Purrfect Heat

Excerpt from A Tale of Two Harrys (Ghosts of London 4)

Prologue

“And… Action!”

Harry Potter sat at the casino bar and nursed his whiskey—shaken, not stirred—while trying to look casual and debonair. In his tux with the crisply ironed white shirt and black slacks he was doing a pretty good job. This Monte Carlo casino was way swanky, and the baccarat table a buzz of activity as players dressed to impress crowded around the croupier.

One of the players was Hermione, and he watched her intently as she gave him the secret signal. He narrowed his eyes as he caught sight of Le Miffre at the poker table, the most dangerous criminal ever to walk the face of the earth. The dark-haired master evildoer was casually letting his chips fall where they might, and gave no sign he knew he was being watched.

Jacques Le Miffre had recently gone into business with Frank Riddle, the evil twin of Tom Riddle, also known as Lord Voldemort, and this was Harry, Hermione and Ron’s attempt to catch the evil genius, who was building himself an army of followers to rival that of his twin brother.

Just then, Ron walked over, dressed in a frilly pink tux that looked absolutely ridiculous. Harry casually brought his hand to his mouth and muttered into his wrist mic, “Did Liberace have a garage sale, Ron?”

“It was the only bloody thing the Ministry of Espionage had left. It was either this or a lime-green one that used to belong to Kermit the Frog.”

Ron joined Harry at the bar, and they both watched Le Miffre carefully. The criminal mastermind was tapping his chin, which was his tell, Harry knew. He shared a look of understanding with Hermione. Le Miffre was going to go all in now. Time to up their game and get in on the action. He casually got up and crossed the casino floor to the poker table.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked Le Miffre.

The evil genius gave him an appraising glance, then nodded. Harry sat down. Time to show Le Miffre who he was dealing with. It was do or die.

“Oh, Harry, do be careful,” Hermione’s voice trumpeted in his ear.

He locked eyes with the fair-haired beauty and nodded. “Always.”

Just then, the ghost of a fat man came bursting through the table, upending the entire game and sending chips and cards flying everywhere.

“What the…” Harry cried, and even Le Miffre seemed miffed.

The ghost howled a startled cry, apparently as surprised as they were, and howled, “He killed me! The Dark Lord killed me! Killed me dead!”

“Cut!” the director yelled. “Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut! Cut!”

Myron Catling heaved a weary sigh and got up from his seat to stretch his limbs. The young actor, chosen to follow in the footsteps of Daniel Radcliffe and play the legendary Harry Potter, was frankly getting sick and tired of this nonsense. This was the third time already that this poltergeist had interrupted his key scene, and he was losing his patience.

Devin Design, the actor who played Ron, walked over. “What’s all this nonsense?! Why can’t they get rid of this bloody nuisance?”

“It’s not a nuisance, Devin,” he said. “It’s a poltergeist.”

Devin laughed his trademark whinnying laugh, very different from the character he was playing, and a lot more annoying. “That’s impossible! Ghosts don’t exist!”

“Ghosts do exist, Devin,” Christy Gyp said prissily. Christy had been selected from thousands of actors to step into Emma Watson’s shoes as Hermione Granger, and was doing a good job of imitating the part she was supposed to play. “Can’t you see? This poor soul probably died in this studio and now he’s trapped here.” She looked properly concerned as they all watched the poltergeist dive back into the table and disappear from sight, leaving a large glob of green goo on the poker table and on everyone who was so unfortunate to stand too close.

“Well, bloody hell!” Sam Carr cried. He played Le Miffre and was now covered from head to toe in the green slimy substance. “He slimed me!”

“It’s ectoplasm,” Christy said knowingly. “It’s supposed to be great for your complexion.” She dipped a finger into the slime and rubbed it across the back of her hand. “Has both exfoliating and hydrating qualities.”

The director stalked up to them. He was a rail-thin man in his mid-fifties and was famous for having directed more than a few James Bond movies. In fact most of the people working on the new Harry Potter movie—Harry Potter and the Dark Lord’s Return—were veterans of the James Bond franchise. They’d even rehashed an old James Bond script.

“This is the third time today that horrible beast has done this!” the director fumed. He stared at the table, which was now a mess. “We’re going to have to get the set decorators in here and redo the entire set. Again!”

There were groans of exasperation from the extras who played the other casino guests and players. They’d been on their feet for hours, trying to get this scene right. Myron wasn’t too well pleased either. He was starting to lose his focus, and since this was a breakout part for him, he couldn’t exactly afford to drop the ball. He was, after all, playing the lead.

“Can’t we film this scene another time?” he asked. “Maybe move on to the next scene on the schedule for now?”

“No way,” said the director, upsetting his tousled head of gray hair. “The next scene requires even more preparation. It’s the scene where Le Miffre tortures you in the casino basement and Hermione and Ron save your life by knocking him out with the Hellfire curse.”

Yep. The script wasn’t exactly adapted from a JK Rowling book.

Just then, Myron’s eyes were drawn to the ceiling, where a crimson spot had appeared. He pointed at it. “Has that always been there?”

The others’ eyes also rose to check out the spot.

“I think it’s more of that slime,” Devin said.

“Ectoplasm,” Christy corrected him.

“Whatever. I just think this whole thing is a joke. Something cooked up by the marketing department to drum up interest for the movie.”

“Yeah, because a new Harry Potter movie needs all the interest it can get,” Christy said with an eyeroll.

In the movie, Ron and Hermione might be an item now, but their actors didn’t exactly get along. Not that Myron blamed Devin. Christy could be a pain in the butt sometimes. She was a method actress, and liked to stay in character between scenes. And Hermione might be lovely in the movies—or the books—but in real life her know-it-all act could be grating.

The table moved again, and the ghost popped back out. “He killed me!” he was yelling. “The Dark Lord killed me! He killed me dead!”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Devin said. “You said that already. Your stupid little party trick is getting old, buddy.”

The ghost hovered over the poker table for a moment, taking in Devin, Myron and Christy, then said, “Save me, Harry Potter. Save me!”

But instead of sticking around to be saved, he streaked into the ceiling, spraying them all with more goo. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he slammed into the ceiling so hard it burst open and something big and heavy dropped out! It landed smack dab in the middle of the table and, finally giving up the fight, the table collapsed and smashed to the floor.

“What the hell…” Myron said as he stared down at whatever had dropped out of the ceiling. And then Christy started to scream, and he saw what it was: the body of a very large, very dead man. A man who was the spitting image of the ghost.

Chapter One

I picked up my phone and saw I had three missed messages from Darian. I was hurrying after Jarrett as we walked past the guard station and into the studio. Pinewood Studios is famous for the James Bond movies, just like Leavesden Studios is famous for the Harry Potter movies. Why they were filming the ninth Potter movie here, I didn’t know, nor did I care.

We’d been called here to do a job. Ever since Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton and I—Jarrett is my best friend and associate—launched the Wraith Wranglers, our brand of ghost hunting had been in high demand, but this was by far our highest-profile job ever. We’d never been called in to drive away a ghost on the set of a major motion picture before.

“Do you think Harry Potter will be there?” Jarrett asked excitedly as we were led through a maze of corridors and sets to the main soundstage.

“I’m sure they’ll all be there,” I said. I was more concerned with Darian and why he’d left those messages right now. I hadn’t seen the Scotland Yard inspector in a couple of days, nor had I heard from him, and I was starting to wonder what was going on. Ever since we started dating, not a day had gone by when we hadn’t spoken on the phone or met either at his place or mine. I was starting to think he’d met someone new.

“I can’t wait to meet Hermione Granger,” Jarrett said. “She’s the bomb.”

Oh, in case you were wondering, my name is Henrietta ‘Harry’ McCabre. I’m a twenty-three-year-old former antique store clerk who’d inadvertently landed a job as a ghost hunter when my former employer Sir Geoffrey Buckley was murdered. His ghost had come back to help me solve his murder, and from there Jarrett and I had gone on to solve more ghost mysteries than anyone could shake a stick at. With my fair complexion, blond bob and golden eyes, I don’t exactly look like a ghost hunter. Then again, what does a ghost hunter look like? I’d never met one before I became one.

Still, Jarrett might be closer to what people expect from a ghost hunter. Fair-haired, lean, tan and lanky, he’s one of England’s richest men, perhaps even the richest. Well, technically his father is the billionaire in the family, but since Jarrett stands to inherit the bulk of his father’s fortune one day, that’s probably a minor point of contention.

I’d gotten the call when I was feeding an aspirin to my snowy white Persian Snuggles. Snuggles has the flu, and an aspirin was what the doctor ordered. I’d almost dropped the pill—and Snuggles—when the phone rang and Jarrett announced the Wraith Wranglers were once again being called to the rescue.

We finally arrived at what was apparently the main soundstage, and I was properly impressed with how huge it was. Everywhere I looked I saw different sets. One that looked like a basement, another that could be the living room of the Dursley place on Privet Drive, and another that looked like Dumbledore’s office. Yep, this was a Harry Potter movie all right.

“Oh, this is so cool!” Jarrett exclaimed, clapping his hands excitedly.

“So where is this ghost?” I asked the guard who’d led us here. He was a big and burly man with an impressive mustache that curled up at the edges.

“Right there, ma’am,” he said, pointing at a small gathering of people on the set of a casino.

“Thanks,” I said, taking Jarrett by the arm and dragging him along.

I saw one actor with round Harry Potter spectacles, and guessed that he was the lead, another one who faintly resembled Emma Watson, and a ginger-haired actor who could only be Rupert Grint’s replacement. A very thin, very rattled-looking man stood pacing the scene, accompanied by a stern-looking woman, her hair tied back in a tight bun. The moment we arrived, they all turned to us.

“Are you the Wraith Wranglers?” the woman asked. She held out her hand. “Marsha Shalver. I’m the producer. Thank God you could make it.”

“You even beat the cops,” the thin man said.

“This is Nathan Gaberdine, the director.” She quickly introduced the lead actors, and then led us to a mountain of a man who lay on top of a collapsed table.

“Oh, I recognize him!” Jarrett cried enthusiastically. “Hagrid, right?”

The producer eyed him reproachfully. “No, that’s Uriel Pieres. Or at least it used to be, until he died and landed in the middle of our Monte Carlo set.”

“He’s dead?” Jarrett asked.

“Very astute of you,” Marsha said wryly. “Yes, he’s dead. It’s his ghost that’s been giving us so much trouble these past couple of days.”

I bent down next to the body and immediately recoiled. He smelled terrible. “A couple of days, you said?”

The producer nodded. She had a clipboard pressed to her chest, and looked more like a script girl than a high-powered producer. She snatched up a pair of reading glasses dangling from a string around her neck and slipped them on, then read from her clipboard. “Uriel Pieres. Member of our cleaning crew. Didn’t show up for duty last week. His supervisor figured he’d decided to quit on us.”

“But instead someone stuffed him into the ceiling,” Jarrett marveled, staring up at the large hole.

“It’s not really a ceiling,” the producer said. “It’s part of the set. Whoever killed him must either have dragged his body up there to get rid of him, or maybe he was cleaning the crawl space and was killed up there. Whatever the case, his ghost has been holding up production. So if you could do… whatever it is that you do, we’d all be very grateful.”

“But won’t the police shut down production?” I asked.

She laughed a curt laugh. “Not a chance. This is a multi-million-dollar production with a tight schedule and a winter release date set in stone. Nothing can shut down this production, and most definitely not the death of some hapless cleaner. And if that sounds harsh, that’s too bad.”

And with these words, she abruptly turned on her heel and strode off, leaving us to ‘do our thing.’

“That did sound a little harsh,” I said.

“I didn’t even get to say hi to Harry Potter,” Jarrett lamented.

“Harry Potter doesn’t exist, Jarrett. He’s a figment of someone’s imagination. And that guy over there is just an actor playing a part.”

“Ouch. Someone is feeling testy.”

“I’m testy because Darian keeps sending me messages and when I call him he doesn’t pick up his phone.” I had no idea what was going on with the guy but I knew I didn’t like it one bit.

“I think I know why he’s not picking up his phone right now,” Jarrett said, giving me a nudge. I turned in the direction he was facing, and saw a tall, broad-shouldered, strikingly handsome man stride into the studio. Darian Watley. He was following the same mustachioed guard who’d led us here. They were accompanied by a short, squat guy with sandy hair and deep-set beady black eyes. Darian himself easily towered over the man.

Darian Watley was the Scotland Yard inspector who’d investigated Sir Geoffrey Buckley’s murder. He’d been a non-believer for a long time, claiming ghosts didn’t exist… until he was slimed by one. Our relationship had known its ups and downs, and apparently right now we were going through a rough patch. At least judging by the way he was looking at me.

“He doesn’t seem very happy to see us,” Jarrett said.

“Nope, he does not.”

“And who’s the midget? I didn’t know Darian had a partner?”

“He doesn’t. Unless there’s something he didn’t tell me.”

The police officers joined Marsha Shalver and the others, and she gave them the same spiel she’d given us. Darian kept darting dark looks at Jarrett and me, and so did his pint-sized partner.

“I don’t think the new guy is a big fan of the Wraith Wranglers,” Jarrett said. “Oh, goodie, they’re coming over.”

Darian and his partner joined us. “Harry,” Darian said by way of greeting. He sounded very officious, as if we were total strangers.

“Hey, Darian. I’m sorry I didn’t pick up. We were on our way over here, and I must have missed your calls. What did you want to tell me?”

The squat man with the deep-set eyes turned them on Darian. “What did I tell you, Watley? No more canoodling with the freaky ghost hunter.”

This took me aback somewhat. “Um… what did you just call me?”

“This is Inspector Reto Slack,” Darian said by way of introduction. “He’s my new partner. Slack, meet Henrietta McCabre and Jarrett Zephyr-Thornton, also known as the Wraith Wranglers.”

“I know who they are,” Slack growled, his black eyes narrowed into slits. “What I would like to know is what the hell they are doing here.”

“If you must know, we were invited,” Jarrett said.

“By whom?”

“By me.” Marsha had walked up to us. “I hired the Wraith Wranglers to get rid of the spooky pest that’s been hounding our production for days.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Inspector Slack grunted. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. I want these two idiots escorted from the premises. This is now a crime scene, and I’m not tolerating any intruders.”

“Harry and Jarrett are here on my invitation, Inspector,” Marsha said, her voice taking on a steely note. This was clearly a woman you didn’t want to mess with. “And they’re staying right here. If you don’t like it, you can take it up with Prime Minister June. I don’t have to remind me she’s a very big Harry Potter fan, and very happy that we’re shooting a new movie.”

Slack twisted his face into a nasty grimace. “You can’t do that.”

“I can and I will. And now if you’ll excuse me, I have a production to run. And you, I believe, have a murder to solve.”

At this, she turned on her heel and stalked off in the direction of her director and main talent. The show must go on.

Slack gave me a warning glare. “I don’t want you interfering with my investigation, is that understood?” Then he turned on Darian. “And I don’t want you communicating with these Wraith Wranglers in any way, shape or form. Your job depends on it, Watley. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” Darian said between gritted teeth.

I gave him a questioning look but he totally ignored me and followed his partner as they distanced themselves and stalked over to the dead body on display. More police officers had arrived and they were marking off the crime scene with yellow crime scene tape.

“That was fun,” Jarrett said. “I don’t think I like your boyfriend’s new friend.”

“I don’t like him either,” I said, casting a concerned look at Darian. I didn’t get it. Why all of a sudden did he pretend we hardly knew each other? And why was his new partner acting like his boss? Whatever the case, something wasn’t right, and I was determined to find out what.

Chapter Two

“He can’t do this,” I said. “He can’t just ignore me like this.”

“Well, actually he can,” Jarrett said. “He just did.”

I cast a nasty glance back at the police inspector, who stood gazing down at the body of the man that had dropped from the ceiling. The coroner had arrived and was carefully examining the body.

I willed Darian to turn and look at me, but he steadfastly pretended not to notice. It was driving me crazy. “I don’t get it,” I said, turning away.

“It’s this new craze,” Jarrett opined. “It’s called ghosting. One day you’re happily rattling headboards, like lovers do, and the next they pretend like they don’t know you. No messages, no phone calls, no emails. They simply cut off all communication. Ghosting. It’s the latest trend.”

“Well, it’s not like he’s cut off all communication. He did try to call.”

“Probably to tell you not to call him again. Ever.”

“Darian would never do that. He’s a good guy.”

“Honey, even good guys have their breaking point. Maybe it’s something you said?” He ignored my death-ray look. “Or did? There must have been warning signs. There always are.”

“Trust me, there was nothing. The last time I saw him was…” I thought back. Had it really been a week ago? Time flies by so fast when you’re hunting ghosts. “Well, everything was fine. We went out to dinner and he talked about his mum and dad getting back together and maybe even getting married again.”

“That’s it. That’s what decided him,” Jarrett said. “A lot of men get scared off when their girlfriends bring up the M word. Marriage,” he added in case I hadn’t caught on.

“I didn’t bring up the M word. He did. And he wasn’t talking about our M. he was talking about Em and Broderick’s upcoming M.”

“Em’s M. That’s funny.” When I gave him my best glare, he quickly added, “Doesn’t matter. When he got home that night he must have started thinking—thinking is very bad for men. They practically never do it, so when finally they do get to thinking, it’s usually with disastrous results.”

“You’re a man.”

“I’m not a man. I’m gay. There’s a difference. So he must have started thinking, is this really the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with? Is this really the face I want to see across the breakfast table for the next fifty years? Yes? No? Maybe?” He shrugged. “It’s obvious what he decided.”

“Ugh,” I said in response, then gave Jarrett a punch on the shoulder.

“Hey! What was that for?!”

“For being an ass.”

“I’m not an ass. I’m your friend. I’m just laying it all out for you.” He rubbed his shoulder. “I bruise easily. You know that. So don’t do it again.”

“I won’t do it again if you stop being an ass.”

“I’m not! I’m being your friend. And in return you give me a bruise.”

“Ask Deshawn to put some cream on that.”

Jarrett’s face lit up. “You know? I think I will.”

Deshawn Little was Jarrett’s fiancé. He’d been Jarrett’s manservant, until they discovered they harbored feelings for each other deeper than mere employment allowed. Jarrett had gone down on one knee, and now they were ready to tie the knot. Or not. They were still trying to decide which way they were leaning. The problem was the move from the master-and-servant stage to the equal-under-the-sun stage. It was hard for Deshawn to let go of his subservient manner, and for Jarrett to lose a superb valet.

“Have you found a replacement for Deshawn yet?”

“Not yet. And not for lack of trying, either. We’ve been interviewing plenty of candidates, but so far no luck. It’s very hard to replace the best valet in the world.”

“I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

“I’m not. And neither is Deshawn. I swear, that man’s standards are even higher than my own.”

“Of course. He knows what the job entails. He knows how hard it is to replace himself.”

“Well, I hope he lowers his standards, or else we’re never going to agree on a person.”

I looked around, thinking we should probably get started on rooting out this pesky ghost. “Buckley?” I asked, looking up. “Are you there?”

Sir Geoffrey Buckley, ever since he’d passed away, had been an integral part of our team. He was the one who usually made contact with the ghosts, seeing as he was one himself, and knew where to find them. Of course, first we had to find Buckley, as he had a habit of floating around the racetrack.

“Buckley!” Jarrett demanded. “Where are you?!”

“Oh, hold on to your butts,” a tired voice sounded near the casino bar. A frizzy-haired head popped up, looking slightly disheveled. It belonged to a dapper gentleman dressed in an immaculate suit. The former antique dealer seemed reluctant to join us tonight.

“What happened to you?” Jarrett asked. “Have you been on a bender?”

Buckley gave Jarrett the evil eye. “How can I go on a bender? I’m dead.”

“Still. Maybe you found a way.”

“No, I didn’t find a way. Though I wouldn’t mind a snifter. This being dead thing might seem all fine and dandy to you young whippersnappers, but it gets a little tedious after a while.”

“We need your help, Buckley,” I said. “A man has been killed.”

“So what else is new? Men are killed every day. And women, for that matter. And children, dogs, cats, and perfectly nice chunks of rain forest.”

Yep, Buckley was in a great mood. “His ghost has been haunting the studio for the past couple of days, and they need him gone.”

“It’s the new Harry Potter movie, Buckley,” Jarrett said encouragingly. “They’re finally making another one, isn’t that great?”

Buckley shrugged. “Who cares?”

“Well, I do. I’ve always wondered what Harry was up to these past few years,” said Jarrett. “And so have millions of other Harry Potter fans.”

Buckley pressed a hand to his head and groaned. He almost sounded like Moaning Myrtle. “If you must know, I did go on a bender, but not an alcoholically induced one. Me and a bunch of other ghosts tried to make our horses go faster, and let me tell you, once you try to take over a horse you start to realize why they’ve been running races, carrying riders and pulling plows all these years. They’re not the most intelligent creatures.”

“You… possessed a horse?” I asked, incredulous.

He nodded. “I just figured if a ghost can possess another human, why not a horse? I thought if I could imbibe him with my fighting spirit, I might induce him to win the race. Only problem was that the horse liked me a little too much, and wouldn’t let me go! And instead of winning his race he just started prancing around, jumping into the stands like an idiot. Craig Barley had better luck. His horse won, with Frank ‘The Stump’ Neverlass’s lass a close second.”

I shook my head and decided I didn’t want to know about Buckley’s adventures at the Hippodrome. “Do you think you can contact our ghost? We really need to get a move on. We’re under contract here, Buckley.”

“Yeah, and the police want us out of here, so any excuse will be good to give us the boot,” Jarrett added.

Buckley glanced at Darian. “Darian wants you gone? But why?”

“Beats me,” I said. “He has a new partner, who told us to take a hike.”

Buckley shook his head, and then floated up from behind the bar. I didn’t know how he did it, but before long, the ghost of a very large man emerged from the ceiling, where apparently he’d been hiding. He looked exactly like the dead man, which was logical, cause he was the dead man.

“Hey there, buddy,” Jarrett said encouragingly. “Mind if we have a chat?”

“He killed me,” the man said gloomily. “And Harry Potter couldn’t save me.”

“Harry Potter can’t save anyone,” I said. “Because Harry Potter doesn’t exist.”

“Don’t keep saying that,” Jarrett hissed. “We’re in the temple of Harry Potter here. That’s sacrilege. Soon the Dark Lord himself will show up and curse you.”

“The Dark Lord!” the dead man cried. “He’s the one that did this to me! He has returned!”

I sighed. This was going to be a tough nut to crack. “Uriel Pieres? That’s your name, right? Could you tell us what happened? Exactly?”

Uriel floated down from the ceiling and joined us. He seemed to realize he didn’t have anything to worry about with us. None of us looked like a creepy dark wizard. “I was cleaning up the casino—they said they were going to shoot a big scene here and needed the place spic and span.”

“When was this?” I asked.

“Um…” He frowned. “What day is today?”

“Wednesday.”

His face cleared. “Hey, what do you know? It was a week ago.”

No wonder his body was smelling to high heaven. If he’d been stuffed up there for a week, it was a miracle they hadn’t found him sooner.

“So what happened?”

“Well, I was mopping the floor when a bunch of wizards came in.”

“Wizards?”

“The people casting the spells,” Jarrett said helpfully. “Harry Potter is a wizard, and so is Ron Weasley. Hermione Granger, on the other hand, is a witch. Because she’s a girl. Men are wizards, women are witches. Got it?”

“I know what wizards are,” I said. “I just didn’t think they existed.”

“And that from a woman who believes in ghosts,” Jarrett said, raising his eyes to the ceiling.

“That’s different. Ghosts are just dead people who can’t accept they’re dead. Wizards are something some writer invented in an office.”

“Just keep telling yourself that,” Jarrett said, shaking his head.

“So what did these ‘wizards’ look like?”

“Well, like wizards,” Uriel said helpfully. “You know, with black robes and stuff, and wands. Oh, and they were all wearing masks and pointy hats.”

“Wizards,” Jarrett said knowingly. “The pointy hats gave them away. And the wands.”

“Just a bunch of people dressed up as wizards,” I insisted stubbornly.

“I don’t think so,” Uriel said, his large flabby face contorted into a frown. “I mean, I’ve worked on all of the Harry Potter movies, and I think I can tell a real wizard from a fake one.”

“You worked on the Harry Potter movies?” Jarrett asked. “As a cleaner, you mean?”

“Oh, no. That’s just this movie. I was Daniel Radcliffe’s butt before.”

“His… butt,” I said dubiously.

“Yeah. Daniel had qualms about showing his naked butt on the screen, so the producers got him a butt double.” He proudly tapped his butt. “Yours truly.”

“I don’t remember seeing Harry Potter’s naked butt in any of the movies,” Jarrett said, sounding disappointed.

“That’s because the director decided not to use my scenes. Harry was supposed to get a needle prick in the butt in the first movie, when he was holed up in the hospital, and then again in the second movie, but they decided to cut those parts.” He gave us a sad face. “They cut all my parts.”

Yeah, that was what the world wanted to see. Harry Potter’s butt. “So let’s get back to those wizards,” I prompted. “What did they want?”

“That’s what I asked them. But then promptly a couple of them grabbed me and held me up. And that’s when I saw him.” His eyes went wide with fear. “The Dark Lord himself.”

“No way!” Jarrett cried excitedly. He was hanging on Uriel’s every word.

I groaned inwardly. This was just too ridiculous. Uriel seemed to believe it, though, for he nodded frantically. “He gave a long speech. Something about wanting to take revenge on mortals—that’s me—and that I didn’t deserve to live.” He swallowed, sweat trickling down his ghostly brow as he relived the ghastly scene. “And that’s when he cast a curse.”

“Avada Kedavra?” Jarrett asked, licking his lips.

Uriel squeezed his eyes tightly shut and shivered at the recollection. “No. It sounded like… Ava Carnivara or something.”

“Perhaps a variation,” Jarrett said.

“And then what?” I asked.

“And then I died.”

I looked at Jarrett. Jarrett looked at me. We both looked at Buckley, who yawned, and then back at Uriel. “You died?” I asked.

“Just like that?” Jarrett added.

“Well, there was a flash of lightning that seemed to leap from the Dark Lord’s wand, and a lot of blue light, and the atmosphere crackled and hummed, and there was a roaring crash of thunder, and then… yeah, then I died. Boom. Dropped dead.” He sighed. “And then they stuffed my body up there and I’ve been trying to catch the attention of those bozos over there ever since.” He gestured at the three lead actors, who were now being interviewed by Reto Slack. “I liked the original actors a lot better,” he said. “These newbies are just plain terrible. Can’t act for crap.”

“That’s what I figured,” Jarrett said, darting a glance at the actor who played Harry. He’d taken off his round glasses and actually looked kinda cute. Very muscular and very big. More like Vin Diesel or Dwayne Johnson.

“Yeah, nobody can beat Daniel Radcliffe,” Uriel said.

Jarrett grinned. “Great butt, huh?”

Uriel patted his own butt. “The best.”

Chapter Three

Uriel drifted off, to go sulk in a corner. Buckley drifted after him, placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, and proceeded to instruct him on the ins and outs of passing on from this plane and onto the next.

“Buckley is turning into a great death coach,” Jarrett said.

“He certainly is.”

We wandered over to the producer, who was tapping furiously on her smartphone, probably sending a missive to her own boss about what was going on. When we drifted into her ken, she didn’t even look up. “So? Is he gone?”

“I don’t think he’ll cause you any more trouble,” I said.

“That’s great. We’re behind schedule as it is.” Then she looked up and gave us a bright smile. She had a nice smile, and I instantly warmed to her. “Why don’t I give you the grand tour? I think you deserve it.” She glanced at Jarrett’s T-shirt. It depicted the three grinning faces of the original Harry Potter actors when they were kids. “I take it you’re a fan.”

“Oh, I’m a superfan,” Jarrett said. “So why didn’t you cast the original actors?”

“Because they’re too old?” I said. “Duh. Even I knew that, Jarrett.”

“They’re not too old. They could easily slip back into their parts.”

“It’s not because they’re too old,” Marsha said as she walked us off the Monte Carlo set. “It’s because this movie isn’t part of the original franchise.”

She had Jarrett’s attention. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that the studio has no intention to make more Harry Potter movies, or Miss Rowling to write more books, so we decided to jump into the hole they created and make our own trilogy—or quadrilogy, pentalogy or whatever the market demands.”

Jarrett looked like a kid who’d been robbed of his lollipop. “So this isn’t a JK Rowling sanctioned installment?”

“Nope. Afraid not.”

“But how is that even possible?”

“One of the uncredited screenwriters on one of the original movies retained the rights to certain aspects of the storyline—probably a clerical error on the part of the studio, mind you—and decided to approach us with an offer to expand on it, and turn it into a new trilogy. There was some legal wrangling with Warner Brothers and the production company but we finally got the go-ahead from the judge to create a spinoff.”

“Rowling mustn’t be happy about this.”

“She’s sore as a gumboil, but at this point she can’t prevent us from proceeding. We brought in two screenwriters from the James Bond franchise, and we’re taking the Harry Potter universe in a completely different direction.”

“What direction?” Jarrett asked suspiciously.

“You’ll see. More fun. More action.”

He arched an eyebrow. “More explosions? More car chases?”

She smiled. “More of everything.” Jarrett winced visibly, but the producer pretended not to notice. “The story will be a retread of Casino Royale, which will give us the opportunity to put a new spin on the tired old Harry Potter concept. We will see a grittier Harry, tougher and more world-weary, while he battles both his own demons and those in the real world.” She gave Harry a wink. “Are you ready to see Harry emerge from the sea, naked torso and six-pack abs and all?”

“Um…”

“I know I am,” said Jarrett, suddenly showing a spark of interest.

“And Harry will have a new love interest, of course,” said Marsha. “More than one, in fact. And Harry will finally kiss Hermione, of course.”

“He will?” I asked, disappointed. I’d always been on Team Ron.

“You know what would be truly novel and refreshing?” Jarrett asked. “If Harry and Ron got it on. I mean, who wants to see another kissing scene with tired old Hermione?”

“Um, I would,” I said, holding up my hand. “I like Ron and Hermione.”

“Well, I’d like to see Harry and Ron explore their smoldering passion,” he said stubbornly.

“Harry and Ron don’t have any smoldering passion.”

“They do, too. They just don’t want to admit it. Classic.”

Marsha laughed. “Maybe we’ll keep that for a future movie.”

She led us to the next gigantic soundstage, this one where the Hogwarts Great Hall was constructed.

“Wow,” I said, properly impressed. It looked just like in the movies, with the long tables where the houses sat, and the dais for the professors.

“Pretty cool, huh?” Marsha said. “This has cost us a fortune to recreate. Too bad we’ll have to demolish it.”

“Demolish it?” Jarrett asked, aghast.

“Yeah, the bad guy—Frank Riddle—is going to take it out with a missile attack. It’s going to be the opening of our movie. Great, big set piece.”

“Missile? What about magic?” Jarrett asked.

“Nope. No magic in this movie. Rowling owns the right to the magic.”

“No magic?” asked Jarrett, his voice a squeak.

“That’s right. No magic. This will be a non-magic Harry Potter.”

Jarrett gave me a look of despair and I shook my head. A lot of people were going to be disappointed in the new and improved Potter.

The producer led us to the next soundstage, this one where the interior shots of Hogwarts would be taken. The common room. The hallways. The classrooms. Jarrett was perking up again. “Now this is more like it. So Harry is going back to Hogwarts?”

Marsha gave him a frown. “Harry and the others graduated, Jarrett. You as a superfan should know that. No, we’re just going to use these sets to show a new generation being trained as witches and wizards, only to gruesomely die in the attack on the castle.” She waved her hand like a wand. “All these sets will be turned to rubble. It’s going to be awesome. When Harry stands on the ruins, his robe billowing around his bare thighs, he swears a solemn oath to avenge the deaths of these young witches and wizards, and thus the battle begins. Pretty awesome, huh?”

“Very,” Jarrett said, eyes glittering. I wondered if he was thinking about Harry’s bare thighs or the disaster this movie would turn out to be.

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