SERAFINA AND THE PSYCHO SOUS-CHEF by Marie Treanor

SERAFINA AND THE PSYCHO SOUS-CHEF by Marie Treanor

Serafina's Book 4

A lust more addictive than spirits...

Whisky-swilling vampire Phil has his own reasons for returning to Edinburgh. They don't include rescuing beautiful amnesiac damsels in distress, and yet one night after escaping from an old enemy, that's exactly what he does. At first his motive is curiosity because of Linnie's apparent connection to his enemy, but once he involves his old drinking companion Blair, who comes these days with a gaggle of wacky humans from Serafina's Psychic Investigations, everything gets out of hand.

While hunting his old enemy, Phil gets side-tracked into helping psychic human Sera in her bizarre cases involving a missing child, a designer drug for Holywood celebrities, and a psychotic chef who heals her victims - maybe. But he has mysteries of his own to solve - is Linnie's amnesia real, and if so, how did she lose her memory? Who is she? Why does her blood taste so much more delicious than anyone else's? And why has she interested the reclusive Founder?

For Linnie, since her accident, every day is one of self-discovery. One of the few things she does know, is to fear vampires. Especially the fun, sexy Phil, who melts her bones and shows her all the excitement she secretly craves.

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Excerpt:

“Give it a rest, Phil,” she snapped. “Even my people pretend eternal love in order to get what they want. I don’t buy yours either.”

Aengus, she thought stunned, as both name and handsome, careless face rolled into the front of her mind. The first man who’d lied his way into her knickers—as Sera would put it…

“I’m not selling eternal love,” Phil said. “It doesn’t have to be forever to be good, to be exciting, memorable, sweet.” His telepathic murmur sank through her whole body, provoking a sexual response that only made her angrier. “I thought you wanted to live? Isn’t that why you came here?”

Furiously, she tried to elbow him in the ribs. “To give my all to an abomination?” she raged, and kicked out at him, connecting forcefully with his shin. “Absolutely not!”

“I don’t want all of you.” He stopped and hooked his leg around hers, stilling her lashing feet. “Just your blood and your body. Your soul, you keep.”

She didn’t know why she was so angry. Mostly, it wasn’t even aimed at him, but at the stuff rushing back into her mind; stuff she didn’t recognise and didn’t want to. It was all wrong. More than that, she didn’t want it to be true.

She knew she was losing her footing and hung on grimly to his fingers to make sure he fell with her. At the same time, she lashed out with her free hand.

It never touched him. Even as she lost her balance, she found herself not falling but soaring as he leapt through the air with her held in both arms. The wind whipped her hair back, whistled past her ears. There was a jolt as if he’d landed, but she was aware of no more than his powerful arms at her back, his hard body fitted so close into hers that they might have been naked.

Dizzy, she could see only dark sky, the odd distant twinkle and scudding silver swirls of cloud, blotted out by the vampire’s wicked angel face, his intense eyes like impossibly burning ice. And then the world went black, and there was only his mouth on hers, wild and hard and demanding.

She reached up to claw and scratch and hurt, grabbing handfuls of his soft hair between her fingers as he opened her mouth and took her kiss before she even knew she was giving it. An inarticulate moan escaped her, half fury, half helpless want. But she wasn’t helpless. She never had been.

Her fingers closed in his hair, on his scalp, not to hurt now, but to caress. Her mouth opened wide under his. She sucked his tongue greedily, stroking it with hers. His wicked fangs grazed her lips, and she licked and sucked those too.

“Bastard. Total, total bastard,” she whispered incoherently between kisses. They were standing on the ridge of a tenement building, no doubt silhouetted against the sky for anyone who cared to look far enough up. The knowledge made her even dizzier, and she didn’t care about that either.

“Because I want you?” he asked in her head.

“Because you know I want you.”

His lips smiled on hers. His leg moved, caressing her thigh. Without warning, her foot slipped, and she was falling. There was a thud as she landed on top of him, but they both kept sliding down the slope of the roof. Phil didn’t even stop kissing her, and when she tried to break free, if only to save herself some broken bones, he simply rolled her until it was her back pressed into the cold, hard slates, and, abruptly, their descent ended with his weight holding her under him on the sloping roof.

One of his legs was rigid, as if his foot hooked into the guttering or some other hold between slates. She gasped, trying to speak under his mouth.

But he was speaking inside her head. “This is what you want. Danger, risk, love in all its forms. You want to feel.”

Almost involuntarily, she pushed upward into him, gasping for breath, for more. He dragged his mouth over her lips to her jaw and downward to the throat as if inhaling her, tasting every inch of skin. His hair tickled her chin, his lips caressed the length of her neck and closed. His tongue flickered over her skin, her vein, surely, and then his teeth grazed the same path. Sensation swam outward from his mouth until every nerve in her body seemed to sing. She twisted her head around in pleasure, and as if that was the invitation he’d been waiting for, he bit.

She cried out, though not with pain. If there was any, it got lost in fierce, urgent pleasure as his mouth moved on the oversensitised skin of her throat, caressing, sucking. His whole body shuddered on hers. His silent groan vibrated right through her; it sounded like agony, like impossible, unendurable pleasure. Ye gods, yes, that was exactly what it was. Her blood rushed through her veins and arteries, triggering all sorts of pleasure points she hadn’t known she possessed. The vampire drank her in, making love to her vein, to her, and Linnie surrendered utterly.

Sunlight and joy seemed to bombard her mind. Is that you? she wondered with awe.

“Oh yes, that’s me. Sweet Jesus, Linnie…”

Vaguely, she was aware of his urgent hand working between their bodies. She didn’t mind. She wanted him everywhere. A chill blasted her hip, her thigh, as if she were naked. But it wasn’t until he tugged her jeans down over her thigh that she realised what he was about. She tried to speak without knowing what it was she wanted to say. Shockingly cool fingers thrust, bathed in the heat between her barely parted legs, and then something wider, blunter nudged her, pushed, invaded. So big, so cold, so overwhelmingly…necessary.


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EXIXTENCE by Abbi Glines

EXISTENCE by Abbi Glines

What happens when you're stalked by Death? You fall in love with him, of course.

Pagan Moore doesn't cheat Death, but instead, falls in love with him.

Seventeen-year-old Pagan Moore has seen souls her entire life. Once she realized the strangers she often saw walking through walls were not visible to anyone else, she started ignoring them. If she didn't let them know she could see them, then they left her alone. Until she stepped out of her car the first day of school and saw an incredibly sexy guy lounging on a picnic table, watching her with an amused smirk on his face. Problem is, she knows he's dead.

Not only does he not go away when she ignores him, but he does something none of the others have ever done. He speaks. Pagan is fascinated by the soul. What she doesn't realize is that her appointed time to die is drawing near and the wickedly beautiful soul she is falling in love with is not a soul at all.

He is Death and he's about to break all the rules.

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An Excerpt from: Existence
Copyright © 2011 Abbi Glines

All rights reserved, Wild Child Publishing.

A movement, out of the corner of my eye, caused the hairs on my arms to prickle. I’d known better than to stay in this empty room. But I was here now and running would make it worse. I turned to face the same soul from outside sitting in a chair at the back of the classroom with his feet propped up on the desk in front of him and his arms crossed casually over his chest. How had he known I could see him? I’d given no indication outside. Normally ghosts needed a little clue from me to realize I wasn’t as blind as the rest of the world. Something was different with this one. I dropped my gaze and started to turn around. Maybe I should go join Miranda and the jock squad out in the hall. If I acted like I didn’t see him and casually made my way back into the hallway then he might think he’d made a mistake and float away or walk through a wall or something.

“You don’t really want to subject yourself to such pointless company do you?” a cold, smooth voice broke the silence.

I gripped the hard plastic chair beside me so hard that my knuckles turned white. I fought down a startled little cry— almost a scream—in the back of my throat. Should I ignore him? Should I respond? Alerting him that his hunch was right might not end well. But ignoring this was going to be impossible. He could speak. Souls never talked to me. From the time I realized that the strangers who frequently watched me or appeared in my home and wandered the halls were not visible to anyone but me, I’d started ignoring them. Seeing dead people wasn’t a new thing for me but having them talk to me was definitely a new twist.

“I pegged you with more guts. Are you going to let me down too?” His tone softened. There was a familiar drawl in his voice now.

“You can speak,” I said looking directly at him, I needed him to know I wasn’t afraid. I’d been dealing with wandering souls, which is what I like to think of them as, all my life. They didn’t frighten me but I liked to ignore them so they would go away. If they ever thought I could see them, they followed me. He continued to watch me with an amused expression on his face. I noticed his crooked grin produced a single dimple. The dimple didn’t seem to fit with his cold, arrogant demeanor. As much as his presence annoyed me, I couldn’t help but admit this soul could only be labeled as ridiculously gorgeous.

“Yes, I speak. Were you expecting me to be mute?”

I leaned my hip against the desk. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I was. You’re the first one who has ever spoken to me.”


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WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

WILD GHOST CHASE by Ericka Scott

Two reality-show ghost-busting teams versus one haunted house.

The first team to successfully exorcise the spirits wins the renewal of their television contract. It sounds like a pretty straight-forward competition, but something or someone at Harrington House has another agenda.

Over the course of a weekend, the two teams with their respective technical advisers, a supposedly impartial network executive, and the beautiful owner of Harrington House find it isn’t just the ghosts who are running amok.

A killer is on the loose and if they don’t work together, they could all become permanent residents.

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Excerpt:


It was just a house.

From the outside, the residence looked like any of the other recently built tract homes in the development. The only difference was the bright blue trim. Inside, tasteful furnishings decorated the rooms and attractive artwork hung on the walls. Everything smelled new, the chemical scents of the rug and paint vied in the air. By appearance, the house was typical; however, something set this house apart from the others on the block. Their job was to find out what.

Malcolm McFee felt as if he’d been waiting for this moment all his life. In reality, it had only been two long years of standing in Ben Yamamoto’s shadow on the set of Happily Ever Afterlife. Oh, Malcolm had his fair share of fame, people knew his face, greeted him by name in the grocery store. But, and this was a big one, if he proved capable of running an entire investigation by himself, he wouldn’t just be consulting for the show anymore. Ben had promised him a regular spot, which would give him what he’d always wanted, legitimacy and recognition as a true medium.

Upstairs, a baby wailed.

Malcolm’s gaze shot over to the home owner, Fiona Sinclair. Pretty and petite with a bulging midsection, she had to be at least eight months pregnant. He raised his eyebrows in an unspoken question aimed at no one in particular. He hadn’t been told details of the haunting. His twin sister, Monica, the co-hostess of Happily Ever Afterlife, had done the intake form and all of the preliminary research. Her carefully schooled expression told him nothing.

He glanced over at Fiona again. Her baby hadn’t been born yet. Was there an older child in the home? He studied her face and demeanor. She wore a frightened expression, however, her body language spoke not of fear, but of watchfulness. He didn’t sense the energy force of a spirit, yet something about her raised his suspicion. From her posture, he deduced she was watching and waiting for something. Not unexpected, as subjects experiencing a haunting often wore anticipation like a second skin.

Monica offered a chair to Fiona. “Would you like to sit down?”

“No. I want you to make it stop,” Fiona whispered. “I mean, that’s what you do. You make ghosts go into the light or something, right?”

Unwilling to give her any assurances before he knew the true circumstances of the case, Malcolm didn’t answer Fiona’s question, but instead, hazarded a guess. “Did the phenomenon start when you got pregnant?” In many cases, hearing a baby crying started the minute the pregnancy was discovered and continued to feed off maternal doubts and worries until the baby was born.

“No, all the odd occurrences began about a month ago,” Fiona replied. To Malcolm’s dismay, she looked straight up into the lens and smiled.

Even as Malcolm opened his mouth to speak, he noticed Ramon take his finger off the record button. Man, for an old geezer, he was quick on the uptake. He’d anticipated her interaction with the camera, known the footage would have to be edited out, and had stopped the recording instinctively. Although Ramon seldom spoke during any of the investigations and most people didn’t even notice him, he was an important part of the team. He documented eyewitness interviews and the walk-through of haunted areas and was also responsible for shooting still photos of each room, and setting up and taking down the sound equipment they used to document EVP, electronic voice phenomena.

Fighting a feeling of frustration, Malcolm tried to be ¬pleasant and failed. “Please don’t speak to the camera.”

When Fiona’s smile faltered, he added, “If you do, don’t worry. We’ll edit that section out for the show.”

“Oh, okay.” Fiona twisted her hands in her lap.

“So, this started one month ago.” Monica shot an irritated glance over at Malcolm. The smile she bestowed on Fiona was a sympathetic one. “Have you made any structural changes to the house?”

“No, but that’s when we decorated the baby’s room.”

“Is the furniture new or antique?” Monica asked. Her dark brown hair fell into her face and she pushed it back with an impatient movement before scribbling notes onto a yellow legal pad.

“Everything’s new.” Fiona craned her neck to see what Monica was writing in her notebook.

Good luck. Monica’s script, combined with the use of a modified version of shorthand, defied interpretation by even the most efficient secretary. He should know; they’d gone through four harried women since the show debuted two years ago. Now, as they prepared to start filming for the third season, Monica had been told she’d have to type up her own transcripts or risk the wrath of the network owner, Mr. Patterson. Malcolm wasn’t sure if the threat would induce her to write more legibly or not.

“So you correlate the phenomena with decorating the nursery?” Monica asked.

“Yes.” The words were affirmative, but Malcolm sensed Fiona was lying. Why?

Malcolm endeavored to read the atmosphere of the house. Perhaps something traumatic had occurred and the negative energy imprinted the events. Like a recording, the activity would play over and over again. The entities involved in a residual haunting activity were unaware of their actions, and did not react to the environment. Much like tire tracks on a dirt road, the imprints faded with time. He inhaled the clean scent of sawdust. Then, he got a whiff of fresh paint along with the assertion that something tragic had happened during the construction of the house.

He screwed up his face in concentration. Deaths sometimes occurred on job sites, but none of those potential occurrences explained the crying baby. Speaking of babies…

Malcolm found himself staring at Fiona. His psychic abilities were limited to interactions with the dead, although he occasionally got intuitive flashes. In his experience, spirits congregated around pregnant women. Mothers or other women who had been important in the expectant woman’s life gathered to support and celebrate the birth. There was no trace of any spiritual energy clinging to Fiona. Interesting…

“I’m going to start walking around and see what I can pick up,” Monica said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Good idea.” While he watched, Monica laid aside her pen and opened her capacious black shoulder bag. The first piece of equipment she extracted was an EMF meter. A popular ghost hunting tool used to detect unexplained electromagnetic fields often indicative of the presence of ghosts and spirits. With the meter in her hand, his sister began walking around the foyer. As she approached the staircase, he heard her gasp.

Surprised his usually unemotional sister would be taken aback by anything, Malcolm shot a glance at Monica as she studied the readout. She paced the perimeter of the room, approaching the same spot from different aspects as a dubious expression marred her pretty face. “I’m getting a huge EMF spike here at the bottom of the stairs. Malcolm, do you detect any spirits? Perhaps someone who might have had an accident or fallen here.”

He didn’t, but the absence of any visual confirmation didn’t mean no spirit lurked out of sight. The dead were often shy and only seen as flitting shadows. He’d not detected anyone so far, but refused to draw any conclusions from that. While Ramon snapped several photos of the area with a digital camera, Malcolm approached the staircase. If there had been a death here, the photos might pick up orbs, a vortex apparition, or some other anomaly indicative of a ghost or spirit.

The hair on his neck and arms stood on end. Feelings of dread washed over him. Such a strong physical reaction typically indicated a spirit’s presence.

Fiona’s gaze shot from Malcolm to Monica and then back. She scrambled to her feet, hand over her heart and chest heaving. “Did someone die at the bottom of the stairs?”

Malcolm hoped she wouldn’t run screaming out of the front door. He’d only had that happen once or twice before.

“Oh, I don’t think anyone died,” Monica said.

What?

Monica had a fixed smile on her face. She’d picked up on something he had missed. Dismay and disappointment vied inside him, and he tamped down a surge of anger. Damn it all. Why now? Why when he had so much riding on this. All he needed was one legitimate haunting to use for substantive proof of his abilities.

“May I examine the closet?” Monica asked.

“Why?” Fiona’s voice sounded sharp with suspicion. “There’s nothing in there but coats and some old equipment.”

“Equipment?” Before Fiona could protest further, Monica strode to the door and jerked it open.

Malcolm followed his sister and peered in over her shoulder.

Surprise, surprise. Inside sat an electrostatic generator. Malcolm wasn’t sure what use it performed on a construction site. Typically used in classrooms to demonstrate the effects of static electricity—cold chills, hair standing on end, and even the feeling of being touched—the machine had often been used by fake spiritualists to imitate a spirit’s presence.

“The contractor must have left that awful machine behind,” Fiona informed him. “My husband called the company yesterday. They said they would pick it up sometime today or tomorrow.”

“Did you know the generator was operating?” Malcolm inquired.

“No. Do you think the ghost switched it on?” Fiona’s eyes widened.

What poor acting. Malcolm coughed to avoid the derisive words threatening to spill out.

“This accounts for the EMF spike.” Malcolm reached around his sister and turned off the switch. “What sort of reading do you get now, Monica?”

“Nothing, only baseline.”

Shit, the haunting was a hoax. Yet, perhaps the crying child upstairs had nothing to do with this machine.

Visibly shaking and moaning about hating this house and its ghosts, Fiona sank back into the chair. Her brown eyes welled up, and a single tear flowed down her cheek, leaving a trail of mascara through her makeup.

Faker. Other men might be swayed by crying women, but he had a twin sister who’d only just recently graduated from her drama queen phase. It would take a lot more than a few crocodile tears to influence him.

Together, he and the team moved through the rest of the downstairs rooms. Monica waved her damn EMF meter around but detected no further abnormal readings.

They mounted the stairs. Three bedrooms and two bathrooms occupied the second story. The master suite was the first room at the top of the stairs. A bed, two dressers, and a large walk-in closet comprised the furnishing. A Jacuzzi tub dominated the attached bathroom. Malcolm, unable to surrender hope of this being a legitimate haunting, theorized if the fixtures had been recycled from another home, perhaps the haunting had been transferred to a new location. He ran his finger over the tap and was rewarded with the scene of a candlelit bubble-filled bath. He’d been right; the fittings weren’t new. However, what he’d sensed was an imprint. Shit. His hopes dimmed.

As one, the team moved on to the guest bedroom, furnished as a home gym. Malcolm took a deep breath. No scent of sweat lingered in the air, and the polished metal of the weights wasn’t marred by a single fingerprint. Why would someone have exercise equipment installed for show? Or, as he suspected, did no one actually live here?

He sighed and followed Monica down the hall. As soon as they approached the last room on the left, things began to happen. The baby’s cries, which had been silent for a full ten minutes or so while they’d been in the other rooms, started up with renewed vigor.

Closing his eyes, Malcolm reached out to try to connect with the distraught infant. For a room festively decorated with balloons and stuffed animals, the atmosphere felt detached. Try as he might, he detected no child’s spirit. His heart sank as he drew his final conclusion. Despite the desperate wails, no ghost child haunted this house.

Monica led the way into the room. As she crossed the threshold, the infant’s crying shut off like a switch. Monica shot him a look, one that signified she knew the ‘haunting’ was a hoax.

With a sigh of regret, he joined Monica in her search for the source of the child’s cries. While she examined the windowsills, he ran his hands along the trim of the door. Within a few seconds, his sensitive fingertips located the small light sensor buried in the wood.

He waved to attract Monica’s attention and then moved on to find the source of the sound. An unobtrusive baby monitor sat on the dresser, but even for these hoaxers, that seemed too obvious.

His sister, Monica, was more thorough in her investigation. She, too, might have suspected it would be the easy solution, but she examined the equipment anyway. While he watched, she picked up the monitor, switched it on and off, and even popped the batteries out of the back.

A shadow flitted along the wall. Startled, Malcolm spun around. Ramon stood in the doorway, recording their every move.

While Monica was occupied taking the baby monitor apart, Malcolm studied the rest of the room. It appeared to be ready for the baby’s arrival. Teddy bears decorated the diaper pail, bed, and mobile. A row of stuffed bruins sat at attention on the top of the dresser and an enormous Teddy sat in the glider rocking chair. A tinkling sound interrupted the silence. The mobile over the crib began to whirl of its own accord, playing a tinny ¬rendition of a popular lullaby. Hell, he even caught a whiff of the scent of baby powder in the room. Whoever had set this hoax up had covered all the bases.

Too bad no tortured soul lingered here, no baby in distress. However, proving the haunting was faked wouldn’t be easy. In the past, once the controlling wires were found, they could be followed back to their origin to debunk a ghostly presence. With the enormous popularity of wireless equipment, determining real ghosts from electronic ones had become more challenging. He spotted the speaker by chance. Cuddled in amongst all the assorted teddy bears was a brilliant green frog. He picked it up and hefted it, realizing the stuffed animal was too heavy to be filled with nothing but cotton batting or small plastic beads. His fingers found a heavy square item about the size of a cigarette pack buried in the animal’s fat midsection. No dissection would be needed to convince him that he held a small but powerful wireless speaker.

He smiled and waved the frog at Monica and then at Ramon. “Perhaps we’ll hear something if we go down the hall a bit. Are you picking up any other readings?”

Monica had replaced her trusty EMF meter with another popular piece of ghost-hunting equipment. This one was used to pick up radio transmissions. With long graceful movements, she swept the probe around the room searching for listening devices. Malcolm wasn’t surprised when she paused to examine the base of the lamp. The fixture emitted radio waves.

With a sense of regret, Malcolm left the room to stand in the hallway. Monica replaced her equipment back into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder before giving him a brisk nod. As soon as they were both a few feet from the doorway, the crying started up again. Malcolm led the way downstairs, and Ramon followed them at a trot.

Fiona met them at the bottom of the stairs. “So, can you get rid of the ghost?”

Malcolm tossed her the frog. “You’ll be hearing from the network,” he stated dispassionately.

“What? What do you mean?” Fiona’s eyes were wide with pretend astonishment.

Refusing to answer, Malcolm helped Ramon pack up all of his equipment while Fiona wrung her hands and demanded to know what they’d discovered.

As they gathered at the front door to leave, Monica faced Fiona. “We investigate ghosts, and by that I don’t mean the electronic, Disneyland versions. So if you ever encounter a real haunting, don’t hesitate to contact someone else. Have a good day.”

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SOJOURN WITH A STRANGER by Keta Diablo

SOJOURN WITH A STRANGER by Keta Diablo

Penniless when she arrives in Norfolk, her mother and father drowned at sea, Raine Brinsley longs to return home to her grandfather in Maine. When Derek Stafford, owner of a large plantation, offers a solution to her dilemma, she's stunned, if not outraged. She'd prefer to fulfill the contract to have his child and forget about him and his self-serving scheme. If only she could dispel the passion he's awakened in her.

Derek Stafford's only wish is to father an heir to Stafford House, thus securing his future. He didn't count on the Scottish lass with green eyes interfering with his well-laid plan. After one night in her arms, guilt, not to mention the loss of his soul, becomes his penance. He'll do anything to win her back, anything to quench the hunger tormenting his soul.

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Excerpt:

Derek dropped into an overstuffed divan opposite Raine. He pulled the leather pouch and brown envelope from his vest pocket, and placed them on the oak table separating them. Alternately, she looked between the pouch and his face.

"I'm not certain how to begin." He wrung his clammy hands. Damn, this is more difficult than I imaged. "We had a discussion several evenings past in the garden?”

"I remember.”

"I explained my father’s desire to obtain a male heir and my inability to produce one thus far?”

Dark green eyes searched his. "Yes, clearly.”

"You're a beautiful woman with a significant amount of intellect and a variety of coveted traits and talents."

"Thank you, but you hardly know me."

"That's true." The words managed to slip out his dry throat. “However, what I've witnessed since your arrival exceeds my highest expectations."

"Expectations?"

"You're in a difficult situation.” He forced a smile. "I'm prepared to offer you a way out."

"A way out of what, Derek? I’m not understanding―"

"Hear me out, please." Rising from the chair, he paced before her. "I realize the arrangement will seem outrageous at first, even obtuse, but I've thought a great deal about it since our meeting in the garden. I took the liberty of consulting an expert."

"An expert? Whatever for?”

"Childbirth."

A nervous giggle left her lips. "I'm not following you. Perhaps you should come right out and tell me what arrangement you're alluding to."

The seconds ticked by on the mantle clock, sounding like a thousand crickets had breached the room. "Yes, I'm trying to get to the point of all this." He stopped pacing and held onto the back of his chair. "Here's the way of it. You need to earn enough money to return to your grandfather in Maine. I, on the other hand, need a son.”

Her brow furrowed.

“I'm offering you freedom in the long run. In exchange, I want to have a child with you, preferably, a male.” The words rushed forth. “However, if you’re delivered of a female, I’ll love and accept her just the same.”

An audible gasp fell from her lips. "Oh, but I can’t possibly accept a proposal of marriage from a virtual stranger. It would be most unfair to both―”

Good, God, she thinks I’m offering marriage? Marriage? “No, that is, you misunderstood my proposal. I’m not suggesting we marry.”

Her eyes widened.

Walking to the table with a tentative gait, he picked up the envelope. “More money than you could earn in a lifetime is in here. I'm offering half now and the other half when the contract has been met."

She looked at the envelope and then at him, her tone icy. “How much is in the envelope?"

"Five thousand dollars."

Another gasp.

"Five thousand now and five thousand the day the child is born." Tossing the envelope on the table for effect, he continued. "It's yours right now should you accept my offer." A rapid pulse took flight in a tiny blue vein in her neck.

"If you're not offering marriage, in what capacity will I live in the manor?"

"You'll be free to go home after the child is born. Until then, you'll have complete freedom to do whatever you choose."

Her eyes narrowed, and sparked.

"You said you wished to return to your grandfather one day. That day can be sooner than you think if you sign the contract my barrister drafted." He nodded toward the envelope. "It's also in there."

Her face paled. "Horace Masterson, the kindly gentleman who promised me safety until I returned to Maine?"

"Yes, the money guarantees your security, and your safety.” Walking around the chair, he settled into it and leaned forward. “At the very least, read the contract. I'm sure you'll agree the terms protect you.” Her lower lip quivered, and he wondered if she might cry. Christ, what would he do if she launched into a crying jag? He couldn't bear up under her tears.

"You seem quite well prepared.” Her gaze took him apart inch by inch. "I commend your valiant efforts to keep your father's threats at bay."

"I can’t find fault with your reaction at the onset, but surely you see the practicality on both sides?” After drawing in a lungful of air, he added, “You’ll be free to go about your life when it’s over in a manner envied by most women. I’ll acquire an heir to Stafford House, and my father will end his relentless pursuit.”

“Oh, please enlighten me." She pinned him with a lethal glare. "Should I decide to engage in your well-contrived scheme, how do you propose we bring the end result to fruition?"

"It's quite simple,” he said, aware the temperature in the room leaped to an unbearable degree. "You spend three nights in my bedchamber, the specific nights will be chosen by Madelina. She’s prepared―”

“Who is she?”

“A healer, a woman who dabbles in tonics, remedies. She’s already prepared several concoctions.” He dug for the instructions in the pocket of his vest. “You must follow her recommendations when it comes to diet and tinctures for several weeks. She’s highly skilled, claims certain remedies will enhance the possibility of producing a male child. I'll expect you to follow her recommendations if you accept my offer.”

She shook her head. "I must applaud your tenacity and the immense preparation you expended in carrying out your duplicitous plot."

“There is nothing duplicitous about this. I’ve told you everything.” She looked away from him, but not before he saw the sadness return to her eyes again, and something he didn’t recognize. Indecision? Hatred? An interminable amount of time passed before he dared speak again. “Think of it as a business arrangement."

She turned to him with a look that said she would love to sever him at the knees with a saber. "I’d like your decision in two days. You’ll find me in my study two nights from now. If you decline, you can remain at Stafford House until you’ve earned enough money to return to Maine. Do you have any questions?"

"Yes," she said with calm composure. "Why me? There must be countless women who’d agree to bear your child.”

"I thought I made that clear. You possess undeniable beauty, have obviously been well educated, and you have the physical attributes, height and stature, I hope are passed on to our child.” He shrugged. "It's that simple."

Flushed with anger, the green eyes darkened. "Will that be all?"

"Yes," he replied, finding it difficult to look at her. "Unless you have additional questions."

"I do not." She rose from the chair, her tone cold. "I believe I understand perfectly well.” Offering a false curtsy, she added, "If you'll excuse me, sir."

He nodded.

The moment her footsteps faded from the room, Derek unfurled himself from the chair and headed for the liquor cabinet, his only thought to down a double dram.

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THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY by Peg Herring

THE DEAD DETECTIVE AGENCY by Peg Herring

Young secretary Tori Van Camp wakes one morning on a luxurious ocean liner

where she is offered whatever a person might desire: food, clothes,
recreation, and the companionship of congenial people. But Tori has no
memory of booking a cruise. What she does have is a vivid recollection of
being shot point blank in the chest.

With the help of the stunningly handsome Mike and the unnervingly serene
Nancy, Tori soon learns the purpose of her voyage. Still, she is haunted
by the image of the gun, the crack of the shot, and the malevolent face of
the shooter. Who wanted her dead, and why?

Determined to find out, Tori enlists the help of Seamus, an eccentric but
shrewd detective. Together they embark on an investigation unlike anything
Tori ever thought possible. Death is all around, the future is uncertain, and if Tori does not act quickly, two people she cares about are prime candidates for murder.

The Dead Detective Agency marks the start of the new Dead Detective Mystery Series.

According to Leslie Brown, senior editor at LL-Publications, "Peg Herring navigates the twin worlds of life and death with all the skill of a master sailor, or in this case, a really awesome cruise ship director. The Dead Detective Agency is a light-hearted book about the journey of dying, the regrets of a half-lived life, and the guides who help us make sense of it all."

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Chapter One

Swing Low, Sweet Chariot

Does dreaming you are dead mean that you really die? The question came to Tori slowly as she stirred from oblivious sleep, first stretching her feet downward between the smooth sheets, then twisting her hips to a more comfortable position, and finally opening her eyes enough to see that it was day. “Wake up, Van Camp,” she mumbled, but her dread did not dissipate as nightmares do when faced with sunlight.

As full memory returned, Tori’s eyes opened fully. She clutched her chest, dreading the warm, sticky blood certain to be there. A man had aimed a pistol directly at her. The gun had, a soda bottle duct-taped to the muzzle to make a homemade silencer... A twitch of the man’s hand was followed by an odd thumping noise, and she flew backward, disbelieving. After that was nothing.

The hand at her chest found nothing unusual. There was no blood, and she was perfectly whole. Still, the image of death did not recede. The memory became more vivid, not less, the feeling that it had really happened more intense. Tori could almost hear the doorbell, her footsteps as she went to answer it, the few words spoken, and the muted shot that followed.

It was not that she felt dead, and a glance at a mirror to her right revealed that she did not look dead, either. Was her impression of death a dream? It had to be, and yet, it was so clear. It was a Sunday, and she had been in her apartment. A man in some sort of delivery service jacket had rung the doorbell and asked in a sniffling, agitated manner if she was Tori Van Camp. Receiving a “yes,” he had pulled the gun with its makeshift silencer from a canvas bag he carried and, with a nervous twitch in his cheek that corresponded to the twitch of his index finger, shot her.

She remembered nothing else, no walking toward a light, no welcome from Grandma Mueller. Grandma was undoubtedly too busy toting an oversized cup of nickels around some afterlife casino to take time to greet new arrivals. But why the memory of dying? What sort of dream was that for someone who had just reached twenty-five?

Three crisp knocks on the door startled her out of her strange reverie, and Tori took note of her surroundings for the first time. That was unnerving, for the room was totally unfamiliar. Slightly institutional, the place was on the upscale side of hotel chic: a large room with attractive drapes that matched the coverlet as well as a border that circled the walls at ceiling height, a Monet-like iris pattern in blues and greens. A small walk-in closet stood open and empty except for wooden hangers of the type that disconnect from their handles. Beyond that, a good-sized bathroom showed through an open door, bright-white tiled walls with designs in Mediterranean blue scattered throughout.

On the dresser at bedside sat a telephone and a small tray with a coffee maker, Columbian coffee, both decaf and regular, and Earl Grey tea in two varieties. A large credenza opposite held a television, its remote resting on top. The whole added up to something like Holiday Inn. The problem was that Tori did not recall going on a vacation or even planning one. How had she gotten time off work? Who was watching the cats?

The distinctive three-knock pattern came again, and Tori tossed aside the thick, soft comforter and set her feet onto a carpet almost equally soft. A downward glance revealed familiar clothes: sweat pants and a T-shirt that read “Books, Cats: Life Is Good.”

On the other side of the door was a petite blond woman with darkly tanned skin and more makeup than a CNN anchor. Attractive in that expensively cared-for way that women on television have, she wore a blazer that was bluer than blue, a pleated white skirt that reached precisely to her knees, and natural leather pumps with three-inch heels. It was a uniform of sorts, the kind that is not supposed to look like one but invariably does. Expensive perfume radiated from her in a way that indicated, at least to Tori’s mind, overcompensation.

The woman’s champagne-colored hair had suffered a few too many dye-jobs, but it was attractively styled, pulled back into a curly little bun with a scrunchie that matched the blazer to perfection. She obviously had a thing for gold. There were three gold rings on each hand, gold hoops in each earlobe, a few bands that ran up the ear edges, and a gold chain with a heart-shaped pendant.

The woman must have been smiling even before the door opened, but the smile got bigger as she spoke. “Ms. Van Camp? I’m Cinda, your hostess, okay? How was your rest?” The words came in the professionally caring tone that people such as nurses and waitresses seem required under oath to adopt.

“Um, fine,” Tori replied uncertainly.

“Super!” Cinda exclaimed, more excited by the reply than was necessary. “Rest is the best thing, I say.”

Confused by the banal opening remarks, Tori tried to ignore the perfume’s heady effect and the woman’s over-the-top cheeriness. “I have some questions.” “Of course you do.” Cinda tilted her head coquettishly. She was definitely of the perky persuasion, and while the ability to be upbeat at all times might be admirable, Tori suspected it often came from a superficial understanding of circumstances. Still, Cinda was here, apparently charged with being helpful.

“Okay, let’s see. Your questions will be answered at...” she held a clipboard and, pulling a pencil with an abrupt rip from a little Velcro pad that secured it, used its point to make her way down a sheet of names. “...ten this morning, Office 112 D, if that’s convenient for you.” The reference to Tori’s convenience must have been pure diplomacy, since she did not wait for a reply. “Until then you’re free to explore, okay? Breakfast is here on Deck E, and the fitness center on D is open all the time. You might get a massage, take a sauna, or visit the gym.”

“But, I don’t understand what’s happened.”

“Of course you don’t.” Cinda put a hand on Tori&rsq uo;s arm in a gesture that could only be called rehearsed. “That’s why you’re meeting Nancy at ten. Until then, enjoy the facilities, okay?”

Tori thought of the least important thing at that moment. “I have no other clothes.” This was something Cinda was equipped to handle, and genuine enthusiasm shone through. “Okay. Down this corridor, third door on the right. They’ll fix you up.” With a business-like flourish, she replaced the pencil on the sticky pad. “Have a pleasant trip.”

“Trip?” Tori repeated.

Cinda’s smile got even wider, although Tori noticed that it did not warm her rather flat eyes. “Nancy will explain.” She shook a finger in mock sternness, tilted her perfectly coiffed head to one side, and cranked the wattage on her smile up to full. “You relax until then, okay?”

That last “okay” did it. A confused sort of anger overcame Tori’s usual politeness, and she felt her face heat up. Where in the world was she, who was this Cinda, who was the yet unseen Nancy, and how could anyone tell her to relax when she had no idea where she was or what was going on?

“But--” She glanced back at the room, empty of anything personal, any clue to why she was there. Turning again to the doorway, she raised her finger to wave it under Cinda’s pert little (probably bobbed) nose, but Cinda was no longer there. It seemed her smile hung behind her for a few seconds, like the Cheshire Cat, but otherwise Tori stood looking at an empty corridor.

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KISSED FROM BEYOND by Stacey Kennedy

KISSED FROM BEYOND - An Erotic Paranormal Anthology with stories from Stacey Kennedy, Elise Hepner, Amber Scott, and Keta Diablo

'TILL WE MEET AGAIN by Stacey Kennedy

Ethan Thomas has spent years alone - forever trapped between worlds. Once a soldier in the Civil War, he's now a ghost bound to a chaise lounge that once belonged to him. He's spent centuries lingering in Savannah, Georgia, waiting to be saved...

Cassandra Cole is an interior designer hired to restore an old Victorian home. As she begins to furnish the house, strange happenings erupt around her. She suspects the house is haunted. Determined to find out, Cassie sets out to discover who the ghost is, why she feels a connection to him, and what she has to do to free him. The answers will surprise her in ways she never imagined.

Want to know more about Stacey’s books? Go here.

* * *

ONE RUB MORE by Elise Hepner

Flynn has been cursed for over a century for a social slight he never committed. A voodoo priestess hexed him and forced him into a teapot where he could be summoned by the rub of a woman's palm. Once free, he grants these women three sexual favors - and cuts off his own emotions in the process. Unable to break free from an invisible cage of lust and sex to fall in love again he's resigned to being a sex object and nothing more.

Helena has been house sitting far, far away from her complicated past in England -  including her former childhood sweetheart, who wasn't satisfied when Helena didn't want to be barefoot and pregnant. She's resigned to leave behind the complications of men and sex. She hopes logic will win out over her unreliable emotions - but she's put to the test when she accidentally summons Flynn from his teapot prison.
More about Elise’s Books here.

* * *

A LOVE SOUL DEEP by Amber Scott

If only Sara had known no man would ever make her feel like Crew did, she would have let him love her. A regret that can never be undone. His death haunts her dreams, and her wishful thinking only reminds her of everything she has lost.

Years later, a visit to an antique store in sultry Savannah changes everything and makes her deepest wish come true. Her beloved returns to her. Her every fantasy gets the chance to be fulfilled. But she wants more than one night. She wants a lifetime and wonders what magic will let her keep A Love Soul Deep.

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* * *

CRADLE OF DREAMS by Keta Diablo

With visions of battle still fresh in his mind, Roane Bradfield returns home to find the woman he loves betrothed to another. He corners Kendrick Moreland at Dowager Huggins' Grand Ball and whisks her into the secluded library. One way or the other, he will know the reason the duplicitous beauty cut him from her life when she promised to wait forever.

Kendrick can't believe her eyes when Roane suddenly appears at the ball. Has he truly risen from the dead? Amid wagging tongues and hushed murmurs, the fantasy of her every dream whisks her from the ballroom. And the expression on his face is anything but loving. Revenge, danger and powerful love collide in the Cradle of Dreams.

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'TILL WE MEET AGAIN by Stacey Kennedy
Chapter One

For so many years, isolated days and nights, Ethan had been stuck in purgatory. He’d been shuffled from home to home, living among people who were at first strangers, but became constant companions over time. For close to ten years now he’d called Twilight Antiques in Savannah, Georgia, his home.

The shopkeeper, Mrs. Higgins, finished her Sunday morning routine of putting the new antiques out she obtained at auction. He’d never grown attached to her, because she had no connection to him. In her seventies, wrinkles canvassed her skin and Ethan had watched them grow deeper throughout the years. Beneath the sign of her age, soft pale blue eyes still held the beauty of a warm woman. Her silver hair, cut prim and proper, sat in tight curls atop her head, like women of her age nowadays. She might be elderly, however, she still took pride in her appearance.

The antiques held monetary value. To Mrs. Higgins, they were much more than that—a piece of history to be cherished.

Like him.

Not an emotional attachment, a physical one. He couldn’t quite explain the reason his soul never crossed over after he died in the Civil War. Instead, he became bound to a chaise lounge he’d favored in the years he walked the earth. Without anyone to ask how or why, his life―or death―had become timeless.

He’d grown bored of watching decades ago.

The front door to the store chimed, drawing Ethan away from his thoughts as he lingered on the chaise. He sighed. Another customer to walk through the store and not give a second look at the chair he once loved, and still did.

“Hello there,” Mrs. Higgins said, greeting the woman.

“Hi,” a small, sweet voice responded in a tone Ethan found charming.

In all his time at the shop, he’d yet to see anyone walk through those doors who caught his eye. On the rare occasions a younger woman came into the store, none though, appealed to him on a physical level.

If he stood, he’d tower over her delicate frame. Her long, chocolate brown hair stood out against her pale skin, except for the pinkish tinge on her cheeks and baby blue eyes that held a note of sweetness.

He might be a ghost, nevertheless, a man still resided in his soul, and she, a woman to behold. Her beauty mesmerized him.

“How can I help you, my dear?” Mrs. Higgins asked in a rich southern accent.

“Have you heard of the Landsby home?” the woman asked.

Ethan could tell her heritage didn’t come from Savannah. She sounded American, yet not from around these parts.

“Yes, dear, are you the new owner?”

The woman shook her head. “No, Mrs. Nash is the owner. I’m the interior designer she hired.”

“Oh, so you’re here to furnish the house?”

The woman nodded. “I’m not from around here—”

“Where are you from, dear?” Mrs. Higgins interrupted.

“New York.” The woman smiled. “And the name is Cassandra Cole―Cassie.”

Ethan studied Cassie. All the dear comments seemed to displease her. What bothered her so? She fascinated him and he hadn’t been interested in anything or anyone for some time. How intriguing.

“Well, Miss Cassie,” Mrs. Higgins went on. “What can I help you with today?”

Cassie glanced around the store before meeting Mrs. Higgins gaze again. “Mrs. Nash decided the theme for the Landsby house should reflect its history. She wants to restore the home to its original condition.”

“A wise decision,” Mrs. Higgins agreed.

“So. . . .” Cassie looked around at the store. “I have some shopping to do.” She glanced back to Mrs. Higgins. “Do you have―or know of―a rental truck for hire to deliver what I purchase here today?”

“Mr. Pitts does deliveries for me. I’ll call him now and see he comes by with the truck soon to help you.”

Cassie smiled. “Thank you.”

She strode around the store, looking at the items spread out, and Ethan stayed with her. In fact, he drew in close and stood mere inches from Cassie watching a deep shudder run through her. “You’ve got a draft in here,” she called out to Mrs. Higgins.

Busy talking on the phone, Mrs. Higgins didn’t respond.

Ethan leaned away from Cassie to let the warmth wash over her body again, yet continued to study her. She appeared so focused, so determined, and so adorable.

His cold soul lit up with a heat he’d long yearned for.

* * *

A month passed since Cassie left her home in New York City to accept the job to build her design portfolio. A complete restoration of a Victorian home, not something she could’ve passed on. Besides, Mrs. Nash had offered her a ridiculous amount of money. Too many goods came from the job.

She missed home, though. Staying in a house under renovations didn’t appeal to her, but the contractors she’d hired finished today and she’d have the peace she sought. The physical renovations she could do without. Walls re-plastered, paint applied, all the wood in the home, including the hardwood floors, refinished. Now, onto the part she lived for, the reason she got into interior design. Giving a home personality with furniture and accents gave her a high like nothing else.

Mrs. Higgins seemed sweet enough, but if she called her dear once more, she’d blow a gasket. Such endearments weren’t for her. Granted, she looked younger than her twenty-five years, calling her such things though made her feel like a child. She’d worked hard to get here, put in long hours to prove herself capable. Hell, she’d moved into the empty house to renovate it while Mrs. Nash stayed in South Carolina. Being treated like an equal was not something she wanted, but demanded.

Mrs. Higgins, approached her. “Mr. Pitts will be along soon with the truck.” “Wonderful,” she said, happy she wouldn’t have to lug all the furniture to the house herself. She scanned the antique shop, pleased with what she saw. “You have some wonderful pieces here.” An aged distressed dresser caught her eye, perfect for the vintage theme.

“Ahh, a beautiful piece I obtained not long ago,” Mrs. Higgins said. “Does the dresser interest you?”

“Yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Higgins spun on her heels. “I’ll grab a piece of paper and we’ll write down what you want so Mr. Pitts and his crew can load them up.” The woman hurried off and Cassie chuckled to herself. Clearly, the store made small sales and Mrs. Higgins’ eagerness to sell off some of the larger pieces showed in her fast pace. Moments later, the woman returned, clipboard in hand.

Cassie strode around the store to find treasures of all kinds. Her imagination ran wild with the design. “I’ll take these two wing back chairs.” Not looking back at Mrs. Higgins, she heard the pen moving against the paper.

“You do realize they don’t match?”

“Victoria-themes don’t require matching furniture. In fact, the design works better if they don’t.”

“If you say so, dear. I love the era, however, don’t know much about design,” Mrs. Higgins replied with a shake of her head.

Cassie continued on, choosing items to fill the home. Tables, throws, a couch, pillows, any item she thought would add to the home’s beauty. Last week, she’d bought a four-poster bed from a furniture store on the other side of town. A near impossible find at an antique shop, along with the outrageous price. Sticking to a modern piece of furniture fit her budget. She needed a place to sleep while staying at the house, so finding a bed had been her top priority the moment she arrived.

Not fifteen minutes later, Cassie stopped at a gorgeous chaise lounge. Fitted with crimson velvet, the fabric looked rich against the dark wood edging.

“Ahh, a real treasure,” Mrs. Higgins admired.

Cassie wanted to agree, although her mouth wouldn’t function. A cold wave washed over her, freezing her in place. Not a draft, but something made her stop.

The piece of furniture held power, compelling her to purchase the chaise. The reaction stunned her. She’d never been fond of chaises. Fine for reading, nothing more. “Do you know the history of the chair?”

“Oh, I’ve had it now for well over ten years.”

Surprise widened Cassie’s eyes. The well-worn piece didn’t look at all comfortable. Why would she hold onto it for so long? “Why not get rid of it?”

A slow smile spread across Mrs. Higgins’ face causing her wrinkles to hide her eyes. “All the pieces here have a history, my dear. To trash them, a grave travesty. I couldn’t throw away something once beloved.” She shook her head and clucked. “No, not an option to me.”

Cassie glanced back to the chaise and approached it again. She trailed a hand down the wood lining the sides and the cold air swirled around her again. Yet, a warm glow touched her soul. A sign she’d discovered a real treasure, however the chair would be more of an accent piece than a focal point.

She sat down on the uncomfortable lounge. The coldness in the air increased the longer she sat, still though, the warm glow of excitement stayed with her. In fact, it grew.

Whether it suited the home or not, the piece belonged to her. Might be a strange choice, but Cassie didn’t doubt herself. Her instincts never failed her. Something special lived in the chaise even if she couldn’t put her finger on it.

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JAYWALKING TO DEMONSPACE by Buffi BeCraft and Randall BeCraft

The problem isn't talking to the dead. Plenty of people do that every day. The real issue is when they talk back.... and they won't leave you alone!

JAYWALKING TO DEMONSPACE by Buffi BeCraft and Randall BeCraft

Ten Hughes is a guy with the usual problems. Riiight. 1) Find a a good day care that takes kids with special problems. - Does being dead count? 2) Show up for traffic court. - Apparently, you can be arrested for dimensional travel without a liscense. 3) Diversify career options. - You can't call it ghost-hunting if the ghosts keep showing up! Mechanic by day, dimensional commuter in his dreams. Both worlds collide when Ten takes a job as a medium to investigate haunted house. Now the question is: Can he stay ahead of the learning curve enough to keep from being eaten by wraiths, arrested by demons, and avert a preschool poltergeist tantrum of hellish proportions.

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EXCERPT:

Using the damp end of his bath sheet, Ten Hughes wiped the shaving cream leftovers trapped in the fan lines around his eyes and checked for stray nicks that would make folks think he’d tried to slit his own throat.

“Man, what a way to start the day.” The freshly-shaven, hollow eyed mug that grimaced before tossing the towel over the shower rod appeared exactly like Ten felt. “Death by sleep-disorder. You know the eulogy is going to suck. Here lies Ten Hughes. Chronic insomniac. Strange, asleep or awake,” he told the scary middle-aged reflection.

Maybe he needed a new image? He was getting way too old to be called by his high school basketball jersey number. Just yesterday, some idiot kid paused his mid-manic texting and smirked. “Seriously? Ten? Like the number?” Yeah, there were days he wished for normalcy and a cease-fire from the stupid jokes.

Shuffling out of the bathroom, he scooped up the plain white mug off the counter and contemplated using his given name. Franklin? Frank? Oh, hell no, that was not happening at all. The idea was on the same par as the last swig of cold coffee that hit the back of his throat, sliding down in a bitter lurch. He tugged his favorite baseball cap on hard; the worn fabric trapping his hair against his head as it nearly scraped the top of his ears.

Ten would admit to being weird. But a dork? Nah. Someone named Franklin should be teaching English lit and wearing an argyle sweater. Whatever the hell argyle was, it sounded itchy. It sounded fashionable for someone about thirty years older than the thirty-six he already had on him.

Women, except for in his dreams, were picky creatures with hidden motives. Grease-monkeys were hardly fashionable. Necessary though, when the alternator went out The problem wasn’t liking women that way. Ten liked women, a lot.

He also liked comfortable clothes and doing things his own way. He shaved before the whiskers got out of hand and got a haircut when he felt like it. For dress up, Ten had his bowling-shirts, though he didn’t really bowl. Basketball was still his game. Between that and fishing, he found both crowds and isolation that kept his secrets safe and his peace of mind secure.

Ten stopped, his work boots sinking into the thick pile of the carpet as the negative energy infusing his aura lured his emotions downward, a holdover from his dreams. The dark and dangerous dreams edged at his thoughts, a dirge that threatened to drag him under. No, he told himself and the dark unsettled energy, I am happy with my life.

One hand balled into a fist, Ten reached with the other to touch the cool textured wall in his living room. The realness of the here and now, his world, centered him. Under his fingers, the faint textured pattern applied during the last remodel was soothing and calm. Positive energy and the collected memories of a lifetime of living in this house eased the memories of the things he did and saw in his nighttime dreamscape.

The house was his sanctuary. Small but adequate, and located in an indifferent neighborhood going through gentrification. Inherited from his parents almost thirteen years ago after the driver of a semi fell asleep at the wheel and literally ran over their tiny compact car. On a more positive note, they’d been one of those disgustingly-in-love couples; neither one of his parents would have survived long without the other.

At any rate, Ten had never lived anywhere else and the house fit his needs perfectly. He’d grown up here. In the same neighborhood where he’d caught the bus from the time he began kindergarten to the day he decided to stop struggling to fit in and dropped out.

Over the years, he’d kept himself busy by painting the walls when they needed it, uncovering and replacing the wood floor with carpet. The girly flower-covered sofa with its weird camel-hump had been replaced by a comfortable sectional with built in recliners. Gone too were the dainty glass and brass and glass coffee tables his mom had loved. In Ten’s opinion, the only real furniture a guy could kick his feet up on one side, drop a pizza box on the other, was sturdy wood.

For the most part though, the house was the same as the one he’d grown up in, with the same pictures and accumulated junk that his parents had collected during their marriage. Ten liked to think that it gave the house a good vibe without being creepy. The comforting energy that he relied on at the conclusion of the day worked its magic, sweeping the darkness into the crevices and lifting the weight from his shoulders. The day now had the bright newness a morning was supposed to have. Ten anticipated trying to figure out why Dan Hay’s little sedan wouldn’t accelerate over thirty without choking down. Today was going to be a good day.

Ten started towards the door, then stopped. He stared, confused at the empty hook where his keys usually hanged. Automatically, he patted his pockets, wondering if he left them in yesterday’s jeans. He glanced up, the hook was still empty.

“Denny!” The cold shiver started at the base of Ten’s neck. Stoically, he suppressed the shudder, drawing down his eyebrows when what he really wanted was to roll his eyes and laugh at the old trick. Ten hadn’t fallen for that one since he was eight. “C’mon Denny. I don’t have time to play poltergeist games.” Manifesting slowly, the short see-through figure of a child crossed his arms and pouted. Ten wiggled the fingers of one hand, palm out, and tried for the same stern attitude his dad used to use on him. “I’ve got to go to work.”

“I want to go with you.” Levitating up, Denny held out his small arms, forever caught in the innocent needy stage before a child starts to exert his independence. “You don’t take me anywhere no-mores.” Pictures and knick-knacks’ started trembled in place, a sure sign that Denny’s mood might go from the cute and pouty almost-five-year-old he’d died as to a demonic apparition having one hell of a tantrum. “I want to go to school with you.”

Catching and holding the ghost-child close, Ten wondered anew how something made up only of spirit and soul could have such solid mass and weight. Even Denny’s clothes changed depending on the spirit’s mood or what he’d been watching on TV.

Of course, no one else he’d ever met perceived ghosts the way he did. Sometimes, though someone may think they saw something when Ten was touching a spirit. But that was rare and Ten had tried over the years to limit his PDAs, or public displays of apparitions, to late night trips to the park so Denny could play.

He squeezed the ghost-child. “Remember, I stopped going to school a while ago. I go to work in a boring garage now.” Denny hung on tight. His mutinous pout was as much a barometer as the trembling pictures. Ten swung around, implementing plan B with the ease of a seasoned negotiator. “And I need my keys to get to the job so I have money to pay the cable company to keep your favorite TV show on.”

Anything cartoony or populated with puppets was Denny’s favorite. The more bright colors, and sing-along, the better. Thank the gods that the days of the hideous purple dinosaur had been replaced by childish Hispanic explorers and racecars. Ten could sit down and watch those without the urge to pray for a second ice age. That stupid singing, dancing dino was a disgrace to reptiles universally.

“Okay.” Denny grinned, gap-toothed as ever and wriggled to get down. The remote leapt of the coffee table, flying right into the boy’s hand; a neat trick Ten often wondered the mechanics of how it was accomplished.

Aiming the remote at the seventy-two inch plasma TV, he switched it to the cartoon channel. “Keys, Den.” Ten reminded, swiping them out of the air when they literally dropped out of nowhere. “Thanks buddy.” With Denny engrossed in old-fashioned wabbit hunting, he slipped out the door. Good-byes always made the ghost clingy and hard to leave behind.

Lingering summer heat hit Ten as he power-walked to his truck, parked on the street instead of the garage where Denny might hear him drive away. At the first light, he felt like congratulating himself for his grand escape. Then the first prickle of guilt hit him. He drove the rest of the way to work trying to convince himself that he wasn’t abandoning a five year old at home. Denny would have been four and a half years older than him had he lived, and frankly, Ten had to work.
The guilt rode him hard. Ten reminded himself that wasn’t sluffing off oldest friend in the world. His and Denny’s relationship had evolved from imaginary friend, to grade school curse, to the present. Ten shook his head. He didn’t even know what to call his relationship with Denny anymore.

He sighed. Yep, not only was he old. He was strange.

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