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Whiskey Creek Press
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Copyright ©2007 by WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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SUMMER SOLSTICE SCORCHERS ANTHOLOGY
by
Susan M. Sailors, Lynn Crain, RaeLynn Blue,
Tambra Kendall, Annmarie Ortega,
Michelle Houston, Shannon Peters,
Rusty Wicks & C'ann Inman
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Published by
WHISKEY CREEK PRESS
Whiskey Creek Press
PO Box 51052
Casper, WY 82605-1052
www.whiskeycreekpress.com
Phantom Lover Copyright © 2007 by Susan M. Sailors
A Lover for Rachel Copyright © 2007 by Lynn Crain
Theft of Souls Copyright © 2007 by RaeLynn Blue
A Taste of the Forbidden Copyright © 2007 by Tambra Kendall
What You Desire Copyright © 2007 by Annmarie Ortega
Unnatural Bonds Copyright © 2007 by Michelle Houston
Dream Weaver Copyright © 2007 by Shannon Peters
Vows Copyright © 2007 by Rusty Wicks
Conjuring Cade Copyright © 2007 by C'ann Inman
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 (five) years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.
Names, characters and incidents depicted in this book are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of the author or the publisher.
No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-59374-966-8
Credits Cover Artist:
Editor: Chere Gruver
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
To Our Readers:
May the sun warm you,
May the sheets steam up for you,
May you have a scorching good time, and may the reading, as in life, always leave you satisfied, yet screaming for more!
Table of Contents
Phantom Lover
Susan M. Sailors
A Lover for Rachel
Lynn Crain
Theft of Souls
RaeLynn Blue
A Taste of the Forbidden
Tambra Kendall
What You Desire
Annmarie Ortega
Unnatural Bonds
Michelle Houston
Dream Weaver
Shannon Peters
Vows
Rusty Wicks
Conjuring Cade
C'ann Inman
PHANTOM LOVER
by
Susan M. Sailors
Chapter 1
Christine looked up at the balcony again. She saw a shadow there, but it didn't move. She'd thought it was the curtain at first, but the shadow seemed to be standing just behind it.
"Hello? Is someone up there?"
No one answered, and the shadow remained still.
She knew there were other people working in the theatre, but she didn't like the idea of some unknown person watching her work. She stared up at the figure a moment longer, then went back to taking her measurements.
The managers had promised they'd have a renovated stage for the new season, but that promise had fallen through. Again. Now she was stuck yet another season designing sets for a stage that needed to be at least five feet longer and ten feet wider. She knew it was a money issue, but she couldn't help feeling bitter.
"Stupid managers. What do they know about the arts?” she murmured.
She heard a man laugh softly somewhere behind her. She turned around, thinking she'd see one of the new grips getting a good look at her ass, but no one was there. When she turned back to the balcony, she noticed the shadow was gone.
Someone had been standing up there.
"Hello?"
"He won't answer you. Not yet,” said a voice behind Christine.
She sighed as she turned to the dance mistress. “Who won't, Madame Moncharmin?"
"The theatre ghost. He will reveal himself when he is ready to do so."
"This isn't Paris, Madame. We don't have ghosts wondering the corridors here in America."
Madame Moncharmin smiled. “Every theatre has a ghost, and it is bad luck to deny their existence. This is New England. Is it not the most haunted part of America? Tell me I am wrong."
Christine knew she couldn't. “It has more ghost stories, yes. It's older, and the buildings have been around longer. But that's all it has, stories and old buildings."
"I can't make you believe me. That will be up to him."
Christine had grown tired of the stories, which she'd been hearing off and on for five years, and she really did have work to do. “Is he cute? Because if he isn't, I'm not interested."
Madame Moncharmin's face stiffened as she frowned at Christine. “I don't know what he sees in you, or why he has never appeared to you in the years since you came to work here, but something in you has touched him. Please don't say such hurtful things again.” She turned on her heels and walked away.
Unsure what to think, Christine stared after her. Madame Moncharmin possessed a fierce temper, but in this case, she had seemed genuinely hurt by what Christine had said, as if it made her sad instead of angry. Christine had grown accustomed to the superstitions of the theatre, but the dance mistress certainly took them to extremes.
Sighing, she pulled the clip out of her long black hair, shook it out, then started to put it up again. She had a lot to get done and the curls kept getting in her face.
She jumped when she felt something tug on her hair. She did a complete circle, hoping to see who had done that, but there was no one, and she wasn't close enough to anything that could have caught her hair.
It hadn't really felt like a tug though. It had felt like someone running their fingers through the ends of her hair. She quickly finished securing her hair in the clip and picked up her tape measure. She wasn't going to let Madame Moncharmin or any of the other members of the company spook her into believing in ghosts.
* * * *
Christine shone her flashlight up as high as she could. She saw there were at least five backdrops hanging quite a way out of her reach. Based on the inventory, she knew one of the company's original backdrops for Mozart's Don Giovanni hung among them. The opera had been staged twenty years ago, so the backdrop might be useless, but she wanted to at least get a look at it.
The whole theatre buzzed with gossip because of what had happened during that production. The young singer playing Don Giovanni had been crushed when the lights above him had crashed to the stage right in the middle of opening night. The season had ended then, and the manager had left, claiming the theatre was cursed. The theatre had stayed closed for five years before new investors were found and a new company was put together. Madame Moncharmin was
the only original employee to return.
Christine shook her head. Shouldn't the tragedy have attracted people? Most people had a macabre fascination with tragedies, and a haunted theatre seemed like a pretty nice tourist attraction to Christine.
"Silly people. There's no such thing as curses or ghosts."
She took one last look toward the rafters before turning away, but a movement made her stop. The backdrops swayed as though a breeze was blowing across them. As she stood frozen, she realized that one of them was being lowered. When she saw the flames at the bottom of it, she knew it was the very backdrop she'd come to find. She backed up, almost afraid it might fall on her. She realized the backdrops hadn't moved because of a breeze. They'd moved because someone had passed by on the catwalk behind them, and now that person was lowering the one from Don Giovanni.
She waited until the backdrop was just above the ground before she spoke, not wanting to startle the person lowering the massive cloth down to her.
"Who's up there? Can you come down and help me?"
No one answered her. She peered up, trying to aim her flashlight at an angle that would illuminate the catwalk, but the scenes were in her way. Then, at the very end of the catwalk, she saw a face. When she finally trained her light on him, he was gone.
"Hello? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to blind you with the light, but when no one answered, I got curious."
She couldn't hear anyone moving.
"Are you still there?"
She pointed her light at the spiral stairs that led up there, but she knew they had pulled away from the wall and started rotting years ago. Why had someone risked going up there? How had he made it to the top at all?
She heard a sigh right next to her ear.
She whirled around, only to see no one. The face she'd seen far above her flashed through her mind. Pale skin, flashing eyes, dark hair. And a scar on the right side of his face.
She shook off a chill and made one last attempt. “Well, thank you, but if you won't help me anymore, I'm gonna go find someone who will."
When nothing but silence met her ears, she turned around and headed for the door.
* * * *
Madame Moncharmin watched the three men set the backdrop down on the stage floor, hook it up to the wires, and slowly raise it.
"How did you find it?” she asked.
Christine shifted her stance, focusing on the scenery. “I read through the inventory, so I knew where to look."
"I haven't seen it since the night Erik died. It makes my heart ache."
Christine waited for the ghost talk to start, but Madame Moncharmin remained silent, gazing up at the scene painted on the cloth, dark columns and a blue and gray night sky slowly being taken over by fire.
"Will it be bad luck to use it?” Christine asked.
Madame Moncharmin shook her head. “If he allowed you to find it, he wants you to use it."
Christine sighed. “Who?” She already knew the answer.
"Erik. Who did you think?"
Christine didn't feel comfortable thinking of the ghost with a name. She shook off a chill. “I don't believe in the ghost. I'm sorry your friend died, and if you want to believe he's still here, that's fine. I simply don't believe."
"Then how did you find this? How did you get it down with only three men to help you?"
"What do you mean? It wasn't hard at all."
"They've looked for it before in that very spot the inventory says it should be. They wanted to use it for publicity years ago. They could never find it because he did not want his death to be used that way. He did not want his name splashed across gossip columns and sensationalist papers. That storeroom is a mess, the stairs and catwalk half-rotted. You left your office twenty-five minutes ago.” She shook her head. “There is no way you could have found it and got it down in so short a time. He must have helped you."
"Madame, you are very stubborn.” Christine did not want to start a fight, but she could feel her heart racing with apprehension.
"So are you,” she replied matter-of-factly. “When you see him, you'll feel differently. Once you've looked into his eyes, they'll follow you everywhere you go."
"I don't want to fight. We're both too strong-willed. Let's just agree to disagree."
Madame Moncharmin smiled. “I can agree to that, but one more thing. When you see him, will you tell me if he still has the scar?"
Christine's heart nearly stopped. “What?"
"I want to know if he still has his scar. One of his girlfriends, Isabelle, attacked him, thinking he would be completely hers if she ruined his career and got him away from the theatre and his fans.” She traced a jagged line down her right cheek. “She cut his face, even took off part of his nose, but that did not stop him. He was so talented, so loved, that his fans did not care, but he always carried the pain of her betrayal. I suppose I am only worried that he stays because he is still in pain. He thought he loved her, until that horrible night when she showed her true nature. He was adored by so many, but he never found his own true love."
Christine felt humbled. No matter what she thought of the woman's beliefs, she couldn't deny that Madame Moncharmin's pain was real. “I'm sorry. I didn't know about all that."
"No one does anymore. No one who is here now knew him as a man. He's just a story to them, a bit of fun to scare children and tourists with. And I'm a silly old woman."
"No, you aren't. What would the theatre be without a few ghosts?” She tried to smile. “No, I don't believe, but that doesn't mean I can't respect the traditions, and—"
Madame Moncharmin cut her off. “Don't worry, child. You don't have to try to make me feel better. All old wounds heal eventually.” She smiled and smoothed her hair back. “You have a good heart, Christine. I hope you will always be true to it.” She walked away into the shadows.
Christine didn't understand what she'd meant. She looked out across the empty theatre, and a chill traveled up her spine. She'd never been told the ghost had a scar, and she knew no one who worked for them now had one. Who did I see? How could I have imagined something that fit so well with Madame Moncharmin's story?
She heard a soft rustling above her. She turned back to the audience and scanned the seats. When she looked up at the balcony, she saw the curtain in one of the boxes move back into place. Box five, the exact same box she'd seen the shadowy figure in. She took a few steps to the end of the stage, but there was no shadowy figure, no ghostly white face with a scar and haunting eyes.
She turned away and headed offstage, ready to go home and get away from the thoughts whirling through her mind.
* * * *
Christine shoved the leftover pizza back in her refrigerator, then went upstairs for a long, hot bath. Mai Tai, her black and white cat, sat on the toilet seat watching everything she did. When she added some rose-scented bath salts, he jumped down and ran over to sniff the steamy water. He meowed his approval and stretched out on the rug, cleaning one foot before closing his eyes.
Christine scratched him behind his ears before stepping into the tub. She rolled a towel up and set it on the back rim so she could lay her head back.
As she lay there, she thought about Madame Moncharmin's words. Christine had been with the theatre for five years, but she'd never known the dance mistress to be quite so insistent about the ghost. She always told the story to the dancers, letting them know they were all protected by the ghost. It was a nice thought, but Christine had never really known how much it meant to the older woman. Now she realized how sad her friend's death must have made her. Even though the theatre had closed for five years, Madame Moncharmin had stayed in America instead of returning to Paris, loyal to the theatre her father had once owned. It was her home as much as any place in the world was.
"Preow."
Christine looked down at Mai Tai. He normally only made that noise when he wanted something. He was looking at the door.
"What is it, baby?"
Instead of meowing, he whined
and looked back at her, putting one paw on the side of the tub.
"Do you want out? Just go. The door's open a little. You can squeeze through."
He just kept looking at her.
She rested her head on the back of the tub again. “Silly kitty. I'm not getting up just because you're lazy."
Mai Tai looked up into the air suddenly, probably training his gaze on a bug.
She shook her head and closed her eyes again.
A soft sigh caught her attention. She looked toward her bedroom, where the sound had come from, and saw Mai Tai crouched by the door.
Christine slowly got out of the water and put her robe on. She looked around and grabbed the toilet brush holder, which was porcelain and shaped like a cat. It seemed like the best weapon available, no matter how silly it looked. She'd probably imagined the sound, but it never hurt to be prepared. She pushed Mai Tai away from the door with her foot and kicked it open.
Her bedroom was empty.
She rolled her eyes at how stupid she'd been. She set the porcelain cat down by the toilet and ran a little more hot water into the tub before untying her robe.
"Christine,” a man's voice whispered seductively.
She whirled around, clutching her robe tightly around her body. “Who's here?"
Her only answer was a sigh. The exact same sigh she'd heard at the theatre.
She thought quickly. Either someone at work was playing a sick joke on her, or some loony was stalking her. Or Madame Moncharmin wasn't crazy, and there really was a ghost following her around. She shook her head. Most men's sighs probably sounded alike, didn't they? She could explain away the sigh as wind in both cases, but how could she rationalize the man whispering her name? She'd been working extra hours because the new season was about to start, but she didn't think overwork could make her begin to imagine things so vividly. Or have waking erotic fantasies.
Mai Tai went to the bathroom door, looked around, then trotted to the bed and hopped up onto it, settling down by Christine's pillow.
"Is that the all clear, baby? No more weird stuff in Mommy's house?"
Mai Tai just licked his right paw and ran it over his face.
Summer Solstice Scorchers Page 1
