by Nina Bruhns
Madam’s lips pursed so tightly the lines around her lips stood out. “Madam cannot change your fate. Madam is telling you what she sees. But if you are not yet satisfied, we will use the crystal ball. This crystal ball has been in my family for generations. It has never failed to accurately reveal the future.”
Placing both hands, palms upward, under the crystal ball, the medium lifted and then placed it at the center of the table. She peered down into the orb. Giselle bent forward. She could see nothing in its depths.
Seconds passed before Madam spoke. “It is clouded, but I see you standing with a man. He is tall and blond. I cannot see his face, but I can see that he is embracing you. He is leaning forward to kiss you. He is very tender this man. But there is also darkness. I see a huge black bird. A raven is swooping down at you. This bird is trying to peck at your head and eyes.”
Madam jerked back to an upright position in her seat. “Aha. You see, I’m right. It is the mother-in-law.”
“That’s it.” Giselle slapped a hand on the table. “I’ve had it with the mother-in-law bit. I’m tempted to contact the Savannah Bunko Squad and report you for fraud. It’s obvious, Madam, that you’re a charlatan who’s bilking innocent people. You make believe you have genuine psychic talent when you don’t.”
Hey, wait a minute. That didn’t sound so good. Make-believe psychic talent? That hit a little too close to home. And for that matter, was “bunko” a real word? It would be embarrassing to threaten with a word that’s not a word. Worse yet, a word that didn’t mean what she thought it meant.
“How dare you. You ungrateful, horrible brat. No wonder your mother-in-law hates you.”
Apparently, bunko was a real word and Madam understood what it meant.
The medium leapt to her feet. Her violent movement upset the table. Time slowed as the tabletop tilted. The tarot deck flew and the cards scattered into the air like confetti. The crystal ball rolled from its holder toward the table’s edge and then over. The ball began falling, falling, falling, falling to the floor. Omigod. Giselle needed a miracle.
Giselle made a move to catch the rolling ball. Madam made a move to catch it. Their heads banged together, hard. The ball slipped between them and…thunk. It lay, smooth and opaque, on the floor atop an area rug.
The ball hadn’t shattered as Giselle expected. It was perfect. No harm done. A miracle. The first in her accident-prone life.
Admiring the miracle ball, Giselle noticed the rug beneath. Probably Persian. Beautiful reds and golds. Antique.
A faint noise brought Giselle’s focus back to the crystal ball. A crack had appeared in its surface. To Giselle’s horror, the size of the crack increased to a giant fissure. Then the ball split. One half fell in one direction and one half in the other, right there on the beautiful Persian rug.
Madam screamed. Her face flushed bright red. “You stupid, stupid girl. You’ve broken it.”
“I’m so sorry, Madam,” Giselle started. “But to be fair, you were the one who—”
“Get out. Get out. Go, before I—” Madam looked around her as if searching for a potential weapon.
Grabbing her purse, Giselle dashed from the room. She stumbled into the hall and then out of the house. The front door slammed shut behind her. A hop forward kept the door’s knob from hitting her in the butt. Madam cursed at her from behind the door. It was fortunate Madam didn’t have real power. If she had, Giselle would have turned into a toad about now.
Shaking her head, Giselle, trudged down the creaking steps of the porch and headed toward the park. A sudden thought struck. Madam had possession of the magazine’s credit card number. One psychic reading, fifty dollars. One family heirloom crystal ball, priceless. The magazine’s bill was going to suffer for this.
Her boss, legendary for his cheapness, would definitely not be happy. At this exact moment, Willie’s psychic ears had to be burning. Heck, his whole head had probably exploded. She’d better turn off her cell phone.
Giselle glanced at her watch. 2:40 p.m. Still no ghost. Not even a hint of one.
A Girl, a Guy and a Ghost: Chapter Three
After her not-so-psychic reading with Madam Divinity, Giselle returned to the luxurious B&B to retrieve her things. Fortunately, after some begging, the manager allowed Giselle a late check out. Willie would have been furious if the magazine was charged for another night. An envelope had been left for her at the front desk.
A cheerful thought occurred. Perhaps Ry Leland had written her a note. Maybe he wanted to apologize for his boorish behavior. Yeah. He’d realized that he’d been completely in the wrong. He probably wanted to beg her forgiveness and ask her for a date. Giselle decided to forgive Mr. Scrumptious, but only after he’d treated her to an expensive dinner at one of Savannah’s finest restaurants. She could be magnanimous. They would go on an elegant proper dinner date, he would behave like a complete gentleman and escort her to her hotel room and then…she would jump on top of him.
Giselle smiled as she opened the envelope and pulled a piece of copy paper from inside. On the paper, written with a black marker in block letters, were four words—Leave Savannah or else.
Dammit. Not an apology from Ry. Worse, he hadn’t asked for a date. Even worse than that, the note wasn’t from him at all. Or was it? Ry wasn’t that mad, was he? No. Anyway, he didn’t know where she was staying. Double dammit. He didn’t know where she was staying. That meant he couldn’t ask for a date in the future either.
Who could have sent the note? And what did it mean? Or else, what? Or else they would kill her? She’d been in Savannah for less than twenty-four hours. It usually took longer than that for Giselle to make someone angry enough for murder.
The note could be from Madam Divinity. The medium had certainly been furious. But Madam hadn’t had time to send the note. On the other hand, Madam could have had a psychic vision of Giselle’s reading before it had happened. Maybe she’d written the note before the psychic reading had ever taken place. Na. Madam would’ve had to have real psychic talent for that. She didn’t. Mother-in-law indeed.
But who could have sent it? Mary Ellen liked playing practical jokes. Yeah, that was the answer. Giselle would no doubt laugh about this with her friend later. Nevertheless, it would be prudent not to leave any forwarding information at the B&B. Giselle stuffed the note back into the envelope and stuck it in the outside pocket of her suitcase.
Ten minutes later, she pulled her suitcase over a crack in the sidewalk as she trudged to her new digs. She felt a wheel seize and then break. Great. Now she would have to drag the thing. Giselle cursed Willie silently. It must be a hundred miles to the Great Eastern. Okay, okay. Only eight blocks, but it seemed like a hundred miles.
Finally reaching her destination, Giselle checked in and the bellman led her to a very nice room with a view of the Savannah River. This hotel didn’t have the cozy luxury of the B&B, but she couldn’t claim it was a hovel. Giselle mentally apologized to Willie.
After unpacking, Giselle threw herself onto the bed facedown and opened the guidebook. A whole section on haunted Savannah included information about a seventeen-hundreds-era building that had served as a tavern and inn for pirates. Tunnels ran under the building to the river. Once upon a time, drunken patrons had been shanghaied to work on ships moored in the harbor. The building now housed a restaurant.
Wow. What a great place to try to find a ghost. Besides, it was past lunchtime and hungry didn’t begin to describe Giselle. It had been at least three hours since she’d eaten.
Rolling onto her back, the comfort of the bed called to Giselle. She lowered her lids. Just a few moments to rest her burning eyes and then she would get right on the hunt for ghost pirates…pirates…pirates. She didn’t need that meanie Ry…Ry…Ry…
* * *
Captain Giselle the Red, pirate queen of the Caribbean, stood at the bow of her ship. The wind mixed with a spattering of sea blew against her face and whipped at her auburn hair. The long curls unfurled behind her, w
aving like a flag. Her ample breasts almost spilled over the black corset she wore over snug red velvet trousers. The trouser’s legs disappeared into over-the-knee black leather boots. A belt at her waist held a dangerously sharp cutlass strapped to her side.
“Arrrr,” her first mate One Eyed Jack said from behind her. “The new prisoner is below, awaiting your pleasure, Cap’n.”
“Thank you, Jack.” Giselle wheeled around to face him. “Has everything been prepared?”
“Aye, aye, Cap’n.”
“Excellent. You have the helm.”
Jack winked his remaining eye as she strode past him, her boots clicking on the heavy wood planks of the deck.
The rest of the crew bustling about her was a blur as she rushed. At the hatch, she ducked her head and leapt down the stairs below, making her way to the captain’s quarters. Anticipation thrummed through her. That bastard would pay now. Giselle the Red was known for the unforgiving torment she could inflict on a man.
Pausing at the entrance, she grasped the wrought iron knob and drew in a deep breath before throwing the door open.
When her eyes adjusted to the light, she saw the prisoner. Ry “The Blackhearted” Leland, captain of the queen’s frigate “Savannah” was stretched out naked and ready for torture. His arms and legs were shackled to the mahogany four-poster bed with pink fuzzy handcuffs. His eyes glinted with angry fire. No doubt he would be shouting a string of obscenities except for the red silk scarf stuffed into his mouth. As it was only stifled, grumblings emerged.
“So, my scurvy knave.” She strode inside and slammed the door closed behind her. “You have been rude to me.” Swaggering forward, she stopped near the chest at the foot of the bed and then drew out a riding crop with a cluster of feathers tipping the opposite end. “You must be punished.”
In the dim candlelight, his body—naked except for tight black trousers—gleamed, gloriously tan. She admired the tight, long, lean muscles bulging under the skin. His chest, free of hair, was broad with sculpted pecs.
“Mmmmmmmrrrrrgggggggg.” Ry furiously bucked against the mattress. The bed frame creaked but held.
“What is that you say?” She moved to the side of the bed, level with his chest. “You apologize for treating me like a prostitute?”
He shook his head with vigor.
“You wish you hadn’t thrown me out of your office?”
“Mmrmmrrrrrggggg.” He bucked again.
“Thank you. Your heartfelt repentance touches me but…” Giselle placed the feathered end of the riding crop on Ry’s naval. “It’s too late.” She tickled at his lower abdomen. “You’ve already been sentenced to one hundred strokes of the lash, and my crew would lose respect if I didn’t carry out all discipline to…completion.”
Giselle swept the feathers down his lower stomach and he quivered. A flick of the crop brought the feathers up again, past his naval and then up to his breastbone.
“One,” she said. Her voice trembled. This punishment might be just as torturous for her as it was for him.
Stroking the feathered tip, she moved to a point beneath his right arm and then slowly down his side. He shuddered.
Licking her lips, Giselle whispered, “Two.”
“Perhaps crew moral wouldn’t suffer if some of the strokes were with my tongue.” She glanced up at Ry’s face. “What do you think?”
He nodded.
“I want to be certain you don’t think such punishment cruel.” She took the gag from his mouth.
“Yes,” he said, his voice hoarse.
“Say, please.”
Anger glinted in his eyes again but his words were pleading. ”Have mercy.”
“Have mercy, who?”
“Please, Queen Giselle. I need you.”
Climbing onto the bed at his side, Giselle bent over her captive to kiss his rock hard chest. The prisoner moaned. Swirling her tongue around, and then biting gently. He gasped.
Licking and nibbling, she trailed down his chest to his abdomen before bringing her head up again.
The prisoner’s eyes still gleamed.
“Ummmm. I think I’ve lost count,” she said. “Was that five or six? Or maybe seven.”
“I don’t know, my queen,” he said, stomach undulating with his irregular breathing.
“Do you want me to continue?” she asked.
“Oh, yes, please,” he begged.
She did want to continue. In fact, she longed to continue to lick him like the most delicious lollipop.
* * *
The guidebook fell from the bed, crashing heavily to the floor, waking Giselle in a start. Damn. She’d been dreaming something… Something wonderful and exciting and… She couldn’t quite remember. Something about feathers. But why would she be dreaming of birds? The details slipped away.
How had she fallen asleep anyway? She needed a ghost. Oh, yeah. The Pirates’ House restaurant was the next stop. Aura photography at the restaurant might be the way to go. Giselle had read on the internet that taking photos in haunted areas sometimes caught ghosts on film. Usually, the ghost consisted of an unexplained orb or a misty wisp of light. Not the firmest evidence, but it would be something. Would she be able to find a ghost without any ability to feel their presence?
She extracted the magazine’s Polaroid camera out of her suitcase. A digital camera would have been better, but beggars couldn’t be choosers. Only the most up-to-date ghost-hunting equipment for her boss.
Wouldn’t it be perfect if she could get photographic evidence of ghost pirates? Pirates were hot in the media right now. Ghost pirates would be even hotter. If she could get photographic evidence of ghost pirates it would make a great article. Even Willie wouldn’t complain…much. An uncomplaining Willie would mean her job was safe.
Giselle got halfway down the hotel hallway before she stopped and looked down at herself. Dammit. She turned and went back into her room where she quickly took off the hated shorts, ugly shirt and clunky shoes. She threw on a white peasant blouse, flouncy skirt and strappy sandals. No way she’d be caught in a matronly outfit again. A bit of makeup, a brush through her curly hair, and she could safely go out in public.
She looked good, even if a little pink from the hot Southern sun. Good enough to see any guy in the world. Even Mr. Scrumptious, correction Mr. Meanie. Not that she hoped to see Mr. Meanie. Absolutely not. If she saw him, she would spit in his meanie face. She wasn’t dressing up for that jerk. No way.
The restaurant, wood clapboard construction with fading gray paint, sported a Jolly Roger flag on a pole outside, playing up the pirate theme. After a quick lunch, Giselle started with a photograph of the Buccaneer room. The image developed in a few minutes. Nothing. It might qualify as a nice travel photo of the restaurant interior, but it contained no evidence of a ghostly image.
Wandering around, she found a fascinating series of small rooms set up in a rambling mazelike manner. One room led into another but without straight paths. A number of narrow hallways led into small nooks and crannies before emptying into yet another small room.
She took photos in each room. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. In the nooks and crannies. Nothing again. Near the old rum cellar, she found the now-blocked entrance to the tunnels. Still nothing.
Giselle had just admitted to herself that she would have to give up when she found herself in a room with a bar. Thank goodness. She needed a drink. The only question was whether she should order one drink or just go for two right away.
Before she could decide, she observed a familiar figure in the corner of the room. Ry Leland, Mr. Meanie himself sat at a table at the farthest reaches of the bar. Scrumptious and mean, he leaned toward a blonde woman seated across from him. The bleach blonde was probably in her late thirties and had a pretty, Southern beauty queen style. Skinny, skinny, skinny with big breasts. Obvious boob job.
Her lips moving nonstop, the blonde’s eyes darted about, glancing first to one side of the room then to the other then back at Ry. The blonde gestured with
two hands in supplication toward the ceiling. Then the blonde put her hand on the arm Ry had resting on the tabletop.
Giselle saw red…or perhaps green. Not a rational or reasonable reaction, but she gave in to it. She knew she shouldn’t. Raising her camera, she snapped a photo of Ry with his blonde. The flash on the camera popped and lighted the darkened room briefly.
Ry and the blonde both turned startled heads toward her, each with a deer-in-the-headlights expression. Giselle pulled the picture from the camera. Flash. Giselle took another picture. After a few seconds, Ry stood, knocking his chair back in one motion. He stalked toward Giselle, the blonde following closely on his heels.
Giselle pulled the second photo from the camera. Putting the photos behind her back, she deliberately stiffened her legs to keep her knees from knocking together.
“Give me those photos, Ms. Hunter.” Ry reached around and behind her.
Giselle brought the hand with the photos to her chest and held them there. “No.”
“Give them to me.” He grabbed at her chest area.
“No,” she said in a petulant tone as she backed away from his grasp. Giselle couldn’t explain her childish behavior, even to herself. She knew she wasn’t being reasonable. But to heck with reasonable. Jealousy had reared its ugly, belligerent head.
“Ms. Hunter. Giselle. I’m warning you.” Ry’s jaw clenched and his eyes had darkened to stormy sea color.
In response, she smiled sweetly. Then she tucked the photos down the loose front of her peasant blouse and into the cup of her bra. “What ya gonna do about it, Mr. Meanie?”
Ry’s deep green eyes darkened even further and narrowed. He lunged at her.
Giselle jumped back, narrowly escaping his hands. She stomped one strappy-sandaled foot down onto the top of his. Ry grunted. Not waiting to see whether he would take time to nurse his foot, Giselle took off in the other direction. She had no idea where she was headed. After a few steps, she looked back and saw that Ry had closed the distance between them.
