Charon's Crossing (A Paranormal Romantic Suspense Novel)

by Sandra Marton

  He'd seen that happen, on shipboard. A man would stumble in a heavy sea, bang his skull against something not hard enough to truly notice. He'd seem fine but then, a bit later, he'd suddenly turn shiny-eyed and puke up his lunch.

  Not that he gave a damn if she'd bumped her head. Not that he gave a damn if she'd split it open...

  "Hell and damnation," he snarled.

  "Don't try and intimidate me," she said quickly. "I'm going to count to three, and then—"

  "Cat," he said, his voice soft and easy, "does your head hurt?"

  Kathryn blinked. "Does my head hurt?"

  "Yes. Where you hit it."

  "I didn't hit it."

  "You did. You must have. Let me see."

  "Stay where you are or I'll... I'll..." She'd what? Dial 911? For all she knew, dialing 911 didn't get you anything but a buzzing on the line. Besides, even if it connected you with the police, or what passed for the police, by the time they got all the way out here it would be too late.

  "Catherine."

  His tone was sweet reason itself, his smile kind and gentle. He was walking towards her slowly, as if there were no hurry about anything.

  It was the performance of a lifetime. Or of a certifiable crazy.

  Either way, it was time to act.

  "Don't take another step," Kathryn commanded.

  "Cat," he said, "I want you to take a deep breath. Now, put down that—whatever—and let me see your head."

  He was still using that wheedling tone but it didn't match the glint of determination in his eyes.

  "No," she shouted. In a burst of desperation she danced back, dropped the phone, made a rush at a mahogany secretary and then jammed her fist deep into her skirt pocket.

  "Okay," she said breathlessly, "that's far enough. I've—I've got a gun!"

  She might as well have said she had a sea lion for the look that came over his face.

  "You've got a what?"

  "A gun. I—I just took it from the secretary and now it's in my pocket." His eyes shot to her pocket and she stiffened her fingers behind the cotton fabric. "If you come any closer, I'll shoot."

  "A pistol?" His eyes met hers and he smiled as if she were a naughty child. "Let me see it, then."

  "No."

  "Catherine, stop being silly. What would you be doing with a pistol? Come along, now. Let me help you to a chair and then I'll get you a nice, cold compress."

  "I'm telling you, I have a gun! Must I prove it by killing you?"

  He laughed, as if she'd made a wonderful joke. "You can't kill me."

  He was still advancing on her, slowly but steadily. She risked a quick look over her shoulder. They were almost out in the foyer now. Could she make it out the door? Or would he rush her and call her bluff?

  "Maybe I can't," she said, very calmly. "But are you really willing to take that chance?"

  Matthew stopped in his tracks.

  It was an excellent question. And it raised a lot of others.

  Did Catherine really have a pistol? It wasn't likely. A flintlock pistol was much too big to fit in that small pocket. Maybe it was something new, like the fone, the kopz and the carriage that belched black smoke. It was possible.

  And if she had a pistol, would she use it? She probably would. After all, she'd done her part in killing him one time already.

  If she used it, what would happen? He was a ghost. Could a ghost be killed? It didn't seem likely but then, nothing that had happened to him seemed likely.

  And if the answer were yes, would he awaken again to find himself trapped in that cold, terrible blackness?

  A risk was one thing, but eternal damnation in that awful place he'd so recently escaped was another, especially if he awakened there without the comfort of knowing he had taken his revenge.

  He shuddered. It was too ugly to think about.

  "Well?" Kathryn said. "What's it going to be?"

  Matthew's eyes met hers.

  "It would seem you have won this time," he said coldly.

  Kathryn bit her lip to keep from cheering. As it was, she could hardly stand. Her legs had gone from feeling boneless to feeling gelatinous. If she didn't lean on something or sit down soon, she was going to end up in a heap.

  "Thank you," she said politely.

  A corner of his mouth tilted up in a little smile. It softened his face, made him look less dangerous and reminded her of just how good-looking he was.

  "But it's not done with, Cat. Remember that."

  The hand in her pocket motioned towards the door.

  "Go on, get out."

  "I'm going."

  "And don't come back, or—"

  "Don't make threats you can't keep, Catherine."

  "Don't you be stupid. Mis-... Matthew. I have this gun, remember? I'll use it next time, no questions asked."

  His gaze dropped to her pocket again. His breath caught. Unless he'd missed his guess, she'd just made that defiant gesture with the wrong hand.

  He jerked his head up, his eyes widening as he shot a look past her.

  "Catherine, look out!"

  It worked perfectly. She gasped, spun around...

  He was on her in a heartbeat, his arms sweeping around her waist and hoisting her off the floor so that her back was pinned to the wall.

  "Let me go," she panted, struggling against him, but he held her easily with one arm while he dug in first her left pocket, then her right, with his hand...

  And came up empty.

  She went still in his embrace as he lowered her to the floor.

  "Ah, Catherine, Catherine." He cupped her face with one large hand, his fingers clasping her chin and tilting it up to his. "I know you have the morals of an alley cat and the conscience of a puff adder but really, I thought you were above petty lies."

  "Damn you," she said, half-weeping with anger at having her bluff called, "damn you!"

  "Saying you had a pistol when you did not... for shame, Cat. Have you no sense of honor?"

  "Look, if you've come to steal—"

  "Steal? From you?" He laughed. "What could you possibly have that I might still want?" His gaze dropped to her mouth. He thought of how warm she felt in his arms, of the press of her breasts against his chest and the racing beat of her heart. "On second thought," he whispered, his laughter gone, "there just might be something."

  "No," she said, but it was useless.

  His mouth dropped to hers, hard and hot. Kathryn tried to wrench her face from his but he was unrelenting, his arm tightening around her, his hand sweeping back from her face to twist in her hair.

  "Bitch," he growled. "Heartless, scheming bitch..."

  With a groan, he kissed her again. And again. His hands swept down her back and cupped her bottom. He lifted her onto her toes, urging her into the quick, hungry hardening of his body.

  It had been so long, so long.

  "Bitch," he said again, but it was a whisper this time and as he said it, his mouth softened against hers until he was rubbing his lips gently over hers, until his hands were slipping back up her spine and his arms were sweeping around her and he was kissing her passionately.

  And she was responding.

  Oh, she was responding. Seconds ago, she'd been fighting him in blind panic. Now, she was winding her arms around his neck, burying her hands in his thick, silken hair, and dragging his head down to hers.

  The taste of his mouth was as she remembered it, from the dreams. The feel of him, hard and powerful, in her arms. The smell of him, and the heat of his body...

  No. It wasn't like the dreams. This was reality, and it made the dreams pale by comparison.

  "Cat," he said thickly.

  His hands caught the hem of her skirt, fisted in the cotton fabric and swept it impatiently to her hips.

  She made a sound in her throat.

  "Cat," he said again, and all the urgency in the world was in that one word.

  His fingers felt hot against her flesh as they hooked into the elastic of her panties. His
thumbs rasped against her skin as he began to draw the panties down...

  Was she mad?

  Kathryn jerked back. She jammed her elbows down and shoved both hands against his chest, hard enough so he stumbled back in surprise.

  "Catherine," he said, his voice tinged with disbelief.

  "Stop it," she hissed.

  But he didn't stop. He reached for her instead and she lifted her knee and drove it straight into his groin, as hard and fast as she could.

  For an instant, nothing happened. Then she heard the awful sound of the air rushing from his lungs, saw the color drain from his face. His lips formed her name but there was no sound.

  Kathryn was shaking. She wrapped her arms around herself and stepped back.

  "I told you to stop," she whispered. "Matthew...?"

  He made a horrible, gagging sound and then doubled over, clutching his belly. Kathryn reached out her hand, then drew it back.

  "If only you hadn't..." She thrust her hands into her hair and shoved it back from her face. "I'm sorry I had to hurt you, but..."

  "Don't—be—sorry." He lifted his head and it seemed to her he smiled. "It—was—the—one—question—I—didn't—think—of," he gasped.

  "What question?" she whispered, watching him in fascinated horror.

  He gave a terrible little laugh that ended on a groan.

  "Can—a—ghost—feel—pain?"

  My God, he was fading! "Matthew," she said.

  He was gone.

  Kathryn reached out, carefully swung her hand through the air. Her fingers felt nothing, touched nothing.

  The hair rose on the nape of her neck.

  "Matthew?" she said in a tiny voice.

  She swung around in a tight circle, staring into each bright, sunlit corner.

  "Matthew, please, don't do this to me."

  There was still no answer.

  How could there be? There was no one in the room.

  Kathryn's teeth began to chatter. "No," she whispered.

  It was impossible.

  It was absolutely impossible.

  Things like this didn't happen in real life. People didn't just—they didn't just up and vanish into thin air...

  Ghosts did.

  A soft whimper burst from her throat.

  Ghosts vanished. They came, they went. Poof, just like that. They did it all the time, in books, in movies, on TV.

  But this wasn't a book or a movie or TV. It was the real world. And ghosts did not exist in the real world.

  Kathryn tried to swallow but a lump seemed to have lodged in her throat. She worked at it for what seemed like a long time. Then she took a breath and walked to the telephone...

  The what, Catherine?

  She closed her eyes, took several short, shallow breaths. Finally, she picked up the phone, waited for a dial tone, and jabbed her finger into the hole on the dial that was marked O.

  The phone was old-fashioned. And the static was awful. But things worked pretty much the way they did at home.

  You dialed the operator, you reached one, you asked for information, you got it.

  Hiram Bonnyeman answered on the first ring.

  "Hello?" Kathryn said. She cleared her throat. "Hiram, this is... Yes. Yes, that's right. Well, I'm sorry, too. I, ah, I was... Look, I know you said you couldn't get here to do any work until next week but, uh, but I have a special favor to ask." Her legs wouldn't hold her up anymore. Slowly, like a deflating rubber doll, she sank to the floor. "Could you possibly find time to drop by and just check the door locks? No, no, nothing's happened. I just—I mean, I'm all alone out here, and... Tomorrow morning? Great. No, honestly. Everything is fine." Kathryn hung up the phone and sat with it in her lap. Why are you clutching that thing, Kathryn? "Oh my god," she whispered...

  What would Hiram have said if she'd asked him what locks worked best against a ghost?

  Chapter 9

  The phone call to Hiram was the easy part.

  What had to be done next was a lot harder but Kathryn knew she could not spend the night in Charon's Crossing without checking it thoroughly from top to bottom.

  If there were any more surprises here, she wanted to discover them now, while there was still some daylight left.

  Armed with a flashlight, she made her way cautiously up the stairs, making sure she took a wide, wide detour around the cold spot.

  Was it her imagination, or were the shadows deeper here on the second floor than they should have been this time of day?

  The floorboards creaked as she made her way slowly along the East Wing corridor; she could hear the dull thump-thump of her heart beating in her ears. She put her hand on the door to the first bedroom and slowly, slowly eased it open.

  The room was wrapped in muted shades of gloom... but at least it was empty. There was nothing under the bed but dust balls. That left only the closet to check. Kathryn took a deep breath, wrapped her hand around the doorknob, and pulled it open.

  There was nothing in it but a couple of empty boxes.

  Kathryn shut her eyes for a second, then opened them. Only another million rooms to go.

  She bit back a choked laugh and set off down the hall.

  Ten minutes later, she had finished checking the rooms on the second floor. Her knees wore badges of dirt from getting down and peering under all the high, old-fashioned beds and she'd had a shrieking run-in with an equally terrified mouse that had bolted for freedom when she'd opened one of the closets, but she was certain that nobody and nothing was hiding up here.

  Reasonably certain, you mean.

  Completely certain. There was nobody in the bedrooms and baths.

  Nobody you can see, anyway.

  Oh, for pity's sake!

  What kind of nonsense was this? It was ridiculous to think that the intruder had been anything but a flesh and blood weirdo all gussied up for a late Halloween.

  Sure. And he just happens to do a bit of hocus pocus on the side, as in escapes a la Houdini. Of course, Kathryn. That's perfectly reasonable.

  Well, it was. Compared with thinking she'd been visited by a ghost, it was not just reasonable, it was right on the money.

  All she had to do now was check the attic.

  The thought made her shudder, which was silly. She'd been up there before. And it wasn't half as spooky as she'd imagined it would be...

  Kathryn paused at the foot of the narrow attic staircase. She looked up.

  Had the pitch of the steps always been this steep? Had the stairs and the landing beyond them been so terribly dark?

  And the chill that poured down these steps... it made her skin crawl. She felt as if hundreds of tiny things were creeping over her flesh.

  All you have to do is turn around and go downstairs, Kathryn.

  Without knowing if anything... if anybody was hiding in the attic? No way.

  Okay, then. Just go up there and lock the door. Don't open it. Don't even think about opening it.

  And spend the rest of the night wondering if she'd locked somebody in the house with her? Uh uh.

  She climbed the steps quickly. They really did seem steeper than before. It was just an illusion, of course. She knew that, just as she knew how stupid it was to let her imagination run away with her.

  But she was trembling, and her breathing was shallow when she finally reached the landing.

  She reached out for the doorknob. Once. Twice...

  "Dammit, Kathryn," she said, and she switched on her flashlight, turned the knob, flung open the door.

  Everything was exactly as she had left it. The lid of the old trunk was open, the rocking chair was tilted slightly towards the window, and Matthew's journal lay face down on the seat.

  The shutters and the window were open, though. Had she left them that way? She couldn't really remember.

  All in all, the scene was about as threatening as a photo layout in Better Homes and Gardens.

  The breath spilled from her lungs in a long whoosh. She stepped into the center of the room a
nd shined the flashlight beam into all the corners.

  Except for some industrial-strength dust balls, they were empty.

  Kathryn let out a relieved breath. Okay. She could chalk this room off the list, lock the door after her and leave.

  Wait. The journal. Matthew's journal. She could take it with her, read it this evening. It might help make the time pass more quickly.

  It might help her understand the crazy things that were going on in this house.

  She walked quickly to the rocker and picked the book up. The old leather binding was warm to the touch, as if someone had just been holding it, but she knew it was only because the book had been lying in the late afternoon sunlight that was streaming in through the open window...

  The window, and the shutters, slammed shut.

  Kathryn whirled around, her heart pounding with fear.

  "Who's there?" she demanded.

  There was no answer.

  "Dammit, is somebody here?"

  She forced herself to step forward and swing the light around the room.

  It was empty.

  Take it easy, Kathryn. Be calm. Be logical. There's got to be a simple explanation.

  The flashlight shook as she swung the beam over the room again. With the sunlight gone, everything was changed. The walls seemed to have grown closer and to rise at a strange angle. She flashed the light up over the rafters. They seemed to rise forever, with no end in sight.

  And the corners...

  She swung the light again.

  Moments ago, the corners had been filled with nothing more ominous than dust balls. Now, they overflowed with shadows.

  Shadows that moved.

  Kathryn felt the hair rise on her arms. She wanted to scream, to run, to fling herself at the door.

  But she didn't. Anything like that would be a mistake. The thing to do was to walk slowly but steadily from the room.

  Pick up one foot. Now put it down. Pick up the other...

  How long could it take to cover the twelve or fifteen feet to the door? An eternity, Kathryn thought, oh yes, an eternity. And every step of the way, she fought the terrible urge to take just one quick look behind her and see...

  What?

  Something, Kathryn. Something. Something that was, even now, reaching out to clasp her shoulder.

  With a cry, she threw herself through the door and slammed it shut.