Free The Wicked City by Megan Morgan

Tiffany lamp from the table closest to the sofa and brandished it in front of her, turning in a swift circle.
    “The hell was that?” she yelled.
    Micha stumbled out of the bedroom a moment later, bleary-eyed, in a white T-shirt and dark blue boxer-briefs.
    “What’s going on?” he asked.
    “I saw your wife.”
    “What?”
    “I saw your fucking wife!”
    “She’s…dead?”
    “I know she’s dead.” June quickly set the lamp down. Trying to smack a ghost with an expensive piece of art was stupid. “I thought I was dreaming. She was standing over me. She lifted her hand and I saw her wedding ring. She spoke to me. She said ‘I was a means to their end.’”
    “A means to their end?”
    “Then she just disappeared. She was wearing a white shirt and jeans and blue tennis shoes. That’s what she was wearing the night she died. Gah.” She clawed at herself, trying to get the crawling feeling off her skin. “I hate ghosts.”
    “Maybe it was just a dream.”
    “She was standing right there.” She pointed at the sofa. “Right next to me. And I was awake . It wasn’t a dream. Don’t you feel how cold it is?”
    “Are you sensitive to spirits?” Micha asked. “Have you ever communicated with the dead before?”
    “No. I hate the dead.”
    “Well, you don’t necessarily have to be sensitive to see a ghost. Or it could be some late-stage abilities kicking in.” This seemed to interest him more than the prospect of his wife’s ghost.
    June stared at the spot where she’d seen her, almost expecting her to reappear, this time with a letter opener to stick in her jugular.
    “If you really saw her,” Micha said, “and even if you only dreamt her, she’s clearly trying to give you a message. What do you think ‘a means to their end’ means?”
    “At this point it could mean a lot of things. Who knows?”
    Micha helped her check the entire room, but they found no sign of anyone, ethereal or otherwise. After their search, June went to the balcony and smoked a cigarette to calm her nerves. When she stepped back in, she peeked through the French doors while taking off her jacket. The bedroom was as big as the outer room, and Micha sat on the enormous bed with the covers pooled around his waist.
    “Come here.” He beckoned.
    June stepped into the room. A huge vanity spanned one wall, the mirror reflecting the bed and cream-colored walls. Another flat screen TV hung on the wall across from the bed.
    “You all right?” Micha asked.
    “Yeah.” She padded over to the bed, arms crossed.
    “You still seem spooked.”
    “Yeah, well, we might be safe from the Institute here, but you can’t exactly keep the wandering dead out, can you? Kinda unnerving.”
    Micha gazed at her. She wasn’t fazed by people staring, as her ink drew a lot of attention. Micha was probably looking at her nipple piercings, though. They were rather prominent against her tank top at the moment.
    “Do you think it was really a ghost?” he asked.
    “I don’t want to think about it.” She uncrossed her arms and smoothed her hands over her hips. She prayed Rose wouldn’t pop out of a wall.
    “You want me to order something from room service, since Sam said we could?” Micha turned toward the phone on the stand next to the bed. “Something to calm your nerves? Hot tea, or some of that fancy wine Sam was pissed about? What was that?”
    “I don’t drink tea , and it was Cabernet Sauvignon. But I’m not exactly in the mood for wine.”
    Micha picked up the handset. “How about some decaf coffee with a shot of whiskey? It’ll help you sleep.”
    She rocked on her heels. “Yeah, I could go for that.”
    The clock next to the bed said 1:52, yet their request was taken; that meant either room service went on all night in fancy hotels, or they kept a light on for Sam’s guests. June sat on the bed. Micha went to the door when their order arrived, not bothering to put pants on.
    A heavy hand had poured the whiskey and the liquid