Midnight Magic (A Ghost & Abby Mystery Book 1)

by Jo-Ann Carson

  Yes, there is no question in my mind, or my heart, Eric Eklund is the perfect man for me. Perfect, except he’s dead.

  As in dead and gone, but not completely gone. Eric is a thousand-year-old, Viking ghost.

  As they say, love is complicated.

  After my client, Charisma Dubois left, I had considered waiting for Eric before I started the investigation. I probably should have waited. But he’d been missing for the last two nights and that wasn’t normal for him.

  Did I mention my number one complaint about having a ghost for a boyfriend is they don’t use cell phones?

  When Eric faded into another dimension three mornings ago, he warned me not to expect to see him for a few days. While it sounded odd, I didn’t press him. I didn’t want to seem clingy and I had come to accept that his life as a ghost had complications I didn’t fully understand.

  I smiled weakly, and he said, “Later, my snygg rumpa,” in a low rumbling voice that raised the temperature in the room. Yeah, I knew his words meant “nice ass.” I’d let him pillage my village anytime, if that were possible.

  But now was not the time to think about him and our complicated love life. I needed to concentrate on the mystery at hand, the one that could put a solid roof over my family’s head. I had to take command of this situation, so it didn’t take command of me. Supernatural beings like to do that. I hit the steering wheel with the palm of my hand. I would make my first visit to the haunted manor a quickie. I’d go in and straight out again. What could go wrong?

  I needed to keep it simple. To start with, all I needed to know was if anyone alive or dead lived there. That shouldn’t be hard. I’d check the kitchen for food, which would cover the living souls, and smell the house for the other kinds. Resident spirits may not be active during the day, but their scent lingers and I have a pretty good nose for them. Supernats all have distinctive odors. I find one part disinfectant to two parts water clears the air for twelve hours.

  I took a deep breath. I would get a smell of the place.

  Five-minutes tops. That was all my mini-investigation would take. I would get the information and hit the road. Hopefully I could tell Eric all about my adventure that night and together we would figure out our next step while I drank a big glass of merlot. The thought of talking with Eric calmed my nerves. Having a partner in crime was wise, even if he was absent.

  The old wooden sign on the road read: Graystone Manor, 333 Witch’s Peak. It stood at an odd angle, as if the ground had sunk under one of its legs. Beneath the words some jerk had written in spray paint: “Beware.” It was in orange and outlined in black. A paralyzing fear slithered up my spine as I turned into the lane leading to the manor, which sat at the top of the hill. I crossed my fingers and prayed to all that is holy.

  Tightening my grip on the wheel, I followed the long driveway as it wound through a dark forest and thought about what ten-thousand dollars in cash would look like. Trees hung over the road, forming a canopy of leaves. Light streaked through the foliage here and there, and at times I found myself in total darkness. The place definitely had atmosphere. I’d give it that.

  I emerged into a clearing and there stood Graystone Manor in all its gloomy glory.

  As I stepped out of my car, a chorus of unearthly howls greeted me. Long, low, baleful howls that echoed through my bones, sounding like the lament of a thousand tortured souls. A graveyard chill washed over me and sent goose-bumps down my arms. The incessant howls surrounded me, enveloping me with a sense of dread darker than my worst nightmare. All this in less than a minute. I tried to swallow my fear, but my mouth was too darn dry.

  Just dogs, I told myself, but my body knew better. They were not normal dogs.

  I slammed the car door, squared my shoulders and turned to face Graystone Manor, as if it were the monster who hid under my bed throughout my childhood. It was just a building, after all, a place with four walls, nothing more. Okay, maybe it was more than four walls. It was freaking formidable.

  Was it the sound of the hounds? Maybe it was the cold gloominess of the sky, or the horror of being alone at this moment. Who knew what forces were at work on my mind? The manor had a supernatural presence larger than the accumulation of gray stones used to build it. Standing four stories above the ground, it loomed over me with a menacing air. The windows were blackened by dark curtains. No smoke came from the brick chimneys. The shutters on the first floor hung at crooked angles. It had more than a weathered and empty look; it had a distinctly forbidding look.

  Now that I thought about it, I had heard Joy, the receptionist at the teahouse, tell me about this place. When she had turned ten she had been double dared to spend a night here, but she had chosen to kiss the guy with the bad acne instead, and he was now her best friend. The forbidding appearance of the place had given her goosebumps, but that had been a minor part of her story. That would be over ten years ago. Any manner of beast could have moved in since then.

  A flash of light drew my attention to the second floor. Had someone opened a curtain?

  I swiped at the rain running down my face. I couldn’t stand there forever in the storm. The chorus of howling canine beasts seemed to agree, their voices growing louder.

  The gray sky darkened as dusk settled into the landscape, as if it were a paralyzing metaphysical condition and not a matter of diminishing light from the sun. I had hoped to see the place in full daylight. Where had the time gone? I checked my cell phone. Whoa Nelly. It was only 3p.m. and yet the gathering gloom made it feel like night. Why so dark? Growls accompanied the howls and I questioned my need to see inside the house. I could go home to my children. The ones who lived under the leaky roof. Damn those hounds from hell, the gathering of inexplicable darkness and the oppressive supernatural feel of the manor. Damn it all.

  I would take a couple pictures and get away, have proof that I had arrived. At least I could do that.

  As I clicked the camera, a cat brushed against my legs, sending a tidal wave of dark thoughts shuddering through my system, stealing my breath and pinching my sanity. A voice inside me said I should be scared. I should be very scared.

  But, instead, I felt anger.

  Oh to heck with this supernatural dog-and-cat show. I won’t be deterred by anyone’s flea-ridden pets. Let’s see what’s hiding inside.

  3

  In the century that Eric Eklund had roamed the earth he had experienced many things, some good, some not so good, he would say, but the only thing that truly repulsed him was witches. He hated everything about witches. He hated their spells, their politics, their interfering ways and most of all their cackle. Even good witches cackled in dark moments. This he knew. It was in their blood. Whenever he heard the sound, it prickled along his ghostly spine. As a personal rule, he did his best to avoid witches.

  Until this day.

  Eric, known to be philosophical from time to time, might have enjoyed the irony of the situation, if he could have stepped outside himself. He would muse how odd it was that death constantly put him into situations that made him uncomfortable, as if a gravitational pull existed to torture him. He would undoubtedly blame the Norse trickster god Loki. But today he wasn’t thinking about the ironies of death, or the machinations of the gods.

  Today he was searching for a witch. Not just any witch. He was searching for the one who could give him a beating heart. He wanted to reverse his death, to be a warm-blooded, breathing man, to be a partner to Abby.

  He had given up trying to discuss this with her. She didn’t approve of his quest and she had made that more than clear. “It’s forbidden,” she had said. “Forbidden for a reason.”

  All the so-called supernatural experts agreed on this point. The unnatural transformation of a ghost to a human would upset the balance of the universe, yada, yada, yada . . . Ox crap. If he held her in his arms, he knew Abby would change her mind.

  Besides, no one knew exactly what trouble would result from his getting a heartbeat. They just said it would be bad. Really
bad. If he were to become alive, there would be a price. That was just the way the balance of matter and energy worked on an elemental level of magic. It sounded like superstitious-garbage to him.

  Grunting, and cursing in ancient Swedish, he slid between dimensions and landed at the door of the mӓstare’s castle, which sat on top of the highest mountain in Egregore, the realm of the ancient magi.

  ***

  The acrid smell of burning sage and old magic oozed from the seams of the ten-foot iron doors in front of him. If he had any sense, he would turn back now. A crawling sensation ran up his ghostly spine as he reached for the enormous carved handle. He could still go back. He could . . .

  Images of the moon, the sun and the stars covered the doors, symbolizing the light and dark magic that dwelled within. It could be a bad sales job, he thought. Sorcerers were known for their power, intellect and secrecy. Honesty was never their strong suit.

  He gripped the handle. His shrink had told him this sorcerer was one of the oldest witches in the universe; a true mästare, a magical guide whose specialty lay in accessing the mystical essence of life. A wizard to avoid. We shall see.

  With a low moan the door pulled away from his hand, revealing a long, dark corridor, lit with the flickering light of ten tall candelabras set out on tables lining the walls.

  As he entered, six closed doors appeared, three on one side and three on the other. Light trickled beneath each.

  Why did witches make everything so complicated? Why could there not be one door? That was how a Viking would do it.

  A light breeze arose from the polished marble floor, adding an earthy smell to the sage and magic, but they were far from earth and the scent had been added to make him feel more at home. The sound of a steady heartbeat grew with the smell. Bump bump . . . bump bump . . . bump bump.

  För fan i helvete. For the devil in hell.

  He forced himself not to think about whose heart he heard, or what had happened to them. The sorcerer could be testing him. It was just a sound, no more special than the sound of a cricket at sunset, or a music tape.

  A creaking sound drew his attention to the right. The first door opened, spilling blinding light into the corridor. He squinted. A tall, wizardly-man emerged from the light with a nine-foot walking stick made of weathered oak. He wore a gray wool cloak and an impenetrable expression. As he approached, the back light dimmed.

  “Viking, I have been expecting you,” he said. As his voice resonated in the hallway, the walls magically shifted, leaving Eric standing before him in a large, regally appointed room. The sorcerer smiled. “I am Guiden.”

  “I am Erick Ecklund of Sweden.” He bowed.

  “You are the ghost who wants to live again.”

  How did he know? Only his friends, Abby and his shrink knew, and none of them would betray his confidence. He said nothing.

  “Your heart, great warrior, precedes you. Your desires are known.”

  Eric nodded. “Is it possible?”

  “I see you are not one for small talk. So Viking of you. Necromancy is no small matter.”

  Eric liked to look a man in the eye when he spoke to him, a man-to-man exchange, but he couldn’t do it with the sorcerer. Holding the mӓstare’s gaze proved more difficult than taming a wild stallion. His eyes did not appear human at all. Maybe they never had been. His orbs were multi-faceted mirrors, shifting with the flickering candle-light, and within them Eric could see an ebbing and flowing of some unseen force. They held more depth and more power than Eric imagined possible. Blue one moment, gray the next and sometimes white, they constantly evolved, as if they had no point of origin, or point of destination, as if they were beyond all such concepts; as if they reflected the universe itself.

  Eric swallowed his humility and held his ground. His battle-axe hand itched.

  The old witch—for Guiden was a witch among other things—gave him a patronizing smile, as if he understood Eric’s thoughts and found them simple.

  “To return something dead to life requires turning life to death,” he said with the matter-of-fact tone of a tax accountant.

  That made sense to Eric. Ugly sense, but sense all the same. A life for a life. “Must it be human?”

  The wizard tilted his head and sighed. “Would you barter for your life with a rat?”

  “No, of course not. But I have no intention of taking the life of a human.”

  The hooded head tilted and the sorcerer’s orbs glinted at Eric from an angle. “What if the human deserved to die?”

  “No one deserves to die.”

  “I see. You are not willing to be my assassin.”

  “Definitely not.” Eric’s free hand formed a fist. The sorcerer was not the first to want to use his warrior abilities.

  Guiden shrugged as if it were not a biggy. “There are other ways.”

  Hope swelled in Eric’s chest. This was what he had come for. Surely there was a way. His love for Abby could not be denied forever.

  “But I have to tell you, Viking, killing a person would be the easiest. Matter for matter. Energy for energy.”

  “You said there was another way. Perhaps more elemental? I heard there is ancient magic that could do the deed.”

  “Yes there are ancient spells, but they all involve death. You cannot have life without death.”

  “I see.”

  The sorcerer’s orbs turned black. “But we could stick with life, if you insist. That is to say, we could have you both alive at the same time, but not in the present.”

  “In the past? You mean we could be together in the past?” Why hadn’t he thought of that?

  “Yes. If we transported Abby back to your first lifetime, you could be together and both of you would be alive.”

  “But her children?”

  “There are children?”

  “She has three.”

  The mӓstare’s expression turned sour. “No, you would not want to risk young lives.”

  Eric’s heart fell. “Is that it, then?”

  “Eric Eklund, I know you’re a Viking warrior, but I also know you have a brain. Think, man. I am making you a once in a lifetime offer, something only I can give you. I am offering you immortality.”

  “Without a soul.”

  His gaze flashed fire. “I’m not in the business of souls. Buying, selling, trading or destroying them. I’m not convinced they exist, for that matter. I don’t care about them. What I offer you is a chance to be alive again. Be my assassin and you will breathe forever. You can mate as many times as you wish through all eternity. Live like a god.”

  “With blood on my hands.”

  “You’re used to that. It’s just a red bodily fluid.”

  “No, Grand One. I thank you for meeting with me and I thank you for your honesty. I cannot be yours, or anyone else’s, assassin.”

  “Hmm.” The scent of sage intensified. “How about once. Only once. One man. You kill one man for me and I will give you one lifetime in return.”

  He shook his head. “I will not barter lives.”

  “You have killed men in the past. Many men. What is one more?”

  “I never killed a man without a reason, and I never will. It is a matter of honor, a matter of what is right and what is wrong. In warfare I kill to protect my people. I will not kill a stranger for no reason.”

  “Oh, I assure you there will be a reason.”

  Eric shook his head. “I will not bargain my soul for your profit. I love Abby and she me, but neither of us would want me to kill others so that we could consummate our love.” He turned to leave, before he gave in to the temptation of the offer. The thought of holding Abby in his arms was tempting and immortality beyond comprehension. And damn it all from here to eternity, the sorcerer was right. Killing was easy for him.

  “Stop,” said Guiden.

  Eric’s specter froze. A mist swirled around him, forcing him to face the sorcerer’s visage.

  “You, my friend, have forgotten what it is like to be alive, to br
eathe air and feel your heart beat, to ravish your woman.”

  Eric swallowed. He didn’t need to be thinking about that at the moment. But there was nothing he could do but think of it, of being inside her.

  The mästare’s gaze turned a Caribbean blue and a wicked grin crossed his face. “What if I gave you a taste of what it would be like?” His voice was slimier than a snake in the rain, but Eric had to hear more.

  “In exchange for what?”

  “Nothing.” The old magi’s eyes blazed for a second. “No strings attached. You see, I am a betting man, and I wager after you taste your woman, you will beg to be my personal assassin.”

  “Never. I’m being honest with you, Guiden. That will never happen.”

  The sorcerer smiled. “Let’s take one step back. I offer you a simple arrangement to start with. I will reward you and your lover one human lifetime for every man you kill.”

  “No.”

  He cackled. “We’ll see about that. Okay, for now I will give you a freebie—one night together.”

  “What are you proposing?”

  “On the next full moon, my magic will transport you and your woman back to your time for six hours.”

  “Six hours.”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it hurt her?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Will it hurt me?”

  “No. Though you may feel hungover from the ecstasy of it all.”

  “Do I need to prepare?”

  Guiden’s cloaked head shook. “I will take care of everything. Trust me.”

  Trust him? “And what shall I tell Abby?”

  “Anything you like. I suppose you will have to at least tell her you are going on a special date, in order to secure the safety of her children, but she doesn’t need to do anything for the event.”

  “It will just happen?”

  “As I said, trust me. I will send two amulets for you to wear around your necks. On the stroke of midnight, on the first night of the next full moon, the two of you will find yourselves alive and well in your ancestral home. You will have six hours together.”