Surprise and suspicion made my eyes narrow. For months, my uncle Don had refused to divulge anything about my new nemesis, Jason Madigan. Don had a history with the former CIA operative who’d taken over the tactical unit I used to work for, but he’d kept mum on the details even when his silence meant that Madigan had nearly gotten me, my husband, and other innocent people killed. Now he was ready to spill? Something else had to be going on. Don was so pathologically secretive that I hadn’t found out we were related until four years after I started working for him.

“What?” I asked without preamble.

He tugged on a gray eyebrow, a habit he couldn’t break even after losing his physical body. He also appeared to be dressed in his usual suit and tie despite dying in a hospital gown. I’d think it was my memories dictating how Don looked except for the hundreds of other ghosts I’d met. There might not be shopping malls in the afterlife, but residual self-image was strong enough to make others see ghosts the way they saw themselves. Don had been the picture of a perfectly groomed, sixty-something bureaucrat in life, so that’s what he looked like in death.

He also hadn’t lost any of the tenacity behind those gunmetal-colored eyes, the only physical trait we had in common. My crimson hair and pale skin came from my father.

“I’m worried about Tate, Juan, Dave, and Cooper,” Don stated. “They haven’t been to their homes recently, and as you know, I can’t get into the compound to check if they’re there.”

I didn’t point out that it was Don’s fault Madigan knew how to ghostproof a building. Heavy combinations of marijuana, garlic, and burning sage would keep all but the strongest spooks away. After a ghost had almost killed Madigan last year, he’d outfitted our old base with a liberal supply of all three.

“How long since you’ve seen them?”

“Three weeks and four days,” he replied. Faults he might have, but Don was meticulous. “If only one of them was away that long, I’d assume he was on an undercover job, but all of them?”

Yes, that was strange even for members of a covert Homeland Security branch that dealt with misbehaving members of undead society. When I was a member of the team, the longest undercover job I’d been on was eleven days. Rogue vampires and ghouls tended to frequent the same spots if they were dumb enough to act out so much that they caught the government’s attention.

Still, I wasn’t about to assume the worst. Phone calls were beyond Don’s capabilities as a ghost, but I had no such hindrances.

I pulled a cell phone out of my kitchen drawer, dialing Tate’s number. When I got his voice mail, I hung up. If something had happened, and Madigan was responsible, he’d be checking Tate’s messages. No need to clue him in that I was sniffing around.

“No answer,” I told Don. Then I set that phone aside and took another cell out of the drawer, dialing Juan next. After a few rings, a melodic Spanish voice instructed me to leave a message. I didn’t, again hanging up and reaching for another phone from the drawer.