day with a new set of stories.

Heather squeezed my arm as the assistant returned with coffee and tea, then left again.

“How’s the tea?” I asked, sipping my coffee and raising my eyebrows before taking another sip.

“How should I know?” Heather asked. “I don’t drink tea.” She took a couple sips of her drink. “I like it … but that could just mean I have lousy taste in tea.”

The conference room door opened and a man in a suit entered with a thick file folder in hand.

Unlike Uncle Jack, this was a man who looked like he was not only comfortable in an obviously expensive and custom-tailored suit, but might well have been born in one. Clean-shaven, with a mass of silvered-black hair that rose from his forehead in a wave before crashing down the back of his head in a perfectly formed fall. His dark eyes were sparkling and friendly, with just a hint of a crease at the corners that made me think the man was constantly performing some mental calculation.

“Ah, Mr. Mercer, so sorry for the delay.” He held out a hand. “ Jonathan Rawlin — we spoke on the phone.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, half-rising to take the man’s hand and met a firm, but not challenging grip.

“And your companion?” Rawlin asked, nodding at Heather.

“This is an old friend, Heather Gray,” I answered.

Rawlin held out his hand again. “Miss Gray — so good to meet you.”

After releasing Heather’s hand, Rawlin took a seat at the end of the table next to us and steepled his fingers on the table in front of him.

“Please allow me to start by saying how very sorry I am for your loss. Mr. Mercer was a valued client and more — I feel quite privileged to call him friend, in fact, and miss him dearly myself.”

I nodded, throat a little tight. “Thank you, but there’s a chance, right? He could still be alive somewhere?”

Rawlin smiled sadly. “I’m afraid your uncle rather anticipated this turn of events, Mr. Mercer. His exact instructions were, ah, ‘Seven years, then file the damn paperwork. If I’m not back by then I’m either dead or found something better to do with my time than futz around with humanity.’” The lawyer chuckled. “Not one to mince words, your uncle.”

I had to chuckle too. “No, he isn’t.”

Rawlin nodded. “He was equally succinct in his bequests, Mr. Mercer, so let’s get right to that. You are, in fact, Jack Mercer’s sole heir, to receive his entire estate — there’s a bit more to do in the way of paperwork and a hearing or two, but Rawlin and Rawlin is already retained to handle all of that. Mere formalities, really.”

I nodded again, feeling a little guilty about the slight thrill that went through me. “Sole heir” had a moneyed sound to it and I sure could use a sudden influx of cash. I’d give it up in a heartbeat to have Uncle Jack at dinner telling stories about his adventures the last seven years, but part of me had already accepted that the man was probably dead and not coming back.

“Now, I must tell you,” Rawlin went on, “that the estate is nowhere near what it once was. In fact, your uncle liquidated most of his holdings just prior to his disappearance.”

“Really?”

Rawlin nodded. “Indeed. In fact, the only things of value left are the manor house itself and its associated maintenance accounts. Everything else was sold at Mr. Mercer’s instructions and the proceeds withdrawn in cash just before his disappearance.”

“Cash? How much?”

Rawlin opened the folder he’d brought with him and flipped a couple pages. “Nearly one hundred million.”

“Dollars?” Heather asked before I could.

Rawlin nodded.

“In cash?” I frowned. “What could he have needed a hundred million in cash for?”

“I’m sure I have no idea,” Rawlin said. “I’m sure you know your uncle was an … eccentric man.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I agreed.

“Indeed — we, the firm, that is, assisted him with any number of odd purchases over the years. For a time your uncle was one of the largest purchasers of pre-World War II steel, until the regulations limiting recovery and sales to scientific institutions were put in place.”

“Pre-World War II steel?” I asked.

Rawlin nodded. “Steel produced before the end of World War II, before the atomic testing and bombing, apparently lacks some radioactivity brought about by the atmospheric testing — it’s sought after for several different scientific purposes.”

“Why would Uncle Jack want that?”

“I have no idea, he never said, but he purchased several tons of it over the years and there’s no sign at all of anything like that on the manor property. Nor of the rather large collection of antique weapons your uncle amassed over the years — several hundred pieces, yet no sign of them.”

“Antique weapons?” That was less a surprise to me than the steel — Uncle Jack had enjoyed any number of weapons, after all, and was one of the main reasons I’d started with Kendo and other martial arts.

Rawlin nodded again. “Yes, primarily firearms and, again, nothing produced after July, 1945 — that was the first test of a nuclear weapon.”

“Was he anti-nuclear or something?” Heather asked me.

“I don’t think so,” I answered. “In fact, I think I remember him saying we should be using more nuclear power instead of solar and wind once.”

“I’m afraid we have no more idea about your uncle’s motives than you do,” Rawlin said. “Should you ever find an explanation, please do let us know — I believe our staff has a betting pool of some sort on it.” The lawyer took some papers from the folder in front of him. “In any case, I mention these things only to explain the state of your uncle’s estate, which, I’m afraid, is much reduced from what it once was?”

“How much reduced?” I asked. A hundred million was far more than I’d ever dreamed of, so even reduced a lot it was probably a life-changing amount for me.

Rawlin cleared his throat. “Yes, the amount.” He consulted his folder once again. “There is, of course, the manor itself, though it’s in a bit of disrepair, having been vacant so many years, as well as the maintenance accounts. It appears your uncle did some quite accurate calculations before his disappearance, however, and those accounts held only enough to pay for the property taxes and some general upkeep for the time since he’s been missing. Those funds are very nearly exhausted now and the accounts total no more than a few thousand dollars.”

“A few thousand?” That was way less than I’d been imagining — but there was this house, manor, and that was probably worth a lot.

“There are, of course, some conditions and restrictions on your inheritance.”

I sighed and nodded — that would be typical of Uncle Jack. “Of course there are.”

“First,” Rawlin said, “you may not sell, lease, mortgage, or otherwise encumber the property itself for a period of a year and a day from taking possession — that would be today.”

Great, so I can’t even sell the place for a year? I thought.

“Second,” the lawyer went on, “should you choose to sell the property, the manor house itself must be demolished as a condition of sale.”

“What? I have to wreck the house before I can sell it?”

Rawlin nodded. “Such is your uncle’s instruction — it’s written into the property’s deed, in fact, so a sale cannot be considered final until the condition is met. The manor itself must be demolished, the building’s cellars filled in, and the location restored to its natural condition before the property may be sold.”

“Figures,” I muttered. I shared a look with Heather, but she seemed more amused than anything else. “Is that it?”

Rawlin cleared his throat. “I’m afraid there is a third requirement.” The lawyer pursed his lips as though even he found what he had to disclose next distasteful. “The third requirement is that you, Mr. Mercer, must go to the property today and spend tonight, the first night of your possession, within the manor itself.”

I frowned. “What’s so wrong about that?”

He’d said there were “maintenance accounts” so the place must still be livable, right?

Rawlin had acted like that was the biggest condition and not the restriction on sale or having to demolish the house if I wanted to sell it. Spending the night in something described as a “manor” wouldn’t be that bad — hell, I probably would have decided to do it anyway. It wasn’t like I had anything else I needed to do.

The lawyer sighed and pulled a piece of paper from the folder, then looked down at it before speaking, “The manor, you see, is haunted.”

“What?” Heather exclaimed.

Rawlin nodded, continuing to stare at the paper. “A dark and malevolent spirit is said to haunt the grounds and home, eternally seeking vengeance for past wrongs. In order to inherit the property, you, Mr. Mercer, must spend the night in the manor and appease the spirit before dawn.”

“Seriously?” I asked.

Rawlin sighed. “No, actually, your uncle simply left instructions for me to say that. Something of a joke, I’m afraid.” He looked down at the paper he held, sighed, then looked at me again, wincing. “Or, is it?”