Jaxson's Song

by Angie West

  “You think so?”

  “Absolutely. And you still haven’t told me what you’re thankful for.”

  “Oh, that.” She grinned, then became serious. “This year, I’m thankful for family, and good friends…and for new beginnings.”

  * * *

  The house looked like crap. Amber stood on the cracked sidewalk and breathed in the hot, humid air. Beside her, her brother Logan stood silent and brooding. Clearly, he wasn’t any happier to be in the so-called “Sunshine State,” than she was. Why did they even call it that, anyway? So far, it had done nothing but rain and storm, and there were mosquitoes everywhere.

  “Come on, kids.” Their dad passed them on the sidewalk and held up a set of keys, jiggling them so they clinked together merrily. “Let’s get out of this heat.”

  “But it’s a dry heat,” she reminded him, rolling her eyes toward the gray, cloud-filled sky.

  “Bullshit,” Logan coughed beside her.

  “I don’t see why we had to leave Ohio,” she complained loudly, tucking a section of chocolate-brown hair behind one shoulder and crossing her arms over her chest.

  Logan nudged her and shook his head, then followed their dad into the house, leaving her standing on the sidewalk, alone. Overhead, the streetlight flickered, throwing strange, long shadows on the pavement before her. A chill crept along her spine, and she had the strangest sensation of being watched. Quickly she glanced back to the house, to the second story, where a shadow lingered in the house’s only brand new window. But when she blinked, the shadow was gone. Shaking her head, she followed her father and Logan into the house.

  The inside wasn’t as bad as she’d thought it would be. She wandered up the stairs after Logan, shaking her head as he called out “Dibs!” from the largest of the bedrooms. She opened one door after another, pausing in the hallway over a dark stain in the rug. It was faded, like someone had tried to wash it out, but the marks were still there, slightly darker than the droplet type stains on the staircase. These almost looked like…

  “Is that blood?” she asked Logan, watching him amble down the hall toward her.

  “Maybe.” He shrugged, totally unconcerned. “Who knows. This place is old. What’s in there?” he asked, gesturing to the door behind her at the end of the hall.

  “My room,” she shot back, turning her back on Logan and striding forward to twist the knob and shove the door open.

  “What in God’s name…”

  “Woah.”

  Inside, the entire room was one perfectly seamless, spotless, glass box.

  Author’s Note

  Thank you for reading Jaxson’s Song, the first book in my new Crystal Cove series. If you’ve enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a quick rating or review. Someone once told me that a review is the best gift an author can get, and I wholeheartedly agree. I know they make my day, and encourage me to keep writing and, most importantly, to keep learning. For information on current projects, promotions, and other tidbits, catch up with me on my website:

  http://awest2011.wix.com/angiewest

  or send me an e-mail at awest2011@live.com

  XOXO,

  Angie

  More from Angie West: The Fifth Hour.

  Broken Dreams...

  After receiving the bad news about their foundation, the Scotts’ decide it makes more sense to tear down and rebuild. It is then that the activity starts. Things that would challenge everything they believe in and test the family’s resolve in ways they hadn’t counted on.

  Broken Promises...

  Enter Chris and Ginger Malhaven of Atlanta, Georgia. Chris, a paranormal-fanatic-turned-renowned-investigator, and Ginger, a spitfire who’s determined to forget about the man who broke her heart in high school.

  Lives Intertwined.

  But if Ginger thought avoiding her determined ex-boyfriend and helping her brother solve the Scott’s case would be easy, she was dead wrong. Fate, it would seem, has other plans. A two-week mid-summer investigation is about to reunite a family and give Ginger a second chance at love-if she’s bold enough to take it.

  “For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms.”

  (Ephesians 6:12-13)

  Chapter One

  “Midnight ghost-hunting sucks.

  There, she’d said it. The one thought that had been on the tip of her tongue and repeatedly held back had finally been given life and voice. Those three little words hung in the air between them. The tense, uncomfortable silence that followed almost made Ginger regret her choice of words; almost.

  She was cramped and tired, and her eyes burned from having spent the last three hours squinting into the darkened room. On top of all that, she was hungry; a stomach churning reminder of why she rarely stayed up into the wee hours of the morning.

  “Well, it does,” Ginger muttered in her own defense.

  “What?”

  “Suck. This sucks.” Why was he making her play the bad guy by forcing her to own up to what any sane, rational living being would be feeling under such bizarre circumstances?

  Except he really wasn’t. The thought came on the heels of a fresh pang of guilt. Chris had been silently excited all evening, watching the shadows move with a breathless anticipation that eluded Ginger. He had asked for her help, her support; not her criticism.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.” Her breath misted in the cold air between them before finally evaporating and becoming part of the shadows that twisted throughout the corners of the old house.

  “If that’s how you feel...”

  “It’s...not.”

  “Really...,” Chris said, clearly skeptical.

  “Well, maybe just a little. Do we have to do this in the dark?”

  “Spirits don’t respond to the light.”

  “Obviously.” She hadn’t meant to snort, honest to God.

  “You don’t have to be here you know.”

  “Yes, I do. I live here.”

  “You could have said you didn’t want to do this, Ginger. If it’s making you so uncomfortable then go to bed.”

  “Will you turn the heat up?” she countered.

  “A cold environment is more conducive to...”

  “Chris!”

  “Fine.” His lips pressed together in a thin line. “I’ll turn the heat up. Up. Not on. The heat is already on.”

  “Sixty-five degrees is not having the heat on. It’s trying to turn your sister into an ice cube.” The grousing drew another grim look from her brother, who admitted defeat and flipped on the drawing room light before stalking his way to the main thermostat.

  “Happy now?”

  “You know I love you.”

  “Here we go.”

  “No, just listen to me.”

  “Go on.” He rested a hip against the oak dining table and crossed his arms over his broad chest.

  “Don’t you think you’re taking this thing a bit too far?”

  “What ‘thing’ are you referring to?”

  “This!” she cried. “The cameras, the audio recorders. The videos.” Her voice dropped to a furious whisper.

  “I didn’t know you were bringing a date home that night. I’ve already apologized for that.”

  “Yeah, well. Tell that to Adam.” Ginger blew a stray red hair from her face and barely resisted the urge to cringe at the memory.

  “Fine. I’ll apologize to Adam.”

  “Don’t bother. We broke up.”

  “Was it the video?”

  “Yes, damn it—it was the video.”

  “Won’t happen again.” He crossed his fingers in front of his chest as though he were some sort of modern day boy scout.

  “All I’m saying is maybe you need to find another hobby...” She gentled her tone, trying to make him see reason. “...like sports center or collecting. A nice coin collection sounds good.
You like old things.”

  “But my documentaries...”

  “Could be about anything. You could get into real journalism.”

  “I’m not a reporter.”

  “Then what about something artistic?”

  “Ginger, why does this make you so uncomfortable?”

  “It doesn’t. Not really.”

  “I think it does,” he countered. “I think this stuff scares you.”

  “Scares me? Are you serious?” Her footsteps echoed on the bare floor as she marched into the country kitchen and flipped the switch, flooding the room in pale golden light.

  “Yes, and I’d like to know why.”

  “There’s nothing to be scared of. This stuff isn’t real. None of it exists, Chris. Ghosts are not real.”

  “Says you.”

  “Yeah, me and anyone else with a lick of sense.”

  “There’s been documented evidence to the contrary. Explain that.” His challenge irked her and she couldn’t resist taking the bait.

  “Shadowy footage and bumps in the night are not proof. Houses settle and make noise. Dust particles float through the air. And who the hell can make out anything in the dark?” she countered. Ginger one Chris zero...and on his way to the nut ward if he keeps this up.

  “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he repeated. “If you didn’t want to help, all you had to do was say the word.”

  “Chris, this house is not haunted. You’re taking it too far is all I’m saying. Every week you’ve got hours upon hours of footage to go through. It’s just a little much.”

  “I disagree. But I won’t ask you to do this again. You’re off the hook.”

  “Sure. You creeping around down here all hours of the night like some sort of weirdo is oh so relaxing.” Ginger rolled her eyes and drained a glass of icy juice in a single unladylike gulp. She rinsed the glass and set it beside the chrome sink. “I’m going to bed.”

  “Ginger...”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing...,” he sighed. “Goodnight.”

  “Are you coming upstairs?”

  “In a bit.” She hesitated for a full minute before giving a curt nod and heading up the stairs. Tomorrow is another day...

  * * *

  Sunday morning came much too soon. “Nothing new there,” she grumbled, eying the puffiness below her eyes with rising irritation.

  Every Sunday she took turns with Chris on the most daunting task in the history of humanity: taking their grandmother shopping.

  Just the thought of the next four hellish hours was enough to make her groan. Gran was hard enough to take on a good day; and this, Ginger reflected, was not going to be a good day. She had already dropped her mascara into the sink and knocked her cell phone into the toilet trying to retrieve her makeup from its watery demise. In the end, both telephone and cosmetic had perished. The waterlogged tube was ruined. She was forced to wash her face, since leaving the house with one eye made up was not an option.

  Fresh-faced once more, she had carefully reapplied concealer, and after a quick peek at the clock, made a spur-of-the-moment decision to shave the space between her eyebrows. Normally, she plucked and occasionally she waxed; but on days where a touch-up was in order and time was short, she simply grabbed a razor and made do.

  She was just about done when Chris barreled into the bathroom, sending the heavy door crashing into her shoulder with jarring force. When all was said and done, Chris’s “shocking footage” had turned out to be car headlights reflecting off the fireplace mantle, and Ginger was missing most of her left eyebrow.

  Not a good start to what promised to be a tedious day. She regarded her drawn-in brow with no little scorn and decided she was as ready as she was likely to get. Grabbing her purse, she scowled at Chris, and managed to make it to Gran’s assisted-living apartment in record time, courtesy of road rage and a lead foot.

  “Sorry Grandma. I made it here as soon as I could. Are you ready to go?”

  “I was ready to go an hour ago.”

  “Great.” Ginger forced a smile. “Lets—“

  “But now I have to go to the bathroom.”

  “Oh,” she exhaled, deflated. “I’ll wait here. Unless you need help...?” Please don’t need help, please don’t need help; please don’t…

  “Thank you, but I haven’t forgotten how to wipe my own ass.”

  “Gran!”

  “I’m old, not an invalid,” she snapped, making her way down the hall to her bright pink powder room, the aluminum walker thunk-thunking all the way.

  “At least she’s using her walker today…,” Ginger muttered, taking a seat on Gran’s aging tweed sofa.

  That anyone had ever thought tweed was a good choice of fabric for a sofa was beyond absurd to Ginger. She shifted her attention to the rest of her over-bright surroundings and tried not to scratch.

  Gran loved pink. Any and all shades would do. Pink slipcovers on the chairs, pink feathers in a rose crystal vase, fuchsia cup holders…The only thing in the tidy living room that wasn’t pink was the dreaded tweed plaid couch—that and the draperies on the windows. Those were blue, done ironically enough in the very same silvery shade of aqua as Gran’s bi-monthly hair rinse. The thunk-thunking resumed a minute later, signaling the old woman’s return a full two minutes before she entered the room.

  “Don’t just stand there, girl: open the door and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The drive to their next stop took considerably longer than the initial thrill ride to the assisted living apartment. Ginger knew from experience that Gran considered anything over 20 mph to be speeding; she rode the brake all the way to the Save-N-Stop, breathing a sigh of relief when she was finally able to get out and stretch her aching legs. The memory came to her, unbidden, of mornings where her muscles would ache for an entirely different reason. Adam...

  “Don’t think about him,” she commanded through her teeth.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing Gran. Are you ready?” She tried for a chipper tone, but fell flat.

  “I’ve been ready for five minutes; and if you’ll stop lolly-gagging around and help me out of this rust trap, then maybe we would actually get some shopping done. Unless you want to stand here all morning talking to yourself.”

  “I wasn’t... Oh forget it,” Ginger sighed. “Here, let me help you.”

  Gran creaked and groaned her way to a standing position; then with walker firmly in place, she trudged across the parking lot to the wide double doors with the automatic open sensors, Ginger trailing behind. Ten short minutes later, they were in the store.

  “I forgot my purse in the car. I’ll just run and go get it.”

  “No, no...” Ginger’s eyes widened in horror. “You stay put Gran, I’ll run and get it.”

  “But I could fall and break a hip,” the old lady protested.

  “Standing here for sixty seconds?”

  “Yes. It happened to Melba just the other week,” Gran insisted, glaring at her youngest granddaughter.

  “You’ll be fine. I’ll be right back.”

  “If I’m on the floor when you get back, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I should be so lucky,” Ginger muttered under her breath.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing,” she tossed over her shoulder, refusing to meet Gran’s gimlet glare. She could practically feel those shrewd old eyes boring into her back as she dashed out the door and into the sun-baked parking lot. It took her seconds to retrieve the purse; she stopped only long enough to plunk change into the pay phone at the side of the aging structure.

  “Malhaven residence.” Chris answered on the fourth ring.

  “I hate you!” Ginger snapped before slamming the phone back into its cradle and hurrying to rejoin Gran.

  They made eight stops that day, each more mind numbing than the last. After the Save-N-Stop came the bank, the pet store—Gran liked to talk to the brightly colored birds along the back wall—t
he post office, Hobby Lobby, Old Country Buffet, the Dollar Store, and the pharmacy. Gran always saved the pharmacy for last, despite protests from her family. They never arrived earlier than four-thirty p.m. and were always asked to leave at the posted five o’clock closing time.

  The pharmacy was, hands down, Ginger’s least favorite excursion of a day with Gran, and she was not alone. The general consensus of the entire family was unanimous: anything was preferable to taking Gran to the pharmacy. Fifty-two card pick up, sand in your bikini bottom, strep throat, mono, a yeast infection, bird flu, flesh eating disease, and falling down the stairs were all activities that had made the collective family list of ’Things I’d Rather Experience Than Take The Old Bag to CVS’.

  “Take me to Walgreens,” Gran protested as Ginger cautiously steered the car into the near-empty parking lot.

  “We’re already here. Besides, you’re not allowed in Walgreens anymore, remember?”

  She immediately regretted her choice of words. Asking Gran if she remembered her pharmacy nemesis was like asking if she had remembered to put a bra and underwear on that morning: dangerous territory and something the old woman was likely not only to remember, but pounce on and bitch about for the next hour. But wait…

  Although she couldn’t vouch for the underpants, Ginger acknowledged with a sideways look, it looked as though Gran had in fact forgotten her bra that morning. She frowned. That wasn’t possible. Not unless senility was contagious.

  “Nana, where is your brassiere?”

  “Is that your business?”

  Lord have mercy. “Gran, I know that you left the house this morning with your bra on. It is now...” she glanced at her watch “...four-thirty, and you’re not wearing it. Where did it go?”