The Mammoth Book of Ghost Romance (Mammoth Books)

by Trisha Telep

  Dacat was dead.

  Duffy had been reunited with—

  “Lady Helena,” she gasped, breaking the kiss and pulling away from Mason.

  “Wait.” He held on to her hand and reached into his pocket. Lord Duffy’s ecto-orb glittered blue and green in the morning sunlight. “Give her this.” He dropped the orb into her hand.

  She met his unwavering stare. “Are you certain?”

  He nodded.

  Ro balanced on the balls of her feet to kiss his cheek, and the guilt twisting inside her eased. “You’re an honorable man, Mason Beck, whether you want to acknowledge it or not.”

  “Only because you leave me little choice.” The emotion swirling in his eyes made her heart ache.

  “Mason . . .”

  He released his hold. “Go.”

  She backed away slowly, fixing him in her memory, and then ran to Lady Helena without looking back.

  The woman still sat in the dust but now her face was buried in her hands and her shoulders shook.

  “My lady?”

  “Lost,” she sobbed as the first low rumblings announced the approach of a Peacemaker squadron. “My dear Everett is lost.”

  Ro glanced at Lord Duffy hovering at his wife’s side. “No, he isn’t.”

  Lady Helena lowered her hands. She gasped. “Is that . . .”

  Ro handed the ecto-orb to her.

  “Everett, my love,” she murmured and cradled the orb to her.

  “Dearest Helena.” Lord Duffy’s whisper was barely audible as a squadron of Peacemakers in heavy steel suits fanned across the docks. “I am so sorry for leaving you.”

  “You didn’t leave me. You were taken.” Lady Helena focused on the specter at her side. “Twice.”

  Duffy dropped his gaze.

  “My lady,” Ro said, and continued when Lady Helena looked at her. “Forgive me, but . . . you can see him?”

  She smiled. “Of course. It’s the magic of the orb. Anyone who holds it may communicate with the ecto-impression contained within. But only the impression may choose to leave the orb and be at peace in the Well of Souls.”

  “And I’ve changed my mind,” Duffy announced. “I don’t want to travel to the Well.”

  “Everett, please . . .”

  Duffy extended his hand as if to cradle his wife’s cheek. “I wish to remain with you, Helena.”

  Captured tears glittered in Lady Helena’s eyes. “And I wish for you to stay.”

  A lump formed in Ro’s throat and she looked away.

  Peacemakers strode toward them. More surrounded Dacat’s body, and two loomed over the kneeling Mason. One held the thief’s bloodied cutlass in its metal-encased hand. The other clamped heavy shackles around Mason’s wrists and hauled him to his feet.

  Fear sliced through Ro. She darted forward. “Mason!”

  A Peacemaker caught her and kept her just out of reach.

  “Let him go,” she pleaded.

  They ignored her, and the two Peacemakers tramped back toward the Queen’s Market with Mason in irons between them.

  “Where are you taking him?” she shouted.

  “He’ll be shipped to Dismia colony,” one answered.

  “No! Mason!”

  He glanced over his shoulder, winked, and shouted, “Always a pleasure, love.”

  She continued to scream his name until she could no longer speak through her tears. The Peacemaker holding her released her once Mason and the others had disappeared. She fell to her knees in the dust, sobbing.

  Dacat’s body was taken away, and the Peacemakers left after speaking with Lady Helena and several of the airship crews.

  Ro’s tears finally dried, but still she remained slumped on the ground.

  Lady Helena knelt beside her and draped Mason’s long coat over her shoulders. “Thank you, Miss Vargas, for giving me back my husband.”

  Ro closed her eyes against the stab of loss she felt for Mason.

  “I’m sorry about your companion. I wish I could do more.” Lady Helena placed a pouch in Ro’s hand. “Seventeen coppers, the remainder of your fee, as agreed.”

  Ro opened her eyes and stared at the small velvet purse she clutched.

  Lady Helena rose in a swirl of silk skirts.

  “I don’t want this,” Ro said hoarsely, her throat raw.

  Lord Duffy appeared before her. “But you earned it, my dear.”

  “I don’t want it,” she repeated through tightly clamped teeth.

  Lady Duffy frowned. “We agreed on the price.”

  “That was before I knew how much stealing your husband back would truly cost.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  Feeling drained and hollow, Ro stumbled to her feet and dropped the pouch in the dust at Lady Duffy’s feet. “Keep your coppers, my lady. I have no use for them.”

  Turning away, she pulled Mason’s coat closed around her. She hugged herself in a futile effort to stave off the growing void within, wishing it were his arms that held her instead of her own. She headed for the market.

  Shadows crept across the Queen’s Market like hungry locusts, devouring the merchant’s stalls and stealing their vibrant colors. The sun had dipped below the towering mountain ridges to the west of Ithe. Most of the city’s residents had made their way home, but those who had nowhere to go still wandered the streets or huddled over tables in open-air taverns.

  Ro stared into the depths of her honey water. A plate filled with a thick root-vegetable stew sat in the center of the table. The feast represented the final brass mites she’d had left from the three coppers Lady Helena had given her. It was meant to be a celebration, a way to alleviate the sorrow that weighed on her.

  But it was a hollow gesture.

  She’d refused Lady Helena’s payment, which meant she would be forced to return to stealing after tonight.

  Mason was arrested by the Peacemakers and awaiting transport back to Dismia Prison Colony.

  Once again, Ro was outcast and alone.

  A pair of merchants entered the tavern talking loudly, their laughter like gunshots in her ears. She glared at them. Their dark eyes swept over her as though she were as transparent as Duffy’s ecto-impression had been.

  Watching them over the rim of her mug, she noted how each carried several pouches – no doubt filled with the day’s take – tucked into his belt. She set down her mug and rubbed the scar on the back of her hand. It would be easy to pass them and slip away with one of the pouches. She could be out of the tavern and into the tunnels before either noticed.

  Warmth pressed against her back and a familiar accented voice drawled, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

  Ro froze. Her heart stammered and then galloped within her chest.

  Mason Beck dropped into the chair next to her. An ugly blue and purple bruise marred the strong line of his jaw.

  “You wouldn’t do what, sir?” she asked softly, her voice quivering.

  He leaned closer, gently tilting her head to view a matching bruise along her jaw. “Go for the pouches.” His gaze flicked to the merchants and back to her. “Wait until they’ve had their drink and their heads are swimming.”

  “How did you know I was—”

  “Your scar.” He clasped her hand in his and traced the outline of the wound with his fingers. “You always massage it when you’re thinking improper thoughts, love.”

  His touch made her breath catch.

  “This morning I killed a man and was arrested by the Peacemakers. I was on my way back to Dismia Prison Colony.” His fingers trailed from her hand to her elbow and back. “And yet, by sundown, I’m a free man sitting in a tavern.” Hazel eyes pinned her. “Strange, don’t you think?”

  “Quite,” Ro squeaked.

  “Naturally, I was curious when the Peacemakers released me.” Mason smiled and returned to caressing her hand. “Imagine my surprise when I saw Lady Helena and Lord Duffy waiting for me.”

  She sucked in a deep breath and attempted to withdraw
her hand.

  He tightened his grip but not enough to hurt. His smile faded. “Why did you do it, Ro?”

  “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Lady Helena told me you refused to take the coppers. Why?”

  Ro dropped her gaze to the table and shrugged. “I didn’t want them.”

  “My sweet Rosalind,” he sighed. “You and your Stars-cursed principles—”

  “Are the reason you’re a free man,” she interjected, focusing on him.

  It was his turn to look away.

  Moments passed as they sat in silence, lost in their own thoughts.

  “You’re free to follow your heart now.” Ro broke the silence. “Where will you go?”

  He tucked a pale curl behind her pointed ear. “My heart lies in Ithe, love.”

  Heat blossomed in her cheeks and her heart raced.

  He stood, kissed the scar on the palm of her hand, and then bent forward to whisper in her ear. “I abandoned my heart once in the tunnels and nearly lost it. I won’t do it again.”

  “Your heart will be your undoing.”

  “It already has been.”

  She searched his eyes for traces of subterfuge and found none.

  Mason kissed her cheek and smiled, releasing her hand. “You should’ve taken the coppers, love.”

  Ro rubbed the scar on her palm as he stretched out his hand for her to follow.

  A smile touched her lips as she took his hand. He pulled her into his arms, and she couldn’t help but wonder if seventeen coppers would be her own undoing.

  Yours in Eternity

  C. T. Adams

  One

  I dragged my wheeled suitcase up a brick path lined with fragrant pink roses. Inhaling deeply, I basked in the familiar scent and feeling of homecoming. I hadn’t been to my mother’s house in two years. When she’d gotten ill a neighbor’s son asked if he could rent it furnished. We needed the money for her care, and I couldn’t bear to sell the place. So, he’d rented. I’d thought maybe, eventually, he’d buy it. Instead he married a woman from up north and moved away. With my mother dead, it was time to clear the place out and sell, or move in and stay: to fish or cut bait as Tomas would have said. Ah Tomas, love of my life.

  I turned the key in the lock. Even after such a short time empty the place smelled musty, and the houseplants were wilting from lack of water. With a sigh I brought the suitcase over the threshold and closed the door. I’d best water the plants first, before I forgot. Then I’d go upstairs and unpack before fixing myself some lunch.

  It was impossible not to think about Tomas in this house. He’d picked me up at that front door for our first date. I’d gotten my first kiss on the balcony outside my bedroom.

  My parents hadn’t approved, of course. We were from the north, from money with a capital “M”. Daddy had brought us down when he’d been promoted to regional vice-president. Tomas’s family was from “the wrong side of the tracks” as my mother put it. I couldn’t have cared less.

  I’d met Tomas Petitjean my first day at Lafayette Junior High. He’d been tall, gangly, with skin like caramel, liquid brown eyes and a ready smile that showed off deep dimples and naturally straight white teeth. My heart lurched in my chest the minute I set eyes on him, and I knew . . . this was the one. He’d ignored his big brother Hector (who was in the same class, having been kept back in grade school) and ambled over to sit next to me instead.

  “I’m Tomas.”

  “Lola.” I smiled back at him, and he took the empty seat beside me.

  “Where you be from?” He said it in a soft Cajun accent that made me shiver.

  “Chicago. We just moved here two weeks ago.”

  “Lucky for me.”

  Lucky for me, too. Because not only was he handsome and charming, he didn’t think I was crazy.

  From early childhood I’ve been able to see and talk to ghosts. My mother called them my “imaginary friends”. But there was nothing imaginary about them. And while they tried to smile and pretend everything was normal, my parents were very much afraid I was insane.

  Tomas never questioned it. He’d been raised to accept that magic was a part of life. Spirits of the dead not only existed, they looked in on and after the living.

  To him I wasn’t a freak. I was special. We became practically inseparable – and Hector hated me for it.

  I shook my head. I didn’t want to think about Hector Petitjean. It would just upset me. So I crossed the living room and turned on the stereo, tuning the radio to one of the local music stations.

  With musical accompaniment I went from room to room, opening all the windows to let in some fresh air.

  I wasn’t really comfortable moving into my parents’ former bedroom, so I went to my old room instead. Nothing had changed. Not having any use for a frilly girl’s room my tenant had kept it shut tight. Dust coated everything. I’d have to clean. I was also going to have to go up in the attic and get fresh linens, or I’d be sneezing my head off.

  The stairs to the attic were narrow and cramped. The attic itself was crammed full with boxes containing personal items, clothing and the various things I hadn’t wanted the tenant to have access to. I knew I’d stored the linens in my mother’s old hope chest, but the chest was buried under a pile of boxes.

  I lifted the lid on the first dusty box. Sitting on top of the photo album was a small black velvet box. I opened it, sliding the gold band with its ivy pattern and tiny diamond chips onto my finger. My wedding ring. Inside it was engraved with three letters: YIE – yours in eternity. Tears stung my eyes as I looked down at my hand. Oh Tomas. If only . . .

  “He didn’t leave you, you know. Not by choice.”

  I turned at the sound of a woman’s voice, and saw the sparkling blue glitter of energy that marked a ghost taking shape.

  “Yes. He did. We argued and he left.” And never came back, not even as a ghost. I didn’t say that last out loud.

  “He never came back because he couldn’t.”

  Ghosts are people. Dead and incorporeal, but people. People lie. There was no reason for me to believe this spirit – other than the fact that I wanted to. I’ve found that just like live people, when a ghost tells you what you want to hear, they’re looking for something from you.

  “Why are you coming to me now? What do you want from me?”

  “I was following the magic, looking for the woman wearing Tomas Petitjean’s ring. If you are her, I need your help. By helping me you can help yourself . . . and Tomas.”

  Two

  Taking a deep breath, I lifted my hand to knock on Mrs Petitjean’s door. I felt quite uncomfortable coming here. For one thing the neighborhood wasn’t great. My little sports car stuck out like a diamond on a dung heap. It made me sad to see how far the place had gone downhill since the last time I’d seen it. What had once been a tidy little white house with green shutters, tucked behind a wrought-iron fence, now looked forlorn. It badly needed to be repainted, and the yard was so overgrown I worried about snakes. A pair of men’s muddy boots had been kicked off and left near the metal rocker on the porch. I sighed. Apparently Hector was still living with his mama.

  Ah well, it was after one o’clock. I could only hope that Hector had hauled himself out of bed by now and gone off to do whatever it was he did to pass his days. Not work. Unlike his brother, Hector had never been able to hold a job for more than a week or two. He preferred to skirt the law and make his money “under the table” to avoid paying taxes and child support liens. Then again, the boots lying on the porch weren’t a good sign.

  Steeling myself, I brought my knuckles down on the rough wood door. Whether or not I wanted to see my brother-in-law, I needed to see Mama Petitjean. For one thing, she’d expect to see me if I was in town. She’d be hurt and offended if I didn’t stop by. For another, Tomas had gotten his magic from her side of the family. She could tell me if what the ghost had said was possible. If she would.

  The door opened, and I came face to face wit
h Hector. He was unshaven and unbathed, his sleeveless undershirt stained and sticking to his chest. A battered cane supported his vast bulk. Were the tales I’d heard true then? Had he really had his kneecaps broken for failure to pay gambling debts?

  “Watchu doin’ here, Lola?” He didn’t step aside or show any sign of letting me past him. In fact, his words were almost a hiss. Hector obviously hadn’t missed me any more than I’d missed him.

  Before I could answer, Mama Petitjean’s voice called from the kitchen. Her accent was even thicker than I remembered it, and I found myself smiling in spite of everything. “Hector, who dat knockin’ at da do’?”

  I shouted a greeting before Hector could lie and say I was a salesman or something. “’Heya, Mama, it’s me, Lola.”

  I heard her gasp and start bustling her way to the living room from the kitchen. “Lola! Dat really you?” She appeared in the doorway, drying her hands with a checkered dishcloth, her face alight with pleasure.

  “It’s really me.”

  “Step ’side, Hector, let dat girl in.” She shook a finger in his direction. “An’ you go an’ get cleaned up. We got comp’ny.”

  Grumbling and giving me a dark look, he stepped aside. I ignored him, stepping forward to claim the hug my mother-in-law was offering me. “Not company surely? I’m family.”

  She waited until Hector was down the hall and out of earshot before whispering to me. “Chere, if’n it’ll get dat man clean . . .”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it.

  I looked around and smiled. The outside of the house might have deteriorated. Inside nothing had changed. A braided rug in shades of blue covered the wood floor. The same couch, worn but comfortable, sat facing an old television. Pictures of the Petitjean family from three generations back to the present were proudly arrayed atop the family piano, including more than a few of Tomas and me. Without even thinking about it, my hand stretched out to touch the frame of our wedding picture.

  Mama Petitjean hadn’t changed much either. She was still small and dark, with bright button eyes, her grey hair pulled up in a tight bun; still wore a faded housedress that was ironed and starched so crisp it might well stand up without her.