Ghost of Himself

by Pandora Pine

  GHOST OF HIMSELF

  By

  Pandora Pine

  Ghost of Himself

  Copyright © Pandora Pine 2019

  All Rights Reserved

  This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the copyright owner except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, events, business establishments or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First Digital Edition: January 2019

  For Joe:

  Heart Stones. Dragonflies. Henry. Guns ‘N Roses. Spirit.

  PROLOGUE

  Copeland

  July 2016…

  The humidity of mid-summer in New Orleans was nearly suffocating. It was almost as if the air itself had its own gravitational force pushing against Copeland Forbes’ body. These were the days he lived for. Cajun to the core, his mother’s maiden name was Devereaux, this weather energized him, rather than making him wilt like some hothouse flower left too long without water.

  Cope was looking forward to the beginning of this work week. He had several psychic readings scheduled with his favorite clients, a group of tourists coming in from Nashville was scheduled for tomorrow night at the ballroom of a local hotel, and his next Spell Casting 101 class started tonight.

  There was nothing he loved more than teaching spells to a new class of hopeful witches and warlocks. Several new students would make the grade, while others would not. Magick wasn’t for everyone. Some lacked the skill or the ambition to thrive under his ambitious program, while others wanted to learn these skills with the wrong intent in mind. It wouldn’t do to think about the latter now. It was water under the bridge.

  Shaking his head, Cope flipped the blinker on and waited patiently for other cars to pass him. Pulling into the small parking lot off Barracks Street, Cope parked his sleek, black BMW. His psychic shop, Skullduggery, was around the block on Decatur Street, boxed in on one side by another psychic shop, Intuitions, and on the other side by the famous shop Hex, which also had a second location in the Witch City, Salem, Massachusetts. Thankfully, there was the Envie Espresso Bar on the corner of Barracks and Decatur. The caffeine helped to calm the nerves that being around all the psychic energy stirred up.

  He loved his job and wouldn’t trade it for anything, even though he never needed to work a day in his life. If his investments didn’t make another penny, his great-grandchildren never needed to work a day in their lives.

  Copeland had been born into old southern money on his father’s side of the family. His last name said it all: Forbes. His father wasn’t related to the famous Boston Forbes family, but the Louisiana branch wasn’t exactly mucking around in the bayou with the alligators and crawdads, either. Their pipeline to wealth had been in natural gas.

  His mother, on the other hand, was a former southern belle. Elizabeth Deveraux had been a debutante of the first water, as sweet as she was beautiful. The story went that she stole Buford Forbes’ heart the very night they met, but that was because she’d put a hoodoo curse on him. Elizabeth was not only from one of the best families in New Orleans, she was also a clairvoyant, a palmist, and a witch.

  The problem with being from one of the best families in The Crescent City was keeping up appearances. Elizabeth’s father had been a little too fond of the riverboat casinos. As a result, the family needed a fresh infusion of cash. By the time the Forbes family found out about the dire straits going on at la manse de Deveraux, it was too late. The bun that was to become Copeland was already in the oven. All that was left to do was exchange rings and say, “je fais.” Buford Forbes was all for saying, “I do,” thanks to another little spell courtesy of Elizabeth. At least that was the story she’d told Copeland on her death bed. How much of it was true and how much of it was the morphine talking, Cope didn’t know.

  “Good morning, Collette!” Cope breezed into Envie, badly needing a jolt of something strong. “Iced mocha latte, please, with a double shot.”

  Collette eyed him suspiciously. Her fake lashes brushed against her heavily rouged cheeks. “Bonjour, Cope. Aren’t you usually high on life?”

  “Late night.” Cope winked at her.

  “You go, mon cher.” Colette smiled brightly and was off to make his drink.

  She didn’t need to know that the late night entailed Cope messing up the bedsheets by himself. He always had trouble sleeping the night before a new class started. It was his version of Christmas Eve. Now, after the situation with he-who-shall-not-be-named, there was trepidation thrown in with the excited anxiety Cope had been feeling.

  He’d woken up this morning with a feeling of foreboding. Cope couldn’t quite place where it was coming from. Was it just his nerves playing up? Or was it a warning of something more insidious on his horizon?

  The one problem with being a psychic was that his powers were useless on himself. Turning around he looked out over the crowd enjoying breakfast at Envie. Quickly scanning them, he found seven people who were having affairs, three pregnancies, one woman contemplating slipping eye drops into her husband’s nightly bourbon, and a lady dying to ask Collette out. As much salacious intel as he’d gathered, none of it mattered a good goddamn to him. The reason for his feeling uneasy was as big a mystery to him now as it had been before he’d scanned the room.

  All he’d have to do to solve the problem is walk down the street and have a chat with Onyx Kerr, the owner of Hex. All of the psychics on Rue Decatur might be outward rivals, but in truth, they were all close friends. Onyx would be able to get to the bottom of this little mystery in five minutes flat. Of course, five minutes after that, half of the French Quarter would know what was going on with Cope and there would be some extra details thrown in for pizazz. Onyx was famous for his pizazz. Cope should know. He’d ridden that crazy train. Twice. The ecstasy wasn’t worth the agony.

  “Here you go, Cope!” Colette set his drink down with a straw. “Au revoir, lecteur d'esprit.”

  “Bye, Colette.” Cope set his money down and grabbed his drink. With a wave he was out the door. She always called him a mind reader. He wasn’t. Not exactly.

  Collette was a bubbly soul by nature. It had been easy to tell when something had been wrong a few months back. A quick dip into her brain showed him it was trouble with her girlfriend. He’d offered a word or two of advice and she’d been calling him a mind reader ever since. Cope had been tempted to tell her about the aqua-haired chick in the fourth booth, but he had enough going on at the moment. If it was meant to be with Genevieve, it would be. They didn’t need his help.

  Walking past Hex, he got a blast of energy from Onyx. He was obviously the early bird getting the worm this morning. Cope could feel the love spell Onyx was casting. His spine tingled with the feel-good energy. He didn’t like to mess with love spells or potions. They had a way of going too easily awry. Onyx was a master, though and Cope didn’t mind referring his clients next door for help in the romance department.

  Once Cope was past Hex, he turned his mind back to the subject at hand. What was making him feel like an entire girls’ dance team was doing the Whip and Nae Nae on his grave? It was probably nothing. He was just sensitive after what happened with Deacon Boudreaux.

  There was always one bright light in each Spell Casting 101 class. Nine times out of ten, it wasn’t the student who came in with the swagger or the lineage. The star pupil was usually the student in the back of the class who wouldn’t say, “boo!” if a spirit bit them. That had been Deacon Boudreaux to a T.

  The young man had blown Copeland away with his innate skill and intuitive nature. His killer grin and blue eyes hadn’t hurt either. It hadn’t been long before Copel
and’s lessons were continuing outside the classroom.

  The end had come, personally and from a student/teacher standpoint, when Deacon’s interests starting venturing into black magick. Copeland had made it clear in the class syllabus that only white magick would be permitted in his class. Deacon had not only crossed the line, he’d blown it up. Literally. The spell he’d cast that last night had sent another student to the ER at University Medical Center with second degree burns.

  After the dust had settled, Copeland had told Deacon he was no longer welcome in class or in his bed. Deacon hadn’t taken the news well. He’d started blowing up Cope’s phone with calls and showing up in places where he had no right being. Needless to say, Copeland wouldn’t be getting involved with any other students going forward. Even if they had abs of steel and asses carved by Michelangelo himself.

  Pulling his keys out of his pocket by the sugar skull keychain, Cope noticed the door was open a crack. He knew he hadn’t left things like this last night. Sweeping the shop with his sixth sense, he found someone hiding in the back of the store near his reading room. His gift wasn’t giving him a clue as to who this person was.

  Calling 911 crossed his mind, but what if it was a kid who’d just been looking for a dry place to spend the night? He didn’t want to call out the cavalry for such a small infraction. He’d just hand the kid some money and send him to Envie for breakfast.

  Crossing over the threshold, Copeland realized immediately that he made a mistake. He should have stayed outside and called 911. He felt the energy start to drain out of him as if he were battery-operated toy on its last bit of power. His coffee slipped from his hand, crashing to the floor and spilling its contents everywhere.

  He grabbed the front counter to keep himself upright. There was only one person he knew who was powerful enough to cast this kind of spell.

  “You always were punctual, Copeland,” a voice sneered.

  “Speak of the devil,” Copeland muttered. “What do you want, Deacon?”

  “You abandoned me, Cope. Left me without a teacher. Without a lover. What kind of a man does that?” Deacon Boudreaux stepped out of the shadows. His short blond hair was perfectly styled, as always, but the usual light in his blue eyes was gone. Left instead were lifeless orbs like doll eyes. He was dressed in black jeans and a black button down, same as anyone else in this part of town. Cope couldn’t help thinking he’d blend in when he walked out the door.

  “If you wanted to talk, you wouldn’t have broken in. You would have made an appointment under a fake name and we could have had a civilized conversation. You didn’t come here for answers. You came here to show off. I can feel you sapping my energy. This is something else. Revenge, maybe.” He was trying with all of his remaining energy to read Deacon’s intent. Cope wasn’t getting anything.

  Deacon stepped closer. His entire lower body was blocked by the checkout counter. It wasn’t until he walked closer to the door that Copeland caught the glint of something in his left hand.

  “This isn’t about revenge, per say. It’s about an eye for an eye.” Deacon’s blue eyes blazed with anger.

  Not only had Deacon’s abilities gotten stronger, he’d also apparently gone off his rocker. Cope narrowed his eyes on Deacon’s left hand. The glint he’d seen was the shine of the sun off a knife. A stiletto by the look of it. This wasn’t good. With him losing strength by the second, he wasn’t going to have much left to fight for his life. “How is this an eye for an eye?”

  “You were supposed to teach me. You promised we’d get into more advanced spells. You lied.” Deacon’s voice was calm, but the look in his eyes was deadly.

  “You obviously found another teacher.” Cope hadn’t taught him how to do this. Draining the life force out of a person was a spell he would never cast himself, never mind try to teach a student. He’d heard of this spell before, but had never attempted to work it. This was some of the blackest magick he’d ever encountered.

  “Who isn’t you!” Deacon challenged back.

  “So, what, you’re here to kill me? Is that what this is?” Copeland started edging back toward the door. Maybe he could make a break for it and get outside before Deacon could reach him.

  “I told you, it’s an eye for an eye.” Deacon moved closer. His hand tightened on his weapon.

  Cope shook his head. He was starting to lose the ability to reason. An eye for an eye meant that he’d taken something from Deacon and now his crazed ex-lover was here to take something back from him. This whole thing was ridiculous. Copeland hadn’t taken anything from his student. “What did I take from you, Deacon?” He bumped up against the shop door. The bell clanged as his body slumped against the glass.

  “My heart,” he growled. “Now, I’m going to take yours.” Raising the knife, Deacon slashed at Copeland’s chest.

  Pain like he’d never felt before sizzled through Copeland’s body. Knowing he didn’t have a lot of time, he sent out a psychic S.O.S., hoping Onyx Kerr or one of the other talents at Hex would hear him and come to help. Looking down, he could see blood soaking through his shirt. “Deak, please…”

  The last thing Copeland saw before the darkness took him was Deacon’s raised arm and maniacal smile.

  1

  Copeland

  September, Present Day…

  Copeland Forbes felt like shit. It had been par for the course over the last two years. Being stabbed and nearly bleeding to death had the tendency to do that to a person. This went beyond his recovery though. What he was feeling was another malady altogether.

  The worst of it had started a few weeks back with a headache that he thought would kill him. Three days later, he was praying it would. Now, he was just praying he could make it off the damn airplane and to his final destination before it did just that.

  After Deacon’s attack, Onyx Kerr had heard his psychic distress signal and had come running in time to save his life. The psychic had been sitting in his room at University Medical Center when he’d woken up the next morning. He’d explained that he’d put protective wards and charms on Cope, the room, and the hospital so that Deacon couldn’t get to him again. That was before he’d dropped the bad news that his former lover hadn’t been caught by the police.

  Two years later, there was still no sign of him.

  When Cope had been released from the hospital, he had a decision to make. The most important one of his life. With Deacon Boudreaux still out there somewhere, Cope felt like he had two choices: go back to his life and live it boldly or hide, stay safe, and survive. He’d chosen option B.

  With his money and resources, it hadn’t been hard to arrange for a house on the ocean down in Galveston, Texas. He’d hated the idea of leaving New Orleans, but recovering his strength was more important. NOLA would be there for him when he was strong enough to come home.

  He turned Skullduggery over to Onyx Kerr and made sure an account was set up for the bills to be paid. With that, he’d been driven out of New Orleans, the only home he’d ever known.

  Life in Galveston had been boring as fuck. The key to maintaining his anonymity was not practicing magick or using his gifts. All he’d ever been his whole life was a psychic and a witch. He hadn’t known what to do with himself those first few weeks at the beach. He’d slept and done so many crossword puzzles that he’d swear his brain was going to burst with all of the new words he’d learned.

  He’d started walking the beach. Then he started running. Yoga and meditation were next. After a while he started to feel like his old self again. He’d even given a thought to going home, to stepping back into his old life and not letting the threat of Deacon Boudreaux keep him in seclusion, away from his home and his career.

  Then the headaches started. Just small ones at first. He’d popped some Tylenol and hadn’t given them another thought. A few weeks later had come the body aches, then the fatigue. He’d gotten to the point that he’d barely been able to get out of bed.

  Usually the up and at ‘em type, he’d been
more of a couch potato lately. No yoga, no walks on the beach. His bizarre list of physical ailments had troubled him so much that he’d thrown in the towel and gone to see his doctor back in New Orleans under the cover of darkness.

  Dr. Hugh Fontenot had been surprised by Copeland’s condition. Cope had mentioned the random body aches, headaches, and fatigue to the intake nurse. What he hadn’t mentioned was the thirty-pound weight loss. At 5’10” and one-hundred-fifty pounds, he’d always been the picture of health, but at one-hundred-twenty-pounds, Cope looked skeletal. His blue eyes appeared sunken in his head and strands of his blond hair had started falling out by the handful. He could see the outline of his ribs in the mirror when he took his shirt off.

  The doctor had given him a complete physical and run every blood test known to man. The only thing he’d been able to find was that Cope was low on Vitamin D, which could help to explain the fatigue, but would in no way explain the rapid weight loss or the body aches. Dr. Fontenot’s last question was the one that had stuck with Cope, even now, two days later. Being Cajun himself and aware of Cope’s gifts, he was tuned into the psychic’s life beyond their roles as doctor and patient. His last question was to ask if Copeland was under some kind of psychic attack.

  Oddly enough, it was something Copeland had never considered. It should have been the first thing he’d investigated. In all of his thirty-eight years, he’d only ever had a handful of colds and one nasty brush with the flu. Physical illness wasn’t something he often dealt with. Admittedly, he’d been too distracted by thoughts of Deacon Boudreaux being able to find him and finish what he started to be able to devote his full attention to what was plaguing him.

  When the headaches hadn’t been as debilitating as they were now, Cope tried to figure out who the hell was doing this to him. Being a long-standing psychic in NOLA meant there were a lot of people looking to take a shot at him. There were rivals, up and comers, former clients, husbands of present clients sick of paying his fees, dissatisfied customers, and angry spirits reaching out from the great beyond. If he had to make a list of potential names it could go on for page upon page.