How To Bring Your Love Life Back From The Dead

by Wendy Sparrow

  Ana pointed to a date on the page. “It was a month after you die—uhh—disappeared.”

  He nearly smiled at her horrified expression, but while death wasn’t really a laughing matter before you died—it was even significantly less funny after. He focused on the page where she was pointing. Well. Look at that. He hadn’t seen that in any book, but he’d already discovered the history of the town had been thoughtfully modified by someone. Initially, he’d assumed it might be Charles, pulling out pages that didn’t agree with him. But, many of the books were too recent for that.

  The top of the page she was pointing to had a large pendant on a necklace. It was a segmented moon—belonging to the woman Charles killed, Agnes Weatherby. According to this book, which must have been buried deep in someone’s collection, she’d even been unarmed and killed from a single bullet wound to the heart. Charles had never missed with a gun, and he was fond of shooting. Why would his old partner kill a woman? An old woman?

  “Did it say why he killed her?” There must have been a reason. If it had even happened…. Were they allowed to print it if it hadn’t? Who knew in this modern world?

  Maybe he should have looked through that book instead of mocking it. He already wanted to snatch it from her hands and flip through it searching for some mention of his death. Eventually, Ana would ask how he died. No way in hell would he admit he hadn’t the foggiest. Shane hadn’t discovered a single printed sentence regarding his death or conjecture about his disappearance.

  People visiting the library had whispered for months after he’d disappeared. The preacher’s daughter had talked about him a good while longer.... Unfortunately, he only vaguely remembered those conversations even back then as they’d all occurred during the day for the most part. No one worked nights in the library until the 1980s. By then, he’d been long since forgotten as a person. If not for the caption below the painting, which had only been added after Charles’s own death, his name would have melted into history itself.

  Ana tilted her head, frowning at the book. “It says that he claims she’d tried to kill his child, my great grandfather, but everyone insisted she wasn’t known to be violent. In fact, they said she’d always wanted a child herself.” She gestured at the book. “Anyway, the event touched off a major purge of the city. Everyone associated with the supernatural in any way fled to neighboring cities.”

  His throat felt dry and ragged as he tried to force out the question that was plaguing him. “Does it mention me?” he asked finally. It might have sounded egotistical if he’d put more force behind it, but it sounded plaintive and pathetic. He’d never been one to display weakness and this certainly felt so.

  Ana glanced up at him, searching his expression for something. He lowered his gaze to the book. It was strange having someone care about him. It hadn’t happened for over a hundred years. She did care about him, though, it was written all over her face. She had a face as easy to read as the book in her hand.

  “It does,” she said, nearly making it a question.

  Okay, he really wanted to get his hands on that book. It had come in within the last few months even, so he should have tried to get to it—just in case the pages were torn out after it was shelved. Why hadn’t he? Stubborn, stupid ghost.

  “Oh?” He’d tried for casual, but hadn’t managed.

  “Shane, have you noticed how…edited these books are when it comes to you?”

  It was a constant source of frustration when your existence ended at a doorway. Everything coming in had already had the pages removed. He was only allowed to know what an unseen hand deemed acceptable. It had been going on for a century, though, so it had to be more than just a joke…and it felt personal, deeply personal. Most everyone in town around that time made it into print in one form or another. They aged, accomplished, loved, lived, and died—leaving behind their own progeny, and that was recorded somewhere. Here he was a ghost and leaving no impression on the world in any way. He was more a ghost in history than in reality. It left his heart cold as a stone, even as it enraged him. He swallowed back the first twenty things that came to mind.

  He, Shane Blythe, was many things. A cad at times. An arrogant ass. Pretentious. And, yes, once he’d been convinced he was a gift to the women of Seaside. But he was not weak. He was not emotional. His fist gained substance, and he clenched it before he shook it out. He was far too old, and it was far too late.

  “I wasn’t that important, little mouse,” he said finally. “The city didn’t really boom until after I was gone.”

  “You’re wrong,” she said. She flipped back a few pages in the book which she’d marked with a piece of paper. Aloud, she read, “But of the strange disappearance of Charles’s business partner, Shane Blythe, little is known though it occurred around this time. Local conjecture was that it was linked to an argument between the two men overheard by a local woman, Agnes Weatherby, who’ll be mentioned in a later chapter. Blythe’s disappearance was shortly after strange occurrences of animal mutilation and lights seen in the library at odd hours of the night. While the lights continued to be seen after his disappearance, the animal mutilations stopped immediately with his disappearance.”

  “I did not mutilate animals.” He folded his arms and sniffed in disgust. He might rip out a few pages of his own for once. Rubbish. He should have tossed that book in the trash. This was worse than the censored history. Mutilating animals? What bastard had suggested that? Luckily, whoever they were, they were dead.

  Ana laughed and poked his arm. She frowned when her finger slid through his mostly-vapor body. “Whoa. Weird.” She shook it off. “You have to listen to the rest, and I don’t think anyone thought you killed animals, silly.”

  “You’re sure?” he asked. “I didn’t even care much for hunting.” Okay, that had sounded overly defensive. Also, he didn’t care for her calling him “silly.” He should bring that up.

  She rolled her eyes and continued reading, “Some wondered if Charles had murdered his own partner, but few were brave enough to say so out loud.”

  “Charles would never kill anyone,” Shane said doubtfully.

  Ana raised her eyebrows and went forward to the page on Agnes Weatherby’s death.

  “He wouldn’t. That book must be wrong. We were vain and foolish men, but neither of us was that exciting.”

  “He did. Charles killed her,” she said, nodding. “I found mention of it in the newspapers they’ve scanned in. He got off for self-defense, but the criminal prosecution was flimsy to the point of being staged, and I’m sure someone greased palms.”

  “Greased palms?” he said slowly.

  “It means….”

  “I know what it means,” he snapped. “We had words back then too. You haven’t invented the bloody things in the last century.”

  Her eyes widened.

  He shook his head. “My apologies. I knew Charles. It’s impossible to imagine he’d kill anyone, let alone me. We were friends before we were colleagues, and, sure, we’d had disagreements, but….” He sighed. “Again. I’m sorry.” He didn’t usually apologize, but there’d been this pained, pale expression on Ana’s face, and it’d cut into his heart like a blade.

  “It’s…uhh…fine. Apparently, my great, great grandfather was…not the man you thought he was. I have to tell you—it’s nearly a family trait. My grandfather was a horrible man. He cut my aunt out of his will because she’d gotten a divorce, but he’d divorced his first wife when she couldn’t have children. Our family get-togethers amount to everyone bragging about who they’d conned recently, and how they’d evaded getting prosecuted. I usually don’t eat the whole time because it makes me sick to my stomach.” She bit her lip. “Which is a shame because the caterer they always use is amazing.”

  He opened his mouth, but she cut him off, shaking her head.

  “But no, I’m sorry, all I’ve read and know of my family history—I can very well believe he killed that woman in cold blood. And he didn’t bother denying that. He s
hrugged it off in that I’m-rich-so-screw-you Franklin way and said it was self-defense, and then insisted they run all the occult out of town.” She licked her lips and looked up at him. “Though, really, that’s beside the point if you say he didn’t kill you, you would know, I guess, right?”

  A mulish frustration asserted itself inside him—like steel running through his veins. No. It was easy for her to come here and read about such things and make assumptions. The first report he’d heard of his disappearance really was tripping from her mouth as if it was nothing. And it was nothing to her—words on a page. He was a ghost in her life—in this world. Insubstantial. She’d nearly dismissed him as a figment of her imagination. Yet, here she sat with the only book that hadn’t had his life ripped out of it right there in her hands. It was as if she was seeing into his soul.

  Animals mutilated.

  Charles possibly killing him.

  It might all be pure fiction. Drivel…about his life and his death.

  Animals mutilated. Sure, he enjoyed a well-cooked piece of meat, and he’d beheaded chickens in the course of his life, but for a purpose—for sustenance. He’d never mutilated them for fun.

  He needed to read that book.

  Also, he needed this pretty little redhead not to be the first to read about his life and possibly his death. He could see she still had a good portion of the book left to read. No. If anyone was finally going to uncover the secret to how he’d died, it would be him. Him. He deserved that much after a century in this damn room reading censored books.

  “I mean, how did you die?” she asked.

  *****

  Just like that, he was gone. Ana blinked. Where did he go? Had he run out of energy again? But she had so much more to talk with him about, and she’d waited all day. Her mouth dropped open. Wow, that was really unfair. Apparently life was as cruel with the dead as it was to the living. She swallowed back the hurt, while biting her lower lip. It was ridiculous to cry, so she wouldn’t. It was fine. There was tomorrow night. Still, all day spent waiting, and she hadn’t even been able to say goodbye before he’d….

  Footsteps stomped near his painting. What? He was here and he’d just….

  “Shane?” she called.

  No answer. Well, that was strange. If she could hear his footsteps, he was still around. Well, why did he leave then? Why wasn’t he answering her?

  He’d disappeared right after she’d asked how he’d died. Maybe that had something to do with it.

  “I’m sorry if I offended you…somehow.” Were they not to talk about how he died? It was crucial to researching his past—and her great, great grandfather’s hand in it. It didn’t seem like anyone else knew what had happened to the smug but sexy Shane Blythe. “Look, it’s okay if you died in some embarrassing way. It’s not a big deal.”

  Could that be it? Maybe he was run over by a cow or tripped and fell off a cliff. It’s not like she would ever laugh no matter how it happened. It wasn’t funny.

  The stomping near the painting continued.

  Ana clamped her teeth tight. What an ass. What an arrogant….gah! He was being childish. Men were such idiots—even dead ones it appeared. He could be quiet if he wanted to, but, no, he was stomping around to let her know he was still around and ignoring the hell out of her.

  She took a deep breath. Cool it, Ana. Maybe he’d died in a really embarrassing way. Or maybe it was so gruesome he didn’t like to even think on it. Maybe it was wood-chipper levels of vile, and he didn’t know how to tell her.

  Getting to her feet, Ana set the book aside, and walked down the shelves to where the footsteps were coming from. When she arrived at the painting, there was no Shane, but the footsteps were on the move…back toward the book. She ran back that way. Oh no, he didn’t. He wasn’t going to pitch a fit and ignore her and then steal the book that he’d scoffed at. She glimpsed him for a second before he disappeared again near the book.

  Snatching up the book, she announced, “No, if you want this book, you’ll have to talk to me.”

  The stomping was back at the painting. Her eyes narrowed. It had to take energy to make that much noise. He’d said he had limited energy. He was using up that energy to make a point that he was treating her like a ghost. She’d waited all day for this guy to act like a complete ass because she’d tripped across some unwritten rule of the dead. Then, rather than explain himself, he was wasting his energy in a tantrum.

  All day. She’d waited all day…for this. For a century old ghost to act like a four year old who’d been denied dessert.

  She growled. Not only that, she’d thrown herself at him when he’d first arrived and kissed him. Obviously, her feelings weren’t entirely reciprocated.

  Stupid ghost.

  As calmly as she could, and despite her shaking hands, Analise pulled her purse onto her shoulder and walked toward the door, carrying the book. “Fine.” It was entirely fine. Completely fine. What-the-hell-ever. “When you’re done being a child, come find me. In the meantime, have a nice death.”

  Her composure broke as she crossed through the main library and tears slid down her cheeks. What a complete moron! Actually, she wasn’t sure who she was referring to there. No, she was. That was something reciprocated right there. They’d both been massive idiots. Shane for being…Shane, and her for thinking he was different. She slammed the backdoor shut behind her.

  Ana glanced back and saw the lights in the library were giving off quite a performance in the special collection room. That was a rather spectacular tantrum, poltergeist-style. Maybe when it was done, he’d feel like being rational and talking. When he did, he could come find her this time. There was no way she’d be putting her pride on the line.

  Not. Again. Not in this life.

  *****

  “Damn,” he muttered as he heard her car leave. He shut the lights off. So much for trying to signal her. He’d been behaving childishly, but apparently Ana wasn’t aware he couldn’t leave the library. In fact, he couldn’t leave the room. He couldn’t come apologize even though he wanted to.

  Shane slumped down in the seat that was still warm from her body. Closing his eyes, he could still smell her cinnamon and sugar scent. Spicy and sweet. Ana was amazing, and she’d actually treated him more tenderly than he’d been treated while alive. He’d screwed up royally just because she’d asked a reasonable question…that had over a hundred years of frustration against it.

  Maybe it was just as well that he’d run her off, though. It’s not like he had anything to offer her. He was dead. He wasn’t even sure why he was still around. If it was so he could redeem himself in some way, he’d done a damn fine job right there. He’d be incorporeal until Judgment Day at this rate.

  Shane pinched the bridge of his nose and considered burning off the night’s energy throwing all the books in the room around. He’d done that once shortly after he’d died. Then again, they might blame Ana, and then she’d really never forgive him. Plus, they didn’t seem to allow just anyone to stay after hours, so they might not let her come back.

  If she did ever want to come back….

  On the off chance that Ana might come back and give him a second chance, he’d save what energy he had left. He sat watching the entrance to the room and willed her to come back. His spirit begging the return of hers. The minutes drummed by like a funeral procession.

  He was a cad.

  He deserved this.

  He definitely didn’t deserve Ana.

  The morning’s light shimmered in through the windows, and he dissolved with it, unsure of why he felt so alone.

  “You look awful,” Jenny said, passing Ana an energy drink she’d probably intended for herself. “Aren’t you sleeping at all?”

  Ana shrugged and continued to read the book after popping the top off the drink. Her cheek rested in her hand, and she barely cared about the supernatural history of Seaside. In fact, the supernatural world could kiss her ass for all she cared.

  Stupid ghost.

 
It figured.

  Anyone she was attracted to was bound to be a moron. The fact that she already felt that strongly for him—meant he was guaranteed to be twice the moron when compared to any guy who’d preceded him in her life.

  “Well, did you see that guy? The one you met before?” Jenny slid into the seat opposite Ana’s.

  “Sort of.” See him? Hah! That was funny. She’d seen him, and then she hadn’t because he’d decided she wasn’t worth it.

  “What does ‘sort of’ mean?”

  Her heavy sigh made the page stir, and she pressed it back into submission. “It means that I met him. He behaved like a jerk. I told him to get a hold of me if he wanted to apologize. He didn’t.”

  Jenny winced. “So, will you be going to the library today?”

  Ana let her head slip from her hand to smack on the desk. It felt like a reasonable answer to the question.

  Outside the curtain of her hair, Ana heard Jenny ask, “Uhh…does that mean no?”

  *****

  Shane watched the library patrons. He was watching for the red-haired woman and a pencil. The first he only vaguely remembered as being someone he’d spoken with but liked quite a lot. The second he’d been repeating over and over when he’d gone into vapor form. “Pencil. Get pencil. Pencil. Get pencil.”

  Someone dropped a pen. He didn’t want a pen. He wanted a pencil. Pencil. Pencil. A woman with red hair entered. No. Not the right one. The one he wanted was taller. Plus, this woman’s hair didn’t look like it had started red. She’d colored it red—which was funny.

  Pencil. Pencil.

  The red-haired woman, who wasn’t the right woman, sat down. She had a pencil. He hovered near her, waiting for an opportunity to blow it off the desk and under the big chair. She wouldn’t set it down, though. She kept tapping it on her notebook.

  Did he want a notebook too? Maybe. He couldn’t remember. Pencil. Concentrate. Shane, get pencil.

  She frowned at the bookshelves beside her, set down the pencil, and got up to go get a book.