Haunted

by Irene Preston

  Table of Contents

  Haunted

  Copyright

  Dedication

  i.

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Curious about Adam’s neighbors?

  Vespers

  Haunted

  An Hours of the Night Story

  Irene Preston

  Liv Rancourt

  IrenePreston.com

  LivRancourt.com

  PrescourtBooks.com

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, businesses and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Haunted

  © 2018 by Sharon Stoker Laurent and Amy Dunn Caldwell

  Cover Art: Amy Dunn Caldwell

  Editor: Linda Ingmanson

  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 publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  ISBN: 978-0-9968099-8-6

  To good neighbors everywhere….

  i.

  Dear Reader:

  If you are new to the Hours of the Night and concerned about reading out of order, please don’t worry. Haunted is a standalone story within the Hours of the Night universe. It takes place outside the series storyline and follows completely new characters. You can jump in here without needing to know any background and there are no spoilers that would ruin the regular series if you choose to read later.

  If you are already an Hours of the Night fan, Haunted takes place concurrently with Nocturne. You might recognize a few of Adam’s neighbors.

  Enjoy!

  Liv & Irene

  Chapter One

  Noel

  His phone rang. Bergeron’s ringtone, the one that sounded like a rooster. Cock-a-doodle-dammit. He should never have allowed that fool to program his phone. Ignoring Bergeron would only make him call back, and call back again, so Noel answered.

  “What?”

  “Hey hey, you sittin’ down?” Bergeron spoke like he had a mouthful of molasses, and he’d appointed himself Noel’s combination tour guide and escort.

  “More or less.” In fact, Noel was tucked into a corner booth at Lafitte’s Booty, a French Quarter strip club where the dancers were all male—and so was the clientele.

  “Yeah, I hear what’s in the background.”

  Noel stifled a cutting comment. Sure, the speakers were set to stun, and yes, it was just after two p.m. And tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. So sue me.

  “All right, well, just don’t come back into the office if you’re out getting drunk.”

  Again, Noel bit his tongue. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to taste the gin through the blood. “I’m not getting drunk.” Yet. He was still on the clock.

  “Okay, Susie Sunshine. Whatever you say.”

  “Is there a reason for this call?” A new dancer sashayed onto the stage. His ribs stuck out like he hadn’t eaten in a week, but he was hung like a draft horse. Noel swallowed the dregs of his cocktail, wondering how much the horse would charge for a lap dance.

  Bergeron cleared his throat, a cue that he was ready to leave off the sermonizing. Noel straightened in his seat, shifting so he couldn’t see the dancer’s assets swinging in his tighty-whiteys.

  “You’re looking into that house explosion, right? The one out in Mandeville?”

  AKA the case that wouldn’t die. “Yeah.”

  “Weren’t you telling me the cops pulled in a couple people for questioning, and one was a guy with a girl’s name?”

  Sarasija Mishra. “So?”

  “So I’m reading the Times-Picayune online…”

  Because you have no life.

  “…and they did a story about a house fire yesterday, over in the Garden District. They said two men lived in the house.” Bergeron dropped some of his down-home drawl, another clue he was getting serious. “The homeowner’s a guy named Thaddeus Dupont, and for the last six months or so, he’s been living there with a Sarasija Mishra, called Sara.”

  “Huh.” Noel rapped on the tabletop, thoughts percolating. “That’s interesting.”

  “Same guy?”

  “Same name, and I’ma guess there’s only one guy in NOLA going by the name of Sara.”

  Noel flagged the bartender, an older man with a white handlebar mustache and a pair of black, assless chaps. “Seems like this Sara’s having a shitty week. Did you get the address of the house?”

  “Twelve thirty-seven First Street.”

  “Hang on.” Noel moved the phone away from his ear and typed the address into his map app. “Got it. The story have any other useful info?”

  “Not really.” Bergeron paused, and Noel winced, knowing what was coming next. “I reckon you owe me a drink, though.”

  Noel snorted a laugh. “I reckon I do.” Though he’d rather not. Bergeron’s idea of a hot night out likely started at Hooters.

  “You have fun hanging with the one percent, and I’ll see you when you get back to the office.”

  “Hey, thanks, man.” Noel meant that sincerely. Bergeron might be a douche, but he had a good heart.

  “All right.”

  The bartender slapped a bill on the table as Noel was shoving his phone back into his pocket. “Hey, do you know what Baryshnikov up there likes to eat?” Noel nodded in the dancer’s direction.

  The bartender’s grin might have widened. Hard to tell under all that lip hair. “Bacon cheeseburger.”

  Noel flipped his bank card toward the bill. “Put one on my tab and give it to him. With fries.”

  “You gonna wait for him? He’s on stage for the rest of the hour.”

  “Nah, I gotta take off. Tell him my hand thanks him.” Because he did love dick.

  There just hadn’t been many opportunities since he’d moved to New Orleans. Sure. That’s right. He was so busy getting the hang of his new gig and finding his way around the city’s convoluted streets, he hadn’t had time to look.

  Either that, or he was still hung up on Stephen.

  With a shudder, he scrawled his name on the charge slip and headed out into the gloomy, humid February afternoon. Nope. He hadn’t moved all the way from Los Angeles to avoid a shrieking sissy with three cats and a thing for oral sex.

  And he wasn’t playing straight for his new coworkers because he was afraid to tell them he was gay.

  And he really hadn’t taken a job as an insurance investigator because he’d lost his nerve.

  Who the fuck was he kidding? His move from LA had nothing to do with Stephen. That dog had died way before the…thing. As for the rest, well…

  Reciting his litany of excuses, the one he practiced every damned day, Noel navigated the narrow sidewalks to the parking spot three blocks over, where he’d left his Lexus. Because in LA, a Lexus was considered entry-level.

  He started the engine, opting to roll the window down rather than use the A/C. The weather wasn’t hot, exactly. He opted for moving air because the oppressive humidity weighed him down. He clipped his phone into the bracket by the steering wheel and opened the map. Siri’s dulcet tones directed him to make a turn. He did, allowing his muscles to obey her commands while his mind ticked through everything he could remember about the explosion in Mandeville.

  Neighbors called in the initial report, and several witnesses identified a dark-skinned male, maybe 5’10”, with short hair. Witness stateme
nts also reported a second person, black, with conflicting details regarding gender, hair, and height. Two people had been brought in for questioning; the man Bergeron had called him about, and a woman named Nohea Alves. Both gave variations of the same story, and both had walked after their lawyer showed up and busted them out.

  Noel’s sixth sense, the one that had once made him a good cop, chimed so loud, it made his ears ring.

  But he wasn’t a cop anymore, and in his current job, he was only supposed to ensure the owner of the Mandeville house hadn’t staged the drama to make the insurance company pay out. Moreover, driving out to the Garden District was likely to be low yield, because the owner wouldn’t be hanging around, ready to answer questions.

  Honestly, though, Noel was curious. Curious about how a man named Sara had been involved in the destruction of two houses. Curious about a guy with the cojones to call himself Sara in the first place.

  And for the last six months, maybe a year, he hadn’t been sober enough to be curious about anything. For what it was worth, he figured he’d see this goose chase through.

  Siri led Noel down St. Charles Avenue to a narrow stretch of First Street, so buckled by the tangle of traffic and tree roots, it should have been lined with public housing instead of some of the most expensive homes in the state, if not the country. When Siri proclaimed, “Your destination is on the left,” he managed to find a parking spot right across the street.

  He hadn’t needed Siri to identify the location. The second story of a graceful, double-gallery home was burned black, most of the windows were boarded up, and the landscaping appeared to have been run over by a tractor.

  “Damn, Sara,” Noel murmured, “what the hell are you into?”

  Large windows flanked the wide front door. They were partially covered, but no light escaped over the tops of the sheets of plywood. Probably cut the power anyway. Noel checked his watch. Three p.m. A blanket of clouds dimmed the afternoon sun, and the glare bounced off the black glass. The air stank of smoke, and the utter stillness told him the house was empty.

  The front door was locked—duh—so he went around the side, stepping over the debris from generations of shrubbery suddenly yanked out of the earth and left for dead. A rear door led to—he pressed his face against the glass, hands cupped to block the glare—the kitchen. This door was also locked, but in the relative privacy provided by the remaining shrubbery, he played a trick and opened it anyway.

  Inside, the smell of smoke was worse, an acrid tang he could taste over the residue of lime and gin. He’d have to request the fire investigator’s report when he got back to the office. The kitchen showed evidence of water damage from the floor above, and the linoleum had been beat to hell, but the appliances and walls appeared to be intact.

  Moving slowly, he walked down a short hallway that opened into a small room—a den or media room—in one direction, and a large foyer in the other.

  The foyer looked like a bomb had gone off. The banister had snapped, the top half hanging crazily from above. Of the two doors directly across from him, only one still hung on its hinges, and the wallpaper showed waves of scorch marks, as if the fire had rained down from the second floor.

  What really stopped Noel’s progress, though, was the sudden certainty that he was not alone. Something brushed by him, cold as the fingers of death. He blinked. I only drank two. Shook his head. No. Not again.

  “Leave here.”

  The words were spoken so clearly, they echoed in the emptiness. “No.” Noel applied an emphasis he did not feel. “I want to know.”

  A single beat of silence was his only answer.

  “Uh, hello?” A head popped out from the room across the foyer. A man, dark hair, thick mustache.

  Thoroughly unnerved, Noel snapped at him. “Are you Sarasija Mishra?”

  “Nope.” The stranger stepped out into the foyer, head tilted like he was looking for a fight. He wore a crewneck jersey cut to show his biceps, and his jeans had reached a stage of faded perfection. “Who the hell are you?”

  Chapter Two

  Adam

  “Well?” Adam took another step forward, staring down the man in front of him. Best defense was a good offense, right? He faltered as he got a good look at the intruder. Tousled was the first word that came to mind, complete with a day’s scruff along his chin and a hint of bedhead that would normally send all kinds of inappropriate thoughts flitting through Adam’s mind. Except no. Because hair that looked that accidentally sexy cost a bundle. Looking like you just rolled out of bed and fell into Brunello Cucinelli cost more. In other words, intruder #2 didn’t look so much like an intruder as a homeowner. If the guy had a legit reason to be here, Adam would have some ’splainin’ to do.

  Despite the barked question and pricey clothes, Adam’s gut told him Scruffy McRichboy didn’t have any more right to be poking around in here than the trail of other randoms he’d watched circling the house all day.

  Scruffy made an odd, abortive move toward his breast pocket, grimaced, then smiled lazily. “Noel Chandler. I’m with Hughes Wallace Insurance. Are you Thaddeus Dupont?”

  Shit. So much for trusting his gut. “Adam Morales. I’m a neighbor.” Neighbor sounded legit. No need to mention he was renting the garage apartment in the lot catercorner behind this one, and at normal rates, he wouldn’t be able to afford even that. Or that he had never actually met the owners of the house they were standing in. He had called in the fire, though. And he had used his phone to snap pictures of the string of people who’d found it necessary to visit the house today while it stood empty. His apartment had a decent view of the drive along the side of the house and the side entrance. No one had walked around to try the front door.

  Adam gave Noel’s outfit another once-over. Something about the guy was pinging his instincts hard. He decided to give the gut one more chance. Insurance adjuster, my ass. “Got a card?”

  Noel fished around in his pocket and produced a utilitarian white rectangle sporting the company logo, website, phone numbers, and a business address in Covington.

  “Arson and Special Claims?” Adam stuck the card in his pocket without asking if he could keep it. “Doesn’t the fire department investigate arson? And how did you get in?”

  “Door was unlocked.”

  “Nope.”

  “I heard someone inside and the door was unlocked, so I came on in. Didn’t you hear me knock?”

  “Seems like I should have, doesn’t it?”

  “Maybe get a hearing exam.” Noel might look sleepy, but he countered pretty quickly. “So, Adam-the-Neighbor, how did you get in?”

  And now they were to the part where any mention of Adam to the homeowners became a problem. He studied Noel for a minute. Still didn’t look like he worked for an insurance company, but he didn’t look like your run-of-the-mill housebreaker either. Adam took a chance and went with mostly true. He gestured back the way Noel had just come from. “The French doors in the back aren’t locked. I saw some chick come in here a few minutes ago, but by the time I got here, she was gone.”

  “So you just walked in?”

  “I wanted to make sure she wasn’t looting, but,” Adam grimaced at the destruction around him, “how could I tell?”

  Noel gave him a cynical look. “Very neighborly. No one here now, though. You can probably head back home.”

  Adam started to agree, because that was the smart thing to do when you got caught trespassing in a high-end possible crime scene and were offered the benefit of walking away. He stepped around Noel with the firm intention of making himself scarce. Except all his instincts were still pinging. He turned back around to find Noel standing in the in the same spot, not looking like he had any intention of leaving.

  There was something about him… “Have we met?”

  “No.” The tone didn’t invite a follow-up.

  “Are you sure? Because…”

  “I’m not from around here, so we wouldn’t have crossed paths.” He didn’t move e
xactly, but something in his expression shifted until he was all bedroom eyes, raspy voice, and tousled, after-sex hair. “We haven’t met, but you’ve got my number if that’s where you’re heading.”

  “I…” Adam swallowed hard. “I’ve got to go.”

  He fled out the French doors. He was halfway back around the block to his own place before he managed to channel the lust into righteous anger. Maybe he didn’t know Scruffy McRichboy, but he knew his type. Fuck if he was going to fall for that brand of weaponized sex appeal.

  Back in his apartment, he tossed the business card on the table next to his laptop. He’d see what Mr. Google had to say about Noel Chandler later. Right now, he had something more interesting to occupy his attention.

  He reached into his back pocket and fished out the one completely non-fire-damaged item he had found in the burned-out house on First Street. “Now,” he breathed, “what do we have here?”

  The gris-gris sat in the palm of his hand and didn’t answer.

  ~⚜~

  Noel

  For fuck’s sake. For a long moment, Noel stood in the foyer of the once-lovely home, counting scorched blisters in the paint and grappling with his temper. How incredibly professional, Chandler. Hit on a guy when he should have been nailing him to the wall.

  And not that kind of nailing.

  He needed to pull his brain out of its gin-soaked fog and do the job. The “neighbor” might have been trying to rip something off. The neighbor who said he looked familiar. Noel raked a hand through his hair. Who might look familiar too. Noel chewed a pinky nail, trying to place those dark curls, the thick beard about a day overdue for a trim.

  An echo of the cold fingertips trailed over his shoulders. Damn. He shrugged, shivered, stuffed down his familiar fear. Not again.