Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble, a Paranormal Romance

by H. P. Mallory

  Other Titles by H.P. Mallory:

  To Kill A Warlock

  The murder of a dark arts warlock.

  A shape-shifting, ravenous creature on the loose.

  A devilishly handsome stranger sent to investigate.

  Sometimes working law enforcement for the Netherworld

  is a real bitch.

  Dulcie O’Neil is a fairy. And not the type to frolic in gardens.

  She’s a Regulator—a law-enforcement agent who monitors the creatures of the Netherworld to keep them from wreaking havoc in the mortal world.

  When a warlock is murdered and Dulcie was the last person to see him alive, she must uncover the truth before she’s either deported back to the Netherworld, or she becomes the next victim.

  Enter Knight Vander, a sinfully attractive investigator sent from the Netherworld to work the case with Dulcie. Between battling her attraction to her self-appointed partner, keeping a sadomasochistic demon in check, and fending off the advances of a sexy and powerful vampire, Dulcie’s got her hands full.

  As the body count increases, Dulcie finds herself battling dark magic, reconnoitering in S&M clubs and suffering the greatest of all betrayals.

  FIRE BURN AND CAULDRON BUBBLE

  by

  H.P. Mallory

  Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

  Copyright © 2010 by H.P. Mallory

  Discover the other titles by H.P. Mallory:

  To Kill A Warlock

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  Acknowledgements:

  First, to my fantastic critique partner, Lori Brighton. Without you,

  this book never would have been. Thanks for all your help.

  To my mother, for all your support. Thank you.

  To my husband for giving me the time and space to pursue my

  writing ambitions.

  To my baby son, Finn, just for being.

  ONE

  It’s not every day you see a ghost.

  On this particular day, I’d been minding my own business, tidying up the shop for the night while listening to Girls Just Wanna Have Fun (guilty as charged). It was late—maybe nine p.m. A light bulb had burnt out in my tarot reading room a few days ago, and I still hadn’t changed it. I have a tendency to overlook the menial details of life. Now, a small red bulb fought against the otherwise pitch darkness of the room, lending it a certain macabre feel.

  In search of a replacement bulb, I attempted to sort through my “if it doesn’t have a home, put it in here” box when I heard the front door open. Odd—I could’ve sworn I’d locked it.

  “We’re closed,” I yelled.

  I didn’t hear the door closing, so I put Cyndi Lauper on mute and strolled out to inquire. The streetlamps reflected through the shop windows, the glare so intense, I had to remind myself they were just lights and not some alien spacecraft come to whisk me away.

  The room was empty.

  Considering the possibility that someone might be hiding, I swallowed the dread climbing up my throat. Glancing around, I searched for something to protect myself with in case said breaker-and-enterer decided to attack. My eyes rested on a solitary broom standing in the corner of the Spartan room. The broom was maybe two steps from me. That might not sound like much, but my fear had me by the ankles and wouldn’t let go.

  Jolie, get the damned broom.

  Thank God for that little internal voice of sensibility that always seems to visit at just the right time.

  Freeing my feet from the fear tar, I grabbed the broom and neared my desk. It was a good place for someone to hide—well, really, the only place to hide. When it comes to furnishings, I’m a minimalist.

  I jammed the broom under the desk and swept vociferously.

  Nothing. The hairs on my neck stood to attention as a shiver of unease coursed through me. I couldn’t shake the feeling and after deciding no one was in the room, I persuaded myself it must’ve been kids. But kids or not, I would’ve heard the door close.

  I didn’t discard the broom.

  Like a breath from the arctic, a chill crept up the back of my neck.

  I glanced up and there he was, floating a foot or so above me. Stunned, I took a step back, my heart beating like a frantic bird in a small cage.

  “Holy crap.”

  The ghost drifted toward me until he and I were eye level. My mind was such a muddle, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to run or bat at him with the broom. Fear cemented me in place, and I did neither, just stood gaping at him.

  Thinking the Mexican standoff couldn’t last forever, I replayed every fact I’d ever learned about ghosts: they have unfinished business, they’re stuck on a different plane of existence, they’re here to tell us something, and most importantly, they’re just energy.

  Energy couldn’t hurt me.

  My heartbeat started regulating, and I returned my gaze to the ectoplasm before me. There was no emotion on his face; he just watched me as if waiting for me to come to my senses.

  “Hello,” I said, thinking how stupid I sounded—treating him like every Tom, Dick or Harry who ventured through my door. Then I felt stupid that I felt stupid—what was wrong with greeting a ghost? Even the dead deserve standard propriety.

  He wavered a bit, as if someone had turned a blow dryer on him, but didn’t say anything. He was young, maybe in his twenties. His double-breasted suit looked like it was right out of The Untouchables, from the 1930s if I had to guess.

  His hair was on the blond side, sort of an ash blond. It was hard to tell because he was standing, er floating, in front of a wooden door that showed through him. Wooden door or not, his face was broad, and he had a crooked nose—maybe it’d been broken in a fight. He was a good-looking ghost as ghosts go.

  “Can you speak?” I asked, still in disbelief that I was attempting to converse with the dead. Well, I’d never thought I could, and I guess the day had come to prove me wrong. Still he said nothing, so I decided to continue my line of questioning.

  “Do you have a message from someone?”

  He shook his head.

  “No.” His voice sounded like someone talking underwater.

  Hmm. Well, I imagined he wasn’t here to get his future told—seeing as how he didn’t have a future. Maybe he was passing through? Going toward the light? Come to haunt my shop?

  “Are you on your way somewhere?” I had so many questions for this spirit but didn’t know where to start, so all the stupid ones came out first.

  “I was sent here,” he managed and in his ghostly way, I think he smiled. Yeah, not a bad looking ghost.

  “Who sent you?” It seemed the logical thing to ask.

  He said nothing and like that, vanished, leaving me to wonder if I’d floething bad to eat at lunch.

  Indigestion can be a bitch.

  #

  “So, no more encounters?” Christa, my best friend and only employee, asked while leaning against t
he desk in our front office.

  I shook my head and pooled into a chair by the door.

  “Maybe if you hadn’t left early to go on your date, I wouldn’t have had a visit at all.”

  “Well, one of us needs to be dating,” she said, knowing full well I hadn’t had any dates for the past six months. An image of my last date fell into my head like a bomb. Let’s just say I’d never try the Internet dating route again. It wasn’t that the guy had been bad looking—he’d looked like his photo, but what I hadn’t been betting on was that he’d get wasted and proceed to tell me how he was separated from his wife and had three kids. Not even divorced! Yeah, that hadn’t been on his match.com profile.

  “Let’s not get into this again…”

  “Jolie, you need to get out. You’re almost thirty…”

  “Two years from it, thank you very much.”

  “Whatever…you’re going to end up old and alone. You’re way too pretty, and you have such a great personality, you can’t end up like that. Don’t let one bad date ruin it.” Her voice reached a crescendo. Christa has a tendency towards the dramatic.

  “I’ve had a string of bad dates, Chris.” I didn’t know what else to say—I was terminally single. It came down to the fact that I’d rather spend time with my cat or Christa rather than face another stream of losers.

  As for being attractive, Christa insisted I was pretty, but I wasn’t convinced. It’s one thing when your best friend says you’re pretty, but it’s entirely different when a man says it.

  And I couldn’t remember the last time a man had said it.

  I caught my reflection in the glass of the desk and studied myself while Christa rambled on about all the reasons I should be dating. I supposed my face was pleasant enough—a pert nose, cornflower blue eyes and plump lips. A spattering of freckles across the bridge of my nose interrupts an otherwise pale landscape of skin, and my shoulder length blond hair always finds itself drawn into a ponytail.

  Head-turning doubtful, girl-next-door probable.

  As for Christa, she doesn’t look like me at all. For one thing, she’s pretty tall and leggy, about five-eight and four inches taller than I am. She has dark hair the color of mahogany, green eyes and pinkish cheeks. She’s classically pretty—like cameo pretty. She’s rail skinny and has no boobs. I have a tendency to gain weight if I eat too much, I have a definite butt, and the twins are pretty ample as well. Maybe that made me sound like I’m fat—I’m not but I could stand to lose five pounds.

  “Are you even listening to me?” Christa asked.

  Shaking my head, I entered the reading room, thinking I’d left my glasses there.

  I heard the door open.

  “Well, hello to you,” Christa said in a high-pitched, sickening-sweet and non-Christa voice.

  “Afternoon.” The deep timbre of his voice echoed through the room, my ears mistaking his baritone for music.

  “I’m here for a reading, but I don’t have an appointment...”

  “Oh, that’s cool,” Christa interrupted and from the saccharin tone of her voice, it was pretty apparent this guy had to be eye candy.

  Giving up on finding my reading glasses, I headed out in order to introduce myself to our stranger. Upon seeing him, I couldn’t contain the gasp that escaped my throat. It wasn’t his Greek God, Sean-Connery-would-be-envious good looks that grabbed me first or his considerable height.

  It was his aura.

  I’ve been able to see auras since before I can remember, but I’d never seen anything like his. It radiated out of him as if it had a life of its own and the color! Usually auras are pinkish or violet in healthy people, yellowish or orange in those unhealthy. His was the most vibrant blue I’ve ever seen—the color of the sky after a storm when the sun’s rays bask everything in glory.

  It emanated out of him like electricity.

  “Hi, I’m Jolie,” I said, remembering myself.

  “How do you do?” And to make me drool even more than I already was, he had an accent, a British one. Ergh.

  I glanced at Christa as I invited him into the reading room. Her mouth dropped open like a fish.

  My sentiments exactly.

  His navy blue sweater stretched to its capacity while attempting to span a pair of broad shoulders and a wide chest. The broad shoulders and spacious chest in question tapered to a trim waist and finished in a finale of long legs. The white shirt peeking from underneath his sweater contrasted against his tanned complexion and made me consider my own fair skin with dismay.

  The stillness of the room did nothing to allay my nerves. I took a seat, shuffled the tarot cards, and handed him the deck.

  “Please choose five cards and lay them face up on the table.”

  He took a seat across from me, stretching his legs and rested his hands on his thighs. I chanced a look at him and took in his chocolate hair and darker eyes. His face was angular, and his Roman nose lent him a certain Paul Newman-esque quality. The beginnings of shadow did nothing to hide the definite cleft in his strong chin.

  He didn’t take the cards and instead, just smile, revealing pearly whites and a set of grade A dimples.

  “You did come for a reading?” I asked.

  He nodded and covered my hand with his own. What felt like lightning ricocheted up my arm, and I swear my heart stopped for a second. The lone red bulb blinked a few times then continued to grow brighter until I thought it might explode. My gaze moved from his hand, up his arm and settled on his dark brown eyes. With the red light reflecting against him, he looked like the devil come to barter for my soul.

  “I came for a reading, yes, but not with the cards. I’d like you to read…me.” His rumbling baritone was hypnotic, and I fought the need to pull my hand from his warm grip.

  I set the stack of cards aside, focusing on him again. I was so nervous, I doubted if any of my visions would come. They were about as reliable as the weather anchors you see on TV.

  After several long uncomfortable moments, I gave up.

  “I can’t read you, I’m sorry,” I said, my voice breaking. I shifted the eucalyptus-scented incense I’d lit to the farthest corner of the table, and waved my hands in front of my face, dispersing the smoke that seemed intent on wafting directly into my eyes. It swirled and danced in the air, as if indifferent to the fact that I couldn’t help this stranger.

  He removed his hand but stayed seated. I thought he’d leave, but he made no motion to do anything of the sort.

  “Take your time.”

  Take my time? I was a nervous wreck and had no visions whatsoever. I just wanted this handsome stranger to leave, so my habitual life could return to normal.

  But it appeared that was not in the cards.

  The silence pounded against the walls, echoing the pulse of blood in my veins. Still, my companion said nothing. I’d had enough.

  “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  He smiled again. “What do you see when you look at me?”

  Adonis.

  No, I couldn’t say that. Maybe he’d like to hear about his aura? I didn’t have any other cards up my sleeve...

  “I can see your aura,” I almost whispered, fearing his ridicule.

  His brows drew together.

  “What does it look like?”

  “It isn’t like anyone’s I’ve ever seen before. It’s bright blue, and it flares out of you…almost like electricity.”

  His smile disappeared, and he leaned forward.

  “Can you see everyone’s auras?”

  The incense dared to assault my eyes again, so I put it out and dumped it in the trashcan.

  “Yes. Most people have much fainter glows to them—more often than not in the pink or orange family. I’ve never seen blue.”

  He chewed on that for a moment.

  “What do you suppose it is you’re looking at—someone’s soul?”

  I shook my head.

  “I don’t know. I do know, though, if someone’s ailing, I can see it. Their aura g
oes a bit yellow.” He nodded, and I added, “You’re healthy.”

  He laughed, and I felt silly for saying it. He stood up, his imposing height making me feel all of three inches tall. Not enjoying the feel of him staring down at me, I stood and watched him pull out his wallet. I guess he’d heard enough and thought I was full of it. He set a one hundred dollar bill on the table in front of me. My hourly rate was fifty dollars, and we’d been maybe twenty minutes.

  “I’d like to come see you for the next three Tuesdays at four p.m. Please don’t schedule anyone after me. I’ll compensate you for the entire afternoon.”

  I was shocked—what in the world would he want to come back for?

  “Jolie, it was a pleasure meeting you, and I look forward to our next session.” He turned to walk out of the room when I remembered myself.

  “Wait, what name should I put in the appointment book?”

  He turned and faced me.

  “Rand.”

  Then he walked out of the shop.

  #

  By the time Tuesday rolled around, I hadn’t had much of a busy week. No more visits from ghosts, spirits, or whatever the PC term is for them. I’d had a few walk-ins, but that was about it. It was strange. October in Los Angeles was normally a busy time.

  “Ten minutes to four,” Christa said with a smile, leaning against the front desk and looking up from a stack of photos—her latest bout into photography.

  “I wonder if he’ll come,” I mumbled.

  Taking the top four photos off the stack, she arranged them against the desk as if they were puzzle pieces. I walked up behind her, only too pleased to find an outlet for my anxiety, my nerves skittish with the pending arrival of one very handsome man.

  The photo in the middle caught my attention first. It was a landscape of the Malibu coastline, the intense blue of the ocean mirrored by the sky and interrupted only by the green of the hillside.

  “Wow, that’s a great one, Chris.” I picked the photo up. “Can you frame it? I’d love to hang it in the store.”