Digging up the truth could lead them to their graves.
Must Love Ghosts, Book 2
Hiring an exorcist is not something widowed single mom Holly Archer ever thought she’d do. But the blackouts she’s been having mean someone—or something—is hijacking her body and she wants it stopped, like yesterday.
The hottie who shows up at her door is the first man who’s sparked her interest since her awful marriage. It’s no hardship to give herself over to his skills, and in short order the spirit is ejected—and Holly comes face to face with Celia, the ghost of her dead husband’s mistress.
Lawe Callahan figured this would be an easy case, and by morning he’d be headed for another town, leaving Holly and her witchy amber eyes behind. Until she agrees to help the ghost, who refuses to budge until her killer is brought to justice.
As the investigation heats up, so does Lawe and Holly’s attraction. But their differences not only threaten any chance of something real, their quest for the truth could drive a killer to tie up all loose ends—permanently.
Warning: Contains a footloose exorcist who doesn’t let grave dirt stick to his feet for long, and a woman who isn’t in a hurry to commune with the dead. A little sleuthing, a little more gettin’ nekkid, and a lotta angst.
The Exorcist Who Loved Me
Jennifer Savalli
Acknowledgments
A big thank-you to my longtime bud Ken Andino for helping me with the Latin. If I messed it up, it’s my fault, not his.
To my fabulous editor Holly Atkinson for giving me the opportunity to write these fun stories.
And endless gratitude to my Readerlicious girls for pulling me through the quicksand times of writing and the quicksand times of life: Brinda Berry, Kelly Crawley, Christina Delay, Kathleen Groger, Susan McCauley, Abbie Roads, Carol Michell Storey, Natalya Whitaker, Jennifer Windrow and Sandy Wright.
Chapter One
The man on her doorstep didn’t look like any priest Holly Archer had ever seen.
He was about her age, late twenties, and wore a black cowboy hat over curly brown hair. The fading red and orange sunlight glinted off his silver glasses. They were like some kind of steampunk accessory, round with dark lenses. Under an open jacket, his gray T-shirt stretched across a muscular chest unfairly wasted on a man of the cloth. She kept her eyes on the two necklaces he wore—one a silver cross and the other some kind of small leather pouch—to stop her gaze from roaming lower. She was already headed to the special corner of hell reserved for women who ogled holy men. Given the reason she’d called him, she’d get the upgrade to a direct flight, no stops, no waiting.
“You look more like a guitarist than a priest,” she said.
An awkward silence stretched out, broken only by the rustling of dead leaves falling from the trees.
“Yeah, I get that all the time,” he said at last. “I’m not a priest.”
“Oh, thank God. I mean, that’s a relief. I mean, that’s not what I mean.” Her fingers clenched on the doorframe, and she imagined banging her head into it. Stupid, stupid. She sounded like a teenager tongue-tied over a cute boy instead of an exhausted widow with toddler twins and absolutely no interest in men. One awful marriage had been enough.
His words caught up with her short-circuiting brain. “Wait, what do you mean you’re not a priest? I have a situation here that needs to be resolved, like, yesterday.”
Now he smiled, if you could call that slight shift of his lips a smile. “This isn’t the movies. We don’t need an old priest, a young priest, a goat, or the blood of a virgin. Or the blood of a non-virgin, for that matter.” He hitched the strap of his black duffel bag higher on his shoulder and held out a hand. “I’m Lawe Callahan. Exorcist.”
His skin wasn’t soft and manicured like her husband’s had been. What roughened an exorcist’s hands? Best not to think about it. Besides, he felt warm and comforting, and she was in desperate need of warmth and comfort.
“You really aren’t a priest? And you’ll still be able to get rid of…” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed. “You can get rid of my problem?”
He hadn’t let go of her hand, and now he gave it a squeeze. “Trust me. I’m good at what I do.”
He’d been recommended by someone she trusted. Okay, the paranormal investigator who’d done the preliminary work on her case had been recommended by someone she trusted. That guy had said she needed an exorcist and put her in touch with Lawe. It wasn’t like she had a lot of options. Googling “exorcist for hire” had produced a freakshow of possibilities. This guy seemed sane. Strange, but definitely sane.
She stepped back from the door. “Come on in.”
His heavy boots thudded across the marble foyer as he followed her into the open family room and kitchen area. Designer furniture and expensive art contrasted with the riot of toys strewn everywhere. Paul had complained constantly about the mess. Now that he was gone, she made even less of an effort to keep the place tidy during the day. She played with her kids and loved them enough for both parents, Paul’s giant showplace be damned.
Resentment settled in her gut, familiar and unwanted. The man was dead. You weren’t supposed to be mad at the dead, or think evil thoughts about the dead. Maybe that was why she needed an exorcist.
And she probably could have cleaned up a bit for her guest.
She gestured Lawe onto the huge sectional sofa and cleared sippy cups and plastic snack bowls from the coffee table.
Lawe took off his jacket and hat and pushed his silver sunglasses to the top of his head, his gaze taking in the mess. “Are your kids in the house, Mrs. Archer?”
“It’s Holly. And no. They’re spending the night with my mother.”
She’d told her mother she had a date. The first one in the six months since Paul had died. Her mother was thrilled, especially after that awkward episode a couple weeks ago. If Mom knew the truth, she’d probably try to have Holly committed.
“Good.” Lawe pushed a red plastic fire truck out of the way and sat. He unzipped his duffel bag. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
“Um. No, I guess not.” She straightened, arms full of plastic cups and dishes. “Why do you need a recording?”
“Documentation is important.” Lawe pulled a small video camera from his bag, flipped it open, and fiddled with the buttons. “I don’t want to rely only on my memory while working your case.”
Did she have time to sneak away and change into something more attractive than a coffee-stained fleece top and yoga pants? Maybe put on some makeup? If she could find the makeup case she hardly bothered with these days.
Except for last week. She’d caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror over Theo’s changing table and discovered she’d applied three shades of green eye shadow and glossy coral lipstick—all with no memory of having done it.
A sippy cup slipped from her hands, banged into the monkey on Sadie’s zoo train. Faux jungle music blared from the train’s tinny speakers. She jumped back, heart pounding.
This is why an exorcist is here.
She drew a deep breath. Her gaze fell on the treats lined up on the black granite countertop and she remembered her manners.
“Can I get you anything? Water? Tea?” She carried her load of dishes to the kitchen area and dumped them in the sink. “The kids and I baked today, so I’ve also got iced sugar cookies and pumpkin bread and cranberry-orange muffins.”
Lawe peered at her over the back of the sofa, a quiet intensity about him that told her he’d been watching for a while—kind of the way a therapist watches a patient, checking the body
language against the words. Kind of the way her own therapist had watched her when she brought up her blackouts or lost time or whatever it was. Made sense. Both professions probably dealt with their share of crazies.
“You baked all that today?” he asked.
“Oh.” She gave an embarrassed laugh. “I used to be a pastry chef. And I bake when I’m nervous.”
Pumpkin-shaped cookies filled a big Tupperware container. The twins had decorated a few with smears of frosting and uneven lumps of sprinkles before wandering back to their toys. She’d decorated dozens, each a jack-o’-lantern work of art with orange and black frostings precisely applied to create a variety of facial expressions.
She needed to get her life back.
“I had a late lunch,” Lawe said. “But thanks.”
Back in the family room, Holly settled on the edge of a cushion at the opposite end of the sectional. “How’s this going to work?”
“I’ll ask you a few questions about your experiences, and then we’ll figure out how to proceed.” Lawe trained the camera on her. “The video’s for me. No one else will see it. I need to have a baseline before we meddle with the spirit world. Plus, you never know what kind of interesting footage you’ll get when dealing with possession.”
Holly shot off the sofa, banged her knee into the edge of the coffee table. Pain radiated up her leg and she clenched her jaw to keep from groaning.
“Whoa.” Lawe lowered the camera. “Are you okay?”
Ignoring the throbbing in her knee, she grabbed alphabet blocks from the coffee table and threw them into a plastic bin. “Absolutely.” Her voice wobbled a little. “Why wouldn’t I be okay?”
His hazel eyes tracked her movements. “Possession can be alarming if you’re not used to it.”
Startled, she sank cross-legged onto the carpet on the other side of the coffee table, the F block still clutched in her hand. Flower, frog, fairy. Freaked out. “Does that mean you’re used to seeing people possessed? Or you’re used to being possessed?”
He grinned. With those weird glasses perched atop his head and that stubbly facial hair, he looked a little out of step with the mortal plane. “A little of column A, a little of column B. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on?”
He raised the camera and she glanced away. Immediately, he snapped it shut. “Would you feel more comfortable if I recorded only audio, no video?”
She sighed in relief. Telling her story would be hard enough without a camera staring her in the face. “Yes. Thank you.”
He set up an audio recorder on the coffee table between them. “What’s been happening to you, Holly?”
She gazed at him, wishing they could skip this part. The humiliating part where she admitted to a stranger she hadn’t known exactly how bad her marriage was until after her husband was dead.
Lawe held her gaze, the green flecks in his eyes seeming to deepen. She couldn’t look away. Hypnotized. The word flitted across her mind, making her wonder.
“I think I’m being p—possessed by my late husband.” She paused, waiting for Lawe’s reaction.
He didn’t have much of one. He nodded, not looking surprised. But why would he? He was an exorcist. He heard crazy stuff like this all the time.
“Admitting the problem is half the battle,” he said.
“Really?”
“No, but it makes people feel better when I say that.” He shrugged, and she blinked at him, not sure how to interpret that. “Sorry, bad joke,” he said. “Keep going.”
“My husband, Paul, died six months ago.” She spoke fast, willing herself to get it all out before she lost courage. “Car accident.”
“I’m sorry for your loss,” he murmured.
“We have two children. Three-year-old twins. It’s been hard. Luckily, I have family around and they’ve been a huge help.” She shook her head, trying to clear it. This wasn’t the point. “Anyway, about a month ago, I started having these…episodes.”
Lawe leaned forward, elbows resting on his legs, hands loosely clasped between his knees. He looked relaxed, except for the intensity in his eyes.
“I would suddenly find myself in the bedroom when my last memory was sweeping the kitchen. I’d find myself wearing clothes I hadn’t put on that morning. I know that sounds weird, but believe me, I don’t dress in a camisole and black leather mini to chase after toddlers all day. Once, I glanced in the mirror and saw myself totally made up, like I was headed out clubbing instead of to story time at the library.”
“Did you ever feel you were in danger? Have thoughts that weren’t your own?”
She drew strength from the calm acceptance in his voice. “No, those times are a complete blank. My therapist said sleep deprivation and grief could be to blame. But then one day, I came to and found myself outside Paul’s old real estate office. Things got worse after that. One night, my mother showed up at the door ready to babysit the kids. She said I’d told her I had a date. And then some guy I recognized as one of Paul’s clients showed up saying I’d invited him to dinner. I never talked to either one of them. I swear. Somebody—or something—is hijacking my body.”
“I believe you,” he said simply. And tears of relief pricked her eyes. “What you’re describing is typical in possession cases. What makes you think it’s your late husband possessing you?”
She fisted her hands in her lap. “Paul was always trying to get me to dress up more. Wear more makeup.” Look prettier, sexier, skinnier. “Plus he was obsessed with work, so it makes sense he’d want to return to his office after death.” Not his home.
“You said your husband died in a car accident?”
“Yes.” She knew he wanted her to elaborate, but a jagged chunk of anger and resentment lodged in her throat. Lawe waited, silent, patient. She forced out a breath and met his kind eyes. “When my husband died, I found out he’d been having an affair with his administrative assistant.”
“Got it. Your husband was an idiot.”
The laugh stuttered out of her, as though her throat muscles had forgotten how to make sounds of amusement. “Thank you.”
He winked, and warmth blossomed through her body.
“I’ve never understood the living,” he said, and she wondered what kind of life an exorcist lived. “It’s possible your husband’s spirit has returned to make amends in his own strange way. Maybe pushing you to get on with your life?”
“Doubtful. Is it common for someone to die a selfish bastard and come back a misguided Good Samaritan?”
“Dying definitely changes some people’s outlook on life.”
Was that a joke? The expression on his handsome face didn’t change, but she suspected his sense of humor was offbeat. So far off the beat she’d bet most people didn’t recognize the tune.
“If your husband is trying to make amends, the easiest way to get him to leave is to summon him and offer forgiveness.”
“Forgiveness.” She rolled the word around her tongue as if she were tasting a new dessert. This one was way too bitter. “The accident happened when my husband lost control of the car because his mistress was giving him a blow job.”
“Right then.” Lawe nodded. “I can always just banish him.”
“Great. Let’s do that.”
Her nightmare was finally going to end.
Lawe pulled half a dozen objects out of his duffel. A thick white candle. A stick of incense. Stone bowls. Apothecary bottles, one filled with water—holy water?—and one with what looked like salt. “This shouldn’t take long. Standard exorcism of a known ghost.”
He went on describing the ritual he was about to perform.
His low, deep voice floated in the air between them. His words seemed to disintegrate before she could make sense of them. Shadows gathered at the corners of her eyes. She tried to blink them away, but her vision blurred.
Her heart
pounded. Something was wrong. She needed help. She tried to speak, to tell Lawe she was in trouble, but couldn’t open her mouth. Pain exploded behind her forehead. She pressed her hands to her temples and moaned.
“Holly?” Lawe sprang to her side, alarm etched on his face.
Everything went black.
“Holly. Wake up.” Lawe willed his new client to respond. Every muscle in his body tensed, gearing up for whatever shit the spirit world was about to throw at him. Dammit, he should have been more prepared, but he’d gotten distracted for the first time in…ever.
She’d collapsed in his arms and now he scooped her up, cradling her against his chest. A whiff of lemon soap drifted to him as he laid her gently on the big green monstrosity of a sofa. He checked her pulse, found it slow but steady, and placed a hand on her clammy forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open.
His breath whooshed out in relief.
And then her gaze fixed on his. The witchy amber eyes that had distracted him all night were now a hard blue. “Shit.”
The woman on the sofa pushed herself up and swung her legs to the floor. She smiled seductively, all languid grace instead of Holly’s anxious tension. “Don’t tell me you’re afraid of little ole me.”
“Afraid isn’t the word I’d use.” Proceeding with extreme caution was more like it—not that he’d admit that to whatever was in Holly’s body. He’d been so blindsided he didn’t even know if he was dealing with a lost soul or something much more sinister. A demon, maybe. “I take it you’re not Paul?”
“Not even close.”
Whatever was in Holly’s body sashayed to a mirror hanging on the wall over a small table. It yanked Holly’s hair out of the ponytail, dropped the elastic on the floor, and fluffed the dark-blond strands around her face. Holly’s lips pursed as whatever was inside her found its reflection lacking. “What a waste of those cheekbones and pouty lips. I tried to get her to use some makeup, but the woman is hopeless. And these clothes? Pathetic.”
He didn’t agree. The soft tee and yoga pants clinging to Holly’s curves worked for him. Not that he was going to argue the point.
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