Krewe of Hunters, Volume 2: The Unseen ; The Unholy ; The Unspoken ; The Uninvited

by Heather Graham

  He was surprised to see a smile curving her lips.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “With my new power, maybe I can summon all the old statesmen and leaders and wives I’ve wanted to meet. Dolley Madison must have been an incredible woman. And how I’d love to meet Lincoln—and Robert E. Lee!”

  “I wish it worked that way,” he told her. “Most of the time, people do move on. Good thing, or the streets would be so crowded with specters that none of us would be able to take a step.” She laughed, but he grew serious as he said, “I think that when a soul is finally at peace, it does move on.”

  She seemed more comfortable with him than she’d ever been. And she seemed stronger. He knew he’d met her at a time of crisis in her life—but that she had an inner strength and real courage.

  “Another favorite historical heroine of mine has always been Lucy Tarleton,” she said. “And we know she’s stayed behind. We’ve seen her on the screens, walking around the house in the middle of the night.”

  “We have to coax her out,” he said.

  “Why won’t she just come to us and say, Listen, here’s the way it really was?”

  “We don’t have all the answers, I told you that. Certain spirits will talk to certain people. Some never learn how to be seen and heard.”

  She smiled at him, then sobered. “I shouldn’t be smiling. Two colleagues are dead—and speaking to me. But the reality is they’re dead. And that fact is still devastating.”

  He reached over to squeeze her hand, once again wondering, as he touched her, if she’d draw away. But she didn’t.

  They returned to the Tarleton-Dandridge House. Sean had left; Logan was in his place, with Kelsey at his side.

  “Anything?” Logan and Tyler said at the same time.

  “I’ll answer first,” Logan said. “We found records with birth and death dates, family trees—nothing we didn’t know. But it’s good to investigate, to make sure we’re not assuming something is obvious, only to find out we’re wrong. What about the morgue?”

  Tyler was surprised when Allison gave a full report on her exchange with Sarah Vining.

  Logan nodded. “So she didn’t know anything at all—except that she was suddenly in pain and then staggering out in a melee of cars colliding?”

  “Nothing. She doesn’t know why she’s dead. All she knows is that she is. And she’s oddly at peace with it,” Allison told him.

  “Some people just are,” Logan said. “We’re on earth for only so long, and I believe that peace comes to some people when they’ve died.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “But Sarah’s still here.”

  “Maybe because she’s part of this…whatever it is,” Tyler said.

  “Maybe,” Logan agreed. “It’s really late, you two. There are sandwiches in the pantry, sodas, beer, some wine… Coffee, too, but I’m not suggesting that now. It’s about time to get some sleep.”

  Allison turned to Tyler. “You wanted to look through papers in the attic.”

  “It can wait until morning,” he said.

  “I think we should go back now. We’ve gotten started. Let’s give it an hour.”

  Allison had undergone a complete change, he realized. He smiled. “Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

  She obviously wasn’t impressed with his cliché. “But two friends have died in a matter of days,” she said.

  “You’re right. We’ll grab a sandwich and head on up.”

  Thirty minutes later they were back in the attic. Allison made piles, gathering financial papers to put with financial papers, bookings for private events with bookings for other private events, and research materials with other research materials. He offered to help her but she suggested he read; she knew what she was doing.

  He came across a number of articles on the people of Philadelphia at the time of the Revolution and found himself fascinated by these snippets of history. He’d assumed that, with the exception of the Civil War, their own era was the most contentious in American history, but now he recognized that the founding fathers hadn’t had an easy task. Nor had the patriots and their families. There were cases in which sons were determined on the Revolution while their fathers were adamant that they pack up for Canada—the British colonies—“until the foolish fighting and dying was over.” There were sad human-interest pieces on daughters who’d married into patriot or Loyalist families when their parents were on the opposite side.

  As he read through newspaper, magazine and other articles printed from online sites, he noticed that Allison had finished gathering most of the paperwork together but seemed troubled. She looked at him.

  “May I?” she asked.

  He was seated on the floor, back against the wall, his pile of research materials before him. She indicated the pile. “Of course,” he told her.

  “I was thinking about a certain article. It was written by a man who’d been a high school history teacher in Maryland and then moved to Valley Forge and had his own tour company. He knows quite a lot about generals, including Washington, and even the enlisted men.”

  “I was looking at it the other night,” Tyler said, producing the article he’d been reading about Beast Bradley just before he’d made Julian’s acquaintance and the others had arrived. “It’s by Martin Standish. Is this it? ‘Brian Bradley was born to Lord and Lady Bradley in Yorkshire, England, in 1750. His family could easily trace their lineage to the Royal House of Hanover—literally, he was born with a silver spoon ready for his mouth.’”

  “Yes—I mean, no,” she said. “That was the first of two articles he wrote. I’d been planning to drive down to see him. He’s a brilliant man. The first article focused on Bradley. He wrote another on Lucy and her patriot lover, Stewart Douglas—and that’s gone missing. I remember that he focused on the Tarleton family and their social situation and standing as the crises came to a head. It’s assumed that both Bradley and Douglas were killed during the war—but there’s no proof. They were presumed dead. Neither of them appeared to claim their property afterward, and because of who he was, it was assumed that perhaps Bradley’s own men did him in and that’s why there’s no record of it. And of course hundreds of men died on battlefields and were never identified.”

  “I’d like to see that second article,” Tyler said. “Can’t you just bring it back up online?”

  “I’m sure I could.”

  “But why would someone take it?” he asked.

  “I don’t know. He quotes from letters he has in his own possession and they make her patriot lover sound like a bit of an ass. Maybe that’s what someone didn’t want anyone taking seriously?” Allison suggested.

  “He’s not even buried here, is he? Stewart Douglas, I mean. Do you speak about him on the tours?”

  “Sometimes. We would’ve spoken about him a lot more if he was buried here, but he isn’t.”

  “Was he supposed to have killed Beast Bradley in retaliation?”

  “We don’t know. I guess that’s one theory. All we know is that neither of them came home after the Revolution—to Philadelphia or England—so the assumption is that they were both buried in a mass grave at some battlefield. Although historians know what happened to a lot of rank-and-file soldiers. Those two just seem to have disappeared.”

  “Have you spoken with this fellow—Martin Standish?”

  “I’ve emailed him a few times. He appreciates my interest—he thinks it’s great that people at the house aren’t just ignoring him. I guess he tried to make contact years before and he was shut out. I can call him.” She gave him a puzzled look. “Do you think he can help?”

  “Maybe.” Tyler stood, yawning. “Okay, I’ve got to call it quits. That means you have to call it quits. The rest of the house has called it quits.”

  “I can keep going—”

  “No. I want you across the hall. I want to jump out of bed like a lightning bolt if I hear the slightest sound coming from your room.”

  She sighed. “I am tired.”

 
; “Then we definitely call it quits. No one’ll be coming up here until we come back. No one can get in the house without us knowing it. No one—dead or alive—can move around downstairs without appearing on one of Sean’s screens. Bed,” he said firmly.

  She lowered her head for a moment and then nodded. “Fine.”

  He didn’t turn out the attic lights; he wanted anything that happened up there clearly visible on the screens.

  They went downstairs to the second floor.

  Julian—or Julian’s spirit—was slumped against the wall by Allison’s room. For a ghost, he seemed to need his sleep.

  “Good night,” Allison whispered to Tyler.

  “Good night,” he said. “Leave the door cracked. If anything happens, scream like a banshee. I’ll be right with you.”

  * * *

  Men were supposed to have the minds that resided in gutters, Allison told herself.

  But when Tyler had said that one word—bed—her mind had immediately leaped to other thoughts.

  As she lay down to sleep, she realized that her opinion of him had changed drastically. When they first met, she’d considered him a tall, good-looking shyster who was going to turn this house into a gawker’s showcase. She’d imagined ridiculous lights and people caught in them with wide, reflecting eyes while they shouted, “Did you hear that?” or, “Yes, there’s a ghost here, I can feel it….”

  But she knew differently now.

  Now, he was tall and good-looking and exceedingly…

  Attractive. Sensual. Yes, the word bed had made her think of quite another way that a bed could be used.

  She had to stop thinking like that. He was with five other agents. He was kind and protective and sincere in his efforts to help her—and be helped by her.

  She wasn’t an object of attraction or sexual interest to him.

  She was a key.

  But she couldn’t stop remembering the way it felt when he touched her. His hand on hers, electricity shooting through her. There was something about him….

  The machismo of a Texan, a cowboy.

  Except he wasn’t like that. Well, he was a Texan, but he didn’t seem to think a man had his place and a woman had hers. He was just strong by nature—and he was there whenever she felt confused or vulnerable.

  Transference. That was it. He was her rock through all of this. She wasn’t really attracted; she was just leaning on him. That wasn’t true. Yes, it was. She was leaning on him.

  But she liked him. And she hadn’t trusted herself since she’d ended it with Peter Aubrey. She’d understood that Peter had loved her, but he was an addict and he wasn’t going to change for her or for himself. What she’d done was right, and she could only hope that Peter would live long enough to find his way.

  So, yes, this stirring was fantastic. This longing, this…

  Bed.

  She found herself imagining him naked. His body was long, sleek and hard—she knew that. He was probably beautiful when he was naked.

  She groaned, tossing in bed. This was ridiculous. She’d been better off when she’d considered him a ghost-busting sexist.

  She had to sleep. She had to stop her mind from going in this direction. She had to remember that Sarah Vining was dead. Dead. Someone was killing people, and they were here to figure out why.

  She closed her eyes and prayed for sleep.

  Eventually, it came.

  She didn’t dream in the night; she awoke suddenly. When she did, she saw someone at the foot of the bed.

  She would have screamed except that the scream died in her throat, and while she was gasping for breath, she saw that it was the woman who’d appeared on Sean’s footage the night before.

  Lucy Tarleton.

  A woman she resembled to an uncanny degree.

  Fear nearly strangled her.

  The ghost of a friend slept outside her door, and she had spoken to the corpse of another that afternoon. There was no reason to feel such terror at this point, especially since she was certain the woman had not come to hurt her.

  Lucy raised a finger to her lips. She looked around as if afraid she’d be seen. She walked out of the room, then returned, hovering by the doorframe and beckoning to Allison.

  Again, as it had earlier that day, Allison’s terror receded.

  She reminded herself of what she’d determined earlier—she wasn’t going to live in fear. Whatever this was, she was seeing it through.

  She rose from her bed, letting the spirit know that she meant to follow. As she trailed behind Lucy, the ghost began moving more swiftly. Allison was halfway down the stairs before she heard Tyler calling her.

  She paused but didn’t stop. Tyler would follow her; she didn’t want to lose the ghost.

  Lucy swept down the stairs and turned into the central hallway, heading for the door. When Allison reached it, Tyler was right behind her.

  “Allison!”

  “It’s Lucy. She just went through the door,” Allison explained. “I have to get out there. I have to see where she’s leading me.”

  Tyler didn’t question her. He keyed in the number on the alarm and opened the door.

  They both stepped out.

  Lucy was mounting Firewalker, the great black horse. The dog, Robert, was barking and running around excitedly. Firewalker reared up, and Lucy spoke affectionately to the dog, ordering him back to the house.

  The dog obeyed, but stood by the house barking.

  Then Lucy leaned forward, speaking to the horse and nudging him with her heels.

  The horse broke into a canter.

  And Firewalker and Lucy raced into the night.

  Allison felt Tyler’s hands on her shoulders. “Did you see that?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  “What does it mean?” Allison asked. It was chilly outside; she was dressed in a blue flannel nightshirt. Behind her, Tyler wore nothing but pajama pants. He had to be cold, but it seemed that he came closer to warm her. She felt the length of his body.

  It was distracting.

  Even more distracting than a ghost who’d come to her bedroom and lured her down the stairs.

  “When did you see her? How did you see her?” Tyler asked.

  “I woke up. She was at the foot of my bed. She wanted me to follow her,” Allison said.

  What she wanted was to lean back in his arms. She wanted to trust him. She wanted to forget everything that was going on and even herself—to relish the feel of him and forget the world and indulge in nothing but sexual passion and pure carnal pleasure.

  She heard him swallow behind her. He stepped back.

  Had he been thinking along the same lines?

  “She wanted you to follow her, and she came out here—and mounted her horse and rode away,” he mused. “She still wants you to follow,” he said after a moment.

  Allison struggled to keep her thoughts where they should be.

  “I can’t. I don’t have a ghost horse—or any horse—of my own, and if I did…I don’t know how to ride.”

  She turned and saw that he was smiling.

  “Where did she go when she left here?” he asked.

  “You know where she went—she carried secrets to the patriots at Valley Forge.”

  He nodded. “And where is that writer you’ve been emailing?”

  “Valley Forge,” she said, frowning.

  “Lucy wants you to go to Valley Forge,” he said.

  “Hey, what’s up?” Logan had come down. He was wearing a robe—and he was armed and ready.

  Tyler quickly explained. Logan nodded. “Sounds like a field trip to me. But it’s three in the morning. I think you should wait until a normal hour and then go. That is, Allison, if the writer’s willing to see you. If he’s there. You don’t know, do you, if the man still lives in Valley Forge?”

  “We communicated not long ago. I don’t think he leaves that often, although he does participate in battle reenactments,” Allison said.

  “Call him around nine,” Tyler
suggested. “And if he’s agreeable, we’ll see him tomorrow. And even if he’s not…Lucy wants you to follow her. She rode to Valley Forge. That’s what we have to do.”

  “The two of you can leave tomorrow. Jane can continue working with the likenesses and Kat will attend the autopsy. We’ll keep working the records from this angle, and Sean can monitor the house to see what goes on here in your absence. That is, if you’re willing to do all this, Allison?” Logan asked.

  Road trip! Alone with Tyler.

  Not a good idea. But necessary.

  She felt strangely weak and strong at the same time.

  “Allison?” Tyler prompted her.

  She had to force herself not to smile. There was nothing to smile about. Two people were dead. They were just going on a research mission.

  “Yes, of course,” she said primly. “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

  The rest of the household—including Julian, who managed to look sleepy even though he was a ghost—had come outside.

  Allison noticed that all the other Krewe members were armed. Everyone moved back into the house and gathered in the entry around the screens.

  “Ally?” Julian sounded concerned.

  “I’m fine,” she assured him.

  “I didn’t hear you move!” Julian said. “Am I supposed to sleep like that?”

  “Did you love to sleep when you were alive?” Kelsey asked him. “Did you keep late hours?”

  “Yeah, well, I was always burning the candle at both ends,” he said apologetically.

  “I’m fine, really. I followed Lucy of my own accord, and I ran the way I did because I didn’t want her to disappear,” Allison explained.