Reawakened Passions

by Megan Hart

  “You know what? I’m going to go,” she said.

  “That’s for the best.”

  Mel frowned, then decided there was no point in pussyfooting around it. She jabbed a finger at him. “You know, you really need to work on your people skills.”

  Jon blinked, then passed a hand over his mouth. Tension coiled up between them, fueled by her anger and the stupid, still-unfulfilled sexual promise that had started on that damned couch behind her. Curse her body. Curse her heart. Why did she always have to fall for the crazy ones?

  “Why’d you even start this, if you couldn’t finish it?” She meant for it to come out harsh and stern, but she only sounded sad.

  “He wants something from you,” Jon said. “And I need to get him to leave, so—”

  The top of Mel’s head just about blew off. She thought she’d been pissed off at him before, but she went from simmering irritation to volcanic fury in a matter of seconds. “He? Him? Some ghost wants something from me, and so you just got me off on your couch to what, appease a spirit?”

  His face said it all.

  “Fuck you, Jon! Fuck. You.” He moved toward her, but she jerked away. “Don’t you touch me. If you don’t want to be with me, you should just say so. Not make up some kind of lame excuses. I deserve better than that.”

  “Yes,” Jon said. “You do.”

  Mel thought there would be more, but he only walked her to the front door and even opened it for her. Mel paused in the doorway to look at him, waiting until he gave her his gaze before she stepped through it. Some witty last line would probably come to her later, but for now all she could do was shrug.

  “See you around, Jon.”

  He nodded and closed the door behind her. Mel climbed the stairs to her apartment, wondering if she should burst into tears or kick something. Not that he deserved so much of a reaction, she told herself.

  Lilac, the smell thick enough to choke her, hit her as soon as she walked through the door. Mel sneezed, then coughed and waved a hand in front of her face. She went to the window to crack it open, but the smell barely dissipated. It was the worst it had ever been, no longer pleasant but cloying and nauseating.

  What she found in the bedroom was worse.

  The makeup box she used for her daily face had fallen off the small plastic crate she used for storage, the contents dumped across the vanity’s top. Glittery eye shadow powder covered the pale wood. A lipstick that had been securely sealed was broken in half. The small vial of perfume she rarely used had spilled, filling the room with musk that mingled even more disgustingly with the overpowering stink of lilac.

  Worst of all was the mirror, which had cracked in a starburst pattern from the center out. It looked as if someone had thrown a baseball at it. Several pieces of the glass had fallen out, leaving Mel’s reflection as broken as the mirror. Broken as her heart, she thought, moving carefully forward over the crunch of glass and spill of cosmetics.

  She looked at the mirror, then at the ceiling and window to see if somehow something had fallen or come through from outside. Nothing. The smell of lilac faded as she looked over the vanity, calculating the damage, and faintly as though from far away, she heard soft and wrenching feminine sobs.

  Chapter 6

  Jon didn’t think you could dream if you didn’t sleep, but apparently his brain was such a mess that he’d slipped into the sort of alternate world he’d watched in the movie last night. He opened his eyes to the dark, but he didn’t sit up or otherwise move. It seemed the surest way to sink back into sleep.

  He wasn’t alone.

  He wasn’t surprised, of course. The second Mel had entered his apartment, the presence inside it had started to circle. Jon had been an idiot to invite her inside, but damn it…she was a fun. She was sexy. She was sweet. She was smart. Was it so wrong to want to spend time with a woman he liked and who seemed to like him?

  It was when he let himself get carried away. He’d spent the entire movie aware of every shift she made on the couch next to him. Every whisper of her breath. Every time she licked the salt and butter from her fingertips, it had sent a zing of delight right through him. One minute they’d been reaching for the popcorn, the next he’d been on top of her, desperate to be all over her.

  He should’ve stopped with that first kiss, but it had gone on and on, and every second that passed had led to another broken promise to himself that he’d pull away. She’d tasted so good, all he could think about was being all over her. Inside her.

  Too bad he’d probably kill her.

  Not your fault. You didn’t know. I forgive you.

  Jon had encountered hundreds of spirits in the three years since he’d been turned. Hundreds of voices had whispered to him, reliving their last moments. Out of all of them, the only one he’d have welcomed was Naomi’s, and unlike all the poor souls who’d been stuck here when they should’ve gone somewhere else, she hadn’t lingered.

  He hadn’t known. That was the truth. And Naomi had forgiven him every dumb-ass trick he’d ever pulled, every mistake he’d made, so he could believe she’d forgive him this one too. But no matter how hard he tried, Jon could never convince himself it hadn’t been his fault.

  Psychopomp—a conductor of souls to the afterworld.

  That was the definition of the word the man had whispered to him that day on the street. Jon had done a lot of research into the mythology of it. None of it had explained how, like being bitten by a vampire, he’d been turned into one.

  Jon’s father had taught him to swim by literally throwing him into the deep end. Sink or swim. Succeed or fail. He was no stranger to the method, and yet even at three when he’d been floundering, swallowing enough lake water to choke him, feet paddling as fast as he could, he’d known his dad was up there ready to yank him out by the hair, if he had to. Terror and instinct had forced him to swim, but he’d still known his dad would save him. The guy who’d turned him into this had merely abandoned him.

  God, he hated that guy.

  Jon drifted now, toward sleep but not yet into it. This was the worst time, the most vulnerable. When he was awake and encountered stuck souls, he’d learned to filter out their yammering until he could deal with it privately. Almost asleep, his guard was down. And this guy…this guy who’d been here for years, the one who’d perked up the second Mel walked through the door…he just wouldn’t quit.

  Most of the time, Jon dealt with spirits that hadn’t been around very long. They clung to the physical for a few hours, sometimes days, but not longer than that. And he avoided, when he could, places where long-term spirits clung, because the longer the spirit stayed, the harder it became to push it through.

  The guy in this apartment had been here for a really long time, and he didn’t want to leave it. Jon had not yet figured out what it was that kept him here or how to get him to let go of it, because every time he focused, the guy managed to fade away. It was frustrating and annoying, but until Jon had invited Mel in to watch the movie, it hadn’t been particularly dangerous.

  Revenge. Guilt. Lust. Those were the motivations that kept most spirits tethered to this plane. The guy haunting Jon’s apartment had a healthy dose of all three.

  Lillian.

  The whisper of a name. The scent of a perfume. The touch of a woman’s hand.

  Jon was already suffering from a spectacular case of blue balls brought on by his make-out session with Mel, so it didn’t take much more than the brush of silky hair on his cheek to get his cock throbbing. The low, throaty laughter ringing in his ears reminded him of Mel, and it was her face he thought of when the sweet press of a mouth crept over his.

  Except it wasn’t over his. It was over…Rolly’s. That was the guy’s name. And Rolly thought Lillian was the cat’s meow.

  She moved over him, straddling, the weight of her familiar and phantom at the same time. Her bare knees pressed his hips just above the waistband of Jon’s pajama bottoms. He felt the rolled edge of her silk stockings, the fringe of her dress.
If he touched her hair, he’d find it cropped short to her chin the way all the vampy girls did it these days. She kissed him with that red, red mouth, and her kisses stung with the taste of liquor, smoky and forbidden.

  Rolly was naked, so Jon felt that way too. Lillian was not, and she tossed back her head, laughing as she wriggled on his belly. The soft brush of her pubic hair and her heat told him she’d taken off her panties at least, but with the dress there all he could do was feel.

  Rolly touched; Jon felt.

  Lillian bent forward to let her breasts, pendulous beneath the soft material of her dress, press his chest. She shifted the neckline of her dress to expose them, and she moaned long and soft and low when he took her nipples in his mouth. Without another second’s hesitation she’d lifted herself and put him inside her—his cock like iron, sinking so deep it was like finding heaven. She rocked on him, leaning forward again to give him her tits. Her nipples, so sweet, were tight and hard as he flicked them with his tongue.

  Lillian reached around to stroke his balls while she rode him. He put his thumb against her clit, the weight of her spangled dress heavy on his wrist. He wanted her to take it off, but she wouldn’t. She didn’t. She fucked him as if she was the one in charge, and he was happy enough to lay back and let her do it. There was nothing hotter than a woman on the verge of orgasm. And while Rolly was the one Lillian was fucking, with Jon just along for the ride, both of them agreed on that.

  He hadn’t yet figured out how to get Rolly to let go, but he’d certainly figured out why he wanted to stay. But this…this was too much. It was his cock that was hard, his balls that were aching. But the pleasure was not his.

  Jon pushed. He pushed hard. Rolly pushed back even harder.

  The sensation of kisses faded, replaced by the sting of a slap. Soft murmurs of love became shrieks of rage. Nails raked his cheek; he felt the blood and gouged flesh, though when he touched it, the skin was unmarked. Pain without evidence. Endearments became curses.

  Love became fury.

  His fingers no longer curled around a woman’s hips, but around her neck. Squeezing, squeezing. She punched and kicked, but she was so much smaller, her throat as tender as the stem of a daisy and as easily broken.

  “Oh, you bastard.” Jon pushed again, even harder, forcing away the swirl of feelings and emotions threatening to overtake him. “You killed her.”

  But in the next minute, a thunderclap ripped through his skull. Smoke clogged his nose. And pain, more pain, constant and unwavering and, at last, final. Jon writhed with it, the blankets tangling around him as he clutched at his skull, no longer capable of focusing on pushing Rolly through, just trying to push him away.

  Nothing faded. It just stopped. Drenched with sweat, his guts churning, Jon coughed and choked. For a terrible few minutes, he was sure he was going to puke, but he swallowed back the bile stinging his tongue. He fell back onto his pillows, gasping.

  Rolly had tried to kill Lillian. That much was true. But Lillian, in the end, had been the one to murder Rolly. There was no way he was going to go anywhere until he had his chance at getting back at her.

  * * *

  Two weeks.

  That’s how long it had been since the night on Jon’s couch. Mel tried not to think about it. It was more than obvious he was doing everything he could to stay the hell out of her way. Just now in the coffee shop he’d walked in and saw her, then turned on his heel and walked right back out.

  “Ouch,” said Tesla, observing.

  Mel waved a careless hand. “Whatever. Guy’s an asshole.”

  Tesla had been clearing off the table next to Mel’s, but she settled the plates on top of each other and slid into the chair across from Mel. “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Uh-huh.” Tesla shook her head. “Right.”

  Mel sighed. “We fooled around. And then he just piled on with this crazy story about seeing ghosts and having some sort of freaky power that could kill me if he had sex with me.”

  “The death cock.” Tesla nodded as if it made sense. “I’ve heard about those.”

  Despite her still-stung ego, Mel laughed. “Yeah, right? I mean, he was great with his hands and mouth, but I’m pretty sure no matter how good he was with his dick, it still wouldn’t kill me.”

  “Maybe it would just make you wish it had,” Tesla said with a grin. “I had one of those once. Girl, I couldn’t walk right for a week.”

  Mel sighed. “No kidding. But you know what? Whatever.”

  “What a jerk. Next time he comes in, I’m going to spike his latte with full-fat milk when he asks for soy.” Tesla grinned.

  It didn’t make Mel feel much better, but she smiled. “Ha.”

  Tesla patted her hand and got up. “Can I get you a refill or something?”

  “No, I should get home. You’re getting ready to close.” Mel had stopped in on her way home, intending to pick up a take-out sandwich for dinner. She’d ended up eating it here while she read a book. She’d also drunk four mugs of coffee. She’d never fall asleep tonight.

  Good.

  Leaving Tesla to finish up, Mel wrapped the rest of her sandwich and drained the last drop of coffee before heading out. The Valencia was only a few blocks’ walk, but the trip took twice as long because she dragged her feet. By the time she got in the front door, the faint noise of Mrs. Hummel’s grandfather clock chiming through her door counted ten o’clock. Across from it, silent as a tomb, was Jon’s door. Mel didn’t even look at it.

  She paused in front of her own door. Her key clattered in the lock, fair warning to whatever might be inside that she was home. Not that it mattered—the small and sort of silly disturbances she’d grown used to since she’d moved in had become worse, and in the past couple of weeks since the night on Jon’s couch…scarier.

  She’d seen figures from the corner of her eye, shadows flitting where there should be nothing but empty space. The scent of lilac still came and went, along with the music box song, but now she also heard a woman’s sobbing laughter. Or worse, whispers. Mel couldn’t figure out what the voice said, just that it was low and full of venomous loathing.

  Once, she thought she’d heard the word “kill.”

  She’d slept with the light on that night. It didn’t help. Even on days when nothing moved out of place by itself or the doors didn’t rattle when nothing was there, she still dreamed about blood. Over and over, Mel dreamed about the glint of a knife and a river of blood, hot and thick, gushing over her hands. She dreamed of hands around her neck, squeezing the life out of her, and woke with a throat so sore she could barely speak. Never bruises, nothing she could see or prove as real. Just the feeling of having been throttled.

  She’d thought of getting a Ouija board, but whoever was in this apartment had already figured out how to make herself known. A Ouija board might just make things worse.

  Still, she had to do something, Mel thought. She was running on caffeine and anxiety.

  She loved this apartment, she thought in the kitchen as she boiled water for some strong tea that would do its part in keeping her awake. She wasn’t going to let some old hag chase her out of it, ghost or not.

  In bed, covers tucked up under her chin, she waited for sleep and fought it at the same time. She slipped into a dream easily enough, by now a familiar one.

  * * *

  She’s laughing, tossing her hair. Flirting with a man in a suit and a hat. He has a cigar. He has a scar. And then another man sees her from across the room; he crosses it, and he grabs her arm. He’s dragging her out of the club. On the sidewalk, he slaps her face and the pain rocks her head back until she scrapes his cheek with her nails. Then he’s pulling her close, calling her baby. Crying. Begging her to forgive him and take him back.

  “No.” Her mouth forms the words, but it’s not her voice. It’s not her mouth. She’s Lillian now, that’s her name. Lillian.

  The man is Rolly, and once she thought she loved him, but damn it, he had to go of
f with that round-heeled bitch Myrna. He says he’s sorry, but it’s too late. It doesn’t matter. You don’t get to treat Lillian Monroe like that, no sir. She won’t stand for it. She won’t.

  So Rolly tries and begs and pleads, and they make love again, but at the end of it when he’s sleeping she creeps to the jacket he slung over the back of her chair. And she finds his handkerchief in his pocket. Lipstick, not her shade. That’s it, it’s over, and she’s on him, wailing and fighting and scratching, and his hands are around her neck, squeezing…squeezing…

  * * *

  “No!” Mel woke with a start, drenched in sweat. The sheet had fallen off the vanity. A face danced in the broken mirror for a few seconds. She put a hand on her chest, pressing against the pain of her pounding heart. “What the hell do you want?”

  A mist covered the mirror, as if someone had breathed on it. An invisible finger drew through it, writing a single word.

  Rolly.

  Chapter 7

  Rolly had gone silent. Not gone—Jon could still sense him—but at least he’d stopped breaking things and getting inside Jon’s head. It was because Jon hadn’t seen Mel. He knew it. He hated it.

  When the knock came at his door, Jon tensed, already feeling Rolly suddenly pressing in at him. He almost didn’t answer it, knowing it would only bring trouble. But the idea of her standing on the other side, separated from him by no more than a couple of inches of wood and metal, so close…he opened it.

  “Hi,” Mel said with a small smile.

  Jon, wary of Rolly now beginning to batter at his consciousness, didn’t open the door all the way. “Hi.”

  “I looked it up. On the internet,” she added. “Psychopomp. I know what it means.”

  Jon said nothing.

  Mel made no move to come inside. She lifted her chin, looking him right in the face. “The guy in your apartment. He’s called Rolly, isn’t he?”