Free Hunted by Adam Slater

was an obviously heavy bag decorated with tiny mirrors.
    â€œYou’ve brought me your Pictish Fiction of the Actual?” he said dubiously.
    Melissa laughed. For all her airy-fairy gear she looked solidly alive and normal. “ British Dictionary of the Supernatural ,” she said. “It’s got your black dog in it. I thought you might like to have a look. And I said I’d help.”
    â€œHow’d you know where to find me?”
    â€œEverybody knows where you live, Callum.”
    Callum was not reassured. Melissa laughed again. “Your gran’s address is in the post office window, you know. Pet portraits and watercolors for sale. Can I come in, or do you really want me to go away?”
    Callum scanned the garden behind her but could see no sign of Jacob or Doom. He opened the door a bit wider so Melissa wouldn’t think he was a paranoid lunatic, and Cadbury came streaking into the house, his tail bristling like a toilet brush. Melissa giggled, and Callum felt himself relax slightly.
    â€œNo, no. You can come in,” said Callum, glad to have human company. He pulled the door fully open. “Sorry about the graffiti.”
    â€œGraffiti?” Melissa replied.
    Callum looked down at the door’s faded green paint. The dripping, bloody letters were gone.
    â€œNothing. Forget it.”
    Callum chewed his bottom lip. Maybe ghost blood was as insubstantial as a ghost itself.
    Melissa stepped easily over the threshold, frowning a little. As she put her bag down on the floor with a thump, it fell open, revealing a bundle of books. She straightened up, stretching, and looked around the room as Callum shut the door behind her and double-locked it.
    â€œWow,” Melissa said. “Bringing you a bag full of books is sort of like carrying coals to Newcastle, isn’t it!”
    â€œThey’re Gran’s,” said Callum.
    â€œWhat, haven’t you read any of them?”
    â€œGran’s taste is pretty dire,” Callum answered. “Modern romance and nineteenth-century novels. And gardening and painting.”
    â€œBet you’d find something if you looked.”
    â€œD’you want a hot chocolate?” Callum asked. “I was just getting ready to do my homework.”
    â€œI’m sorry. You don’t like being interrupted, do you?” Melissa said. “You sounded pretty angry when you answered the door. I could come back another time.”
    â€œNo, it’s fine. To tell the truth—”
    Callum stopped himself. He couldn’t tell her the truth.
    Instead he told her something close to the truth, something believable. “I thought you were Ed Bolton. He’s been out for revenge since that run-in with Gower yesterday. Look, let me get the fire going and boil the kettle and I’ll take a look at your book.”
    â€œYou do the fire, I’ll make the hot chocolate,” said Melissa.
    â€œOkay.”
    Callum stirred up the embers as Melissa headed into the kitchen. She was quick but very messy. She managed to get milk all over the worktop, which Cadbury gladly attempted to clean up, and left rings of chocolate everywhere. She was finished in no time.
    â€œSo,” she said, thumping herself down on the hearthrug with two steaming mugs, the breeze of her skirt stirring the flames in the grate. “Wow, cozy. I love this place. Okay. Look, this is my Dictionary of the Supernatural . Here’s the entry on the Churchyard Grim.”
    Callum sat down beside her while she read aloud.
    â€œâ€˜A Churchyard Grim is the spirit of a dog buried alive in a graveyard to act as a guardian for those laid to rest there.’” She paused and made a face. “Ew, I’d forgotten about the buried alive bit. So in theory it’s not really dead, I guess—an immortal dog. But a good dog, since it’s supposed to be protecting people!”
    â€œWho’d expect loyalty and protection from something