Date: 2021-06-11 04:00:00+00:00
Description: If 'hot mess' was a zip code, I'd own every property in it...While my relationship with my boyfriend, Ryan, seems to be falling apart at the seams, there's not much I can do about it because my entire life is pretty much heading the same way.As if dealing with my temperamental and difficult niece wasn't hard enough (especially when she won't stop arguing with my ghostly roommate), I suddenly find myself the owner of a... dog?Daschel randomly shows up on my doorstep one day which means I've inherited another responsibility I can't afford.But Daschel is no ordinary dog... he's intelligent beyond

MAKING SPIRITS BRIGHT

Midlife Spirits Series #9

by

H.P. Mallory

Other Books by H.P. Mallory

Paranormal Series: (Writing as H.P. Mallory)

Chasing Demons Series

Poppy’s Potions Series

Wanda’s Witchery Series

Lucy Westenra Series

Dungeon Raider Series

Lily Harper Series

Dulcie O’Neil Series (over 1 million downloads of the series!)

Underworld Series (New York Times bestselling series!)

NuLife Series

Midlife Spirits Series

Reverse Harem Series: (Writing as Plum Pascal)

Happily Never After Series

Sacred Oath Series

Virtual Escapes Series

Making Spirits Bright

Published by Rain Press

Copyright © 2021 by H.P Mallory

All rights reserved.

Ebook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Table of Contents

Foreword

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Reading Sample: Hell on Earth

About Author

Foreword
by J.R. Rain

Hi there and welcome to the Midlife Spirits Series!

J.R. Rain here, and I’m so excited to introduce you to the world of Peyton Clark and all her ghostly happenings!

The Midlife Spirits Series is written by my friend and co-author, H.P. Mallory. If you love paranormal women’s fiction and our series taking place in Haven Hollow (Poppy’s Potions and Wanda’s Witchery with more coming), I know you’ll love this one!

Get ready for lots of New Orleans history, twists and turns that will keep you guessing, action, adventure, and romance that will stay with you long after you’ve put the books down.

I’m so thrilled for you to start this series and lose yourself in the world H.P.’s created for Peyton and the gang.

Happy Reading!

—J.R.

Making Spirits Bright

Chapter One

Ryan and I spent about an hour grocery shopping, and by the time we returned to the house, Maggie and Drake were in an argument. Apparently, in the end, Drake was banished from Maggie’s room indefinitely. The reason? That was where they both gave differing accounts.

Maggie claimed she’d been sitting on her bed in her room, listening to music and journaling when a silver, ghostly figure floated through the wall without knocking or otherwise announcing himself. Maggie immediately let out a scream and told him to get out—she could have been getting dressed—and Drake let out a sullen sigh, saying he thought everyone, Maggie included, had already left.

Drake’s account was a little different. In his report, he never even entered Maggie’s room. Instead, he was searching for a book about the ladies of the French Revolution, one that he remembered having last seen in the attic loft. (I didn’t tell him, but I’d recently tossed the book in question—it contained scandalous drawings—which, I deduced, was the primary reason Drake wanted it).

Searching the loft without finding said book, he drifted down through the floorboards into one of the storage rooms. Hearing a noise, he was startled to find Maggie in the room on her hands and knees, curiously studying a bright crystal orb that appeared to be “releasing some sort of music.” Every few minutes, the foggy pattern in the orb would change and she would ask it a question.

When I asked what sorts of questions Maggie was asking the glowing orb, Drake replied: “Can Ryan be trusted, or is he a wolf in sheep’s clothing? Does Ryan love Peyton as much as Drake does? (to which Drake heartily insisted that he loved me more).

“Really?” I asked with a frown. “Maggie really asked a crystal ball questions about my love life?”

“Right hand over my heart, I didn’t ask any of those questions at all,” Maggie protested. She was on the brink of tears; it didn’t occur to me that sharing the house with an older male ghost would prove to be such a trying experience. Had Drake been a woman, perhaps they would have gotten along better.

“It is possible she did not ask such questions,” Drake admitted with a frown. “But she was most certainly poking around in the attic and handling items that do not concern her!”

Drake had never been a liar and I couldn’t understand why he’d lie about this because it seemed like such a silly thing to lie about. I also couldn’t understand why Maggie wouldn’t just admit that she wanted to explore the old house. I didn’t blame her. I would have wanted to do the same thing.

“Drake, you know how to knock,” I said as I frowned at the irritated ghost.

“This is my house, mon chaton, and pardon me if I believed all of you were out on your errand! I was as surprised as she!”

“He’s a perv!” Maggie yelled back at him.

“I am no such thing!” Drake responded, even though I doubted he understood the meaning of the word.

“What’s going on?” Ryan asked, eyeing both Maggie and me with a frown.

“Maggie and Drake are having an argument and I’m the referee,” I answered.

“What happened?” Ryan asked.

“I was hanging out in my room and Drake came in unannounced!” Maggie yelled.

“I did no such thing!” Drake responded. “And she was in the attic, not in her bedchamber at all!”

“Sounds like ‘Housewives of New Orleans,’” Ryan grumbled as he shook his head and disappeared into the living room, leaving Maggie and me to unbag and put the groceries away while Drake floated overhead.

“Did le barbare just refer to me as a married woman?” Drake asked.

“He meant it in the best possible way,” I answered before I turned my attention back to Maggie. “Both of you are going to have to make some adjustments,” I said slowly while I put the milk in the fridge. “Drake has always been very respectful to me, and now that he knows you’re living here, he’ll do his best not to bother you.” Then I faced the perturbed ghost. “Won’t you, Drake?”

“Had I known where she was, I would not have offended.”

Ryan chose that moment to walk back into the kitchen. “Maggie, you’re gonna have to accept that you’re living with a Peeping Tom. A ghost Peeping Tom,” he corrected, clearly afraid Maggie might think he was referring to himself.

I nearly threw a baguette at him. “Ryan, you’re making this worse!”

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m not the one who barged in on her.”

“Tell le barbare he can stick that cucumber you’re holding right up his,” Drake started but I interrupted him.

“Imagine you had the ability to drift through walls and floors, and you didn’t always know when a room was occupied. There would be accidents and apologies, I’m sure,” I said, feeling the need to defend Drake.

“I’d learn how to use a damn door,” said Ryan, shoving the orange juice into the back of the fridge (and accidentally upsetting two briny jars of olives in the process). I handed him a frozen pork loin, which he placed in the freezer. “Well, now Drake knows.”

It was very likely that Maggie had, in fact, been investigating some of the mysterious items in the attic. Drake’s story seemed wholly plausible because Maggie was enthralled by everything paranormal or occult so it followed that once she discovered the attic, it would be like her very own wonderland.

“Fine,” Maggie said, leaping off the stool.

“Now apologize to each other,” I said, feeling like the mother of two five-year-olds.

Drake came drifting out of the pantry. He was wearing an old gendarme’s uniform and a pair of solid gold epaulettes that gave him a striking appearance. “I shall not apologize for I did nothing wrong, mon chaton,” he said in a tone of lazy contempt. “That child is a liar and would shamelessly besmirch the word of a dead man!”

Ryan asked me to repeat what Drake said. Reluctantly, I did. “Dead men can lie, too,” Ryan replied with a shrug.

Bursting into tears, Maggie ran out of the kitchen and upstairs to her room.

Drake watched her go with a look of mild fascination, then added, “Why do the young always insist on a flair for the dramatic? I can assure you that when I was her age, I behaved in the manner appropriate!”

“You’re dramatic and hard to deal with now,” I rebuked, handing Ryan a bag of cumquats as I faced Drake. “It’s like having two teenagers in the house. Can’t you and Maggie try to find some common ground?”

“How long will I be forced to put up with her?” Drake asked.

“Two weeks,” I responded. “And you’d better make them pleasant for her… and for me.”

“And for me,” Ryan added.

“Va te faire enculer!” Drake spat at Ryan. “Fils de pute! Branleur!”

Having had a best friend in high school who was French, I knew the French swear words better than I knew the rest of the language. Even though I tried to control myself, I started to snicker as Drake disappeared into the hallway.

“Why are you laughing?” Ryan asked as he eyed me with interest.

“No reason.”

“Liar!” Then he eyed me more narrowly. “What did Drake say?”

“Um, he called you a few names.”

“What names?”

I cleared my throat. “If I remember correctly he said, and I quote: ‘Go fuck yourself! Son of a bitch! Wanker!’”

Ryan was quiet for a moment but then he started cracking up and the two of us laughed together. Meanwhile, I handed him a bunch of spinach and a jar full of garlic and he placed them in the bottom drawers of the fridge.

I had to wonder if the fact that Drake was handsome was part of the reason Maggie seemed so upset about him eavesdropping on her. She was at the age where she was a hormonal bundle, so it probably followed that living with Drake would prove to have its own issues.

Speaking of the devil, he appeared in the hallway again, his lips tight and his expression determined. He floated right up to me and then glared at me.

“I assure you, mon cherie, I will do everything in my power to be a gentleman, such as I was raised,” Drake said, “and, for your personal knowledge, I told the whole truth. The girl is too curious. You were not out of the house for more than ten minutes before she began sneaking around, opening wardrobes and peeping under the tables.”

“It’s normal for a young woman who’s just discovering she’s a sensitive to go through a phase of wanting to know all she can about the spiritual realm. It’s not like she’s ever seen a haunted house before, let alone lived in one,” I said coolly. “I was very much like Maggie when I was her age. Insatiably curious.”

“I understand but she did not have to lie about her curiosity, nor drag my name into the proverbial dirt,” Drake insisted.

I nodded. “I’ll talk to her about it.”

Closing the cabinets, Ryan said to me, “I think your nostalgia for your own youth might be clouding your judgment. There are some genuinely dangerous objects in the storage room like that Ouija Board you used with my sister. Things Maggie shouldn’t be messing with. God only knows what she’ll summon next time we’re not here.”

“I am afraid I must agree with le barbare, madame,” said Drake in a beleaguered tone, as if humiliated by this accidental alliance. “L’ enfant could find herself traveling back in time, releasing an ancient curse over the city, or perhaps bewitching the radios of New Orleans to play only that ruckus you turned on the other night!”

“Led Zeppelin is hardly a ruckus,” I answered with a shrug.

“Drake has something against Zeppelin?” Ryan asked, shaking his head. “Tell that dandy he needs to learn a thing or two.”

“Dandy?” Drake railed, his jaw growing tighter. “T'as pas de coquilles! J'en ai ral le cul!”

“Drake, Drake, Drake,” I said, grabbing his attention again.

“What’s he saying now?” Ryan asked.

“Something about how you don’t have the balls… for what? I don’t know. And then he said he was fucking fed up.”

“You miss the point entirely, madame!” Drake snapped.

“Which is?”

I began slathering marmalade over a slice of toast.

As Drake watched, he said, “L’ enfant can’t be trusted in the attic! It is akin to leaving a child alone unattended inside a nuclear reactor! One day you shall return home to find the house gone—exploded to smithereens and me with it!”

“You’re being overly dramatic.”

He shook his head. “Non, I am being realistic! I am afraid the only solution is for me to keep an eye on her myself.”

It took me a second to register the full implications of what he was suggesting. “Keeping an eye on her? But that would mean—”

“Doing precisely the thing she just accused him of doing,” Ryan finished for me.

“I will not play the voyeur, I assure you,” said Drake, chest swelling with pride. “I will not observe her during her intimate moments. I will not go into her room unless I believe she is in danger or is endangering the rest of you. But when she wanders through the house, as she will surely do, it is my obligation, non, it is my solemn duty to keep watch in the name of security.”

“What’s he saying now?” Ryan asked.

“That he thinks it’s his duty to keep an eye on Maggie so she doesn’t inadvertently open a portal into another dimension and return with Predator or Alien or maybe both.”

“I do not know this Predator of which you speak, mon chaton,” Drake said.

“I hate to say it,” said Ryan, “but I think the ghost might have a point.”

“Please tell le barbare it is rude to refer to one as the ghost,” Drake said, glaring at the hunk.

“Then you believe Drake?” I asked Ryan. “You think Maggie was snooping?”

Ryan shrugged. “Why would Drake lie about something so dumb?”

“Oui!” Drake said triumphantly. “Why would I lie about something so dumb? Yes!”

“And it would probably be good to keep an eye on her anyway. Teenagers are always getting into trouble,” Ryan finished.

I wasn’t sure Maggie’s behavior tonight merited her her constant supervision. She was old enough and mature enough to look after herself. “Maggie’s almost an adult.”

“She’s still a kid, Peyton.” He tried to rope an arm around my waist, but I brushed him away, much to Drake’s relief. “The attic is full of dangerous shit.”

As always, Ryan seemed to have the more rational argument. And he was right. The attic played house to vanishing cabinets, hands of glory, sleep-inducing music boxes—the list went on.

“Fine, Drake can watch her,” I said finally, throwing my hands up. Between the two of them, I was badly outnumbered. “But only when we’re not around, and only when she’s not in her room.”

“Oui,” Drake said with a clipped nod.

“What was she messing around with when Drake found her anyway?” Ryan asked.

“A crystal orb, which is about as useful as a Magic Eight-Ball from Wal-Mart,” I answered.

“Right, but we have no idea what else is in there,” Ryan said.

Over the last couple of months, I’d been collecting paranormal objects from various antique stores around the city and storing them in the attic. Why? Because it was easier to make contact with the dead when you had an object designed for that exact enterprise. And with Drake out of my head, I needed all the help I could get.

“So that means Drake will keep an eye on Maggie tomorrow night when we go to The Old Absinthe House,” I said.

“Right,” Ryan agreed.

Rinsing off the butter knife, I placed it back in the drawer to the left of the sink.

“If you would ask my humble opinion,” Drake started. “I believe the objects in the attic could be of interest to whoever this thief is.”

A shudder of apprehension overcame me as frightening visions flashed in my mind’s eye: A defenseless Maggie opening the door and letting some powerful creature into the house.

Chapter Two

When I entered the kitchen the next morning at nine am, I found Maggie already dressed and seated at the island, eating naked toast and vegan sausage links. “Hey you,” I said groggily as I reached for the coffeemaker before remembering that it was still broken, and shoving it aside, “how’d you sleep last night? No ghostly interruptions?”

“No, I just watched a movie on my iPad until I fell asleep.”

“So Drake behaved himself?”

She nodded but I could tell she was still uncomfortable with the subject. “I kept thinking I heard noises—it was probably just the house, though. There’s supposed to be a big storm coming in tonight.”

“That’s fantastic.” If it rained, water would drip through the leaky ceiling and end up all over the bed in the master bedroom. The antique bed was too old and large to be easily moved, or we would have just moved it out of the way. Guess we needed more tarps and buckets to catch the leaks. And then I remembered Ryan and I had plans to go to The Old Absinthe House tonight. “I’m really not in the mood to brave New Orleans traffic in a torrential downpour.”

“At least, you won’t have to spend the night alone in a scary, old house with an ahole ghost and a doll that randomly moves around.” Stabbing at her last link with unusual vigor, Maggie added, “What are we doing for the rest of the day, anyway? Before you and Ryan leave tonight, I mean?”

I set the tea kettle to boiling and took a stool beside her, clutching an empty mug in both hands. “Ryan has to drive into town this morning to meet a client, but I was thinking you and I could hang out and sort through some of the antiques in the attic.”

Rather than trying to keep her from everything in the attic, maybe it was better to educate her about each item, where it came from and what powers it possessed. Maybe in understanding the hidden dangers in paranormal artifacts, she’d be less likely to mess around with them. That was my hope anyway.

Maggie’s eyes rose at the word antiques. “That… that might be fun! What are we going to do with them?”

The kettle was whistling now. I rose and poured the hot water into the mug over the peppermint tea bag, stirring in a tablespoon of honey. “There’s a lot of stuff up there that I’ve just been collecting, and I need to start cataloging everything so I know each item’s details and where to find it when I need it.”

“Is it all ghost-hunting paraphernalia?”

I shook my head. “Some of it is just antiques, passed down from my mother’s side of the family. And there’s a lot of crap up there too. Stuff I need to throw away or donate.”

“And will Drake be along for the ride too?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Who knows? If he wants to, I guess.”

“I wish we could go through it without Drake,” she said. “I’m doing my best to avoid him.”

“And I imagine he’s doing his best to avoid you too,” I replied. “But keep in mind that he also lives here so you can’t avoid him forever.” Then I frowned at her. “Besides, it seems like maybe you’re overreacting a little bit?”

“I’m not overreacting. He needs to learn to mind his own business.”

“Well, I don’t want to get into it again,” I said with a sigh. “But my point still stands. You can’t avoid each other forever.”

“Unfortunately, for me.”

Luckily, I was relieved of the burden of having to respond by the arrival of Drake, who came drifting through the open door of the cabinet. “Good morning, mon chaton,” he said before he pointedly turned up his nose at Maggie.

“Say good morning to Maggie, Drake,” I said.

He didn’t look at her. “Good morning.”

“Good morning to you,” she answered, equally as aloof.

“You two are going to have to work through this,” I said to both of them. “And you’re going to have to figure it out really soon because this silent treatment you’re both giving one another is going to get really old really quick.”

“Understood,” Maggie said as she slumped back over her breakfast.

Drake merely nodded sharply.

“So, what sort of stuff is up there?” Maggie asked shyly but I could tell her interest was simmering just beneath the surface of her calm demeanor.

“Up where?” Drake asked.

“The attic,” I responded. “We’re about to go clean it and catalog all the items.”

“Mon dieu,” Drake said.

“You don’t have to come with us,” Maggie said.

“I would not miss it for the world,” Drake responded with a broad grin.

“That’s what I was worried you were going to say,” Maggie grumbled.

He faced Maggie. “Not everything in the attic is innocent.”

“Innocent?” she repeated.

“Paranormal artifacts can carry their own inherent dangers,” I said.

Drake nodded. “I would advise you to burn the lot, although certain items will prove impermeable to fire.”

Maggie nearly sprang out of her seat as her eyes went wider. “You mean there are objects up there that won’t burn? Not because they’re flame-retardant, or whatever, but because of curses or spells?”

“Precisamente,” replied Drake. He launched into a long explanation of how certain objects have protective spells to prevent them from being tarnished, destroyed, or mislaid. Then he cited an example of a small cauldron that always found its way back to its owner whenever it was accidentally left somewhere.

I pulled the empty lemonade jar out of the pantry and started filling it up with water when I heard footsteps on the front porch. My first thought was that maybe Ryan came home early but a weird, sinking feeling in my gut told me otherwise. Suffice to say, I’ve learned to listen to my body and my instincts. Whenever I sense impending doom, I treat it with all the reverence it deserves.

Please don’t be another ghostly child, I prayed to whoever would listen.

Leaving the jar on the counter and motioning for Maggie to wait in the kitchen, I walked into the hallway. There was a knock on the door.

“Who do you think is knocking?” Maggie asked as she came up behind me, nearly scaring the hell out of me.

“I don’t know!” I said as I turned to face her and shook my head, trying to catch my breath. “Didn’t I tell you to stay put?”

“Well, yeah...”

She smiled guiltily but I didn’t respond.

When I reached the front door, I peered through the peephole. To my utter relief, no one was standing there—no one, that is, except for a small dog. It was definitely a golden retriever mix, sitting on its haunches with its mouth open and wagging its tail cheerfully.

“What the heck?” I said as I opened the door enough to poke my head out. No one accompanied the dog. I glanced left and right but only saw the empty street. So who could have knocked?

Before I knew it, the dog pushed open the door with its snout and forced its way inside. It had the familiar air of an old friend. Within seconds, it was bounding up on surprisingly powerful hind legs, attempting to lick my face.

“Oh my gosh! He’s so cute!” cried Maggie, kneeling down and running her hands all over the dog’s face. “What’s your name?”

I checked his neck but he wore no collar. “Maybe he belongs to one of the neighbors,” I said as I studied the dog now slobbering all over Maggie, who didn’t seem to mind at all.

Maggie looked up and her attention settled on something behind me. “Look, there’s a note taped to the door.”

I turned around. Sure enough, someone left a note on blue-lined paper taped to the front door. I took it down and unfolded it before reading: “To whomever lives here, I lost my job and I can’t afford to keep Daschel any longer. I’ve always admired your house, and I believe you don’t have any pets, so I hope you’ll consider keeping Daschel and giving him a good, loving home.”

“Wow, that’s so random,” Maggie said.

I turned the piece of paper over twice before adding, “Yeah. Really random. And there’s no name or address.”

“Guess Daschel’s yours then,” Maggie said as she patted the dog’s head gingerly.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that yet.” I looked down at the big, goofy creature, wondering if I could really drop him off at the pound. “A dog is a huge responsibility.”

“Yeah, but he needs a home and I agree with whoever wrote the note—this is the perfect home for him,” Maggie argued.

“What’s going on?” asked Drake, half-floating through the door frame. He glanced down at the dog and gave a condescending smirk of disdain. “Ah, a stray animal.”

“Your powers of observation are astounding,” I said with a smirk.

“What are you doing with him?” Drake continued, eyeing the dog with visible distaste.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“We plan to keep him!” Maggie responded as she threw her arms around Daschel, and the dog wagged his tail even harder.

“I do not care to share my dwelling with a filthy animal,” Drake said.

“We have no problem sharing our dwelling with you,” Maggie pointed out and I did my best to suppress a smile. Teenagers.

“Well!” Drake said with feigned offense.

“You sound like a grumpy, old man, Drake,” I replied with a laugh.

The dog knelt in front of us, panting and presumably unbothered that his future was being discussed right in front of him. “You’ve got to admit he’s cute!” I said, facing Drake.

Drake studied the dog a moment longer before his frown softened. “I am pleased that my presence does not daunt him.”

“That’s a good point,” I said as I faced the dog with renewed interest. “Most animals are terrified of spirits.”

“Daschel’s not afraid of anything!” Maggie chimed in. “He’s perfect!”

I stroked the dog’s fur, checking for fleas, but there were none to be found. Sitting up, he walked inside the house with the confident air of a king surveying his kingdom. I was curious to know what other breeds he had in his ancestry since he was a medium sized dog, I’d say. He had short, stubby legs and a pert tail that curled up into a question mark, as if to underscore the mystery of his origin.

“He’s already acting like he owns the place!” Maggie said with a smile. “Peyton, you just have to keep him!”

I was quiet for a few more seconds before I had to admit Maggie was right. There was no way I could turn the little guy out. Not when he needed a home and I had the room. “I’ll text Ryan and send him a picture.”

After I did that, I received three texts in a row from Ryan wanting to know why we were bringing a strange dog into the house and how we expected to care for it.

“Le barbare could show more interest in the animal’s well-being,” Drake said.

I glanced at him and shook my head. “Really, Drake? Weren’t you just trying to talk me out of adopting the dog only a few minutes ago?”

“That was before I bonded with the noble creature,” Drake replied staunchly. I had yet to see any bonding between the dog and the ghost.

My phone continued to buzz so I glanced down and noticed Ryan texted again:

Apart from the costs involved, he said, who’s going to watch it when you travel? Half the time we’re not even here!

Need I remind you? You have two dogs. I texted back.

Yes, and it’s a lot of work trying to find someone to take care of them when I’m gone. You really need to think this one through more, Pey.

Ryan had an endearing streak of pragmatism that always manifested at the start of new ventures, but this time that pragmatism was annoying. Furthermore, I knew he’d change his mind once he met Daschel.

Just wait until you meet him, I wrote back. When you do, you’ll love him.

By now the dog was already sitting obediently in front of the pantry, as if he knew where I kept the food. Maggie stood in front of him, her hand raised to see how high he could jump (as high as her head! it turned out).

“Ryan and I will pick up some dog food tonight when we’re out,” I said. “But for now, he can have some of the bacon we bought last night.”

“I’ve never heard of feeding a dog bacon,” said Maggie, frowning.

“Well, it’s not like he’s a vegan, right?” I asked and the dog barked his agreement.

Chapter Three

After a light brunch of stir-fried tofu for Maggie, a muffaletta sandwich for me, nothing for Drake, and chicken breast with bacon for Daschel, the four of us drifted upstairs to the storage room. Surveying the scene I saw before me, it was pretty remarkable Maggie could manage to locate a single item of interest amid the sprawl that surrounded us. The fortune-teller’s orb lay on the floor near the door, resting against an armoire. A series of mysterious scratching noises had been echoing from there since I moved in. Ryan said it was probably a rat, so I refused to open it, unwilling to take any chances. Maggie eyed it warily and stayed close to me.

“That thing was making noises the whole time I was up here,” she said and I decided to ignore her admission to being up here. No reason to bring up a tired, old conversation. I was more than sure she learned her lesson and would be more responsible moving forward.

I nodded. “Ryan thinks a rat is living inside it.”

She looked at me with wide eyes. “Yeah, but it’s not a rat.”

“I know.”

Neither of us said anything more as we edged further into the room, taking note of the various boxes and furniture lining either side of the walls. Not surprisingly, Daschel stood at the entry of the room and whined at us.

“Come on, boy,” Maggie said as she slapped her thigh to get him to come to her.

“Nothing can persuade him to come in here,” I said as I watched the dog pacing back and forth as he continued to whine and stare at us with wide, fearful eyes.

“Why?”

“He senses the spiritual energy in here and not all of it is good. In fact, a lot of it probably isn’t.”

Maggie frowned as she looked at the dog who was still obviously uneasy. “But he wasn’t afraid of Drake.”

I nodded. “Drake is good spiritual energy.”

Maggie gulped hard and clutched the notebook she was carrying even tighter. I stood in the center of the room and glanced around, trying to take stock of everything. Then I sighed.

“This is obviously going to take us at least a day to finish,” I said. I was certainly not looking forward to the task as I added, “And you’re welcome to bail any time. “What else am I going to do?”

I looked at her and smiled, wondering if she’d be singing the same tune after spending a few hours up here. Spiritual items have a nasty way of taxing your energy.

“I’m hoping I can learn more about the occult and this seems like a good way to learn,” she replied nervously, darting glances around the room as if she thought something could leap out at her. Perhaps, she was right.

“Then can we agree on one thing?”

She faced me and nodded. “I’ve already agreed to make amends with Drake.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.”

“What do you mean then?”

“If I agree to let you help me sort through all this crap and teach you about the various items and their history and backgrounds, it can never leave this room. The last thing I’d want is for your mom to find out and start ripping me a new one.”

“The last person I would ever talk to about any of this is my mom!” Maggie assured me as she shook her head. “Trust me.” I believed her.

“Okay, pinky swear.”

We pinky swore.

“I feel like I haven’t stopped learning since I got here.”

“Well, the first thing to always keep in mind when dealing with anything involved with the paranormal is this: everything demands your respect,” I started, trying not to sound like a pedantic teacher if I was.

“Respect?” Maggie repeated. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, that we don’t understand many mysteries about the other side so don’t act like you do. It’s not a good idea to play with stuff you know nothing about. Bad things can come as a result of it.” I eyed the Ouija Board that Ryan’s sister, Trina, used with me one night to contact the dead and told Maggie what happened. “Case in point.”

“What’s that?” she asked as she followed the direction of my finger. “A Ouija Board?”

“Yep, and one that I stupidly used with Ryan’s sister and ended up summoning a demon who murdered a bunch of people in New Orleans in the early 1900s. He was called the Axeman.”

Maggie nodded. “You mean, the spirit you and Ryan’s sister summoned was actually The Axeman?”

“Yep, the very same one.”

“Oh, my God,” Maggie said as she stared at the Ouija Board with a newfound sense of dread and awe. Then she gulped. “I haven’t met Ryan’s sister… does that mean… she’s no longer with us?”

I laughed as I shook my head. “No, Trina is still very much alive. She just took a job in Tennessee a few months back so we haven’t seen her lately.”

“Phew,” Maggie said as she exhaled. Then she started glancing around herself again and the worry returned to her expression. She looked up at me. “I swear I won’t ever come up here alone again and I definitely won’t touch anything.” She glanced around as she grew more nervous. “The truth is: I’m glad I didn’t do anything… you know, accidentally. It could have turned out bad.”

“You and me both!” I pulled the tarp off a wide mahogany cabinet with brass locks that must have been standing there since the house was originally built. A second or so later, Drake materialized in front of it.

“Any idea what this is, or what’s inside it?” I asked him. “It looks like it’s been here for a while.”

“All of these items came from your Great Aunt Myra, thus you should know more about them than I.” He shook his head, looking faintly (but insincerely) bored with the whole proceeding. He grimaced at it. “Quite an ugly thing it is.”

“Just because my aunt acquired them, doesn’t mean I should know what they are!” I argued back. “Besides, you were here the whole time she was—you’d think you’d remember some of the specifics!”

“I must admit my interests lie elsewhere.”

I shook my head and frowned at him. “You strangely have no appreciation for antiques whatsoever.”

“Perhaps because they are not antiques to me! You forget I was alive during their fabrication.”

“Maybe,” I answered as I noticed Maggie standing in front of the cabinet and admiring it.

“Should we look inside?” she asked.

I nodded and pulled on the latch. The double doors swung open with a wave of dust that was thick in the air. Inside, three shelves contained an assortment of knick-knacks, none of which seemed very interesting. I glanced back at Maggie and motioned to the notebook in her hands.

“I would not recommend opening and inspecting every item you come across, ma minette,” said Drake. “As you may recall, many of these items are enchanted… and not in a good way.”

“We’ll be careful,” Maggie said, passing through him to get to a stack of boxes. He jumped aside, trying to dodge her, but he was too late.

“And you should show them more respect, l’ enfant.”

I helped her pull down a box at the top of the pile that contained decks of tarot cards. She opened the spiral notebook I’d given her for cataloguing purposes and began writing down the name of each deck, opening them to see if any cards were missing. I turned my attention to the next box, which was filled with books—spellbooks, some of them ancient. The hardened edges of their pages were almost flaking away. I set the box aside.

Drake was hovering behind me, watching everything I did. “I would not open those.”

“They would probably turn to dust if I did.” I said as I faced the box and glanced back at Maggie. “Try to catalog these without removing them from the box,” I said, and she nodded.

I needed to focus on the trash. That’s where the real work was. The attic was untouched for years, festering in the moist New Orleans air. I was more than sure that most of these antiquities were probably nothing more than rotted junk.

There were piles of wooden chairs, moth-eaten clothing, paintings with holes, and every form of knick-knack imaginable. I started collecting everything I could justify throwing away, and Drake followed me around the room.

“If there is any black magic here, it could spread to the other items,” he noted.

“Then we’re already cursed, and there’s nothing we can do,” I answered as I picked up something that resembled a velvet shoe, or maybe it was once an old, stuffed animal. Either way, having been chewed on by rodents, the velvet nap was mostly bare. “Gross,” I muttered.

“Ma minette, you shouldn’t joke about such things.”

I shrugged and started dragging an ancient ottoman towards the front of the room, where I planned on building my trash pile. Drake was standing right behind me and the coldness of his energy began to seep into my skin. I turned around to face him and nearly kissed him. He held his ground and I did the same.

“I miss the days when we traveled back in time together,” he whispered to me.

I swallowed hard, glancing across the room to where Maggie stood. She was looking out the window, down to the street below. Then I looked back at Drake and nodded.

“I miss them too.”

Drake reached down and tried to take my hand but his went right through mine. “This existence is no existence at all,” he said.

I nodded because I understood his meaning. It must have been very difficult for him to stop residing inside my body and get forcibly thrust back into the house. He became a prisoner, unable to travel beyond the boundaries of the walls.

“Mailman is here!” Maggie called out as she faced us again and started walking towards us. Daschel started wagging his tail and pacing back and forth at the entrance to the attic, barking as Maggie came closer to him.

“There’s a good boy!” she called.

I glanced up at Drake and smiled in a sad, defeated way. But, really, unless I agreed to allow him to possess me again, there wasn’t much I could do for him. The reality was that he was stuck here, in this house, until… he wasn’t.

“What are you guys so busy talking about?” Maggie asked.

I shrugged and immediately busied myself by opening the drawers of a secretary. “We were talking about the sword that was recently stolen,” I said, clearly lying but hoping Maggie wouldn’t notice. “I remember someone saying it was used in the Battle of Antietam.”

“Wasn’t that fought during the Civil War?” Maggie asked.

“Indeed, it was,” Drake responded. “The battle unfolded in Maryland in 1862. Some say that it was a stalemate, but it ended with a Confederate retreat, giving Abraham Lincoln the opportunity he needed to release the Emancipation Proclamation, thereby freeing the slaves.”

“So, it helped end the war,” I said.

“Wow, you’re like a ghostly Wikipedia,” Maggie said as she faced Drake. “Ghostipedia.”

“I know not of which you speak,” Drake replied in his pompous way.

“Nevermind. How did you know all that about the Battle of Antietam?” Maggie continued.

I faced her. “He likes to watch documentaries.”

“Oh,” she said and shrugged.

I went back to collecting trash and piling it on top of the ottoman I’d moved to the far end of the room as Maggie headed downstairs to retrieve the mail, Daschel at her heels. After another hour, my trash pile had doubled. Pretty soon, it was too large to walk past, so I sent Maggie down to the kitchen. I asked her to retrieve some trash bags before we started bagging everything and bringing it down the stairs. Once the trash pile was eliminated, we returned to the attic to start cataloguing the items again.

After another two hours, we barely made a dent. We removed a lot of junk but you’d never know it. There was an unfathomable pile of crap that occupied the attic. Behind every item we moved, something else loomed, waiting to be inspected. It seemed like it would never end, and the cobwebs had their own zip code.

***

Four hours later, when everything was cataloged, and all of the trash picked up, I retreated to my room for a long, hot shower and a moment of peace. Maggie did the same.

I came downstairs to find Drake standing in front of Daschel in the kitchen. His thumbs were stuck in his ears as he waved his fingers around. There was a funny expression on his face and Daschel kept barking and wagging his tail. I laughed, and Maggie did the same.

Drake circle the island as the dog followed him, eager to snap at his ectoplasmic form. He stopped in front of me with a giant grin. “C'est extraordinaire, ma minette! Animals tend to avoid me, but this one? He is quite infatuated with moi.”

“So he is,” I said, taking a seat beside Maggie. The front door opened and Ryan walked inside. Rather than running up to Ryan and barking or jumping on him, Daschel waited in the kitchen. I stood up to greet my lumbering boyfriend.

Ryan was carrying both wet and dry dog food (bless his heart), which Maggie immediately took from him. She disappeared into the pantry, and Ryan gave me a peck on the cheek. “Could we have a moment to talk?” he whispered.

“Sure,” I answered before calling out to Maggie that we’d be right back. She gave me a thumbs-up from inside the pantry, with only her arm and hand appearing from behind the door.

I took Ryan’s hand and led him into my room. He sat on the edge of the bed. His posture, and the way he leaned forward with his head propped in his hands, digging his elbows into his knees, told me everything I needed to know.

“What’s wrong?” I asked.

“A stray dog, Peyton?” he asked in a strained whisper.

“I… I don’t see any problem. He’s not exactly a flea-ridden stray. He’s well-trained and mild mannered.”

“He’s a random creature that you know nothing about. I mean, how did you even find him?”

I stood up and fished Daschel’s note out of my pocket before handing it to Ryan. He read it and placed it on my nightstand like he couldn’t stand to touch it any longer. “You bought this crap?”

I was surprised at his words and his angry tone. It seemed like Ryan and I were suffering from more disagreements than we ever had before. I wasn’t sure why.

“It sounds reasonable, doesn’t it?” I asked with a shrug. “People get into bad financial situations all the time. I just figured I could help by giving the dog a home.”

“Peyton, I’m having a hard time understanding how you could possibly take this at face value.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look at all the weird shit that’s been going on lately! Ghost children, witches, the list goes on! How do you know it’s even a dog?”

“He looks like a dog to me,” I said, unable to hide my irritation.

He replied in a tired voice, “Not everything is as it seems in your world. You, of all people, should know that.”

“What do you mean ‘your world’?” I asked, irritated by the bitter tone in his voice. “It’s yours too, isn’t it?”

“Sometimes it doesn’t feel like it.”

I sat down beside him and did my best to be more pleasant as I wrapped my hand around his thigh. “Let’s not talk about this tonight, okay? Let’s just have a good time and enjoy our date.” I said, referring to our planned excursion to The Old Absinthe House.

“A date?” His sardonic laugh set my stomach churning. “It’s not a date, it’s a paranormal investigation.”

“A paranormal night out,” I corrected with an awkward grin.

“Can’t things just be normal for once?” He shot up off the bed and started pacing around the smallish area, making my nerves stand at attention. “Aren’t you tired of all of this?”

“Of course.”

“And yet you can’t seem to stop.” I had never seen him so upset, and I didn’t like it.

“I know things have been a little crazy lately…”

“More than crazy,” Ryan interrupted, still pacing. “Things have been manic and chaotic and they haven’t slowed down.”

“I agree,” I started. “But this is who I am, Ryan. The paranormal runs through my body like the blood that pumps through my veins. And, no matter what I do, it’s not like I can just turn that side of me off. I hear things, see things and feel things. That’s what being a sensitive is all about.”

He stopped pacing to face me and his expression was hard, exhausted. “You used to be scared of all that shit. When did that change?”

“I’m still scared.”

“Then... what... are... you... doing?” he asked, enunciating every syllable. “You’re putting yourself in danger constantly. You might be sensitive to all this paranormal stuff but that doesn’t mean you’re protected against it.”

“I understand that but it doesn’t change the fact that I feel like my abilities can protect other people.”

“What about yourself, Peyton?” he demanded.

“I can’t ignore the situation I’m in.”

“And what is that?” he gave me a raised eyebrow.

“We’ll have to find out tonight at The Old Absinthe House.”

He nodded and came to sit down beside me again. He took my hands in his own and locked eyes with me, as if he could divine my intentions. I knew what he wanted to ask. I had the urge to pull away, but I couldn’t. Doing so would mean denying him something he needed. Ryan was a normal, steak and potatoes, football-watching guy’s guy. He enjoyed simple things: peace and quiet, a good meal, a hot toss in the sheets. He didn’t believe in messing with things that weren’t supposed to be messed with. He preferred things that he could see and feel, as those were the only things he understood.

And on that subject, we were different. Diametrically opposed.

“I need to know that once you put whatever mystery this is to bed, that will be it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I want us to lead a normal life and stop dealing with things like dolls that are supposed to be possessed and witches who wipe our memories and spirits from the turn of the century who want to kill you. Not to mention the ghost of a dead, French policeman.”

“Drake?” I said as I gulped.

Ryan nodded. “I want to move past all of it and focus on us, Peyton. I want us to have a future together without all this constant noise and distraction.”

“Then you’re saying you want me to give it all up?” I asked, swallowing hard.

“I want us to focus on us and maybe raising a family someday. I think that should be your priority—not all this hocus-pocus stuff all the time.”

“I’m not sure what that means.”

“It means whatever it needs to mean in order for us to live a normal life… a life like everyone else gets to lead—one without ghosts.”

“So you’re saying you want me to sell this house?” I asked, trying to get to the root of whatever he was proposing.

“No, I never said that.”

“Then how else could I give up Drake?”

Ryan shrugged. “I don’t know. Exorcism maybe. Get someone over here who can guide him toward the light? Whatever other people do to get rid of spirits.”

My eyes widened in shock at the thought of forcing Drake from his own house, a house that belonged to him for over a century. I hated the very idea. Almost as much as I hated the thought of never seeing my best friend again.

Yes, Drake was my best friend. He was someone I trusted and confided in, not to mention someone I cared very much about. I could never exorcise him. I would never!

“I think we should talk about this later,” I said.

Sensing Ryan’s disappointment, I sealed the moment with a kiss, hoping to shelve the subject at least for the time being. Clearly, this conversation required more discussion but I wasn’t in the right frame of mind to go there. Not at the moment.

Ryan wrapped his arms around me and pulled me into the warmth of his broad chest. I held him, matching my breath to his own and wondering how in the world I could make this awful situation better.

I wondered if it were even possible.

Chapter Four

A few hours later, I stood in front of my vanity mirror, dressed in tight, black pants with high, black leather boots and a silvery-gray, slim-fitting turtleneck sweater that did a good job of showing off my cleavage. My black, leather jacket hung over the side of one of my bedroom chairs as I busily faced the next step of my preparation for the evening: makeup.

Tonight was important. And even though it wasn’t really a date, since I intended to do research while we were at The Old Absinthe House, it was important all the same. If Ryan and I were growing apart, I had to do my best to close the distance between us. Ryan meant something to me and I would try whatever it took to make things right between us again.

Even if that means exorcising Drake? I asked myself.

I shook my head as soon as the words formed in my head. There was no way I would willingly do anything to force Drake from his home. It wasn’t right of Ryan to ask me and when the conversation came up again, which was bound to happen, I would tell him as much.

Facing my reflection, I took my time doing my makeup, carefully applying a smoky gray eyeshadow, and accenting it with ruby red lips and mauve cheeks.

I heard the door open behind me, and a pair of lips promptly found their place at the nape of my neck. Two hands wrapped around my waist, and I allowed myself to savor the radiant warmth they offered.

“You look beautiful,” Ryan whispered in my ear.

I loved the smell of him—spicy, clean, yet purely masculine. His scent followed him wherever he went. I turned to face him. He was a wearing a simple, white, button-up shirt with the sleeves cuffed, and a pair of loose jeans that failed to hide his great ass. The outfit was simple, but there was something alluring about it, all the same. Ryan didn’t have to dress in designer labels and ornate fashions—he would have appeared silly if he tried. No, he had a lumberjack look with his jeans and plaid, flannel jackets. His outdoorsy nature, and massive form and demeanor, were more than enough to impress me.

“Do you think I overdressed?” I asked him, pushing back my stool, so I could stand.

“You look gorgeous, Pey, as usual.”

“Thanks,” I said with a little smile.

We walked out into the living area together, holding hands and beaming at each other. The mood from earlier was gone, and I was genuinely excited to have a night out—no dogs, dolls, ghosts, or adolescents—just Ryan and me, eating and drinking together in a crowded bar where everyone came to laugh and have a good time. It was the perfect prescription for a great night out.

Then I saw Drake, hovering in the middle of the room. The look he gave me—dull and dead—instantly brought my spirits down, no pun intended. He took me in from head to toe as his left eyebrow arched and his lips grew tighter. It was a familiar expression I’d seen on his face numerous times before—jealousy.

“Wow,” Maggie said as she appeared in the hallway. Then she wolf-whistled at me while I laughed. “Guess we gotta clean up the attic more often if you can end up looking like that,” she finished with a laugh.

“Thanks,” I said as I watched Daschel walk in behind Maggie. He forced his big head into her hand and she laughed as she glanced down and petted him.

“Don’t wait up for us,” I said.

“I won’t.”

“And make sure you keep the door locked and don’t answer it,” Ryan added.

“Okay Mom and Dad,” Maggie answered with faux irritation. “Do I need to remind you that I’m not ten? I’ve done this staying home thing a lot.”

“If you need anything, just call us, okay?” I persisted.

“Oh, my God, will the two of you just leave already?” Maggie demanded. She started for the front door but Ryan and I beat her to it. As he began to open the door for me, he stopped cold, his smile faltering. When I glanced outside, I understood why.

Christopher stood on the porch, his arms crossed. He was dressed in his usual attire of crushed black velvet tunic over tight, black pants with a black scarf wrapped around his neck. The black theme was exaggerated with his long, velvet cape and high top hat, both of which were, yes, black. He reminded me of a vampire from an Anne Rice novel, but lacking all the romanticism. No, Christopher was anything but romantic and currently serving us pure disdain, like this was the last place he wanted to show up unannounced.

Ryan broke the silence. “Christopher?”

“Ryan.”

“What are you doing here?” Ryan asked.

Christopher released a drawn-out sigh, turning his nose up at us both, as if the answer to his question was staring us both in the face. Finally, when it became obvious that we couldn’t divine his purpose, he replied, “Peyton can’t just show up at The Old Absinthe House. She won’t be allowed.”

“Why not? It’s a human establishment.”

Ryan’s response caused Christopher to roll his eyes so far back, he looked like a slot machine. They landed on mine, and his lips curved into a half-smile. “Why must you involve yourself with the mundane?”

‘The mundane’ was Christopher’s phrase for anyone who lacked supernatural powers.

“Is there some reason why I can’t enter The Old Absinthe House?” I asked Christopher, never eager to involve myself in his idiotic word games.

“Because it’s not a human establishment, Pey-ton,” he said. Christopher had an annoying way of enunciating every letter of every word he spoke, which was not only tedious to tolerate, but it also managed to take him much longer to speak than a normal person.

“Last I checked, humans were eating and drinking there,” I argued.

“Last I checked, you weren’t intending to hobnob with other humans,” Christopher retorted.

“That is true,” I acquiesced.

“I know,” Christopher responded, his expression like someone who just downed a glassful of cat piss.

“So?” I prodded him.

“So the spirits won’t appreciate unknown entities attempting to engage them.”

“Unknown entities?” Ryan repeated.

Christopher looked at him narrowly before looking at me. “Unknown entities.”

“So?” I asked again.

“So, I am willing to offer my services for the evening,” Christopher replied while doffing his top hat and bowing as if he were a prominent member in the court of Henry VIII.

“What about Lovie? Where is she?” I asked with a furrowed brow. The last person I wanted to spend my evening with was Christopher.

“She prefers to avoid the environment. It can become… overwhelming.”

“Overwhelming? As in dark?” I asked.

He laughed to himself. “There’s no light without dark.”

“What about,” I started before swallowing hard, “Angharad?”

It was pretty telling that I preferred the company of the bitchy, old witch to Christopher. But, truly, Christopher was the bitchiest old witch I ever met.

“I know not the name,” he responded.

“Whatever,” Ryan said as he took my hand and led me out to the truck. “We’ll meet you there.”

Christopher stomped over to his black, luxury sedan, mumbling something under his breath. It was only then that I realized his black walking stick had a carved skull at the top. He looked like a misplaced magician.

“Can you believe that guy?” Ryan asked once he started the truck. Throwing it into gear, he craned his head to the side to see out the back window and added, “He has nerve.”

“That’s Christopher.”

“I can’t say I’m excited about spending my evening with him,” Ryan complained as he put the truck into drive and we started down the street.

“I’m pretty sure I’m even less excited.”

He glanced over at me and sighed before shaking his head and patting my hand consolingly. “Maybe he won’t stay long.”

“Maybe,” I conceded.

Christopher came at a price, but I didn’t see any point in groaning about it, so I cut the conversation short. If Christopher had to come along, it was only because he was necessary. I refused to look an unfortunate gift horse in the mouth, no matter how much I wished I could return it. Ryan didn’t share my sentiment. Halfway to the bar, he interrupted the silence. “He better not charge you for this.”

“You know he will.”

“I know.”

He slowed as we started to enter the French Quarter. “Tonight was supposed to be about me and you,” Ryan continued.

“And it will still be about us.”

“Us and Christopher,” he grumbled.

I took a deep breath. “I doubt he’ll stay all night. We will have our moment, babe, I promise,” I said with a smile I didn’t feel.

“What if I want more than a moment?” he asked.

“We will get it… eventually.” My words rang hollow even to my own ears. I could just imagine how they sounded to him.

His dry response sunk a little too deep. “It is what it is.”

It was a Friday night in a city legendary for its unbridled night life. The French Quarter was a never-ending wave of intoxicated twenty-somethings. They surroundied the truck, blocking our path. Many were too drunk to function; some were arguing, stumbling around and shrieking at one another; while others stampeded past us—men with spiky hair; girls with stilettos, clacking against the uneven pavement, which was strewn with questionable… stuff.

It was easy to make out the troublemakers: a group of university students, branded in their school’s colors, busily marauding their way up the street, shouting and hollering what sounded like a school song. The truck was reduced to a mere crawl as we tried to navigate the foot traffic.

When we were halfway out of the intersection, a beefy, frat beast came running over and slammed a hammy hand down on the hood of Ryan’s truck. “Woooo!!” he hollered.

“Hey, watch it!” Ryan yelled at them as he rolled the window down.

The guy just careened off the hood and started laughing with his friend.

“Chest bump, brah!” one shouted to my right. His friend ran over and jumped into the air before they crashed their chests together, yelling in unison,

“YEAH!”

I sighed, “Is there any parking?”

“Not for another two blocks,” Ryan said.

“You mean we have to walk back through this mess?”

“Yup.”

The parking lot was a paved square, stuck between two buildings. I wondered how Ryan would ease the truck into a spot but he managed all the same. Then he turned off the engine and looked at me with a smile.

“Ready to brave the stampede?”

“Yes,” I said with a sigh. “Maybe Christopher got lost along the way.”

“If only we were so lucky.”

I laughed as Ryan opened my door and helped me down. Hobos crouched against the walls, watching groups of partiers blocking the street, as well as the entrances of restaurants and bars as they generally made nuisances of themselves. Seeing the sea of people moving along the sidewalk, I started to get vertigo. Ryan latched onto my hand, ready to guide me through, when I spotted Christopher in front of The Old Absinthe House, shouldering his way towards us.

“I have been waiting for some time,” he said in a low, almost dangerous whisper as soon as he got close enough.

“Hey, look, it’s a vampire!” someone from the crowd yelled while pointing at Christopher.

“You didn’t tell us where to park,” I said, before Ryan could get a word in. I was more than aware that any words Ryan had to say to Christopher wouldn’t be of the polite variety.

“We didn’t even invite you. You just showed up,” he said as I sighed and hoped this wouldn’t mark the beginning of a very long and tedious evening.

Christopher crossed his arms and turned away with a humph.

“I don’t usually work under these conditions, Peyton,” he all but spat at me. “I came here as a favor to you, at the behest of Lovie.”

“Well, we do appreciate it,” I started. “And I’m sorry we’re late.”

Christopher nodded and turned back around, leading the way to The Old Absinthe House. Before we walked inside, he stopped me with an outstretched arm while pulling out a silvery bundle of sage leaves from underneath his cloak. He lit the bundle as a few passersby looked on. Then he began waving the smoke down my body.

“We ask for protection, good will, no harm. No harm,” he repeated, swishing the smoke into my face, filling my lungs and bombarding my eyes as I coughed and clenched my eyes shut tight. “No harm. No harm. No harm.”

“Why are you doing that?” Ryan inquired when Christopher stepped back.

Without answering, Christopher took out a vial containing a clear liquid and pulled off the stopper. By this time, the crowd had doubled around us, eager to watch. Ryan’s lips pursed into a straight line. He wasn’t one for crowds in general and now he appeared downright embarrassed.

Christopher flung the contents of the vial, which appeared to be water, at me, while shouting, “All ye spirits of girth and power, those who would mean us harm, get thee behind us. Get thee behind us!” He flung the liquid, which I was fairly sure was Holy Water, at me one more time, covering my face as I blinked back the errant drops. So much for my made up face.

“What’s he doing to her?” someone said from my right.

“No idea,” another person answered.

“Looks to be a lot of hype,” someone else said.

Christopher repeated the same process on a stiffening Ryan, blasting him in the face with smoke, and blowing it into his eyes. When he moved on to the Holy Water, Ryan tensed. He wasn’t happy, clearly, but he knew I wouldn’t appreciate it if he interrupted, so he kept his comments to himself until Christopher was finished.

“Do you mind telling me what all of that was about?” Ryan asked once the crowd had dispersed.

Christopher turned to me. “This establishment is a place of convergence.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means the spirits come here for fellowship and to make trades. Many of them consider it a sacred place, due to their isolated existence.”

“What do they trade?” Ryan asked, appearing completely lost. Not that I blamed him.

Christopher went on, ignoring Ryan. “You’ll need to be careful. There’s no way to be certain what we’ll find inside.”

“What would the spirits trade?” I asked Christopher, growing curious myself.

“Energy, gossip, magic… whatever might be of interest to someone.”

“Are you going to act like I’m not here the entire night?” Ryan asked, frowning as he glared at the smaller man.

“Shall we?” Christopher said, offering me his arm and, yes, ignoring Ryan like he wasn’t there. I hooked mine inside his, and Ryan took the lead, using his massive form to clear a path. It was easy for him. He was huge and imposing, so nobody got in his way.

The Old Absinthe House was a two-story stucco building, sitting on the corner of Bourbon Street and Bienville. It was lit up with arched doorways on both sides. Green shutters lined each side of the doors and the windows. The doors were already swinging open, giving the place a welcoming ambience.

The bar was over two-hundred years old. The shell of the building hadn’t changed over the years, but the stucco had been replaced numerous times, and the windows on the second floor had brand new shutters. They opened out to a wrought iron balcony, similar to the flimsy structures I commonly saw in the French Quarter.

It didn’t look like there was much room inside the bar, but everyone on the outside was moving in the same direction, pushing us towards the doors.

“We’re gonna have to wait at least three hours for a drink!” Ryan shouted over the crowd.

Christopher leaned close to whisper, “He might have to wait, but you, my dear, will be taken care of promptly.”

We stopped at the door, clogging up traffic, and a spirit appeared, dressed in a gray jacket trimmed with red piping and a pair of matching slacks. He was covered in mud, sweat and filth; along with his hat, which reminded me of an archaic baseball cap that he tilted to the side. I was fairly sure only Christopher and I could see him because no one else on the street paid him any mind.

His eyes were glazed and bloodshot, like he was cursed to spend the afterlife intoxicated, and when he spoke his Southern accent was so thick that I could barely make out the words. “Your names?”

If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was a pirate from a Disneyland ride.

Christopher smoothed his jacket and stepped forward. “Medium Peyton Clark and Warlock Christopher Raven Adams,” he started. It wasn’t lost on me that he failed to introduce ‘the mundane’.

From behind me, I heard Ryan ask, “Who is he talking to?”

Christopher cleared his throat and continued addressing the spirit. “And her mundane escort.” He glanced back at Ryan before looking forward again. “Igor.”

I couldn’t help but laugh in surprise because I wasn’t accustomed to Christopher being humorous. Honestly, I didn’t believe he had it in him.

“Funny, Christopher, real funny,” Ryan said as he took a heavy breath.

The Southern ghost didn’t seem to notice Ryan’s discomfort. His attention was focused on me, my neck, my face, and my breasts. He didn’t even bother to mask his interest. Instead, he took me aside, one lip lifting into a lusty snarl.

“She a witch?” he asked Christopher.

“No, a sensitive.”

The man turned towards me, narrowing his eyes, and I got a glimpse of his teeth: yellow and black nubs. “One spell, we march yo’ pretty b’hind right on out. But not before we give it a good smackin’.” His tongue shot out and back in, fast enough to send a shiver through me. At least, Ryan couldn’t see or hear the man because, dead or not, he’d be facing death number two.

Christopher watched all of this with complete neutrality. “I assure you, she is quite incapable of witchcraft.”

“Thanks,” I muttered.

“I’ll announce ‘er,” the Southerner puffed his chest out and stiffened his stance, like a soldier at attention. Y’all betta’ not go nowhere ‘fore I do.”

He stepped inside and vanished in the light.

“What just happened?” Ryan asked from behind me.

I turned to give him a warm smile, thinking it might relax him. “We’re waiting for the announcement.”

“Announcement? What announcement?”

“The announcement that we are here,” I answered with a shrug. Then I turned to face Christopher. “Is he a real pirate?” I whispered, unwilling to explain every little thing to Ryan because I was still taking it all in, myself.

“I wouldn’t use that word in his presence.”

“Is this little visit going to be a dangerous one?” asked Ryan.

Christopher replied to me, not bothering to even glance at Ryan, “Tell him spirits don’t typically attack humans. It takes too much energy.”

“You can address me yourself, you pompous prick,” Ryan grumbled.

Christopher’s sigh was a like a hurricane making landfall.

The ghost hostess appeared at the door again, holding his hat in his hands as a sign of respect. Christopher came scooting closer. “Curtsy,” he whispered before whipping around to confront Ryan. “Bow now or regret it.”

“Regret what?” Ryan stepped closer.

I moved between them. “Ryan, I know it’s a pain in your ass, but can you please just do whatever Christopher tells you to? We don’t know what we’re dealing with so better we lead with the defensive than the offensive, right?”

“Fine,” Ryan said.

Christopher gave me a nod, grabbed his cloak and tugged it away with a swish, just as the pirate cleared his throat to make his announcement.

“Now presentin’ The Esteemed Warlock of New Orleans, Sir Christopher Raven Adams, and, Medium Peyton Clark and escort.”

When I lowered myself into a curtsy, Christopher stepped aside, disappearing into the darkness, and the world seemed to stop. I knew what year it was, and that I was still in the present, but I almost forgot all of that information when I took in my new surroundings. Gone were all the patrons and furniture. The look of the building was much the same but the furniture now was much older and nowhere near as fancy.

My attention was riveted to a spirit I saw casually leaning against the fireplace in the center of the room. His eyes were on mine and he had the expression of someone who was currently summing me up, trying to draw his own conclusions as to whom I was and what I wanted.

Chapter Five

“Ryan, I...”

I turned around, expecting him to be there, but he was gone. So was Christopher.

I was alone, and I didn’t know what to do. Looking around, I realized only I and the spirit across the way, the one who was still staring at me, were in the room. He was wearing a black cape and a conical hat with a feather sticking out the front. He looked a bit like a pilgrim… with an attitude.

Even more unsettling was the way his beady eyes didn’t leave mine for a second. As I prepared to find a table, he was watching. He strangely appeared to be young, maybe in his thirties, yet he had an air about him that led me to believe he was much older than that when he died. His thin, pasty face fell in folds like bread dough, and his mustache was shaved into two thin lines, heavily waxed so both sides sloped down, giving him a permanent frown.

He had a princely air about him, despite his short stature, his casual stance, and one arm resting on the mantel. Beneath his flowing, pirate sleeves were thick arms, strong from all the hard work that his life, no doubt, required.

I was surprised by a cold drop of liquid on my arm. I looked up and found Ryan juggling two pint glasses and a giant pitcher of beer. He nearly tipped the pitcher over when he slammed it down on the table with a huff indicating he had a hell of a time getting here.

I was surprised to see him and the beers but I figured whatever place I was currently occupying, was an intersection where the spirit plane and the mortal plane could cross. That is to say, although I couldn’t see the crowd, I knew it was still there “Well?” Ryan sat down across from me.

“Well, what?”

“Are you going to have a drink with me?”

“Sure,” I said. I glanced over at the spirit and noticed he was still watching me and only me. “Have you seen Christopher?” I asked.

“No,” Ryan answered as he busied himself with filling my glass and then his own. Then he lifted his eyes to mine. “But it’s pretty jam-packed in here so that’s not really a surprise.” I nodded, not in the mood to tell him I couldn’t see anyone other than us and the spirit.

“I’ve been a total prick lately,” he whispered.

“Um,” I started, not ready to get into this conversation at the moment. “You haven’t been a total prick.”

“That’s your response?” Ryan asked as he downed half his glass in three gulps. I hadn’t even sampled mine.

“Well, to be honest, I was wondering if everything is okay with you,” I started. “We’ve been at one another’s throats lately, and usually you aren’t so quick to anger.”

“Yeah,” he started with a nod. “I can’t explain it but my fuse seems to be pretty short lately. Shorter than it usually is.”

“And it seemed to get worse once I got the dog.”

“You shouldn’t have let him in the house,” Ryan said with a curt nod as he shook his head and downed the rest of his beer.

“I really don’t want to talk about this right now, Ryan,” I told him. “I’ve got a job to do here.”

“Yep, I know,” he said as he poured himself another beer. “Tonight was supposed to be fun,” he added.

“Yes, it was. So, can we try to have a good time tonight? All this stuff will still be here tomorrow to discuss, right?”

“I guess so,” Ryan answered but I could tell by his response that he was hurt. I decided it might be best to change the subject.

“There’s a spirit in the back of the room,” I started, immediately getting Ryan’s attention. “He’s been staring at me since we got here.”

“Why is he staring at you?”

“I don’t know, but I feel like maybe I should go talk to him.” I took a breath.

He stared down at his amber beer and took a few more gulps of it. Then he set it down on the table, licking his beer mustache away before facing me again. “You think talking to him is a good idea? I mean, what if he’s a demon or a bad entity or something like that?”

“That’s why I came here, right?” I asked. “To talk to the spirits to find out what they might know about the robberies, the deceased children or the witch with the licorice?”

“That’s why we came here,” Christopher corrected as he appeared beside me. I slid over to allow him space. He remained standing. “But remember some spirits are doomed to act out their malicious intent,” he continued . “And many times misery seeks company.”

“Which is why you shouldn’t talk to him,” Ryan added.

“I think I might have to if I want answers.”

“Whom are you discussing?” Christopher asked as he swept his cloak aside and sat down with great flourish. “Did you see someone worth speaking to?”

I tilted my chin, just enough to turn his attention towards the spirit.

“Oh, ahem,” he cleared his throat as he appeared to immediately recognize the ghost.

“Is he important?” I asked in a low tone.

“Quite so, Peyton, quite so,” Christopher answered with a brief nod. He started to stand, pulling his cape with him. “We shall make introductions.”

“I haven’t finished my beer,” Ryan noted.

Christopher looked at him with reproach. “The mundane stays,” he announced.

Ryan looked at me, and I looked at Christopher. “Why is that?” I asked, frowning. “We could just wait until Ryan finishes his beer.”

Christopher shook his head. “Spirits do not respect those who disrespect them,” he responded with a deadpan expression.

“I guess he has a point,” I said as I looked at Ryan and shrugged.

“It’s not that I disrespect them,” he started.

“It’s just that you’re not entirely convinced you believe in all of this?” I finished for him with a laugh.

“I’ll keep an eye on you from over here,” Ryan said and I nodded as I took Christopher’s hand. We politely made our way through the crowd that suddenly appeared around us as if they’d just popped into existence and filled in as soon as we stood up. I also wondered if the crowd were alive and breathing or composed of ectoplasm. Not that it mattered.

As we approached the spirit, I couldn’t take my eyes away from him and likewise, he continued to watch me. He looked three-dimensional and fleshy. I’d never suspect he was a spirit if not for his strange outfit. I suddenly understood why Catherine had such a problem trying to decipher the living from the dead in this place.

But, back to the spirit… As we approached him, my mind ran amok with questions. What secrets did he know? What had he seen during his time here? Was that bitterness in his expression? Or was it self-importance? Christopher appeared jovial compared to this spirit, and that was saying something.

Before we could come any closer, a man suddenly materialized in front of us, as if he literally sprouted from the floor below. He intentionally blocked our path. He was bald with roaming, steel eyes, wearing a frilly, white, pirate shirt, similar to Christopher’s, only his was yellow and stained from years of filth and grime.

“Whaddya want, huh?”

“I heard the introductions, warlock. Now I’ma ask you again, whaddya want?”

“Ahem.” It was the spirit of the owner, who appeared directly beside his henchman.

I froze, sensing his incredible energy.

“Me apologies, Cap’n,” the bald man said, backing away. “I din’t mean nothin’ by it.”

The bald man disappeared. The spirit of the captain stood in front of us, arms crossed. He had wet strands of shoulder-length black hair that reflected the light. “Peyton Clark, I presume? The woman who harbors spirits inside herself and endows them with second life?” He spoke with a heavy French accent that instantly reminded me of Drake.

My eyes widened in surprise. “How did you know?”

The captain laughed. “There is very little of which I am unaware.”

“Offer your hand,” Christopher whispered to me from the corner of his mouth.

I obeyed his order and the captain immediately clasped it, bending low to plant a cold kiss on the back of it. When he stood up again, he continued to hold my hand and stared at me as though he could see right through me. For all I knew, he could.

“Feel free to release your tongue,” he said with a broad smile. “I can see all the questions brewing in your eyes.”

“Who are you?” I blurted out as Christopher sucked in a breath.

“My name is Captain Jean Lafitte. Have you heard of me?”

My eyes nearly bugged out of my head for the second time in the course of ten minutes. “The Jean Lafitte?” I asked, in unconcealed awe.

The captain chuckled. “Ah! So you have heard of me?”

“Heard of you?” I repeated and Christopher shook his head beside me, no doubt embarrassed by my fangirl moment. “I’ve read all about you!” I finished.

Jean took a step closer to me until we stood eye-to-eye. “And tell me what you have learned.” Then he thought better of it and took my arm. “Non, let us retire beside the fireplace as I enjoy its cheery warmth.”

As we started forward, he shook his head at Christopher. “I prefer the company of the lady, dear sir, alone.”

Christopher appeared to be affronted but there wasn’t much he could say or do. He simply nodded and returned to the table with Ryan, who offered him a glass of beer. Surprisingly, Christopher accepted it.

My attention was fastened on Jean as he led me to a table beside the fireplace. As I glanced around, I noticed the crowd vanished again, including Ryan and Christopher. Now, it was just the pirate captain and me. I sensed Jean was controlling the situation around us, allowing me to see the crowd whenever he chose.

A server was waiting for us when we reached the table—another spirit. She had African American roots and was dressed like Lovie, in a white, ruffled skirt that was stiffly bulbous. Her turban was a rich green, and she wore a brown vest over the flowing white shirt. She looked elegant, and she held herself with a grace and dignity that befitted her. Carrying a platter with two cups of what appeared to be absinthe, a bright green liquid, and a glass of sugar cubes along with a single glass of water and two spoons. Saying nothing, she merely nodded at the captain, and deposited the tray on the table before she disappeared.

“You’re able to drink?” I asked, motioning to the glass I held in my hand as I inspected it. I felt the cold drink inside it and the glass seemed solid and real.

“In the spiritual realm, I can do anything,” Lafitte answered as he gave me a wicked expression and I understood the sexual connotation behind his words. “Now, tell me everything you know of me.”

I took a deep breath and hoped I could remember all the facts I learned about him. As someone who prided herself on the histories of various antiques, both paranormal and not, I thought it was important for me to learn the history of New Orleans, itself. Jean Lafitte was as well-known in New Orleans history as Marie Laveau. “You were a French pirate, pillaging the Gulf of Mexico in the early nineteenth century and the year you were born was 1780. Am I correct?”

“Oui.”

In the early 1800s, you operated a warehouse in New Orleans, the same building we are now standing in, and you used it as a front to distribute smuggled goods with your brother. When the US Navy captured most of your fleet, you collaborated with Andrew Jackson, negotiating pardons for you and your men if you helped him defend New Orleans against the British during the War of 1812.” I took a deep breath.

Lafitte smiled broadly. “Three weeks after that meeting, we easily repelled the British when they advanced up the Mississippi River, thus ending the War of 1812. If Jackson had not recruited my help, who can say how the war would have ended?”

“I think we both know the answer to that question,” I said with a smile as I tried to remember the proper way to drink absinthe. It had to be diluted, hence the glass of water the waitress provided.

I picked up one of the cubes of sugar, placing it in one of the spoons and held it over the glass of absinthe. Next, I picked up an extra spoon, placing it in the water and then dripping the water on top of the sugar cube until the sugar dissolved. I sampled the absinthe and made a sour face.

Lafitte laughed and joined me in partaking, only he did away with the sugar and the water and drank the green liquid straight from the vessel. Clearly, Lafitte was a man’s man, a little ratty with a sly smile. He was also one of the most powerful spirits I’d ever seen, capable of controlling whether or not I saw the crowd around us, able to move objects with little effort, and he had no problem appearing to sensitives like myself.

He intimidated me. And not just because of his abilities, either. He had an intense energy surrounding him that was both pervasive and formidable. As a spirit, he was a challenge to be reckoned with. I could only imagine what he was like in real life.

“Tell me why you have come, Peyton Clark,” he said as he eyed me narrowly.

“I’m concerned about reports I’ve heard regarding paranormal items disappearing at the hands of deceased children. I’ve also come to ask you what you know about a witch in the French Quarter, one throwing snakes into bars.” I took a breath. “I was also told to come here for information.”

Lafitte nodded but then frowned. “I know of no such witch.”

I was shocked and in disbelief. “How could you not know?” I figured Lafitte knew all there was to know in the supernatural world.

Lafitte pushed my glass closer to me, indicating he wanted me to take another sip. He lifted his glass in a toast. I did the same and swallowed another sip. I wondered if I’d ever get used to the taste. It took me a moment to recover, but Lafitte looked unconcerned.

“Are you lying to me?” I asked.

Lafitte shrugged. “There are those who have power over the spirit and the soul. Their secrets must be kept.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about and my confusion showed on my face. “Who has that kind of power?” I asked, shaking my head because I didn’t understand what he meant.

Lafitte studied the table surface as if he were conflicted as to how much he could or would say to me regarding the subject.

I let out a gale-force sigh. “All right, what can you tell me?”

Lafitte met my eyes again. “You’re looking for a different type of smuggler.”

“Maybe a child?” I asked.

“Oui,” Lafitte finished as he then finished his glass.

“Can you tell me the identity of the children?”

“Non.”

“Can you tell me who they work for?”

“Non.”

“Can you tell me if the witch with the licorice wands is somehow involved or related to the robberies?”

“I believe you can answer that question for yourself,” he said as he eyed me knowingly.

“I came here because I can’t answer these questions for myself and I was told you would have the information I’m after.”

“Information is never free, mon chaton,” he said with a knowing smile.

I felt my eyes widen. “Why… why did you just call me that?” I demanded.

“No reason,” he said with a frown and shrug.

“No, there was a reason. That’s… that’s what…” but then I decided I didn’t want to tell Lafitte that Drake called me by the same affectionate term because he obviously already knew. “Is that your way of telling me you do know more than you’re letting on?” I asked as I leaned in closer and glared at him.

“You will make of my words what you choose to.”

“You said information doesn’t come free,” I continued. “Then if I pay you, will you tell me what I need to know?”

“Your money does nothing for me, ma minette,” he said, leaning back into his chair until the front legs were airborne. He laughed and the acidic sound bounced around the inside of the tavern.

“Name your price.”

He came forward, the sound of the chair’s legs hitting the wooden floorboards below. “I want to know what it means to live again,” he whispered.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I said as I leaned away from him.

“Oh, but I think you do, mon cherie,” he continued.

“Don’t parse words,” I said. “Say what you mean.”

He leaned closer and I pulled further back. “I want you to take me into yourself. I wish to live within you the way your French policeman lived within you. I want to taste food again, and drink. I want to witness the world outside and I want to know what it feels like to touch a woman’s body.”

I was quiet as I watched him and he grew quiet as he watched me.

“No deal,” I said. There was no way I would willingly allow another spirit within me again. Drake was one thing—this guy I didn’t trust as far as I could throw him. And, given that he was a ghost, that wasn’t far.

He leaned back into the chair but something about him was off—he suddenly seemed in a hurry maybe, and was no longer nonchalant and flirtatious.

“Then thus ends our evening, Peyton Clark,” he said.

I stared him down and he stared me down right back. “Jean Lafitte, the man responsible for winning the War of 1812 shouldn’t be scared of anyone.”

“Nobody scares me.”

“And yet, you were nervous as soon as I mentioned this witch. You must have information you’re keeping from me because you’re afraid; but what are you afraid of?”

“I know enough to protect what I have left, and I will not risk it unless the payment in return is too good to turn down,” he said, coolly.

“That payment being me willing to allow you to possess my body?” I asked.

He nodded.

“I don’t understand,” I continued. “An incredibly strong ghost like you should be able to possess anyone he wants.”

“Alas, things do not work quite so easily, do they?”

“You tell me.”

“I wish for a different type of domicile,” he answered quietly. I didn’t understand what he meant but I figured there was no point in furthering this conversation because the stakes were too high. I wasn’t willing to give him what he wanted so he wasn’t going to give me what I wanted.

“Then we’re at a stalemate?” I asked.

“I imagine so.” Then he stood up—so abruptly he rocked the table and the Absinthe sloshed out of my glass. “Good evening to you, Peyton Clark,” he said. “If you should change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Before I could respond, he simply disappeared. I blinked once, then twice.

The raucous and loud crowd instantly returned and I found myself sitting alone at a booth at the far end of the room. I turned around and saw Ryan facing Christopher but neither of them were talking. Instead, Ryan caught my attention and immediately stood, coming towards me. I also stood up but the world tilted, forcing me to grip the table to steady myself.

“Are you all right?” Ryan asked, offering me his arm.

I took it and let him help me back to where Christopher was seated.

Flickering patterns in my peripheral vision told me that the room was filled not only with the living, but many of the dead, intermingling with the solid shapes—jeans and petticoats, ballroom dresses and bell bottoms; an intricate backdrop, but not reality.

“So?” Christopher asked.

“So, I met Jean Lafitte, the owner of this place and a famous smuggler and pirate but he wasn’t much help.”

“Sometimes the spirits choose to be difficult,” Christopher said with a sigh.

“I’m ready to go home,” I said to Ryan, more than eager to leave this place and Christopher. My meeting with Lafitte rattled me—not because Lafitte seemed intimidating but rather because he seemed scared. If a big, bad, pirate feared this witch, I sensed I should fear her as well.

***

Twenty minutes later, Ryan and I were seated in his truck with the heater blasting. All my previous concerns were forgotten at the moment. Before pulling onto the packed street, he leaned over, collected me in his arms and kissed me.

“I want to apologize,” he started.

“Shh.”

He dipped his head so his lips were less than an inch from my ear. “I love you.”

It was exactly what I needed to hear. All the nervous trepidation that had been my constant companion over the last few days leaked out of me. At that moment, his words were the most profound I’d ever heard, beautiful in their simplicity.

I found myself examining his face, as I contemplated what it meant to truly love someone—to see them through youth into old age, to turn to them for comfort and happiness. We’d work together to create something, populating our world with tiny humans and together we’d be happy. We’d make something of our lives and ourselves.

His face represented the future, the past and present, everything I wanted. My being cried out in a resounding chorus. Family, stability, everlasting love!

“I want to be alone with you,” he said.

“We are alone,” I whispered back, not fully grasping the meaning of his words.

“I mean really alone with you, without Maggie, without that creepy doll, without the dog, without Angharad and Lovie and definitely without Christopher. I can’t take it anymore, Peyton, I...”

“Let’s go to your house,” I interrupted.

I wanted to be alone with him too.

Chapter Six

I was entirely focused on Ryan, watching the way his arms flexed when he turned the steering wheel. Every few seconds, he’d look over, and say something, but I wasn’t listening to the words. The sound of his voice was enough to get my blood simmering.

The heat between my legs became a burn when he pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine. He opened his door, shut it and ran around to my side. I didn’t waste any time in opening my door and unfastening my seat beat before he pulled me into his arms like I was light as a feather. Then he carried me to his front door, bride-style, while I looped my arms around his strong neck.

All at once, I wanted him like never before. The passion inside me was more than just a burn. I couldn’t have repressed the urge if I wanted to. But I didn’t want to. I needed and wanted him now.

Setting me down on my feet, he simultaneously kissed me as he unlocked his front door. Then I was up in his arms again as he carried me inside, kicking the door closed with his foot. His dogs bounded up to say hello but he ignored them, carrying me up the stairs to his bedroom. He threw open the door with the force of a man on a mission and gently lay me on the bed, before returning to the door and ushering both dogs out. When he locked the door behind him, he was already undressing himself on the short walk back to his bed.

Then he was on top of me, surrounding me with his scent while his lips explored my face, my neck and my cleavage. But, that wasn’t enough. I ached to feel him inside me. Tugging at his belt and then his pants with a fury I hadn’t felt for a long time, I was thrilled when he did the same. He began tearing off my top and bra before his lips and tongue found my nipples. His hands undid the button on my pants and then he lowered the zipper. Before I knew it, I was wearing only my lace panties and a few seconds later, those were also gone!

Spreading my legs apart, in less than one second, I felt his rock hard penis at my opening before he shoved himself deep inside me, burying himself as far as he could, which was unlike him. Usually he was much more careful with me—overly so. I couldn’t help screaming while in the midst of pure rapture. My voice sounded far away to my overwhelmed ears, almost like it wasn’t my voice at all.

Every thrust grew deeper and harder—but they still weren’t enough to satisfy me. My desire was all-consuming, a hungry beast, fueled by the ceaseless need for more. I sensed Ryan was wrestling with the urge burning inside me, soothing it with his lips, his cock, and everything else he had. But still, I craved more.

Give yourself to him, the thought echoed in my mind. He owns you. The two of you will be together forever.

I wanted to give myself to him, body, mind and spirit. To enact a sacred rite, uniting more than just the sum of our parts; two beings beyond corporeal intercourse, truly melding with one another. Feelings and thoughts that seemed so foreign to me but somehow, made sense in the heat of the moment.

“Map mange ou sans sel!” I opened my mouth and the foreign words blurted out, pulled from somewhere deep inside me. They flew out of my mouth like giant raindrops, landing on the concrete. Another language besides my own, yet they were not foreign. I was confused although I understood their meaning at the same time.

I looked up into Ryan’s eyes and found him staring at me. His expression revealed his understanding, like he knew what the words meant too—and they weren’t foreign to him either. I had the distinct impression that my feelings and thoughts were the same as his at the moment. I lost myself in his gaze, looking at one golden flecked iris to the other, going around and around, the whole world spinning.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” he repeated the same foreign words that sounded so familiar. I didn’t bother to ask what the words meant because I knew them already, although I did not know how I knew them.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” I replied. The words rang out as I stared up at Ryan. He was moving inside me with an urgency I never experienced from him before, writhing and twisting, his flesh pounding hard into my flesh.

Draw blood, the thought rang through my head and I clenched my eyes shut as I gripped his broad back and sank my nails into his flesh. I pulled them down and he winced above me before driving into me with renewed ferocity.

I opened my eyes and released him, bringing my fingers to my face as he watched me. My fingers were red with his blood.

Consecrate, I told myself. Touching my forehead with my index finger, I drew a line down to my nose. Then I drew my finger from the left of my forehead, to the right. Ryan watched me with a filthy smile.

That was when I noticed that his eyes were glowing white. I must have been partially aware because I did not notice them prior to that second.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” he said.

Ryan hastened his rhythm, and sweat poured off his forehead as he gripped my thighs with both hands and drove himself deep inside me with a determination I never witnessed in him before. My breath panted at the same sickening pace, and he moved even faster. His thrusts grew more and more aggressive, as if he were trying to reach higher, to penetrate the barrier that prevented him from becoming one with me.

Ryan’s eyes were still glowing white, and blinding in their beauty. Yet, there was something inside me that was shrieking while trying to break the control overtaking me. I began to shake my head as a sense of fear infiltrated my stomach. Ryan seemed to notice because he looked down at me with a stern expression.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” he said, his voice deep and accented. Forceful. The words were a command and my body obeyed them, the fear instantly fading away. He repeated the words again and again, whispering in a voice that no longer belonged to him. As I watched him shoving himself inside me, I could not pry my eyes away. His eyes continued to glow white, but his face began to change its shape, until he did not look like Ryan at all.

At first I didn’t know who he was. His skin turned black as night and his eyes glowed with such intensity that all I could see was a cloud of white light above his nose. Then the whiteness began to fade as the color blanched away from his skin, lessening until his complexion was olive.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” he said again, but this time, he spoke the words as Drake.

At first I was shocked to see Drake above me, let alone, to feel him inside me. But the shock soon gave way to the thrill. Drake looked down at me and smiled. Shoving himself deep inside me, he gripped the sides of my head, forcing me to stare into his glowing white eyes.

“Map mange ou sans sel,” Drake said before he exploded inside me.

“What does that mean?” I demanded.

“I will eat you without salt,” he answered, grinning.

***

Light, my worst enemy, was sent down from heaven purely to torment me. I tried to roll over and cover my eyes, but immediately regretted it. I felt so sore, I could barely move, and as my eyes adjusted to the brightness, I realized I wasn’t in bed at all. No, I was lying on my side in the middle of my… garden?

I braced my hands on either side of me and tried to sit up but fell back as soon as my head clouded and I got dizzy. My throat was raw—like I’d been screaming for the better part of the evening.

What the fuck, I thought to myself as I tried to understand why I woke up in my garden, feeling like I just survived WWIII.

I managed to lift myself into a seated position, but when I rolled onto all fours, my knees buckled. I eyed the rear of my house with a nervous anxiety. I wondered why I was out here and how I ended up in the grass. The only thing for sure was that I needed to get back inside. But, with my body wigging out at the moment, that task proved inordinately difficult.

If I can’t get to the back door by walking, I told myself. I’ll have to crawl.

With unflagging resolve, I shifted myself forward, feeling every muscle as they screamed at me singly. Every inch brought another pang, and it didn’t get better. I had to stop numerous times just to catch my breath and rest.

What the hell is wrong with me? I didn’t know. And having no answer was reason enough to worry.

I could see the dining room window next to the French doors. I hoped I wasn’t hallucinating, but I swear Lizzie was looking out the window, staring at me. I lurched forward and felt like I would puke. My stomach heaved, but nothing came up.

Closing my eyes, I tried to remember. But got nothing—just a big, empty space in my head from when Ryan and I left The Old Absinthe House. Everything after The Old Absinthe House was a blank gap and a mystery.

It made no sense.

Still crawling, but finding it more than difficult, I dragged myself up to the veranda, past the patio table, and to the back door. At that point, all my energy was drained and I feared I was steps away from death. That feeling of complete exhaustion, when your body can’t comply with your brain’s demands.

I glanced up at the doorknob, wondering how I could reach it, since I doubted I could stand. Barely managing to keep myself upright, I opened my mouth and called for Maggie but no sound came out. I collapsed on the patio floor, closed my eyes and drifted away.

***

The voices were soft and garbled, as if they were being spoken through murky water.

“Peyton, ma minette. Dear God, dear God. Non, non, non, non...”

“Wake up!” Maggie’s voice pierced the darkness and brought me back from the comfort of wherever I’d just been.

I blinked as the blaring light assaulted my vision. But that was soon blocked by two heads—one Maggie’s and the other Drake’s. I turned to the side and saw I was lying on something soft, a pillow or a blanket. My body was still too sore to move and I felt like I’d been run over by a Mack truck. Maybe I was?

“She is dying,” Drake said, his voice now clearer than before. His eyes were solemn pools of brown concern. “There is blood all over her face.”

“She’s not dying,” Maggie argued as she reached out and rubbed my forehead. “And I don’t think that blood is hers.”

“Then whose is it?”

“Who knows?” Maggie shrugged. “But as long as it’s someone else’s, we don’t have to worry!”

“Oui, I suppose,” Drake said as he brought his hand to his forehead and shook his head. “She must have medical care soon before her condition grows worse.”

“Um, I think… I think she’s just got a really bad hangover.”

“Non, I have never seen a hangover such as this!” Drake countered, shaking his head more vigorously. “There is much more going on, and you are too young and naive to judge the situation properly.”

“What? Too young, huh? I found a banishing spell in the storage room, and so help me God...”

“STOP!” he yelled.

I almost gasped in my throat. Drake never yelled before.

“She is badly hurt and in need of medical attention, and neither you, nor le barbare, nor the witches—nor anyone else can stop me from getting her the help she so badly requires!”

Le barbare… Ryan.

Where was he? Last I remembered, we were… where were we? At The Old Absinthe House. Then we left in his truck and went… God, where did we go? I was fairly sure we drove to his house but I couldn’t remember now.

So, where was Ryan now?

“Ryan,” I whispered but no one heard me.

“I think you need to calm down, Drake. We must be rational so we can figure out what to do,” Maggie explained. “I’m pretty sure this is just a mean hangover because I can smell the alcohol on her breath and we both know she spent last evening at that bar with Ryan.”

“You are clouding my judgment with your incessant, inane comments!” he railed at her as she frowned her reply. “You must sit down and shut your mouth, so I may determine what is going on here before I turn into a poltergeist.”

“Hmmph.”

“You think I won’t throw that lamp at you? One more word, l’ enfant.”

“Sorry,” Maggie said, “Geez, you’re so dramatic.”

But Drake’s attention was no longer on her. He stared intently at me. “Ma minette, I need to know everything that happened. Can you hear me?”

Something cold pressed against my skin—icy and merciless. Drake was looking down at me with unconcealed fear in his expression. Maggie dabbed my face with a cold washrag. When she pulled the washrag away, it was tinged with red.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I... don’t,” I started.

“I can’t hear you, ma minette. You need to speak louder.”

I doubted I could. My throat was so dry, it felt like sandpaper inside my windpipe.

“I do—I don’t know... wha... wha... happened...”

“I think this is the result of street drugs,” Maggie said, inhaling deeply. “Maybe she got roofied at the bar or something?”

“Roofied?” Drake repeated in bewilderment, clearly not understanding the term.

“What did you take?” Maggie demanded. “Did someone give you something, Peyton? Where was Ryan last night? Where is he now?”

My heart dropped at hearing they did not know where Ryan was either. “Don’t know,” I choked out.

I also didn’t know why I blacked out and awoke in the garden. But Drake and Maggie were relentless. They fired question after question at me that I couldn’t answer. Everything from where we went after we left The Old Absinthe House to whether or not Ryan could be responsible for my waking up in the garden. I was sure I could not blame Ryan for my current dilemma, which triggered another concern.

Where could Ryan possibly be? Did something happen to him? Was he okay?

I tried to open my mouth to ask someone until I got dizzy again and the darkness encroached on my peripheral vision. Strangely to me, I welcomed the darkness. It was so enticing and simple. I felt as if I belonged with it, in a place where nothing existed—no thoughts, no voices—just sweet darkness and eternal slumber.

Mon chaton, Drake said, his words cutting straight through my blissful thoughts.

I looked up at him and fought to sit up. Maggie assisted me. Once I was upright, I saw I was on the couch in the living room with a blanket thrown over my body. Drake was hovering around in nervous circles a few feet away, and I found it irritating. I didn’t have the energy to deal with him right now, or anyone else. I was simply too tired.

This is not a hangover. You are afflicted with something else, Drake told me in thought.

I agree, I responded, unsettled by my own words. Then I faced Maggie. “Ryan?” I started to ask.

“I tried to call him like a million times since we found you on the porch but he’s not picking up his phone,” Maggie answered.

At the sound of scratching, I turned my head and saw Daschel running into the room with a sense of purpose. He headed straight for me and sat down by the couch, placing his head on the couch beside me. There was something about the way he whined, which indicated I was in a very bad way.

“Call… Lovie,” I whispered.

Maggie nodded and put the phone to her ear, disappearing down the hall.

Chapter Seven

“Did you… reach out… to Christopher?” I asked as I sat at the kitchen table with Daschel at my feet. A fretful Drake was hovering back and forth at my side. Maggie stood in front of the sink, filling a tea kettle with water. She turned off the faucet and set it on the stove.

“Why should we call him?” Drake asked as Maggie searched through the cabinet.

Drake was still eager to hear the rest of the story, being unsatisfied with my explanation. But all I could remember was going to the bar and waking up in the backyard.

“Christopher… was with… us,” I answered, finding it slightly less difficult to speak even though my throat still felt raw. My exhaustion nearly made me fall asleep at the table twice. The only reason I was still upright was because of Maggie. She thought if I drank some tea and tried to eat something, I might feel better.

“Maybe Christopher might know something,” Maggie filled in as I nodded. “I can call him if you want,” she said before turning to look at me. “Obviously I don’t have his number since I don’t even know who he is.”

“Right,” I said, wondering if I had Christopher’s number in my phone. Usually I reached him through Lovie more often than not, although I mostly tried to avoid him. “Do you have… my phone?” I asked. I wanted to try Ryan again. He wasn’t picking up Maggie’s calls but I hoped he’d pick up mine.

“I don’t and I haven’t seen it or your purse,” she answered as she reached into the cupboard above the stove, where my tea collection filled the shelves. Near the bottom was a lavender box with a sunny chamomile flower on the front. She reached for it before taking the steaming kettle off the flame and pouring me a cup of tea. “It might be in the backyard. I will check in a sec.”

“Non, l’ enfant, you are not going out there, and neither is Peyton. It is not safe.”

“Will you tell him to stop calling me that please?” Maggie asked as she faced me. “It’s really annoying.”

“Drake,” I said.

Drake grumbled something I couldn’t understand and I raised my eyebrows at him to which he nodded grumpily.

Daschel stood up, his side pressing against my leg before releasing a resounding bark. He barked again, and I was forced to cover my ears. Loud noises were a painful problem; the same with light. The clang of the doorbell reverberating through the house was enough to make me wish I could die.

“I’ll get it!” Maggie yelled as she handed me the tea and walked out to answer the door. Daschel followed, barking the whole way. When the dog left my side, I felt more winded than before. I had to put the cup of tea down on the table as I fought to catch my breath. I heard the sound of the door opening, and Daschel went wild, growling and almost howling.

“Get!” Angharad yelled, “Get away!”

“Maggie, get… the dog!” I called out.

There was a shrill howl and quite a bit of shuffling and growling. Every sound scraped against my eardrums. Some were deafening and my head pounded like a kid with his first drum set.

Angharad and Lovie appeared in the kitchen and I could hear Daschel continuing to bark as Maggie tried to soothe him in the other room.

“Peyton,” Lovie said as she rushed over to me, her arms outstretched. Hugs were little comfort, though. I still felt like shit.

“Thanks… for coming,” I said.

“Of course!” Lovie sang back to me.

“She was out on the patio when we found her,” Maggie explained to Angharad and Lovie. “And there was blood on her face. At least, I think it was blood because it was red. It looked like someone drew a cross on her forehead.”

“Hmm,” Lovie said as she brought her hand to her chin and studied me.

“Black magic,” Angharad said, sucking in a breath and shaking her head.

“Will… you check on… Ryan? Can’t… reach him.”

“Yes, we will,” Lovie said as she put her hand on my shoulder. “Just as soon as we figure out what’s goin’ on with you.”

Angharad walked with a limp, and her feet clunked over the wooden floor, beating in time with my heart. She picked up my mug and sniffed it.

“What’s this?”

“Chamomile tea,” Maggie said as she appeared in the doorway. I could hear Daschel scratching the door to her bedroom before barking to be let out.

“Disgusting!” Angharad threw the hot liquid into the sink as she faced Maggie. “And keep that mongrel away from me! Where did he come from anyway?”

Maggie shrugged, her eyes wide. “He just showed up one day so we adopted him.”

“Ma minette was drinking that tea,” Drake muttered as Angharad glared at him.

“And it won’t do a damn thing for her,” she said as she pushed past Maggie to get to the stove. She produced a packet of herbs from a large messenger-style bag she wore and added them to the mug before lighting one of the stove burners by pointing at it. The kettle on top began to whistle almost immediately and Angharad lifted it, pouring the boiling water over the mixture. She allowed the mixture to steep for a minute or two before she turned around and handed it to me. It looked like grass cuttings from her lawn that she dumped into my cup. And it smelled… weird.

“What… is this?” I asked.

“It will help you talk. You sound like you’ve been munching on broken glass.”

I nodded because that’s exactly what my throat felt like. I swigged the concoction down in a few gulps. It scalded my tongue, and left a bitter aftertaste. But, within seconds, I could lift my head and keep my eyes open without trying so hard. And my throat wasn’t burning quite as much.

Lovie sat next to me and took my hand as she stared into my eyes as if she could read my inner self. At the touch of her soft, papery skin, the tension begin to drain from me. Her presence was calming, but I knew something was very wrong with me. I was still weak, and the pain was starting to come back.

“I don’t know what they did to ya,” Lovie said, “but you’re under the protection of a powerful witch an’ voodoo priestess now. You’re gonna be okay, Peyton.”

“What happened?” Angharad asked. Her voice was too loud. It hurt my ears.

“Ryan and I… went to The… Old Absinthe House with… Christopher,” I started and little by little my voice regained its usual cadence, minus the broken glass.

“Who is Christopher anyway?” Maggie asked.

“He’s my friend, dear,” Lovie answered. “An’ he’s a warlock. Once he found out Peyton was headed for The Old Absinthe House, he decided to tag along to keep her safe.”

I wasn’t sure if keeping me safe were the real reason why Christopher tagged along and I had a feeling when I received his bill, I’d be in for an unpleasant surprise.

“When… we got to the bar, I met… and spoke with the owner, Jean Lafitte,” I continued.

Lovie sat back at hearing this information, nodding as if she knew something I didn’t. “Lafitte…” she said with an audible sigh.

“Jean Lafitte?!” Drake asked, sounding awed. “The Jean Lafitte?”

“What’s all the fuss about him?” Maggie asked.

Angharad said nothing, I noticed.

“He’s the most famous pirate in New Orleans history,” Drake responded. “And he happens to be French!”

“Lafitte is no spirit I would choose to associate with,” Lovie interrupted Drake as she turned to face me again. “In fact—Christopher could have warned you of Lafitte’s reputation.”

“Christopher wasn’t… much help,” I said with a shrug. “And, besides, Lafitte… wasn’t so bad. Unfortunately though, he offered… nothing I could use.” I took a breath. “But I’m pretty sure he knows… a lot more than… he indicated.”

“Did ya take anythin’ from him?” Lovie asked with a concerned expression.

“Take anything… from him?” I repeated, feeling more confused.

“Did he give ya anything that you accepted?”

“Does alcohol count?”

“Uh-oh,” Maggie said at the same time that Lovie frowned and inhaled deeply.

“What type of alcohol did he give ya an’ did ya drink it?” she asked.

“Absinthe,” I answered. “And, yes, I did.”

“Uh-oh,” Maggie said again, this time in a deeper tone.

“Okay,” Lovie started, “Maggie, please call Christopher. You’ll find his information in my contacts,” she said as she handed Maggie her phone. “Tell ‘em I told ya to call. I want to make sure he’s safe. You,” she pointed at me, “what were ya thinkin’, by acceptin’ somethin’ Lafitte offered you?”

“Well, I,” I started to defend myself, somewhat surprised at her annoyed tone. “I didn’t know… not to.”

“Did Christopher drink it too?” Lovie continued.

“Well, no, but that was only because Lafitte didn’t invite him to the table with us.”

“Stupid, stupid,” she said as she shook her head. Then she looked up at me with a pronounced sigh. “Have ya never heard o’ wormwood, Peyton?”

“It’s an ingredient in absinthe,” I answered.

Lovie nodded. “An’ more importantly, it can be charged with whatever purpose ya want to give to it. There’s no tellin’ what Lafitte did to it—an’ who served it to ya? Lafitte, himself?”

“Well, no,” I answered. “A spirit served us.”

“A spirit?” she repeated. “What did the spirit look like?”

“She was dressed… kind of like you.”

“Was she Creole, then?” Lovie asked.

“Um… I mean… I guess so? Probably?” I answered.

Lovie shook her head again and it seemed the situation only got worse. “How old was the spirit?”

“Um,” I rested a hand on my forehead, and let it slide through my hair as I struggled to sift through the images in my mind. There were so many and most made little sense to me. But, then I remembered the waitress and what stood out the most: her turban, which was properly called a tignon. African-American, Creole women were once required to wear them in New Orleans because their skin was so pale, they passed for white people.

“The early to… mid-1800s, I think. I couldn’t… tell for certain.”

That seemed to frustrate Lovie even more. She stood up and rested a hand on the side of the table, looking down at me. “I’m Creole,” Lovie said. “My mother an’ her mother were Creole, an’ so was my great-grandmother. We’re part of a long lineage that can be traced directly back to the Ivory Coast—where the voodoo all began.”

“Wow,” Maggie said. Then she added: “By the way, Christopher is fine.” She looked at me. “Not very polite though.”

I just nodded.

“Good, thank you, Maggie,” Lovie said as she faced me again. “Female voodoo practitioners during that time were called priestesses an’ queens. They were worshipped in public rituals by the thousands. These voodoo priestesses were leaders in their community, an’ powerful enough that they didn’t have to lie about who they were. Their strong magic was legendary… an’ you took absinthe from one o’ them—an’ God help me!”

The conversation then shifted to learning what actually occurred after I came back from the bar. Maggie led Lovie out into the garden so Lovie could inspect the spot where I woke up. I asked Maggie to look for my phone and purse while she was out there and she consented. That left me alone in the kitchen with Angharad and Drake.

The old witch produced a magnifying glass and measuring tape before instructing me to stand. She had to examine me for any signs of enchantments. How the magnifying glass and measuring tape could detect any enchantments was beyond me, but I did as I was instructed, all the same. Drake watched, directing her to study different areas of my body. Angharad completely ignored him until she tried to lift my shirt, and he squeezed himself between us.

“Vieille, I hardly think that’s necessary.”

“Don’t you call me old woman, ghosty,” she said, swatting him away like a fly. “I’ll hex you right into the next dimension, you get in my way again. You got that?”

He jumped back, and I gave her a sharp glare.

“He’s only trying to protect me.”

“Well, he’s a damn nuisance,” she said as the magnifying glass and measuring tape flowed up her long sleeves and lost themselves in the folds of her many shawls. “If I were you, I would’ve banished him the moment I sensed him.”

“Well!” Drake said, obviously affronted.

“It’s okay, Drake,” I crooned with a smile before turning to face Angharad again.

“Drake stays,” I told her and Angharad just shook her head, frowning.

“Your heart is too big, and it’ll be trampled someday. That’s the first lesson I learned in life.”

I didn’t want her to expound so I didn’t respond. Luckily, her attention shifted to her bag as she began sifting through it. She produced a few objects, which she placed on the table. Maggie and Lovie returned from the garden a few minutes later. Meanwhile, Angharad pulled a folded, white cloth out of her bag. She unfolded it to reveal a pair of red candles. The candles were shaped like serpents. In her other hand, she held a small, aged bottle of rum and a thick cigar. She immediately lit the cigar with just a stare and it started stinking up my whole kitchen. Maggie grabbed her nose while Daschel whined from the other room and I started breathing through my mouth. The only one who didn’t seem bothered was Drake.

“Ah, I have not smelled that scent in much too long,” he said as he eyed the cigar wistfully.

“Lucky for you,” I grumbled.

“What are you going to do with all that stuff?” Maggie asked.

“These candles will show me who enchanted Peyton,” Angharad answered. With that, she strode out of the house. I had to admit, it was a relief to have her, er the cigar, gone. But, when she came back, her expression was hard to read. She pulled Lovie aside and the two spoke in whispers for a few seconds.

When they broke away, Lovie was taking deep breaths. Her blank stare worried me.

“What, Lovie?” I asked.

She shook her head. “The candles revealed to Angharad Damballah, the Loa of the spirit.”

“Non,” Drake said, flustered by her announcement.

I even saw a flash of understanding on Maggie’s face. I, of course, had no clue what they were talking about.

“Damball who?”

“Damballah,” Maggie corrected me.

My gaze was locked on Lovie. “What does he do?” I asked, dreading her answer. The Loa were powerful voodoo spirits, capable of both good and evil. They were known for their mischievous, unpredictable natures, which I already witnessed in my experiences with Baron Samedi.

“Damballah is one of the most important of all the Loa in the Haitian an’ Louisiana voodoo traditions,” Lovie explained. “He is believed to be the creator of all life. He controls the mind, the intellect, an’ the balance o’ the cosmos.”

“And it’s said that if you summon him, you can wield power over the body, soul and spirit of someone else,” Angharad added.

“Wait, that means someone must have summoned him in order to wield control over me?” I asked, needing to be sure I understood.

Maggie nodded. “From what I read in one of my voodoo books, summoning Damballah is a way to make another person do anything you want them to.”

Images of the coffin on the bed, the woman with the veil, the wailing cries of a grieving widow, amplified by a microphone, and the snakes flashed in my mind. All of them gave me a headache. I took the last sip of Angharad’s tea, hoping it would help. It didn’t.

“Could the summoner make someone die?” I asked.

Lovie cocked her head to the side before she nodded. “’Spose so.”

With weakened arms, I pushed my chair back and blinked twice before taking a breath. “I’ve been having bad dreams,” I started as I glanced at Lovie.

“What kind o’ bad dreams?” she asked.

“I see a coffin and a woman with a veil smoking a cigar. In the dream, she tells me I’m going to die.”

Lovie shook her head with a knowing expression on her face. “Prophecy an’ dreams aren’t set in stone, Peyton. The future can be changed.”

I didn’t share her confidence but I didn’t say anymore about it.

“We don’t know what the woman in your dreams is, Peyton,” Lovie continued, apparently trying to make me feel better. “She could simply be a character, for all we know.”

“I’m sure she wasn’t,” I answered.

“If she came from a true vision, ya don’t know if ya can trust her words,” Lovie continued. “She could just be attemptin’ to scare you, just playin’ with your head,” she finished.

“And we still don’t know who is attempting to control you,” Angharad answered.

All of a sudden, more memories infiltrated my tired mind. Waking up with mud on my feet, standing on my balcony in the middle of the night and wanting to throw myself off, waking up in my garden for no apparent reason. I told all of them to Lovie and Angharad. Lovie’s expression of concern deepened.

“Do you think someone is trying to turn Peyton into a… zombi?” Maggie asked, frowning and whispering the word as she said it.

“A zombie?” I repeated, shaking my head as one of The Walking Dead appeared in my mind like a scary clown. “What are you talking about?”

“Just a second,” Maggie said as she turned on her heel. “I’m gonna get my book. Be right back.”

I had no idea what book she meant but I was so caught up in the possibility I could be a zombie that I didn’t really notice.

“Let’s assume someone has been trying to control you by summoning Damballah,” Lovie started, “that would make you a zombi.”

A rush of cold air spun around the table—Drake. He knocked over my mug, and I caught sight of his face—he was petrified. “NON!”

Just then, Maggie returned, holding a hardbound book in her hands. The title mentioned voodoo. It was open to the middle and Maggie was busily scanning the page, searching for something. She turned a few more pages before she began nodding.

“Found it,” she said. “The process of zombification begins when a powerful voodoo priest or witch selects a victim and gives them zombi powder. This powder can be made from various ingredients such as: pufferfish, marine toads, hyla tree frogs, and human remains.”

“The pufferfish is the only ingredient worth a damn,” Angharad interrupted. “It produces tetrodotoxin.”

“What’s that?” I asked, when it became clear Angharad wouldn’t explain.

She shrugged. “A toxin that creates paralysis and the appearance of death. There have been documented cases where people who have ingested tetrodotoxin appeared dead, but later recovered. But only after the voodoo priest who cursed them was killed, of course.

Maggie continued reading. “The zombi powder can be ingested or injected into the victim. Once the powder takes effect, the victim enters a state of death-like paralysis in which they are still conscious. But, to outsiders, they appear dead.”

“Well, no one… has given me… any powder,” I started.

Lovie shook her head. “Ya wouldn’t be aware of it.” Then she faced Maggie. “Continue please.”

Maggie nodded. “Once the body appears dead, it must be buried and dug up within eight hours of the burial. At this point, the zombi ritual begins. The witch or priest starts by capturing the soul of the victim, i.e., placing the body under his control. He then keeps the soul in a small clay jar. A day or two later, the witch revives the zombi using an hallucinogenic concoction. This concoction is periodically administered to keep the victim in a state of submissive confusion.”

A sickening feeling lodged in the pit of my stomach. “That’s how I feel,” I muttered.

Maggie continued. “The witch can easily control the zombi, and usually puts them to work. Only when the witch dies can the zombi return to its former self.”

I inhaled deeply. “It sounds… like a story you’d… read about in… a horror book.”

“It’s no story,” Lovie said with a deep sigh. “Have ya ever heard o’ Clairvius Narcisse?”

“No,” I answered as Maggie and Drake shook their heads.

“In 1980 in Haiti, a man approached a woman, claimin’ to be her brother. And the man looked just like her brother. The strange thing was that her brother died an’ she buried him in 1962. The man claimed he was resurrected by a witch doctor an’ said he was enslaved on a sugar plantation for eighteen years. His name was Clairvius Narcisse.”

“And this was documented?” I asked.

Lovie nodded. “Prior to his death, Clairvius checked into the hospital, complainin’ of body aches, exhaustion an’ fever. His condition rapidly deteriorated an’ within a few days, he was pronounced dead. When he reappeared later, he said he remembered everything, includin’ the doctors pullin’ the sheet over his face. But, he wasn’t dead. Just paralyzed. He was still awake as he was bein’ nailed into his coffin an’ buried.”

“Oh, my God,” Maggie said, dropping open her mouth in horror.

“Clairvius’s identity was confirmed by his family an’ he could answer questions that only he would know,” Lovie continued.

“How was he freed?” Drake asked.

“After the witch doctor who turned him into a zombi died, he was released,” Lovie finished.

“Allegedly, if you feed a zombi a special form of salt, it will restore them to their original selves,” Angharad added.

“Then feed me some salt,” I said as I faced her imploringly. No, I wasn’t convinced that I was a zombi, but a lot of Maggie and Lovie’s descriptions hit close enough to home that I couldn’t rule the option out.

“Once ya take the salt, ya immediately have to kill the voodoo practitioner who placed ya under the curse,” Lovie answered. “And we still have no idea who did this to ya, so that’s not a possibility.”

“We don’t even know if that’s what’s wrong with you, for sure,” Angharad added.

“Right,” I said, but the expression on Lovie’s face told me she was pretty well convinced. I was quiet as I considered it. “Then the mud I found on my feet more than once,” I started.

“Coulda been because of ya bein’ exhumed from the grave after ya ingested or were injected with the zombi powder,” Lovie answered.

“And the fact… I feel the way Clairvius described,” I started, swallowing hard. “My muscles ache and this… exhaustion is like…nothing I ever experienced… before.”

Lovie nodded. “It could be that you’re goin’ through the final stages?”

“Which are what?” I asked. “Death?”

“The zombi will die only if its master chooses,” Angharad answered. “And I don’t see why anyone would go to the trouble of turning you into their slave, only to kill you immediately afterwards.”

“Then why do I feel this way?”

“Because o’ whatever Lafitte gave ya,” Lovie answered but Angharad shook her head.

“I don’t believe that’s it,” she said. “Lafitte had tricks up his sleeves, no doubt, but the zombification process is a lengthy one and you mentioned waking up with muddy feet long before you were introduced to Lafitte.”

“Right,” I said.

Angharad nodded. “I think this sickness you’re experiencing is simply the final stage of the ritual. I believe it’s the final step in turning you into a zombi.”

“Then you believe that’s what happened to me?” I asked Angharad.

She nodded at the same time Lovie did. “It seems the most likely explanation,” Angharad answered.

Perhaps it was the realization that I could be playing zombi to someone, but all of a sudden, I was taxed beyond exhaustion. I could no longer hold my head up. I started to slump in my chair and Lovie’s voice came from far away when she spoke.

“Help her up. All we can do now is make her comfortable.” Two arms reached under my shoulders, dragging me out of my chair.

“Should we take her to the hospital?” Maggie asked.

“No hospital can help her,” Angharad answered.

“Only we can,” Lovie agreed.

I was moved across the floor, my feet dragging as my head bobbed up and down.

Zombi…

The word danced in my head and I wondered if I’d become no more than a pawn of some great Loa, doomed to live as a subservient creature and forced to follow the whims of someone else…

Chapter Eight

I’ve experienced prolonged moments of pain in my life. I broke my leg in high school, and I’ve had countless mishaps, which ended up with stitches. I’ve even had migraines that made me wish the end were near.

Nothing compared to the way I felt when I woke up. It wasn’t the light or the sound that nearly caused me to rip my hair out; it was simply existing. The knowledge that I was being controlled by someone else—and that my will was no longer my own gnawed at me.

I opened my eyes and wished I hadn’t. I was encased in darkness and the pressure behind my eyelids thrummed down my face and invaded the rest of my body.

I went to sit up and bashed my head on something. At the same time, I was overtaken by a sickening wave of nausea. I brought my hands up to touch whatever surrounded me. All I could feel was a soft fabric. Velvet maybe? My elbows brushed against it, making goosebumps rise on my skin as I perceived the cold material. It enveloped me, and I lay flat on my back, pointing my feet downwards.

It was then that I realized what I was encased in: a coffin.

The lid opened and I sat up. Now, I was back in the hotel room at the Place D’Armes. Less than five feet away from me was the veiled woman, a cigar illuminating the embroidery in the dark veil shielding her face. There was a stand with an attached microphone in front of her. I blinked to clear my vision, trying to understand where I was and how I got there. The woman looked over at me and released a cloud of smoke through her lips.

I noticed with irritation that I could not make out her features. They were always obscured by something—the cigar smoke, the veil…

When she opened her mouth, a loud wail issued forth. The sound careened through my head, banging inside my brain. I fought against the exhaustion that overtook my physical body and struggled to bring myself out of the vision.

I had to open my eyes.

For four whole seconds, I was forced to withstand the woman’s banshee cry, fearing my head would explode before I could leave the vision.

With a sharp, breathless gasp, I started searching the room—my room. My eyes caught the familiar headboard, and I lay back, my breath panting. Something swept across me, a gray veil of drowsiness. It drained my strength and left me so tired, I could barely breathe.

Then I saw the image of Lizzie, the doll. She began to push through the blackness. I could see her sitting on the couch in my living room and she smiled at me. I could hear her voice in my head, telling me everything would be okay.

Something scratched at the door, pounding on the frame, then came a dog bark.

Daschel.

I heard feet stamping and Maggie’s voice. “Do you think she’s awake?”

I blinked and found myself lying face down on my bed with my arms sprawled out, one hand hanging over the edge of the bed. A rush of cold pressed against my cheeks.

“Oui. I believe she is asleep.”

Drake.

I wanted to tell him I wasn’t asleep and that I could hear him but my mouth couldn’t form any words and my body couldn’t move.

“Ma minette, be brave for me,” he whispered into my ear. “I will see your health restored to you.” He paused and then whispered. “Je t’aime.” I love you.

And I loved him.

I let that thought fill me, feeling the truth of it all the way down to my toes.

And then my thoughts were filled with another face… Ryan’s.

Just like that, something snapped inside me and my body loosened. I opened my mouth and managed to groan out a word.

“Ryan...” I said.

“We are still looking for him, Peyton,” Maggie answered. “But don’t worry about him. He’s just fine, I’m sure. You need to worry about yourself!”

The dog ran towards me and started licking my face as I ran my hand through his satiny fur.

“Come on, Daschel,” Maggie said, rushing up to grab the dog’s collar.

When Daschel started howling, I forced myself to sit up to see what the matter was. He was struggling against Maggie and putting up a good fight by my observation. He kept twisting around, trying to wrench her hand away from his collar.

“Maggie, if he’s going to bark, just let him go. I can’t deal with the noise.”

Drake drifted to the foot of the bed as Maggie released the dog, and Daschel threw himself forward with the momentum of a cannon ball. He jumped up on the bed, but in my tired state, it felt like being struck by lightning.

The second his paws landed on my chest and stomach, his tongue darted out and my nose was drenched in smelly, canine saliva. He rolled onto his back, whined, and lifted his paws. “Warf!”

He wanted me to rub his stomach. I didn’t think I had the energy, but every pass across his fur was a little more rewarding than the next. The pain melted off my body, and my eyes fully opened as I felt my energy returning.

“I know this is going to… sound weird,” I started as I looked down at the dog. “But, petting Daschel is making me… feel better.”

“Ma minette, this is not by accident,” Drake said as he watched the scene unfolding before him.

“I think you’re right,” I answered as I glanced down at the dog and he stared up at me. It almost looked as if he were smiling?

“What does that mean?” Maggie asked.

“I don’t know,” I answered.

“It means there is a reason the canine is here,” Drake answered. “And I believe he possesses some magic.”

I continued to look at Daschel, and he stared back at me. “Are you here on purpose?” I asked. Daschel nodded his head up and down, keeping his eyes locked on mine. I looked up to see Drake drifting closer, watching him. Daschel began looking at Drake, and then at Maggie. He growled when Maggie stuck her tongue out at him.

“Ma minette, keep this dog with you at all times,” Drake said as he studied the dog who studied him right back with a pleased expression on his furry face.

Daschel looked at me and nodded again.

“Will you protect her?” Drake asked.

Another nod. I wasn’t sure how it could be possible, but I was pretty sure the dog understood all of our words. And not only that, he was responding with the correct answers.

“Chien.” Drake let his icy fingers wriggle across Daschel’s stomach, causing Daschel to roll over and crawl to the foot of the bed. His fur dragged against my calf as he did.

“Has anyone… reached Ryan?” I asked. Thoughts of Ryan were never far from my mind and I longed to know if he were okay.

Maggie shook her head. “Lovie and I have called him repeatedly and we’ve been to his house a few times but still nothing.”

My heart dropped and the urgency to find out if he were okay became, almost suffocating. Obviously I couldn’t walk to his house, so the next best thing…

“And what about my phone?” I asked Maggie.

She shrugged. “I couldn’t find it. I’ve called it a bunch of times but it’s nowhere near here or, if it is, we can’t hear it.”

“Or it’s set on silent,” I said.

“Or that,” Maggie nodded.

“Where’s Lovie?” I asked.

“She’s outside on the veranda, waiting for you to wake up,” Maggie said.

I nodded and started to get up, but Maggie and Drake were instantly in my business.

“Is that a good idea?” Maggie asked.

I noticed Dashchel was right next to me and I reached down to pet him, feeling instantly better. “I think I’m strong enough,” I said. “And I’m not going to relax until I know Ryan’s okay.”

Drake grumbled something beside me but I couldn’t understand his words. With Maggie on one side, Daschel on the other, and Drake behind me, I made my way through the few rooms that separated me from the garden.

Lovie was seated there, hunched over a book that she held in her lap. Three tarot cards were laid out in a row in front of her.

I recognized the deck. On the back, the cards were embossed with a ring of baby blue pentacles. On the other side, the artist used images from famous oil paintings to create traditional tarot imagery. Normally, I would have considered such a scrapbook design commercial and inauthentic; but this deck was crafted with meticulous care. It looked as though a Renaissance master had actually painted the story of the tarot, rather than taking bits and pieces from different works.

“Hi,” I said.

“Honey,” she responded as she turned to face us with a beaming smile.

“Maggie said you went to Ryan’s, but he wasn’t there,” I started.

She nodded. “We’ve been there a couple o’ times but there’s no answer when we knock on the door.”

“And his truck?” I started.

“Parked in the driveway,” Lovie answered.

“Maybe we should call the police and file a missing person’s report?” I asked.

“Give ‘im a little more time, Peyton,” Lovie said.

“But who knows what happened to him!” I started, my nerves getting the best of me.

Lovie looked at me pointedly. “If somethin’ happened to Ryan, the police can’t do a damned thing about it. You’re better relyin’ on Angharad an’ myself an’ ya need to believe me when I tell ya we’re workin’ on it.”

I nodded because she was correct. If black magic were involved, the police would be useless. I just had to be patient and hopefully, Ryan would show up on my doorstep any minute, like he always did.

I went to sit with Lovie and took a second to admire the cards. The first one on her left, which signified the past, was a man sitting on a throne. He was holding a cup. The card in the center represented the present. It was a man on a horse with a yellow sky behind him. The last card shook me: death. Mounted on a skeletal steed and waving a black flag. That card represented the future.

“Please tell me… those cards… have nothing to… do with me.”

Lovie looked up and smiled. “How ya feelin’?”

“Better actually,” I answered as I reached down to stroke the dog. “And I think this dog has everything to do with it.”

Lovie looked at Daschel who was busily wagging his tail. “Yeah, I thought I picked up certain… energy from ‘em. He’s a healin’ spirit.”

I didn’t know what that meant but I didn’t ask. I was more interested in the cards at the moment. “So,” I started.

“Yeah, it’s a spread representin’ you, Peyton,” Lovie answered as she returned her attention to the cards before her.

“The Death card?” I asked.

Lovie looked up from her reading. “It’s not really death, not usually. It would have to be accompanied by something else.”

“It sounds like Death, and it feels like Death,” I said, referring to my physical state. “I think it’s best to just accept it is Death.”

“If that’s how ya feel, then the stakes are your life,” she said, sweeping the cards up.

“Wait, just like that?” I asked, surprised.

Lovie went on to explain. “Readings are limited to seventy-eight symbols—twice that if ya read cards upside down, but all those clues are still just clues. An’ that’s all Tarot offers the reader—clues. Sometimes to decode the message, ya gotta turn to the person you’re readin’.”

“Can the prophecy be changed?” I asked.

Daschel was resting against my calf. Lovie patted him on the head and looked up at me. “It can.”

“How do you know it can?”

Lovie let her finger trail down behind Daschel’s ear. “Ya have a choice an’ control. Ya can say ‘no’ just as easily as ya can say ‘yes.’ Ya can choose your own path an’ make your own decisions that will lead ya to a different outcome. The future is dependent upon nothin’ but the choices ya make.”

“But what about the woman I keep seeing in my visions? The one with the black veil?” I asked. “She said she was all knowing and she told me I would die.”

“No one is all knowin’,” Lovie said.

“What about divination… and prophecy then? What… good are they?”

“Let me show you.” I sat across from her, watching as she took the cards out, closed her eyes and started murmuring under her breath. She tapped the top of the deck three times and gave the cards to me.

“What do I do?”

“Focus as hard as ya can on whatever question ya wish for an answer to.”

I closed my eyes and thought about my own survival and freeing myself from this curse. And I also focused on Ryan.

After a moment, Lovie asked, “Do ya have it?”

I nodded.

“Now spread the cards all over the table. Don’t be shy. Just don’t think about anythin’ other than your question.”

I swept my hand across the deck, spreading the cards as she indicated. It felt like a toddler using spaghetti sauce as finger paint.

“Now put ‘em back together, an’ don’t lose your focus,” Lovie continued. “That’s the most important thing.”

With the picture of my future in my head, I plucked each card and placed them into a single pile. When I was finished, Lovie asked me to take the first card off the top, then the second, and finally, the third.

She laid them in a row, face down so I couldn’t see them. I was still jittery when she turned over the first card. It was a painting of a coyote standing in front of a lake. He was howling at a giant moon above him, and there was a scorpion climbing onto shore.

Lovie stared at the image, taking long, slow breaths. She cleared her throat softly. “The moon. It would seem ya were subjected to dark magic.”

“What kind of dark magic?” I asked.

She pulled another card off the top of the deck and showed it to me. It was a woman tending a bush covered in yellow pentacles shaped like coins. They looked like ripened fruit waiting to be picked.

Lovie put that card below the first one.

“The curse will manifest soon,” she said.

“What curse?” I asked.

“I can’t give ya an exact answer, Peyton. I can only tell ya what I see in the cards.”

“Could it be the zombi curse?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Okay,” I said, nervous because the cards revealed something I already imagined was the case.

Lovie flipped over the next card, which looked like it was designed to shock. Naked and tormented souls being thrown out of a leaning tower struck by lightning. Below them, there appeared a group of demons, using their pitchforks to spear a pile of corpses.

Lovie stared into the picture and sat back in the chair, still entranced. “This card represents a crumblin’ foundation in your life an’ the disaster that follows. If there’s such a thing as a forebodin’ card, this is it.”

My heart sank. “Could it be talking about my sickness?” I asked.

She nodded. “I think so. The first card is a catalyst for the second. The moon is the dark magic that occurred in the past, an’ the tower is whatever you’re currently experiencin’.”

She reached forward to turn over the next card.

I interrupted her. “I’m not sure I want to see it.”

She smiled at me consolingly. “Just know, the future is seen as a combination o’ the past and the present as well as other variables. It’s not prophecy, it’s simply the most likely conclusion.” Her eyes shifted to the other two cards, and I realized what she was thinking. No good could possibly come from black magic capable of destroying the foundation of my life—neither figuratively nor literally.

She was about to clear the table when I picked up the tower card. “I’ve heard you can find other clues if you really look at the cards.”

“Sometimes,” she said, “but ya won’t always know what the clues mean, an’ they might not be relevant. Sometimes the cards are nothin’ more than ink.”

I pointed to the tower featured on the card. “I think the building means something.”

“Okay,” Lovie said, nodding. “Whaddya see?”

“I don’t see anything really, but it occurred to me that I was in the same place in all of my visions: The Place D’Armes Hotel.”

Lovie took a second before responding. Then she began to nod.

“Do ya believe you’re meant to visit the hotel?”

I cocked my head to the side as I considered it. “Maybe?”

“Is that something you’re comfortable doin’?”

Behind her, the neighbor’s giant eucalyptus thrashed in the wind—a wind that curiously just picked up in the last twenty minutes or so. I watched the tree’s branches bending this way and that while I tried to decide whether or not it was a good idea to visit the hotel. On the surface, the answer was clearly “no.” It was probably the worst idea to confront whatever this dark magic was, but on the other hand, I wasn’t sure if there was another way around it.

I needed answers and, so far, I only had questions. If the Place D’Armes Hotel could provide me with a path towards the answers I needed to find, it was the only option I had.

“I don’t think I have a choice,” I said.

Lovie put her cards away and closed the book that was resting on her lap.

“Peyton, The Place D’Armes is one o’ the most haunted hotels in the world.” She took a breath. “D’ya have any idea how much energy there is in your average haunted hotel?”

I shook my head.

Lovie gave a sharp laugh and relaxed in her chair. The sun had mostly set; it darkened her skin and stained her indigo tignon a navy blue. But her eyes maintained their glimmer.

“In some places, the ghostly energy is so thick, it would be impossible for ya to move without touchin’ it. That’s your average haunted hotel. Maybe you’ll see a little girl bouncin’ a ball or jumpin’ rope every six months. The Place D’armes is a straight up sauna of activity an’ if ya keep seein’ the hotel in your visions, I’ll bet it has something to do with this curse o’ yours.”

“Will you come with me?” I asked.

“Ya don’t have any choice but to go, an’ I’m not lettin’ ya go alone.”

“Are you sure, Lovie? Christopher told me how you felt about The Old Absinthe House,” I started.

Lovie nodded. “Lafitte an’ I had a run-in in the past an’ I prefer to stay clear o’ that place for that reason. The Old Absinthe House is the only building in New Orleans I won’t enter.”

“Thank you,” I said but there was more on my mind and she could sense it.

“What else?”

She straightened herself in her chair and adjusted her skirt.

“I’m worried about Ryan.”

“Maggie an’ I went over there two more times now,” Lovie said with a sigh. “An’ either he isn’t home or he’s refusin’ to answer the door.”

“I saw something when I was with Ryan the other night,” I said as the memory began to return. It was hazy still and lost in the fog of my thoughts but still there just the same. An image of Ryan that frightened me and buried itself into my subconscious mind was only now just resurfacing.

“You saw something when you were with him?” Lovie repeated, appearing confused.

I cleared my throat and glanced over to where Maggie was picking roses from the garden. She wasn’t close enough to hear me and Drake was confined to the house, unable to leave its boundaries. I didn’t know where Angharad was, but she wasn’t here, which was just as well. There was only so much of her I could take. Lovie and I were as close to being alone as we could ever be.

“I saw something while Ryan and I were making love,” I said, feeling slightly embarrassed that I was airing our very private information.

“What’d ya see?” Lovie asked with no sign of bashfulness.

“Ryan’s eyes were glowing white, like when you gave us Tincture of Nepenthe. I think you said he was still in the spirit world when that happened?”

“An’ when did this occur?” Lovie asked, her eyes narrowing as she studied me.

“At the... the end of our…um… at the end.”

“Yup,” Lovie said, nodding. “That’s sex magic. Not something ya hear about often.” She was quiet for a moment as she tapped her fingers on her lips.

“And I said something to him,” I continued. “But I can’t remember what the words were. They were in a foreign language and I have no idea how I knew them,” I said as I caught the memory and it unraveled like yarn.

“A foreign language?”

“Maybe Spanish? Or French? I can’t remember. All I remember is that I was speaking a different language and Ryan recited the words right back to me, as though he understood them.” I took a deep breath. “That was the night before I woke up in my garden.”

“Hmm, I wonder if Ryan is behind this magic?”

“Ryan?” I asked, shaking my head. “He’s not even comfortable around lit candles.”

“Not Ryan per se,” Lovie corrected herself. “But, someone usin’ Ryan, usin’ his body as a vehicle. White eyes are a sign o’ possession, Peyton,” she explained.

“Possession?” I repeated, the idea completely throwing me off.

“Has he been actin’ different lately?” Lovie continued.

I was quiet as I considered her question. “Now that you mention it, he has. He’s been much angrier lately and we’ve had more arguments than we ever had.”

“That’s usually a sign,” she said, not sounding exactly surprised.

I opened my mouth to speak, but she was faster. “I suggest ya stay away from Ryan for the immediate future.”

“Maybe he’s abiding by that same advice,” I grumbled as I thought about the fact that no one could reach him.

“Whatever’s goin’ on, he’s affected too,” Lovie said. “An’ if he’s possessed by someone or something who wishes to do ya harm…” She didn’t finish her statement but she didn’t have to.

“Let’s go to the hotel,” I said.

Chapter Nine

Daschel stayed by my side when I walked into my house. There was never a moment when I didn’t feel his fur brushing against my skin. Even when I stepped through the door, he squeezed through the space between my leg and the doorframe, keeping us in uninterrupted contact. I reached down to scratch him between the ears and my mind raced.

Could Ryan be possessed? Could Ryan be the reason all of this crap was happening to me? Could I be a zombi? Not like the walking dead, or a brain besotted idiot, but more like a slave? Obeying the orders of someone else?

“Non,” Drake’s voice echoed from the other side of the hall. “Just what are you doing?” he asked.

“It won’t hurt anyone,” Maggie answered.

“I still do not like it! Spirits and salt do not agree!”

“It’s just salt in the corners, Drake, to ward away bad spirits and you aren’t bad, so what are you worried about!?”

“I am worried this witchcraft of yours has not been practiced correctly!”

Maggie smiled at him gleefully, before walking into the kitchen with a bowl of salt and a cup of water.

“Ma minette!” Drake complained beside me. “L’ enfant will drive me to an early grave!”

“You’re already dead,” I grumbled. “And I said she… could bless and… protect things, Drake.”

“Mon Dieu! I give up,” Throwing his hands up in exasperation, he propelled himself backwards to the table.

“Maggie,” Lovie said as she reached inside the satchel she wore around her waist and handed Maggie a handful of herbs. “Will you make tea with these?”

“What are they for?” Maggie asked, taking the bag of herbs.

“They’re to calm me down long enough so I can think straight. An’ add this too, after ya boil the water.” Maggie’s mouth dropped open when Lovie handed her two tiny bottles of rum.

“I’ll take some too,” I said. I needed a shot of booze and then some.

“Mon cher, I too would take a cup, if only I could,” Drake said before he approached the table.

Even though I felt better in Daschel’s company, who was still plastered by my side, I was so exhausted that I needed to rest. I pulled out a chair and sat down before Daschel placed his head in my lap.

I took a second to gather my thoughts and my courage. “When do you… want to leave?” I asked Lovie.

“Where are you going?” Drake demanded immediately. “And why?”

“We’re going to… the hotel I keep seeing… in my visions because I’m… fairly sure there’s something there… I’m overlooking. Hopefully, something that can… help us.”

“Hotel?” Drake repeated.

“The Place D’Armes,” I replied, somewhat warily. The very thought of the hotel left me cold. Not only because I worried about what might await me, but also because of my fatigue in general. The very thought of leaving the house made me wish I could crawl into my bed and sleep for ten years.

Drake stroked his chin. His knowledge of New Orleans was vast, so I guessed he knew the hotel as well as its ghostly history.

“Is it possible this establishment is the answer to her search?” he asked Lovie, who was taking a mug from the cupboard.

She looked back at him. “I don’t know.”

“It’s all I have,” I said, ready to interrupt if need be. “Every vision I’ve… had has taken… place at the Place D’Armes… there has to be a reason why.”

“Or not,” Lovie said.

“Or not,” I repeated with a shrug. “But, really, what else… should I do? I went to The Old Absinthe House… hoping to learn something… from Lafitte and he left me high and dry. Now… I’m nearly catatonic after waking up in… my backyard as a zombi, or whatever the hell… I currently am. And if what… the cards… say is true, I need to do something… before something does me in.”

Drake stared down at the floor, his hands at his side. He clenched and unclenched his fists, moving his jaw in a circular pattern. He looked like a man who was pondering something difficult to accept. “What do the cards say?” he asked as he finally looked up at me.

“That the shit’s… about to hit… the fan,” I answered.

It was strange not to hear his thoughts. I knew him so well that I could guess whatever was going through his head. In general, Drake was a go-getter. He was accustomed to handling problems himself, especially where I was concerned. That was why he was having such a hard time. He couldn’t help me now.

He emerged from his trance, relaxing his hands, and turned his attention to Lovie. “What do the cards say?”

Lovie took her drink from the counter and brought it back to the table as she sat. “The cards say nothin’ more than this: Peyton is under the power o’ somethin’ dark an’ malevolent.”

Drake turned his back to me and tilted his head lower, resting a hand on his forehead. Distressed, he reached back to me, seeking reassurance, and I pressed my palm against his.

“You tell me when you’re ready to leave, Peyton,” Lovie said as she gave me a small smile and stood up. She could see Drake and I needed some time. Maggie looked from Lovie to me and then went out, as well. Only Drake, Daschel and I were left in the room, and Drake turned around to face me with red, watery eyes.

“Drake,” I started.

“I would give my soul to touch you,” he interrupted. “This separation between us has been so hard, ma minette, so hard.”

“I know… I’m missing it too.”

He smiled sadly before floating down beside me, as if he intended to sit.

I remembered the look he gave me right before Ryan and I left for The Old Absinthe House on our “date.” I can never forget the sorrow in his eyes, which haunted me. He wore the same expression now.

The separation between us wasn’t the only thing that was hard for him. I now understood there was much more to it—he was forced to watch the woman he loved share intimacy with another man.

“I’ve been cruel,” I said as I tried to see things from Drake’s point of view.

Drake closed his eyes, and his sweet voice entered my mind. You have not been cruel, mon chaton. You have been merely living your life. It is just unfortunate for me that I must play the role of your captive audience.

If it’s any consolation, Drake, I wish you were back inside me. I miss our conversations and sensing you as a part of me.

I miss those things too, ma minette. Mostly, I miss our adventures.

I miss you too, Drake, I finished.

A hot bead of moisture fell down my cheek.

He hovered above the table beside me, staring down with his soothing brown eyes. I needed this moment with him. I had to make him understand he wasn’t the only one hurting. No matter what I had with Ryan or how much I cared about him, I also loved Drake… deeply. And I always had. I often wondered if Drake weren’t a spirit but flesh and blood, whom would I choose? I adored Ryan but Drake and I certainly had more in common.

Ryan…

God, I hope he’s okay, I thought to myself without realizing I was also sending the thought to Drake.

Drake’s lips hardened into a white line.

I’m sorry, I thought immediately.

If it’s any consolation, ma minette, I cannot feel his energy in the spirit world.

Then you believe Ryan’s still alive? I asked.

Drake nodded.

Thank you, I thought back.

Soon Lovie and Maggie drifted back into the kitchen.

“How’re ya feelin’?” Lovie asked me.

“Better,” I answered. “As long as… this dog stays beside… me, anyway.”

I looked down at Daschel and he wagged his tail as he looked back up at me.

“He’s most definitely your protector,” Lovie said with a nod. “Do you still have the note that ya found on your door when he was dropped off?”

“Maybe, why?” I asked.

“We might be able to use it to identify the former owner who gave Daschel to you,” Lovie said.

I nodded. “That would be… good to know.”

“But, at the moment, we have bigger fish to fry,” Lovie finished. Clearing her throat, her expression blanched into one that was all business. “I know someone who works in housekeeping at the Place D’Armes,” she said. “I texted her just now an’ she said she’d meet us at the rear o’ the hotel an’ take us to the room that first appeared in your vision. That is, as long as it’s unoccupied. Do ya remember the room number?”

“Yes,” I said with a quick nod.

“Can I come?” Maggie asked.

“No,” Lovie and I both said in unison.

“As a sensitive, you should be wary o’ places like that,” Lovie explained. “At least until ya learn some basic shieldin’ techniques.”

“Sorry, Mags,” I added.

Maggie inhaled deeply and then exhaled slowly for dramatic effect before facing me. “I understand.”

She left to go to her room, and I couldn’t help thinking the argument went a little easier than it should’ve gone. If she weren’t fighting me, she was probably rushing off to push the limits some other way.

***

I went upstairs to change and Daschel followed me. He was constantly beside me, his fur tickling my skin. I feared that if Daschel were not so close, I’d get sick again.

I started talking to him, and right away, he proved he had his own language of gestures. This definitely was no average dog. Average dogs don’t nod yes or no when you ask them questions. And they definitely didn’t act as magical barriers to protect people from dark, bad magic.

Drake came in and out of my room, and the worry contorted his otherwise handsome face.

“I wish I were still inside you so I could act as your sentry to the spirit world,” he said. I was busy pulling a sweater over my head before yanking my jeans up my thighs. Drake was so worried about my impending visit to the Place D’Armes Hotel, he didn’t seem to notice I was half dressed. That was saying something!

“Everything is… going to be okay,” I said, wondering how true my words could be. It didn’t feel like it would be okay. Everything seemed ready to implode, with me in the middle.

Drake floated behind me as I left my room and descended the stairs, meeting Lovie in the living room. I noticed with interest that Lizzie was now sitting in one of the armchairs beside the fireplace. She was looking at me with a placid expression. Yes, the doll’s facial features didn’t change and, I was probably crazy. I imagined I could read her emotions on her porcelain skin. The way she looked at me made me feel more at ease.

I needed to go to the Place D’Armes and I believed Lizzie supported my decision.

“Let’s go sit down,” I said to Daschel. He trotted alongside me. When I sat down on the couch, he put his paw up onto the cushion, lifting his head. He was virtually asking if he could join me. “If you want,” I said.

He jumped up before issuing a soft bark. I figured he was asking what we were doing. I saw him look at Drake blankly, then back at me. I didn’t know how it was possible, but maybe I was destined to be a dog whisperer.

“Do you think… I’m making the right… decision in going to the… Place D’Armes?” I asked Daschel, who cocked his head to the side as he listened to me.

He nodded, but then he shook his head. “You aren’t sure?” I asked, trying to translate for him.

He nodded again. “Well, Daschel isn’t… convinced that this… is the right move,” I said aloud.

Then I looked at him again. “I don’t know… anything about you,” I said. “Were you sent… by the person… that is controlling me?”

Daschel immediately shook his head and began whining. He seemed offended that I would even consider the thought.

“I didn’t… think so,” I said with a smile, opening my arms wide and wrapping them around the dog’s head as he licked my face.

***

Daschel rode in the front seat of Lovie’s car, sitting between us. I continued asking him questions, hoping I’d uncover something that might help me make sense of this puzzle but Daschel didn’t respond like before. He just continued to lick my face.

Lovie turned into the hotel parking lot and parked the car. Then she turned to face the two of us. “Are ya ready?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said, my heart rising into my throat. “You be a good boy,” I said to Daschel as I opened the door and stepped out with the dog at my side. “Hopefully they… don’t give me… a hard time once they see… me walking in with Daschel,” I said.

Lovie waved my concern away. “Don’t worry about that. I’ll take care of anyone who tries to give ya trouble.” She sounded ominous but knowing Lovie, I wasn’t worried.

I turned my attention to the familiar surroundings as we headed to the back entrance of the hotel. It was a three-story brick building, encircling the courtyard where Ryan and I ate a piece of pecan pie in my vision.

Each level featured a wraparound, white porch with carved columns and rows of windows. Some of them opened out to balconies, and others had lush, potted flowers, dripping over the sills.

Lovie grabbed her skirt by the sides and lifted it so she could climb the front steps. She darted toward the double doors and swung them open.

At the same moment, a man with white face powder, a fake mole and a wig, came rushing towards me, flailing his arms. He had round spots of rouge on his cheeks. His eyebrows were poorly drawn, and he was wearing an elaborate outfit: a loose, white shirt, a yellow, brocade vest and white capris made from a thick fabric. They were neatly folded at the knees, where a black button held them in place.

The fop searched my eyes for a moment until his mock excitement deflated. Then he stepped back, all the while studying me.

“Peyton, we have no time to tarry with curious spirits,” Lovie said as she walked through him. Seconds later, a whole slew of spirits came bounding through the walls, wearing outfits from various periods and eras in history. I could see through the veil, into the spirit world, just as well now as I could when Drake was still inside me.

I wondered why that was.

The more I looked around, the more I realized I could see spirits like I never did before. They were everywhere! I’d never seen so many spirits gathered in one place. They came through the walls and the floors, many appearing out of thin air. They filled the courtyard, taking up every inch of space, a muddled pool of blinking eyes, all staring at me. Daschel didn’t seem to notice or mind them, but he stayed by my side. I reached down to pet him, fearing the ghostly phenomenon could upset him. But it didn’t.

“This is weird,” I said.

“Whaddya see?” Lovie asked.

“So many spirits, there’s no room for anyone alive, looks like.”

“Hmm, must be the voodoo magic surroundin’ you,” Lovie said.

“What do you mean?”

“It opened the door to the other side so ya can see everything just as if you were a spirit, yourself.”

“Then you can’t see what I’m seeing?” I asked, turning around to face her.

She shook her head. “I don’t see anythin’ out o’ the ordinary.”

“Lucky you.”

At that moment, someone who was clearly flesh and blood stepped out from the shadows of the courtyard. It was a woman. She was pulling a cart filled with cleaning supplies.

“Paula,” Lovie said as she turned to face me. “Peyton, this is Paula.”

“You got my fifty?” Paula squeaked. She was barely five-feet tall, but her bulldog face told me she wasn’t anyone to mess with.

“Right here,” Lovie said with a frown as she paid her the fifty dollars.

Paula reached down and took hold of her key ring around her belt, pulling it off. Then she handed it to Lovie.

“Ya ain’t got this from me, ya hear?” she said.

“Loud an’ clear,” Lovie replied.

“An’ ya gotta knock ‘fore ya enter. Got that?”

“Got it,” I said.

“Then ya put them keys back in that old pot over there when you’re done,” Paula finished, pointing at one of the planters in the corner of the courtyard. She eyed me narrowly and I nodded. Apparently satisfied, she started back down the hall, pushing her cart in front of her.

“Lead the way, Peyton,” Lovie said as I nodded and started up the stairs with Daschel right beside me. Spirits hugged the walls, standing outside the rooms—a clash of ancient and modern fashion. Some seemed sentient, like they were watching me while others appeared doomed. They could only replay the specifics of their demises, over and over again.

One woman, wearing a high-collared prairie dress, made the sign of the cross as we walked past. The vast sea of spirits began to disperse, until there was only a thin line on either side of us, holding their hats with their heads bowed low.

No one made eye contact as we moved through the hall. My heart started to race as the images of my visions began to haunt me. But this was real, not any vision. Another ghost crossed herself—a twenty-something who was dressed like she just stepped out of the sixties. These spirits acted like they knew something we didn’t.

They didn’t speak; they just watched us. They were so silent, I couldn’t have known they were there if I closed my eyes. The icy cold draft issuing off their bodies was the only giveaway. It caused our breath to cloud with steam. Even Lovie noticed. She shivered, holding her arms against her chest. She looked relieved when I stopped in front of a door and announced, “It’s this one.”

I saw the spirits encircling us, imbuing us with a frigid chill that made my skin tingle.

Lovie cupped her hands in front of her mouth. “I sense them. Something’s not right.”

Daschel started to growl and the spirits retreated, only to hover forward again when he stopped. Lovie knocked on the door but got no response. She knocked again and still no response.

“I think it’s empty,” she said.

I nodded as I started searching the key ring. Each key had a room number written on a piece of masking tape. When I found the right one, I jammed it into the lock, turned it and opened the door. We were welcomed by a blast of warm air. We both paused to enjoy it before walking inside.

The room was dark, but I had it memorized. I knew the location of the bed, the bathroom, and the nightstands. There was something I didn’t recognize, however, a shape sitting in the armchair.

It wasn’t the same entity I saw in my dreams—the woman with the black veil, smoking a cigar. This woman was small and thin with a long face and crooked teeth. Her blond hair was curled in ringlets and shining like a plastic wig. It didn’t match her sweaty face and freckles. It was too perfect.

She was clutching the arms of the chair, bending her fingers into claws, rocking back and forth and staring straight ahead.

“Lovie,” I whispered, “can you see her?”

“Yes.”

“Can she hear us?”

The woman didn’t react.

“I don’t know.”

I stopped in front of her and fell down on one knee with Daschel right beside me. “Can you hear us?”

Two bloodshot eyes turned in my direction and I recognized her instantly, although I didn’t know her name.

“Who are you?” I asked.

“You should know,” she whispered as if she didn’t want to be overheard. “You saw.”

She was talking about the first vision I had of the Place D’Armes, I was sure, because it was her face I saw in the coffin. Just after I saw my own face.

“Where’s the woman with the black veil and the cigar?” I asked.

“Sh-sh-she’s not here.”

“Spirit,” Lovie commanded, “tell us where she is.”

“I would,” the woman answered, “if I knew, but I don’t.” The woman covered her eyes and leaned back, shaking with silent sobs. “He’s not where he’s supposed to be.”

In her, I sensed the same fright I felt during my vision. My fear of the impending nature of death, which the veiled woman reveled in. The joy she extracted from our fear could traumatize anyone.

“What do you mean he’s not where’s he’s supposed to be?” I asked.

“He’s gone, not here, not there; he’s really gone.”

“Who?” I asked.

“My husband.”

Lovie shuffled up behind me. “Who did that to ‘im? Do ya know?”

The spirit gave Lovie a look of sorrow. “I was unconscious when it happened.”

“Was it the veiled woman? Who is she?” I asked.

“I told you, I don’t know!” the spirit said before examining a spot on the wall. “I like it when things are quiet.” Clearly, this spirit wasn’t all there in the mental department. I wondered if she were crazy in life and it transferred over when she died, or she went mad during her death, perhaps because of whatever the woman in the black veil did to her.

I stood up when I realized there was nothing more she could do for us, giving her a warm smile. Then I turned to face Lovie. “What now?”

Lovie shrugged. “I don’t see anyone else here.”

“No one is here,” the spirit said before she continued to rock back and forth.

Chapter Ten

I felt cold and weak by the time we made it back to Lovie’s car and Daschel could only give me so much comfort.

“That was a ridiculous waste of time,” I said.

“Not necessarily,” Lovie argued.

“What did we find out?” I asked as I looked at her.

“Well, ya said that spirit was in your vision, right?”

“Yeah, but so what?”

“So we are one step closer to solvin’ the mystery.”

“How do you figure?”

“Well, ya matched the spirit to your vision so that’s something.”

“I think you’re just looking for a silver lining.”

She laughed. I was serious.

I became quiet, feeling flimsy and breathless. My eyes were drooping with exhaustion.

“Do you mind if we stop at Ryan’s house and check to see if he’s there?” I asked.

“Sure,” Lovie answered with a quick nod. “I think you should stay in the car though. Until we know the connection between whoever’s controllin’ Ryan an’ whoever’s controllin’ you, we need to be careful,” she explained.

“I get it,” I said.

“An’ now that I’m thinkin’ about it, I believe we should all take turns keepin’ an eye on you.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

She shrugged. “If you have been selected to be someone’s zombi, that means they’ll be callin’ for ya sooner or later. I don’t think we should take any chances an’ someone should be assigned to watch ya at all times.”

I nodded because she made a fair point. “I hate feeling like a burden.”

“You’re no burden, Peyton,” she said. “We just need to figure some things out an’ once we do, we’ll get that curse lifted.”

I felt powerless. I couldn’t even walk on my own without Daschel. My breath caught as a bead of hot moisture rolled down my cheek and I started feeling sorry for myself again. I sniffled and my heart started racing as we arrived at Ryan’s house. The light was on in his living room.

“The light’s on,” I said as I turned to face Lovie. “Was it on before?”

“No,” she said.

His truck was parked in the driveway and the lights upstairs were turned off, which meant he was downstairs, right?

“Peyton,” Lovie started as she pulled up in front of Ryan’s driveway.

“He’s home,” I said as I opened the car door. I needed nothing more than to see Ryan’s handsome face, and feel his big arms around me, to know he was okay. I stepped out of Lovie’s car with Daschel at my side.

“Peyton!” Lovie shouted.

But I kept walking, almost in slow motion as I approached Ryan’s door. It felt like the sun was finally rising after a night that lasted a thousand years. Ryan was home! In a few seconds, I would be reunited with him and that was all that mattered. Damn whatever the hell went on between us. I just had to see him. I had to make sure he was okay and then I’d get back in Lovie’s car and drive to my house. That was all I wanted, and all I was looking for. All the comfort I needed, and Ryan was the only one who could provide it.

I pounded on his door. “Ryan!”

“Peyton!” Lovie yelled out. I could see her stomping through the grass from the corner of my eye.

“Peyton, come back!” She reached for me and I pulled away.

“Ryan!” I knocked on the door again, pressing my ear against the door. “Ryan?”

“Ya need to come back,” Lovie insisted. She was out of breath.

“Let me ju…”

I reached out to knock again when the curtains parted and I saw Ryan’s face behind them.

“You’re okay!” I said as a huge smile nearly made me laugh.

The light suddenly went off and the curtains closed. I was left facing the front door. I knew Ryan was inside, and he knew I was outside, but he wasn’t doing anything about it.

“Lovie?” I started as I turned to face her.

“Come with me back to the car,” Lovie said as she took my arm and I leaned against her, even more worn out than I’d been all day.

“I don’t understand,” I said. “He saw me.”

“I know,” Lovie said.

“But, he didn’t open the door.”

“I know.”

Somehow, Lovie managed to get me into the car and drive the short distance to my house. When she parked out front, she hurried over to my side and helped me out, which was a feat since I was much taller than she was.

“Peyton,” Lovie grabbed me by the elbow as Maggie appeared on the porch. She hurried down to help support my weight and the three of us walked across my front yard.

Daschel watched me closely, sniffing my leg. He trotted alongside as they brought me through the yard. Angharad was standing next to my open door, using a water bottle to squirt something onto my porch.

“Robber repellant,” she said, smiling before crumpling the bottle up and throwing it behind her. Maggie gave her a look, then she stopped and gaped as the plastic bottle disappeared into the grass. I was still shell-shocked, wondering why the hell Ryan refused to open his door.

“He saw me,” I whispered again as I shook my head and searched for a plausible explanation. “I know he saw me.”

“Watch it,” Lovie said as she opened the front door. She kicked a white ceramic shard aside before assisting me onto the couch. The piece clattered against the wall and flipped over, revealing a tiny pair of lips.

Lips?

“What happened?” I asked, taking in the room. A sword lay on the rug and pieces of Lizzie were scattered everywhere. My heart dropped.

“She was wearing this,” Angharad showed Lovie the locket Lizzie was wearing when I bought her. It was a picture of the Blessed Mother, Mary, now sliced in half, where the sword struck it, and the face was dark.

“That adornment is dedicated to the patron Loa of New Orleans, Erzulie Dantor,” Lovie said.

“What does that mean?” I asked although I didn’t really care. I could barely even keep my eyes open.

“It means Lizzie was protecting your house,” Angharad said. She produced a dustpan and a broom from the folds of her shawls and handed them both to Maggie. “Clean it up, child.”

Maggie did as she was told, too flustered to argue. Daschel lifted himself up to sniff the locket. He whined and turned to me.

“Who… who did this?” I asked.

Angharad shrugged. “We don’t know.”

“You didn’t see anything?” Lovie asked.

Maggie returned and shook her head. “I was in my room, with my tarot deck and I pulled a court card. That’s when I heard a ruckus so I came downstairs to investigate. I found this.” She swept some pieces of ceramic into a pile she made.

Angharad marched over to where Maggie was standing. “You shouldn’t be playing with tarot cards! You need more practice, child! You aren’t a witch just because you want to be! No more of this nonsense of yours! Get that salt out of the corners too.”

“I think she did a good job,” Lovie said.

“It’s sour. I can smell it,” Angharad sniffed.

I stood up and the three of them stopped what they were doing, like they expected me to keel over and die right there in my living room. I probably would have if they hadn’t let me through. I turned to push past them and they parted slightly.

“Peyton,” Lovie said, but her words were lost to the wind coming from the open front door.

“There’s nothing to be done tonight,” I told her. I was tired and still cold and I didn’t understand why Ryan was avoiding me. I wanted to send all of them home, although I knew they wouldn’t leave. Especially now that Lovie decided I needed to be watched twenty-four/seven—which wasn’t easy to accept.

“We knew Ryan was home, Peyton,” Lovie said.

I turned to face her with a frown. “Then why?”

“He said he didn’t want to see you or us,” Lovie answered and I watched Maggie bow her head in obvious guilt. They both knew he didn’t want to see me, but neither said anything.

“You were sick and we didn’t want to make it worse,” Maggie explained as she lifted her chin and her eyes met mine.

“Did he say why?” I asked.

“He didn’t. Other than he was overwhelmed,” Lovie answered. “I have a feelin’ that whatever happened to you the night before ya woke up in your garden musta happened to him too an’ it spooked him.” She paused. “So much so that he decided he had enough.”

“So why not talk about it?” I asked.

Lovie shook her head. “People handle fear in different ways.”

I nodded. I couldn’t blame him really. I’d had enough too and I was the one living the nightmare.

“I’m going to bed,” I said without waiting for anyone to respond. I walked upstairs with Daschel beside me and opened my bedroom door. My bed was a welcome sight. I stripped my clothes off, wrapped myself in my comforter, and collapsed on my bed. Daschel jumped up and lay beside me.

Even though I wanted to very badly, I couldn’t sleep. My mind was racing with thoughts. Lizzie was protecting my house and got destroyed for it. Someone entered my house while Maggie was in her room and destroyed the doll with a sword that they left behind.

But why would they leave the sword behind? Maybe whoever destroyed Lizzie got spooked and hastily dropped the sword on their way out?

Regardless, this was a sign. I was definitely in danger, which meant everyone around me was also. Ryan was the smart one. In deciding to avoid me, he was probably taking the necessary steps to ensure his own safety.

Scared and powerless, I hated that no one knew what was happening to me—and no one knew what I was facing. Lovie couldn’t explain what was going on, and Angharad was all empty talk. She wanted to seem more powerful than she was; and she had a lot of tricks, but she didn’t know anything when it came to the secrets of the soul and spirit. She was no more help than a stage magician.

They would get themselves killed if they continued to try and help me. I wasn’t even sure I wanted their help, which hadn’t amounted to very much. I wanted to be alone quite honestly. I didn’t want to speak to anyone or see anyone. I wanted peace and quiet.

I could hear Drake’s voice coming from the living room and I realized he was talking to Lovie and Angharad, telling them what he saw. He would know the identity of the person who broke in.

Not that it really mattered. I believed whoever broke in wasn’t the bigwig of the whole operation. It would not have surprised me in the least if it turned out to be a ghostly child.

Whoever directed what was happening to me was powerful. So much so, they wouldn’t waste their time breaking into my house themselves. They would order someone else do it for them, probably in the same way they controlled me.

There was a soft knock on the door that interrupted my morbid thoughts. I sat up and watched the door open and the light from the hallway spilled into my room.

It was Maggie. “Peyton, Angharad found this.”

She handed me a sealed envelope. Scribbled on the front was my name. I opened it, my comforter still wrapped around me, and turned the lamp on beside the bed. I blinked to clear my tired eyes. The note was from Ryan. I recognized his handwriting immediately.

Peyton,

When my wife died, I told myself she was the only person I could share my life with. Then I met you, and you blew that belief right out of the water. You were too charming, too stubborn and too beautiful and I was a goner.

I opened my home and my heart to you, and I took a risk, because I believed we could be something special together. In you, I hoped to find the same happiness I’d known with my wife. But I realized you and I are seeking different goals in life. I just want a stable life with someone to come home to and hopefully, have kids with some day.

You have way too much chaos in your life to lead a simple one. You’re all about ghosts and magic and witches. Yes, you’re a sensitive and you see things that other people can’t and that’s not your fault. But you also welcome those things into your life. I believe you have an unnatural obsession with things that shouldn’t be messed with. And even when you’re in danger, you don’t back away.

And then there’s Drake. Even if I were willing to continue to try to make this work with you, I could never have you all to myself. You are in love with Drake, Peyton. Yes, I believe you’re also in love with me but the unfortunate part is: you can’t have us both, yet you insist on trying. I’m tired of competing with someone who isn’t even alive. I deserve better than that, Peyton. I want better than that.

Last of all, I’m not sure what happened the other night but something did. I’m not ready to confront that mystery yet. When I woke up, you were gone and I was left with the distinct feeling that something bad happened to me. I can’t live like this, Peyton. I’m a simple man seeking a simple life.

I’m leaving town for a while because I have to get away. When I come home, I want things between us to be different. I want to be your neighbor, not your boyfriend—even if I am still in love with you. I doubt that will go away anytime soon.

Please respect my wishes,

Ryan.

After I read the letter, I thought about something I hadn’t considered in a long time—my beach house—well, Jonathan’s beach house in California. A few years after we married, he came rushing home, his face red from drinking, with a set of keys in his hand.

He told me he just bought Paradise, and kept talking about for at least a few weeks straight. The beach house had four bedrooms, a spa, a deck that stretched out over the cliffs, and a view of the sun setting over the western Pacific.

There was even a little staircase carved into the cliffside, so I could go down to the beach below. And for a while, that became my life: sunsets, beach walks and wine. Alone. Every night and day, the same damn thing. Paradise but I was alone. I was in a loveless marriage with a man who preferred himself and his work to me.

I lived as a married woman, but I remained isolated and alone, until the day when I decided I no longer wanted to live that way. Marriage was supposed to be about sharing experiences, not avoiding them.

Ryan’s experience wasn’t so different. He felt isolated and hurt, trying to make it work with a woman who didn’t want the same things he did and he was right. My life was filled with ghosts and magic and witches. The supernatural was as much me as I was it. It wasn’t my fault, just as it wasn’t Ryan’s fault that he yearned for a simpler existence. We were different people, cut from different bolts of cloth who happened to fall in love with each other.

He was also correct about something else. I was in love with Drake and had been for a long time. And I believe that knowledge was painful to Ryan. There was no way I could ever choose between them. Yes, Ryan was flesh and blood and alive, but that didn’t change my unwillingness to remove Drake from my house.

I placed the note on my side table and looked up at the empty hallway. I didn’t realize Maggie left, but now the light from the hallway looked as cold and empty as I felt.

Chapter Eleven

When I heard the knock at my bedroom door, I turned over, throwing one arm across Daschel.

“Go away,” I grumbled.

“Peyton, you need to eat,” Maggie shouted through the door. I hadn’t eaten since I left The Old Absinthe House, and my stomach was starting to protest. Seconds later, I remembered that Ryan dumped me and I lost my appetite all over again.

“Peyton,” Maggie called as she knocked more aggressively. “It’s my turn to watch you and I can’t do that through the door!”

I groaned.

There was something decidedly shitty about being babysat as an adult. But such was life.

Now, things weren’t allowed to be simple anymore. Now that I was too weak to handle basic tasks, I was reliant on everyone around me. Holding onto Daschel for leverage, I pulled myself up and threw my legs over the side of my bed. Taking a deep breath, I stood up, testing my weight. I didn’t want to collapse when the door was locked and I was on this side of it. Daschel was a big help, but last I checked, he lacked opposable thumbs, which are required for opening doors.

“I’m coming,” I grumbled.

“Oh, and someone is here for you,” Maggie said with more than a little concern. “He keeps knocking on the door and he won’t go away.”

“Sounds like someone else we both know,” I muttered. “Tell him we don’t want solicitors,” I called back.

“I’ve tried but he won’t leave.”

When I opened the door, Daschel blocked my path and stuck his head out before pulling it back in and whining.

“Who is it?” I asked.

“I don’t know because I didn’t open the door.” She took a quick breath. “Whoever it is, they’re very insistent.”

I didn’t care who was downstairs; I didn’t care about anything. I just wanted to go back to bed and lose consciousness, dreaming about another life that wasn’t mine. But Maggie was already grabbing my hand and leading me out of the room. I could hear the sound of someone banging on my front door.

So help me God, whoever was on the other side of the door was about to get an earful. I wasn’t in the mood to deal with this shit and someone had to suffer for it.

“Open the door, Maggie,” I said as I paused on the stairs and leaned over. I summoned all the strength I had remaining but it was a good ten feet to the door and it seemed like fifty.

Maggie swallowed hard and nodded as she opened the door… and gasped. Then I gasped. The person standing out front was Drake. Only it wasn’t Drake. It took me a second or two to realize that.

“Drake?” Maggie asked, sounding bewildered.

The man on my front doorstep, Luke Montague, gave Maggie a frown before he faced me. “I don’t appreciate how you’ve been ignoring my phone calls and emails,” he started. He was the essence of Drake in his physical appearance but he lacked Drake’s kind personality. Luke Montague was a bastard who needed to be taken down a peg or two.

“I haven’t ignored anything from you,” I returned.

“You haven’t responded to three phone calls and multiple emails.”

“What are you talking about?” I demanded.

“Need I repeat myself?” he asked, the smug piece of shit that he was. “I’ve emailed and called you but it appears you persist in avoiding me. Not a proper thing to do to someone you’re currently fighting in a court.”

“I have no record of you reaching out to me at all,” I said.

Luke glared at me and inspected my disheveled state before turning to a man standing behind him. From my vantage point upstairs, all I could see was the pinstriped sleeve of a tailored suit.

I took the few steps that separated us so I could get a better look at whomever came with Luke.

“And you also missed a meeting with me,” the man said, without bothering to introduce himself. He was thin with a ratty face and a puff of faded red hair. He was also covered in freckles.

“And who the hell are you?” I asked, staring at both of them.

“You should know,” Luke said. “You were supposed to meet him.”

“The only meeting I had was with your lawyer, one which we attended,” I yelled back at him before facing the red-haired man again. “Now who is he?”

“I don’t know which lawyer you think you met with but it wasn’t I,” the man said as he stepped forward. “My name is Frederick Hinsley, and I represent Mr. Montague. I am afraid that you didn’t attend our meeting.”

“Frederick Hinsley?” I repeated, shaking my head as I faced Luke while trying to make sense of what the hell was going on. “Your lawyer was Reginald Ewing,” I finished. “And Ryan and I met with him.”

“Reginald Ewing?” Luke repeated. “Never heard of him.”

“That’s impossible. I… I met with him! I went to the address just as I was instructed,” I insisted.

“Sounds like a bunch of shit to me,” Luke said.

“Maggie,” I started as I turned to face her and pointed to the fireplace. “On top of the mantel there. Can you hand me that card?”

She nodded and rushed to the mantel as quickly as she could, grabbing the card and handing it to me. “Here.”

“It lists The Museum of Antiquities on Auburn Place,” I said as I showed Frederick the card.

“Where does it say that?” he asked, shaking his head as he studied the card.

I turned the card around so I could see the address myself. 1020 West Maple Way was printed in black, block letters. I shook my head and wondered what the hell was going on.

“But I,” I started.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, Ms. Clark, but I don’t know any Reginald Ewing,” Luke said, straightening his suit.

“The only Reginald Ewing I know of was the head docent at The Museum of Antiquities,” Frederick started.

“There! See!?” I said as I nodded in quick succession.

Then Frederick frowned at me. “That man died ten years ago from a bad ticker.”

I shook my head as my heart leapt into my throat. “I don’t understand how that could be,” I said, wondering if I were losing my mind. I had to be losing my mind. That was the only answer that made any sense.

Luke laughed. “Miss one more meeting, and I’ll have the deed to this place by the end of the year.”

“He was the one,” Maggie shouted as she glared at Luke. “It must have been him!”

“Who was the one?” I asked, shocked by everything that passed between us. “What are you talking about?”

“He broke in,” Maggie said as she glared at Luke. “He’s the one who destroyed Lizzie!”

“The fuck I did!” Luke protested as he whipped around.

“Are you accusing my client of felony breaking and entering?” Frederick asked. “Because you can get into a lot of trouble for libel for making scandalous accusations like that.”

“You both need to leave,” I said as I started to shut the door in their faces. But Daschel was already outside barking at them both as they backed up. “This house is mine and if I see you again, I’ll get a restraining order,” I threatened.

Luke simply puffed out his chest. Seeing how he looked so much like Drake was almost impossible for me to accept. “This is my house,” Luke hissed. “You don’t belong here and the sooner you realize that, the better!”

Daschel rushed at them, barking and growling, and Luke kicked at him. Daschel dodged Luke’s foot as he snapped at his heels. I reached forward and grabbed the dog around the collar. The last thing I needed was Daschel being euthanized for biting Luke.

Angharad suddenly appeared in the hallway and cleared her throat. She walked right past me and approached the front door. I didn’t even know she was here. She opened the door wide and strolled outside as Luke and Frederick watched her in surprise. She was holding the hypnosis umbrella that she used with us earlier, and spinning it in Luke’s direction. I watched his eyes settle on the lines of the umbrella as he continued to stare at it. He was as captivated by it as the rest of us were. He became still and so did Frederick. They seemed completely lost in the swirling, red spiral.

“Luke, you will turn around and return to your automobile,” Angharad said as Luke nodded dumbly. He started to turn around and Angharad followed him. I followed her with Daschel and Maggie behind me.

Angharad walked down the stairs beside Luke, who continued to turn his neck so he could watch the red spiral of her umbrella.

“Continue forward,” she said and he obeyed her. Frederick stood there, watching the whole thing placidly. Angharad’s attention was momentarily drawn to the end of the street where a large moving truck was moving at a fast clip. She faced Luke again.

“Keep going, Luke,” she said and he nodded as he started across the sidewalk, heading for the street. A black Mercedes was parked on the opposite side and I presumed it was his because I never saw it before.

The truck continued to approach, and the driver and passenger were laughing. The driver’s attention was more focused on his passenger than on the road before him.

“Cross the street, Luke,” Angharad said and my heart started beating faster.

“Angharad,” I said as I glanced at the truck and then at her. She continued to walk beside Luke until she reached a parked car directly in front of my house.

“Keep going, Luke,” she said as she spun the umbrella and Luke obeyed, walking forward as he looked back at the umbrella.

When the truck hit him, the driver didn’t even have time to brake.

***

Everything happened at once, but I don’t know what happened first—I was screaming, Luke was hit by the truck, and Angharad was smiling like she just accomplished something monumental. As soon as the truck hit Luke, it stopped and the driver jumped down, his face a contortion of horror and concern.

“I didn’t see him!” he yelled. “He walked right in front of me!”

Angharad nodded and held up the umbrella, spinning it as the driver looked down at the red lines spiraling before him. “Get back in your truck and carry on. You will forget this ever happened. You will go now and wash the truck and with it, all the memories of this whole day.”

The man nodded, got back into his truck and drove away. Meanwhile, Luke’s body lay in a puddle of blood. His arms and legs were bent in impossible angles and I couldn’t catch my breath.

Angharad turned to face Frederick, spinning the umbrella at him. “Well, what are you waiting for? Carry him into the living room,” she said.

Frederick immediately nodded and started for the street, where he bent over and pulled Luke into his arms. Then he carried him into the living room as I wondered what in the hell would happen next.

“He shouldn’t move him!” I said to Angharad as I followed her into the house. “He should be left in the street until the fire department gets here. We need to check his vitals and give him CPR if he needs it!”

Angharad ignored me and followed Frederick up the stairs into the house.

“Angharad!” I yelled.

She looked over at me with an annoyed face. “He’s almost dead and he will be dead in another few moments,” she said. “No point in alerting the authorities.”

“But,” I countered. “But everyone saw it!”

“No one saw it,” she answered, shaking her head as she dismissed my concern with a wave of her arthritic, gnarled, vein-covered hand.

“Frederick,” I replied.

“He won’t remember anything in another moment or two,” she answered.

We both watched Frederick carry Luke into the living room and set him down on the floor. Daschel immediately walked over to him and sniffed him with a curious expression on his face. Soon, his tail began to wag hesitantly.

“Return to your office, Frederick, and forget you were ever here,” Angharad said as she held the umbrella up and Frederick stared at it, nodding before he walked to the front door. “You will hear from Luke with instructions soon enough.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked as I shook my head in disbelief and wondered what the hell was going on. “Luke is dying if he isn’t already dead!”

Then I decided I had enough. Hurrying as fast as I could into the living room, I knelt down and examined Luke’s mangled body. Only he didn’t appear too mangled. Sure, there was blood all over him but as I watched, his bones were already resetting themselves with a horrible popping sound.

“Um,” I glanced up.

“There, there,” Angharad said. “All better.”

“All better?” I repeated.

I thought I heard Luke trying to talk so I looked down and found his eyes were open and focused on me.

“Are you okay?” I asked, in a small voice.

He stared at one side of me and then the other before his eyes grew wider. He looked like he’d just seen a ghost, which made sense after he almost became one. It was amazing that he was even alive—something that had everything to do with Angharad and her witch magic, I was sure. Magic that turned out to be much more impressive than I originally imagined.

“Luke, can you hear me?” I asked as I peered down at him, trying to decide what I should do next. Call 911? Take him to the emergency room? Let Angharad deal with him?

“Mmm,” he replied but he seemed to have trouble moving his lips.

“It’s okay,” I said. “You’re going to be okay.”

“M…Ma… minette?”

Instantly my stomach dropped to my toes and I felt like I could throw up.

“Ma minette?” he said again and his eyes were as wide as mine must have been.

I stared down at him, seeing the familiar warm brown in his eyes. I started to accept the truth of what just happened. It was so absurd, it seemed entirely impossible. The proof was lying right in front of me.

“Drake?” I replied.

The End

To be continued in:

Huantingly Happy

Midlife Spirits Series #10

Coming Soon!

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Also available:

Hell on Earth

Chasing Demons #1
by H.P. Mallory
and J.R. Rain

Chapter One

The running man skidded to a halt at the intersection and did a quick sweep–left or right?–then picked right and kept on running.

The fact that he even stopped to think about which way to run meant he was still thinking clearly through the panic. If he’d been operating on instinct, as most people did when they were being pursued, he would’ve just kept running. That might have been to his disadvantage–thinking could slow you down. It might also mean he wasn’t worried about being caught and thought he was a match for the man pursuing him.

That man being me.

I bounced off the wall as I took the right-hand turn (I’m not really built for maneuverability) and kept after him. He was quick and I could hear my heart pounding in my ears, but I wasn’t going to slow down. Not after I’d been tracking the SOB for days. He was mine.

His name was Edward Atkinson, and he’d killed thirteen women over a period of two years in ways I didn’t want to think about. Not only that, but Atkinson had died once already. His death just hadn’t taken.

Technically, he wasn’t actually ‘alive’ now, his body was just good at faking it. Once you’re on earth, your body sort of reverts to factory settings, so Atkinson appeared just like any other living human being. At least, to those who didn’t know better. To me, Atkinson had a blue aura around his body that marked him as a soul escaped from its proper place. Most people couldn’t see that aura, but I wasn’t one hundred percent human either. Although that percentage does seem to have shifted over the years.

The traffic screeched to a halt as Atkinson ran out into the road to an accompaniment of blaring car horns and native New Yorkers yelling a series of colorful suggestions as to what Atkinson could do with himself.

I pursued the killer across the road, and someone hurled a disposable coffee cup in my direction, but I paid no attention. All my focus was on Atkinson, now dashing into the next alley, still managing to keep ahead of me. He ran like his life was on the line; which, in a way, it was.

I followed him, vaulting the trash cans he shoved into my path (which is traditional in a chase through New York alleyways). One of his victims had been an undercover cop. She’d been well-trained, armed, and there had been people stationed nearby to help her if she needed it. None of that had helped, and the case was something of a scandal at the time for the NYPD. They’d underestimated Atkinson just like everyone else had. He looked normal. He acted normal. He’d been brought in for questioning twice, but had fooled everyone, able to lie convincingly, and he was quite at home with his own guilt because he had no guilt.

Entering another alley (this part of New York seemed to be nothing but alleyways), Atkinson ricocheted from door to door, trying to find one that had been left open or, failing that… finding a fire exit that rattled uncertainly on its hinges. My target backed up and charged, shoulder barging through and disappearing into the darkness beyond. I was at the doorway seconds later, following Atkinson in.

I should have been more cautious.

Caught up in the heat of the chase, I just kept going, not bothering to check whether it was safe. Rookie mistake, and not the sort of thing I usually did, but Atkinson was a wily customer. In the last week, I’d lost him twice already and I didn’t plan to lose him a third time.

That driving need was making me careless.

As I went through the door, I heard the breath of air as the bottle swung downwards and the glass shattered against my head. There was a blaze of pain across my cheek and the right side of my head, the impact bringing me to my knees. And there was lots of blood.

Now it was Atkinson’s turn to make a mistake.

If he’d kept running, then I probably wouldn’t have been able to catch him; he had a head start and I was dopey from the blow to the head. But Atkinson was more than a killer and less than a man.

Some people become killers through greed or a bad upbringing, then there are those like Edward Atkinson who are born that way. There’s something rotten and twisted inside them, and it would take something miraculous to get them off the path to Hell. Usually, those miracles never came.

Atkinson turned to face me and smiled as he realized there was a wounded and vulnerable person standing in front of him. I was more than sure every fiber of his being told him to take advantage of that fact, to finish the job and enjoy it. He fingered the broken bottle with a grin of relish, no doubt contemplating all the hideous things those jagged shards could do to a person.

The blow from the bottle would have knocked most people unconscious, but I have… let’s call it a ‘special set of skills’. Or maybe a very hard head. Either way, I was dazed, but not unconscious. I looked up at the grinning face of the psychopath I’d been tracking for too long now. He raised the bottle and I had just enough sense to duck back, so the sharp edges cut rather than mangled my face as he slashed again. The blood ran into my eyes, blurring my vision, I tasted it in my mouth and the sharp pain burnt a ferocious path along my nerves.

The hell with this.

Before the bottle could strike again, I launched myself up and slammed him back into the concrete wall behind him, knocking the wind out of him. Even though he was fighting to catch his breath, he continued to struggle frantically. It was probably at that point that he realized his mistake; he’d treated me as he would any other attacker.

You can’t turn off pain (not even I can do that), you can’t even turn it down, but you can get used to it. Which isn’t to say you don’t still feel it or that it doesn’t still hurt (it definitely does!), but if you’re used to getting hurt, then it doesn’t have to slow you down, you can push through it and just keep going. I’d had a lot of practice getting hurt.

It also helped to know I would heal.

I always healed.

Grabbing the hand in which Atkinson held that bottle, I smacked it repeatedly against the wall until the bottle dropped and shattered on the ground below. Now disarmed, he stopped struggling.

“Alright, alright! I’ll come quietly.”

I didn’t let go of him, but I stopped hitting him–it was always easier when they cooperated.

But Edward Atkinson wasn’t the type to cooperate. As I backed off a step, he stamped on my foot, and threw an elbow into my chin.

He was grinning again. He was enjoying this. Clearly.

Truth be told, escaping Hell isn’t as hard as it ought to be. No one ever really thinks about it, but Hell is run by Demons, and while Demons enjoy torturing the souls of humanity’s most wicked, they don’t have a great work ethic beyond that, on account that they’re Demons. Demons are happy enough to torture souls, but when it comes to the boring stuff like security, they’re less… eager. The walls that border the vast (some say endless) plains of Hell are poorly guarded, and the guards that are posted there don’t really care, but it’s not as if they can be fired; they’re Demons.

In many ways, it’s actually surprising more people don’t escape Hell; it’s easy to get out and it’s a famously unpleasant place (a reputation it really lives up to). In reality, Hell mostly polices itself. The vast majority of the Damned know they deserve to be there and are almost grateful to be absolved of the guilt that ate away at them in life. They want to be punished, because they feel they deserve it and they know their punishment is finite. They don’t enjoy it, of course, but once they’ve suffered enough to expunge their evil deeds, they’re able to leave, so they figure it’s probably best to just get their punishment out of the way. Simple human guilt guards the walls of Hell far better than its actual Demon guards.

Those who do escape aren’t just the ones who realize how long and unendurable their punishment will be, but also those sociopathic enough not to accept the fact that they deserve it. There are people who, no matter what terrible things they’ve done, just can’t accept that they’ve done anything wrong. They don’t understand the division between right and wrong, just and unjust.

To put it another way; only the worst people escape from Hell, and Edward Atkinson was one of those.

He ducked as I punched, grimacing as my fist smacked into the wall. Throwing his arms around my waist, Atkinson tackled me, shoving me back to the ground, pinning me and raining blows on me with a berserk fury. By this point, he probably knew he was going back. This was just Atkinson being Atkinson. I grabbed him by the wrists and twisted him over, spitting out blood as I went.

Atkinson reared up at me again, writhing like a snake. He wasn’t bulky, there wasn’t a whole lot to him in the way of muscle mass, but he was wiry and had no sense of self-preservation. He thrashed from side to side and lashed out, almost as if he was having a fit.

“This’ll go a lot easier if you stop that,” I suggested as he hissed and twisted beneath me like an inflamed wet cat.

In reply, Atkinson spat in my face and jabbed me in the kidney with his knee.

I was getting a little tired of this scumbag. “Have it your way.”

With Atkinson pinned down, I could deliver a proper punch with some feeling behind it. Atkinson’s head bounced off the floor, knocking him unconscious.

I settled back on my haunches to take stock for a moment and to catch my breath. I’d gotten him. He looked small and helpless now, with a glossy bruise already beginning to show around his left eye. He looked like a victim. But, he wasn’t. Oh, how he wasn’t.

The life of Edward Atkinson had ended in a fiery crash following a lengthy police chase. In the trunk of his car, the police had later found the remains of his final victim. She’d been dead when he dumped her into the trunk, which might have been a blessing given how the car chase had ended, but her death at Atkinson’s hand had been a sickening one. He deserved Hell. And I hoped all his victims had gotten entrance into Heaven.

Heaven…

Pulling the phone from my pocket, I hit a sequence of symbols not available on most phones.

“Claudia.”

The voice that answered was clipped but soft, as was the woman to whom it belonged. Claudia was my only contact with Heaven, a place I’d left some four hundred years ago under a cloud.

“Got him. Atkinson.”

“Your voice sounds odd,” she said. Her voice always sounded like bells ringing.

“Might be missing some teeth,” I admitted.

“Put up a fight, did he?”

“They always do.”

“Good job, Graham. I’ve got your position if you want to step back.”

I stepped back from the prone form of Edward Atkinson. Beneath him, the ground started to glow red, and a low rumbling sound made the walls tremble. Atkinson’s eyelids flickered and they opened a crack.

“Wuh…” he mumbled.

I said nothing, but I saw the look of terror cross his face as the ground split beneath him and he was swallowed up into the chasm, falling back to where he belonged. The ground joined again seamlessly, the rumbling stopped and the red glow faded.

Alone again.

I might have felt satisfied in a job well done, in seeing the man who’d cut me up and battered my face heading towards his deserved retribution; a man who’d caused so much pain and suffering in life. But I never really felt satisfaction as much as a blank numbness. It was just a job. It could be a difficult one at times, but it was mine.

***

Back in the bathroom of the sparsely furnished apartment which I currently called home, I tugged the light switch on and examined my face in the mirror. Atkinson had done a job on it. I didn’t even remember losing teeth, but they were definitely missing. Purple bruises had started to flower over my features, one eyelid was swollen, as were my lips. The worst of all, and what had guaranteed me a seat to myself on the bus ride home, were the marks of the bottle. The jagged glass had sliced my flesh open, and blood streaked my face.

I was a sorry sight, and I spent the next half hour cleaning and bandaging till the man in the mirror looked more like a mummy. Then I went to bed, sliding tired limbs between cool sheets, knowing the pillowcase probably wouldn’t be washable.

By morning, my body would be healed. The bruises would be gone, the cuts sealed (they probably wouldn’t even leave a scar), and new teeth would have pushed their way into the broken sockets.

That’s how it works for an Angel.

Even one condemned to live on earth.

Hell on Earth
is available at:

Amazon Kindle * Amazon UK * Paperback

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About the Author:

H. P. Mallory is a New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author who started as a self-published author.

She lives in Southern California with her son and two cranky cats, where she’s at work on her next book.

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~~~~~

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Table of Contents

- Foreword by J.R . Rain
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven