Nine Deadly Lives

by Livia J. Washburn

  “Come on.” He took her upper arm to guide her toward the towering antebellum mansion, looming ahead of them. In the unearthly golden moonlight, it appeared in grace and perfection, as it must have been in its prime. The shadows hid the shabby, rundown condition revealed by the harshness of day.

  He walked up the steps and onto the portico, all the way to the front door. She smiled faintly. No one used the front door. She couldn’t recall the last time someone had ever come to call. She didn’t fret about anyone spotting them. No one was home. There’d be no one to celebrate her birthday with her. She hadn’t expected it. She took the key from the pocket of her shorts and fumbled with the ring.

  Bran reached out and stroked her cheek with the back of his hand. “Happy Birthday, Domino. If you were celebrating your twenty-first birthday, this night would be ending a different way. For your eighteenth, you’ll just have to settle for a kiss.”

  He leaned toward her and brushed his lips across hers. So fleeting, she wanted to grab his arms and hang on forever. Instead, he pulled back. For a long moment he stood staring at her face bathed by twinkling faerydust and moonlight―his hidden by the shadows, unreadable. “Goodnight, Domino.”

  Emotions were flying around in her, wild, frantic, so many things she needed to say to him, to ask him. Instead, she stood there accepting Bran was walking away from her. Walking out of her life. Come spring, he would leave for England. He began whistling an old tune by a singer named Bobby Vee, Come Back When You’ve Grown Up, Girl.

  Choking back the tears, she called after him, “Go ahead! Run, coward! Someday, you’ll regret not giving me a proper kiss on my birthday.”

  Pye stood, dancing back and forth on his feet. Confused, he wanted to go inside with her, and also felt the urge to follow him.

  Bran’s laughter rolled softly through the night. “Oh, I regret it already.” He moved farther down the driveway, but he turned around and kept walking backwards. “Tell you what, Domino—how about a date?”

  The question jumped out of her throat. “A date?” Hope exploded in her heart.

  “Yep. What say you? Three years from now––meet me at the bridge, wearing those red shoes, and I’ll give you a proper birthday kiss.”

  She nearly strangled. “Bran Mackenzie, I hate you!”

  “No… you…don’t.” Haunting, mocking words.

  She wanted to call those hateful words back, but he took off, jogging back down the darkened driveway, not looking back.

  o0o

  She rubbed her thumb over the red leather, debating if she should put them on. “Once a fool, always a fool, I suppose.” Pye yawned in boredom.

  Three years and no word from Bran. For all she knew, he was still living in England with his grandfather. No postcards, birthday wishes, no jolly St. Nick on a Merry HoHo card. His mother had closed down their house and joined her son overseas, not wanting to ramble about in the huge mansion by herself, once his sister had gone to college. Drawn like the stupid moth to the flame, she had walked by at twilight, hoping to see a light on the old Victorian manor.

  Yesterday, with the bite of autumn in the air and leaves falling covering the ground, she had ventured up the winding driveway of his family’s estate, out on her daily walk. Somehow, her steps had carried her to the gates of the old manor. She hadn’t meant to go there. She never had before, but something drew her. No lights were on inside, nothing showed signs of anyone about. Casting a last glance over her shoulder, she had gone on home.

  Now, torn by the compulsion to put the red shoes on once again and the nagging voice saying she was setting herself up for another disappointment, she finally gave in and slid them on. “Well, if he isn’t there, then no one’s about to witness me being a total sucker for believing in faerytales,” she told the cat.

  With Pye following along, chasing dry autumn leaves, she was halfway down the darkened driveway when doubt began to win the battle with common sense. Feeling slightly sick to her stomach from following the foolish folly, she almost turned back. However, as though the shoes had a will of their own, her steps carried her onward. She broke free of the inky shadows at the mouth of the drive. The bridge loomed ahead, the grey stones pale in the moonlight.

  No one was there.

  Had she really expected anything more? For a girl who had found life rarely smiled upon her, disappointment was expected. Oh, why hadn’t she stayed in the house where her heart couldn’t be hurt again? Approaching the bridge, she reached out and touched the stones where Bran had once sat. It felt warm, as if someone had recently been sitting there. Her hand jerked back. Where the heart wants so desperately, it has the power to play tricks on the mind.

  She sighed, afraid to touch the stones again. If one didn’t believe, didn’t reach for that hope, then nothing would ever come true, would it? Placing her hand flat to the stone, she held it there. It did feel warm.

  “Well, here goes, Pye.” she said, the words laced with self-mocking, “You’re no Toto, but Judy Garland has nothing on me.”

  Closing her eyelids, she clicked the heels of the red shoes together three times. For several heartbeats she was loath to opening her eyes. Finally, she lifted the lids. Nothing had changed. Scattered clouds passed over the moon, throwing the landscape in deep shadows. Darkest despair welling up in her chest, she swallowed the hard lump back.

  “Dumb, dumb, dumb! Pye, how stupid can one girl be?” Dropping her hand, she took a step back and spun to go.

  “Do you always talk to your cat, Domino?”

  The haunting words floated from the blackest night at the mouth of the drive. Her heart stopped, and she felt faint, unable to draw air. Domino. Only one person called her that.

  Bran.

  That fist of disillusionment inside her released, morphing to hot pleasure, which flooded through her body. It sped to her heart, where it felt like it might burst. Cautiously, she walked toward the disembodied words.

  “I’ve heard most good cat owners do,” she replied. “It’s when they start talking back that you begin to worry. They say highly imaginative children talk to imaginary playmates. Having a cat to natter to is probably the grown up version.”

  Pye’s eyesight handled dark better than a human’s. He dashed into the blackness, where Bran materialized from shadows. Slowly, he walked into the moonlight. “As I told you the last time we stood here, you are no longer a child.”

  Bran. Looking a bit older, more mature…but he was still wearing his shades. Bad boy to the core!

  She couldn’t help it. Laughter burst out. It was either laugh, or cry.

  In his hand was a long-stemmed white rose. He held it out to her. “Happy Birthday, Domino.” When she hesitated to accept it, he asked, “Did you think I wouldn’t keep my word to you? We had a date, remember?”

  “Yes, I remember. I wasn’t sure you did. You’ve been in England for a long time. You even have an accent now. You could’ve sent me a postcard to let me know you were alive.”

  “I did. And birthday cards…Christmas. I had a feeling you weren’t getting them when you never answered me.”

  She closed her eyes against the pain. “Mother. She was dying of cancer…”

  “And afraid you might leave her alone. I assumed as much.” He stepped close and brushed a butterfly kiss to her cheek. “But nothing was going to bar my way from keeping our date. Did you never wonder how I knew you watched me so much? Well, I was watching you, too. There was always an odd sense of Fate when our eyes met. I was too old for you. But a voice whispered, ‘Someday, when she grows up.’ Well, you’re twenty-one now, or at least you will be on the stroke of midnight.

  She shook her head. “Don’t you know what they whisper about me, Bran? Nothing has changed. I am still that crazy Meacham girl who they fear is a witch.”

  “Fear? I know you are. How else could you have stolen my heart all those years ago…one hot summer day, when you stood clinging to a fence watching me play tennis?”

  “Bran—” Buffeted by wild
emotions, she couldn’t find words.

  “I love how you say my name.” His long, elegant magician’s fingers cupped her chin, tilting it up. “In fact…I love you, Domino. And have, for a very long time. I just had to wait until the time was right.”

  He kissed her gently, then not enough. Domino stepped into his embrace and relished the kiss she had wanted so desperately three years ago.

  She couldn’t help it…the heels on her red shoes clicked thrice once more setting the seal on her final wish––to be Bran’s wife.

  Pye, reading her mind again, let out with a “Meeeeeeeeeeoooow!” of agreement.

  About the Author—Deborah Macgillivray

  Deborah Macgillivray, Award Winning Author with Montlake Romance/Amazon Publishing; Kensington Zebra Historicals; and Dorchester LoveSpell. Her books have been translated by publishing houses around the world including Random House Kodansha Ltd. (Japan); Romance Nova Cultural (Brazil); ACT (Russia); Knaur (Germany) and Ediciones Pamies (Spain).

  Scottish Medieval Historicals (Dragons of Challon series) and Contemporary Paranormals—on the quirky side—(Sisters of Colford Hall series), novellas that features cats as characters, and Regency novellas.

  Member of: RWA; Authors Guild; Host of The Haunt @ PRN

  She is winner of the prestigious Gayle Wilson Award of Excellent for Best Contemporary Romance for RIDING THE THUNDER (2008)

  Mr. Fred’s Treasure Box

  Cheryl Pierson

  Mr. Fred’s treasure was the love of his mistress.

  How can you measure the kindnesses of a lifetime? The gentle pats and sweet words; the special treats—my favorite was warm nacho cheese; and the companionship…No value can be placed on that!

  My owner—my companion—is dead. Mrs. Roberta Villines. But everyone called her Lovey.

  They say she died peacefully in her sleep, but I know better. I was there with her when it happened. There was nothing peaceful about it—not at all.

  I believe—I’ll just say it. I believe she was murdered. I don’t know how, but I have a good idea of who.

  “I hate that damn cat. Look at him staring at me.”

  That’s Lovey’s younger brother Allen. Wish I could talk. The feeling is mutual. I hate him, too. Can’t tell you how many times I’ve had to run for my life when he’s been here visiting.

  He’s a master at kicking, trying to slam the door on my tail as I’m leaving, and just being a rude jerk, in general. As Lovey always said, “Allen was born on third base and thought he’d hit a triple.” She didn’t like him much, either.

  “Allen, the cat doesn’t care about you. He’s probably afraid with all these strange people in the house. Oh, I wish the coroner would get here!”

  Ah. Let me tell you about the baby in the Villines family, Amelia. She pretends to be very close to Lovey…at least, she did, before Lovey died. Amelia has always been kind to me, when she’s visited. But lately, her visits have been few—and far between. And Lovey has missed her so.

  Amelia has a special place in my heart, just because of her dislike for their brother. Amelia always wanted kids, but couldn’t have them. Brother Allen? As luck would have it, he never wanted any, but has three. It took three illegitimate children to convince him to use condoms. Not only is he a mean cuss, he’s not very smart, either.

  Now, Allen just sits and glares at Amelia as if he’s mad that she’s let him know I’m not interested in him, after all. He’s used to being the center of the universe. It pains him when he finds out he’s not.

  Since it aggravates him so much, I think I’ll sit here a while longer. And ignore him.

  I’ve lived with Lovey almost all my life. I feel like I belong here more than her sister and brother…I don’t know what will happen now that she’s …dead.

  “Well, the old girl was getting on up there,” Allen says now.

  Amelia and I both stare at him.

  “Allen, sixty years old is not ‘getting on up there’. You’ll be sixty in six years, yourself.”

  Amelia gives a self-righteous sniff. Probably thinking that it’s only another ten years for her. She’s a vain one.

  “Just sayin’…her time had come.”

  Now, I glare. Lovey was not old. Her “time” had not “come”… More and more, I’m convinced someone has killed her. She felt fine yesterday. She and I sat together and she petted me. She did all the things she always did.

  Lovey has made me a special lunch every Thursday ever since I came to live with her. She always told me that was a special day—Thursday was adoption day—the day she and I became a family.

  Day before yesterday was our last Thursday together. My last special day with Lovey. She bought me a can of salmon for my very own. And I ate every piece of it.

  Lovey gave me a smile. It always seemed to make her so happy when we had our special Thursdays. Fifteen years of Thursdays.

  I’d lived on the streets for the first few months of my life. My mother and sisters and I were rescued, and then Lovey came, and my life changed.

  Now, Amelia puts up her hand. “Allen, I don’t want to hear any more. Lovey’s gone. Can’t you have a shred of sympathy for her? She was your sister, too!”

  If only Amelia knew—but, I suppose she does. Allen has no sympathy, because he has no soul. I knew about the things he did to Amelia when she was a little girl. Lovey had told me about the way he made fun of how she talked; how he held her at arm’s length; and the tears in little Amelia’s eyes at her revered big brother’s relentless taunting.

  She’d learned to turn it back on him now, but I could see he still had some ability to hurt her.

  “Yes, of course, Amelia.” He put on his fake comforting voice.

  But I knew what a snake he was under it all. And in the next instant, Amelia did, too.

  “Wonder who’ll inherit the old gal’s money?” He tried to ask it casually, but couldn’t manage to keep the burning hope out of his voice. He shrugged. “Should be me—being the eldest, now, and with three kids—”

  Amelia leaps to her feet, taking a step toward him. “If you think, for one second, that what Lovey has worked so hard for her entire life is going to support your three ‘baby mamas’, you have another thought coming, Allen Davis Villines! And how you can even think of money at a time like this—”

  “Now’s as good a time as any, sister, dear,” Allen sneers.

  He’s very good at curling his lip, but it gives him a harsh, unattractive look—for a human.

  The low-pitched conversation between the two police officers upstairs in Lovey’s room has ceased. The older policeman, Officer Rowe, comes down the stairs and pauses just for an instant at the heated exchange between Allen and Amelia. He wipes the revulsion from his features, making his face a blank slate. Then, he comes on into the room.

  I get up and move to an out-of-the-way corner of the living room where I can lie down. I’ve had a rough night myself. I was there when Lovey breathed her last. She tried to say something, but couldn’t get it out before she collapsed.

  My eyes were the last thing she saw before she died. I wanted to let her know how much I loved her, but how? She was gone so quickly.

  For so long, she’d joked about living to be one-hundred-and-one.

  “Fred,” she’d say, “don’t you worry. I’ll be gone long before you. You’ll have a good place here as long as you live. I know you had a rough start, but hopefully, you’ve forgotten those days. We’re both going to live to a ripe old age—I don’t plan on going until I’m at least a hundred-and-one, and you can’t go until after I do.”

  That was how Lovey talked to me all the time. With love.

  Now, I relaxed in the corner, where I could hear everything.

  “Allen…Amelia.” The officer acknowledged them, and the way he looked at them let them know what he thought of their squabbling at a time like this.

  Truthfully, I didn’t see it as squabbling on Amelia’s part. She knew her sister well enough to know Lovey would ne
ver want to see her fortune go to her brother’s foibles and mistakes.

  “Would either of you like to come say goodbye to your sister before the coroner comes? We got word he should be here in the next half-hour or so.”

  “Of course,” Amelia said, starting for the stairway.

  “Oh—uh—yes.” Allen follows her, as if he hasn’t yet realized he has a dead sister lying upstairs, after all.

  “They’re coming up, Peterson,” Officer Rowe calls out, and Amelia turns to him in surprise.

  “Really? You have to announce us and our movements?”

  He gives her a long, unblinking “cop stare” and then says, “Really.”

  Amelia turns back to climbing the stairs in a huff, and Allen rolls his eyes at Rowe as if to say, “Dumb broad.”

  But Rowe doesn’t crack a smile at Allen’s antics, which offends Allen—as most everything in the world does.

  Oddly enough, Officer Rowe turns and walks over to where I’m lying on the floor.

  Lovey bought me a comfortable bed, and I use it sometimes during the day, because it pleases her. She always smiles and pets me when she sees me in the bed, and usually she’ll say something like, “There’s my good boy! Are you enjoying your bed?”

  Can’t tell you how many times she’s asked me that same question, just like she’s never asked it before. And I used to always answer her with a “meow”, but in the past few years, it seemed enough to just look up at her and close my eyes when her gentle hand came across the top of my head in a loving caress.

  Lovey never missed a chance to pet me.

  Officer Rowe stops in front of me and squats down, putting a hand out for me to sniff. Then, he pets me. Procedurally correct, as a police officer…