Free Revenant by Kat Richardson

gave me a tiny smile and turned to his sister. “She does that a lot.”
    Sam cut her eyes from me to him. “Do you get used to it?”
    “Not really.”
    She gave a nod and pulled her discomfort and fear back, smothering the sparks in her energy corona. She turned back to me. “What did you see?”
    I always feel a bit strange telling people their homes are haunted. Some freak out, others think I’m lying, and some claim it’s cool until something goes wrong. I studied her, the way she stood oddly poised on both feet without leaning toward me or away, the serious expression on her face, even the way she had shifted slightly toward Quinton and her son in his arms. She was a little bit afraid or wary of what I was going to say, but she wanted to hear it anyway.
    “You have a significant ghost. Not a haunting, per se, just one ghost who’s at least a little aware of your presence in the house. Don’t worry, though—he likes your family.”
    She looked uncomfortable and grew a little paler. “He?”
    “One of the vineyard managers, I would guess, or a winemaker . . . I’m not sure which. He’s an older man and very concernedabout the vines and the weather and the house. I didn’t get his name and I couldn’t tell you what time period he’s from—his clothes aren’t distinctive in that way. He doesn’t have a full manifestation. He’s more of a moving shadow I happened to be able to catch and talk to.”
    She was taken aback and blinked at me. “You’re some kind of psychic, then.”
    Quinton and I both shook our heads and Sam frowned. “No, I’m not a psychic,” I said. “At least not as you use the term. I go to them—they don’t come to me.”
    Her frown told me she didn’t quite get the distinction, but it wasn’t worth trying to explain further. “Anyhow,” I continued, “he wasn’t much help, but he did give me a description that could come in handy.”
    “Of one of Dad’s friends? But I could have given you that.”
    “Not what they looked like, but more . . . the effect they had on things. It wouldn’t be useful to most people, but most people don’t talk to ghosts, either.”
    She made a small dismissive gesture with her hands. “The only thing that matters to me is if it will help get my daughter back. Will it?”
    “Possibly. It will help me identify the people who took her. You said a man and a woman were with your father just before Soraia disappeared.”
    Sam nodded and started walking into the living room. “Yes, but I’m sorry, I really need to sit. My knees are kind of a mess.” She sat down on a sofa that faced the empty fireplace, then held her arms up to Quinton who handed her the baby he’d been carrying. “OK, so, yes. A man and a woman were with him, but as I said, they kept their distance and said nothing.”
    “What did they look like?”
    Sam bounced the baby in her lap as she spoke. “He was old—I’dguess about seventy—and Portuguese, wavy hair with a lot of gray, though I think it was originally black. He had blue eyes—very disconcerting.”
    “How do you know he was Portuguese and not, say, Spanish or French?”
    She stopped and blinked rapidly, her gaze turning inward as she thought about it. “I think because he was so dour. He had a sort of stern face with a prominent nose—very eagle-like. It gave him an austere look. The woman was American or English, very pale skinned with straight blond hair that was a bit faded, but not really gray. I think she was in her late fifties, but it’s hard to say. At first I thought she was friendly—she had this little smile that kept sneaking out—but then I began to change my mind. They both had a disquieting way of looking at me as if they were studying an insect they intended to kill and mount on a pin, and I thought she was smiling about adding another bug to her collection. It’s a very uncomfortable feeling.”
    Martim whined in protest and Sam began bouncing him again. He giggled, spewing