Dedication
For Eugene. Thanks for believing in me.
I’d also like to say a huge “Thank you” to my wonderful editor. Sue-Ellen, you’re awesome. I appreciate all the hard work you put into this book. And to Scott for the excellent cover.
Prologue
For me, seeing ghosts pays the bills.
Most of the time, it’s still a struggle to make ends meet, but seeing ghosts is something that’s affected me most of my life, so why not make a living out of it?
It makes sense, right?
I was six years old the first time I crossed paths with one of them.
The sensations I experienced during my first encounter are still vivid. My senses seem to overload whenever the memory swamps my mind—the heavy breathing, my heart racing, the unexplained terror prickling along my skin. I was just a little girl sitting up in bed with the covers clutched up to my neck, scared out of my mind. That tiny bedroom was supposed to be my safe haven and I’d refused to let down my defenses.
Even then, I’d never been a stranger to odd sensations. During my toddler and preschool years, it manifested in the form of invisible friends. I always knew someone was there, I just couldn’t see them. I was too young to understand why some places chilled me to the bone while others seemed filled with warmth and safety. Or why sometimes it felt like a cold hand touched my shoulder but there’d be no one there when I turned around to check.
I’d assumed that invisible monsters were trying to get me, and if I kept my hands and feet tucked into bed all the time, I could somehow keep the scarier ones at bay. I even held my bladder until morning, scared something would drag me under the bed if I dared to step into the darkness in pursuit of the bathroom.
My mother, father and I lived with my grandfather. I loved having him around. I still do. Grandpa can be very creative, and dying hasn’t changed that.
If I ran screaming out of a room because the blinds shut by themselves, or strange shadows shifted along the walls, he was always there to listen to my scattered chatter. He helped to calm me and never failed to make me feel better, safe, even though half the time I felt like I was going crazy.
As it turned out, I wasn’t going nuts.
The night when everything started to make sense, I was alone in my bedroom and sweating under my pink pajamas. My nostrils tingled as I hugged my teddy closer and sniffed the sweet aroma of strawberries as they gradually filled the room. For reasons I still don’t understand, my grandmother always smelled like strawberries. And as my small lungs breathed in the sweet scent, I knew she was with me again.
Cancer had claimed her life a few months before my sixth birthday, but her spirit stayed close.
Grandma’s scent sparked off memories of love and belonging inside my heart. She materialized as a shadowy figure and settled into the last image I had of her. She stood close to my bed, bright in the darkness of the bedroom, wearing her favorite pale blue summer dress and matching sandals. Her hair was mostly white with a few flecks of brown and swept up in a ponytail that always made her look younger.
She was as beautiful in death as she had been in life. The brightness of her spirit made me think of angels. Back then, I hadn’t known much about life, death and spirits. I just knew she was gone. Grandpa used to tell me that she’d gone to heaven. He’s quite the storyteller.
Grandma was my first active encounter. The first time the world fell away and I entered the spirit’s zone.
Since that night, there have been many.
In a way, my grandmother opened the door to my awareness. Turned the key to my talent and allowed me to see what was really there in between life and death, sandwiched between light and dark. Answering why I could hear, see and feel things others couldn’t.
When I started to relay my grandmother’s messages, my mother freaked out. Neither one of my parents believed a word I said, claimed it was natural for a child so close to her grandmother to hallucinate about seeing her. What they thought never really bothered me. I’d always been closer to my grandparents anyway.
Even when I overheard my parents discussing that I might be mentally disturbed, I didn’t care. Grandpa put a stop to their concerns. We all lived under the same roof, but my grandfather was my real guardian.
My parents’ refusal to believe affected me. Eventually, I stopped mentioning things they might consider strange and spent my childhood years pretending I was just like every other normal little girl.
But I never fit the mold, though I got pretty good at pretending. It was for the best. Mum and Dad refused to understand me. They were too skeptical.
“It skips a generation, you know?” I remember Granny whispering to me. “Your mother never accepted the things I could see. She isn’t sensitive like you and me.” She sighed and smiled. “I know it’s hard, but try to be patient when she doesn’t understand what you’re going through. One day this talent of yours will finally feel like a gift, rather than the curse you think it is now.”
She was right on both counts. My mother’s never-ending skepticism and my gradual self-acceptance.
Mum died a nonbeliever. And for that, I’ve never been able to make contact with her on the other side. I suppose she crossed over the first chance she got and never looked back. Dad, however, is still alive. So he’s fully aware of my talent and the kind of world we really live in. He still doesn’t like to talk about ghosts roaming freely alongside the living, making their presence felt but not detected by the average eye.
It’s called denial. He tells people I’m a private investigator. The truth is I’m a spook catcher.
Chapter One
“Are you daydreaming again?”
I blinked a few times, trying to clear the jumble of thoughts from my mind so I could focus on the man sitting across from me.
How romantic! We were supposed to be enjoying a nice dinner together and I was trying to mentally sort through my to-do list.
Jonathan Wells tries hard to accommodate my unconventional life. Yet, most of the time he’s the one going out of his way, or being stood up because “something important came up” at the last minute. It was hard to balance everything sometimes.
Most of the time I find myself torn between feeling sorry for him and feeling like I don’t deserve him. I’m very interested in him, though. I want us to become more than just a string of dates never tying together. Jonathan makes me laugh. He makes my heart beat faster. He’s an amazing, kind-hearted man with stunning, boyish looks I find myself gazing at all the time.
“I’m sorry. I was just thinking about…” I closed my mouth. That sounded so pathetic. Why was I thinking about anything when he was sitting across from me in a beautiful Italian restaurant? The weight of his leg against mine suddenly distracted me from everything else.
“You usually are,” he said with a sheepish grin.
“I promise, no more daydreaming. Well, unless it’s about you. Oh, and never when you’re just across the table from me.”
Jonathan’s grin widened and the corners of his eyes wrinkled in an adorable way that made my stomach drop.
“It sounds to me like we just made a deal, Ms. Fox.”
I flashed him a quick smile and nodded. “Thanks for bringing me here tonight. I really need a break from everything.”
“Well, maybe it’s time you and I got away from it all by taking off for the weekend.”
“I’d love to, Jonathan, really I would, but you know I can’t just up and leave. I’ve got a ton of unresolved cases.” And even more I haven’t even looked at.
“There’s a haunted lighthouse in it for you, if you agree,” he said, waggling his dark eyebrows. Jonathan sure knew how to tempt me.
I bit down on my bottom lip. “As temptin
g as that sounds, I can’t leave right now. Maybe in a few months…” I sighed. “I mean, it’s not just me. What about the bookstore? You can’t close up for the weekend, can you?”
Jonathan’s disappointment was obvious. He averted his dark eyes to wind a clump of spaghetti around his fork. “The bookstore could have a month off and no one would notice. Oh, hold on—it did! And as I said, no one noticed.” He shoveled the Bolognese-smothered forkful into his mouth.
I smiled sympathetically. His bookstore, Prologue, was a cramped two-story corner store in the heart of the city. It was hard to compete with the large book chains only blocks away. Still, Jonathan gave his bookstore all he had and specialized in genre-specific novels and occult reference books other places didn’t stock.
That’s actually where we met, while I was on a job in Prologue. Of course, I waited until the job was done before giving in to a date with him. It’s not wise to cross professional and personal wires. I find it’s better to separate the two when possible.
Jonathan had called me because a poltergeist was tearing his books and store apart. I was contracted to find him, her, or even them—sometimes they like to team up, it’s very adolescent but not out of the question.
Chaotic ghostly behavior is unacceptable in society. It’s my job to locate and deliver them to stand trial. Break the rules and they’re forcibly isolated from society, and that’s if they have a lenient judge. Most times, something this severe could land the spook a one-way ticket to the ghostly patch forever, never able to return again after banishment.
I’ve been responsible for a few of those cases.
A shiver raced down my spine.
I’m sure there are a bunch of pissed-off ghosts on that patch complaining, or even plotting against me. Or maybe I’m just a little paranoid and self-involved.
Either way, I track down spooks—ghosts, spirits, poltergeist, orbs—whatever ghostly disturbance is affecting someone’s life in a negative way.
I establish communication and bring them in.
Ghosts have rights, but with those rights come obligations and the responsibility to adhere to certain rules in every community. Break them and you suffer the consequences, just as any human would.
I tracked down the poltergeist who’d taken shelter in Prologue eventually. It ended up being a child who’d lived on the premises over a century before. He destroyed books because he didn’t know how to read. I tried to reason with him but he refused to show himself. Poltergeists are cheeky little buggers. They have so much more ability and control than an average spook but hardly show themselves.
In the end, the kid wound up in a home for troubled poltergeist children. Even though they’re usually teenagers, there’s the rare occasion of a younger child manifesting in this way. I try to visit as much as I can to see how he’s doing, but I still haven’t caught a glimpse of him.
The little guy’s happy at the home and learning to read. Thanks to him I met Jonathan. A wonderful man, who, if I didn’t pay more attention to soon, I would probably lose.
“I’m sorry, Jonathan. I promise I’ll take more than just a weekend off eventually, okay?” This was a line he’d heard many times over the last six months.
“Okay,” he said, returning to his almost empty plate.
“Are you sure you’re not a saint? I’m so lucky to have you.”
“You’ve got that little guy to thank, what’s his name again?”
“Tommy.”
“Yes, Tommy. He sure gave me a rough time.”
“He’s just a child crying out for help.”
“You certainly believe in your job, don’t you?”
“Unfortunately, it’s more than just a job. It’s something I can’t switch on and off, though I’ve wished I could many times during my life.” Too many times, because this field practically ran my life.
“I’m sorry, Sierra.”
“No, no, don’t be, it’s not your fault. I just get a little touchy sometimes. By the way, this fettuccine and mushroom’s great.” I took a bite from my fork.
“Yeah, so is this spaghetti.” He slurped a large strand in through his lips. Bolognese sauce stuck to the corner of his mouth.
I reached out and wiped the sauce away with my finger, caressing his lips with my fingertips. He lightly kissed my skin and my heart filled with warmth, fluttering as I rubbed my bare leg against his pants leg with a suggestive smile.
Maybe it was time for us to get the hell out of there and give in to the passion I’d been fighting.
The desire in his eyes made me blush. Moving my hand away from his face, I looked down at the food, hoping for a diversion. I would’ve been just as happy to stay in and call up for a pizza, but Jonathan had wanted a real date. I couldn’t help but wonder if he was regretting his decision. This was the same restaurant we’d come to on our first date, the one we frequented whenever a celebration was in order. I guess tonight’s celebration was just being able to spend time together.
I looked around the dimly lit room and spotted several regulars. I waved to the owner, Luigi, as he walked by.
The walls of this family-owned restaurant were painted a dark brown, giving it a cozy, cramped feel while the dimmed overhead lights caused shadows to collect around the tables with their red-and-white check tablecloths. The air was redolent with a combination of tomato, cheese and garlic scents, which made this a popular dining spot for couples and families.
My stomach dropped when I spied the two ghosts wandering around the crowded tables on the other side of the room. I lowered my eyes, hoping they wouldn’t see me.
Mr. and Mrs. Wicker were regulars—of the ghostly kind. The two-seater table in the corner was exclusively reserved for them, away from the rest of the diners. Neither could eat or drink, but it didn’t stop them from frequenting the restaurant.
The Wickers were silent ghosts caught in a loop. No one but those with the talent could actually see or hear them. Luigi hired me several years ago to communicate with the couple after diners seemed to be repelled by the cold in that particular part of the restaurant. It wasn’t good for business, but the Wickers never hurt anyone. Most of the time they just liked to sit at their table and reminisce about their life together—which tragically ended on the drive home from Luigi’s.
Whenever they spot me, they waltz on over and engage me in conversation. It gets a little lonely for them sometimes. Sure, they could move on to the next patch, but some spirits were just too comfortable in this world.
So far, they hadn’t noticed me. If they did, it would spell the end of my romantic dinner with Jonathan.
“Is there something wrong, Sierra?” Jonathan pushed his plate aside and took a sip of wine as he studied me.
I shook my head, gulping down another mouthful.
Mrs. Wicker raised a thin hand and waved.
I waved back with a half smile.
“Who are you waving at?” Jonathan asked, searching the room over his shoulder. “Did it just get cold in here?”
I nodded by way of reply. “Uh, the Wickers just arrived.”
“Oh.” He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “Great.”
Jonathan knew the drill. The two would come over and wind up chatting the night away. He’d sit with a permanent smile plastered on his face, unsure of which direction to look, and would be left out of the conversation. Though he would feel the random electric zaps spooks often expulse. Not to mention the bone-chilling cold in the middle of summer.
I sighed, the passion bubbling in the pit of my stomach squelched by the Wickers’ presence. I definitely had to make it up to Jonathan.
As soon as the thought entered my mind, the couple appeared beside our table.
“Look, darling, it’s Ms. Fox.”
“You look like crap.”
“Thanks a lot.” I dropped into the cheap swivel chair behind my matching ratty desk and glared at my assistant. Exhaustion swept through my body and I couldn’t stifle a yawn. “I had a late night.”
> Ebony’s eyes lit up. “Ooh, did your date with Jonathan finally turn into a hot all-nighter?”
“Don’t I wish?” I yawned a second time. “We got stuck with the Wickers until almost two in the morning. I don’t mind their company, they’ve always got something interesting to say, but poor Jonathan looked like he was ready to fall asleep at the table.”
“Why didn’t he? That’s what I would’ve done. Those oldies are trying to relive their glory days through you. Just ’cause you’re unlucky enough to see them doesn’t mean you should let them bore you to death.”
“They’re not so bad. They just get a little lonely. Besides, unlike you, Jonathan actually has manners. And I’m not selective with my talent.” I coughed for emphasis. If a cure for being able to stop “seeing dead people”—as Ebony so often liked to joke—was ever found, she would jump on it. Yet, as much as she tried to be considered normal, I found most of her tastes in everything a little unconventional. Not to mention that she loved the idea of becoming a full-fledged spook catcher. Yeah, Ebony was one big ball of contradictions.
She poked her tongue out. “Manners—who needs those when you’ve got a couple of spooks hoping to run into you?”
“Don’t be like that.”
“Anyway, I’m sure their invasion—”
“Intrusion.”
“Whatever.” Ebony rolled her eyes and flicked a long strand of dyed blonde hair over her shoulder. “It must’ve done wonders for the libido.”
“Do you mind? Stop trying to find out intimate details. You know I won’t share.”
“Oh, come on, Sierra. Calm the fuck down, will ya? I’m just making conversation. As if I wanna know details about you and spunky boy getting it on. Not that you ever have any to share. I just don’t get why you’ve been so stuffy lately. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing,” I answered a tad more defensively than I’d intended to. It was a blatant lie she would see through.
“Yeah, right, Sierra. You’re the world’s worst liar, you know that?”
Like me, Ebony’s gifted with the spook-catcher talent but she’s still a little young and can’t control it properly. Actually, it’s more like she’s too self-involved in her private life to bother taking control. There are classes available for gifted girls, but she prefers to be out in the field.
A Patch of Darkness Page 1
