“And of course, you can’t begin your ordinary life until Viola and Alistair move on,” Lucien said dryly.
“There’s nothing wrong with what I want,” she said defensively.
“It’s a waste,” he said, returning his attention to the dish of ectoplasm on the floor. “A complete and total waste of an exceptional woman.”
Apparently not exceptional enough.
When someone knocked soundly on the front door, Eve almost jumped out of her skin. Lucien, intent on studying his goo, seemed not to hear.
“I’ll get it,” Eve said, rising sharply to her feet. Lucien muttered something unintelligible, and she rolled her eyes as she walked past.
Eve opened the door to Douglas Hunt, Alistair’s old business partner and the man who had sold her this house. From the expression on his face, something horrible had happened. In the last light of day, it was quite clear that he was livid.
“I want you out of this house,” Hunt said as he pushed his way inside.
“Excuse me?” Eve asked. “Is there a problem?”
“Yes!” Hunt turned on her and raked a hand through his gray hair. “There is most definitely a problem. I hear you have ghosts, Miss Abernathy.”
Word certainly traveled quickly. “Perhaps…”
“I took you for a sensible woman who would not become hysterical and imagine… ghosts.”
“I’m not the first to report such sightings,” Eve said calmly. “Isn’t that why this lovely house stood vacant for so long?”
This house had been quite a bargain, since it had been sitting empty for so long. She could not have afforded anything so nice, otherwise. In the past three months she had painted, cleaned, repaired… all on her own. This was her house. She had come to love it.
Hunt gritted his teeth. “It’s been years since anyone tried to drag up the past.”
“That’s because it’s been years since anyone lived here.” She cocked her head and studied the man’s florid face. “Why are you so upset? If there are indeed ghosts, I’m the one who has to deal with them. Not you. If Alistair and Viola’s spirits are present, then they are residents of this house and none of your concern.”
Hunt’s eyes examined every corner, much as Justina Markham’s had, as if he searched for signs of another presence. Did he wish to see them? Or not?
“Alistair and I were partners in the mill for seven years,” he said softly. “I introduced him to Viola, for God’s sake. I thought…” He caught his breath, as if catching a confession before it could escape. “I thought they would suit one another well. If not for me Alistair never would have married Viola, much less…” He choked on the words that would not come.
“You have no reason to feel guilty.” She didn’t like Hunt, particularly, but at the moment she felt a little sorry for him. Thirty years of self-reproach was a heavy burden.
“I only begin to feel guilty when someone comes around asking pesky questions about things that should have been buried years ago.” Hunt’s face flushed red, his lips thinned. “I want you out, Miss Abernathy. Out of this house, out of Plummerville. I’ll give you a tidy sum over and beyond what you paid for the house. Just… leave.”
“No,” Eve said calmly. “I’ve made this house my home and I won’t be run off. Not by ghosts, and not by you.” She cocked her head and studied Hunt’s hard face, his tortured eyes. “Did you care for Viola very much? Is that why you suffer so?”
Hunt reached out and grabbed her by the shoulders, his grip too tight. He didn’t answer her question, which was answer enough for Eve. “You think a couple of ghosts are a problem? Tangle with me and you’ll regret it. Sell me the house, make a tidy profit, and leave this town and this sordid story alone.”
“And what will you do if I accept your offer?” Eve asked. “Sell the house to someone else? Let it stand here and rot?”
“I’ll burn it to the ground, which is what I should have done thirty years ago.” With that, he gave Eve a little shake.
Lucien came up behind Hunt and forcibly pulled the man away. Eve held her breath as a furious Lucien slammed Hunt into the wall and leaned in close, bending down to place his face close to the shorter man’s. “Lay your hands on the lady again, and you’ll regret it,” Lucien said darkly. His neck corded with tension, his jaw tensed. His fists flexed threateningly.
Hunt, rightfully intimidated by the sight of an enraged Lucien, took a shuffling step to the side. “You must be the fortuneteller.”
Lucien closed his eyes and took a deep breath, and Eve suppressed a smile. She knew he hated the label fortuneteller much more than medium or even exorcist. Hunt was in serious trouble.
“I’m not much of a fortuneteller, ” Lucien said as he opened his eyes and laid them on Hunt, “but I do see that if you don’t apologize to Miss Abernathy and get out of her home, you’re going to be in serious pain within a matter of minutes.”
Oh, she hadn’t known Lucien could get so angry about a situation that involved living, breathing humans. Normally he saved his passions for the dead. He was intriguingly handsome and appealing when he defended her this way, though she would never tell him so. It was painful enough to admit such a thing to herself. Still, she couldn’t help but smile as Hunt backed toward the door, mumbling an insincere apology and keeping his eyes on Lucien the entire time.
When the door closed on Douglas Hunt, Lucien ran his fingers through his mussed dark hair. Eve fought the urge to help him.
“How dare he shake you and talk to you that way?” Lucien asked. “And who the hell is he?”
“Alistair’s business partner,” she said. “He’s not particularly happy about me asking questions, and he’s definitely upset about the news that the ghosts are in residence.” She replayed the short visit in her mind. “I believe he was in love with Viola. Do you think he might have been the man she was seeing? Her husband’s business partner? That would have been messy. Quite a scandal.”
Lucien looked her in the eye, deep and questioning. The anger faded from his face, and was replaced by something akin to wonder. “Evie,” he said softly, and she didn’t even think about correcting him, “what if Alistair didn’t kill Viola? What if they were both murdered?”
*
Intrigued by the new idea, Lucien took the stairs two at a time. He’d met Viola in the bedchamber she and her husband had shared. That was probably the best place to find Alistair.
“No!” Eve called as she followed him, her footsteps light and quick on the stairway. “It’s too dangerous. Everyone says Alistair killed Viola. Even Viola! Why else would she ask why?”
“Because she thinks he murdered her, but in reality it was someone else.” Lucien threw open the bedroom door. He saw nothing, but he sensed them here. Both of them. Eve followed him silently into the room. “It was almost midnight, it was very dark. Someone came up behind Viola, perhaps… said or did something that made her think he was her husband, and then he stabbed her in the back. We saw what happened next. He drew down her wrapper and stabbed her again, and if Mrs. Markham’s memory isn’t faulty, he then took the bloody garment with him. Why?”
He walked the perimeter of the room as he puzzled on this new possibility. “It rained,” he said softly. “What if he got a muddy hand print on the gown, and had to dispose of it so no one would suspect someone from outside the house was here that night.”
“It’s possible,” Eve said. “I’ll go over my notes and see if I find anything that supports that supposition.”
Lucien shook his head. “No. Notes won’t help us with this. There’s only one way to find out.”
“You can’t channel Alistair,” Eve said sternly. “I forbid it.”
He turned to face her. Eve stood by the door but didn’t enter the room. To be honest, she looked poised to make a quick escape. Perhaps she did not want to be in the bedroom with him again.
“You forbid?”
“Remember what happened when you channeled Elliot Alvin? You almost killed O’Hara!”
“Knowing what I know now, perhaps I should have.” The man would pay, one day, for getting fresh with Evie. He waved off her concern. “Besides, I’m stronger now than I was then, I have more control.” The truth was, channeling drained him. The more control he had during the sessions, the worse he felt after. Last time a spirit had possessed him for a length of more than half an hour, it had taken him two days to recover.
“Lock me in,” he demanded as he searched the room for signs of the ghostly couple. There they were, hovering by the dresser. In addition to feeling the ghostly spirits, he now saw them in bits of light Eve could not see.
“What?”
“In case I’m wrong and Alistair is dangerous, I want you safely on the other side of a locked door. I’ll call you when I’m finished.”
“No,” she said stubbornly.
“Evie…”
“You’ll need me to listen. You won’t remember what he says.”
“I’m getting better at that, too,” he said. “I’ll remember most of what Alistair says when he speaks through me.”
“Most?”
“Enough.”
Eve pursed her lips. “No!”
Lucien knew just how to send her to the safety of the hallway. He smiled. “You’re concerned for me. That’s very sweet, Evie. It’s also more proof that you do, in fact, love me…”
She couldn’t shut the door fast enough. He waited until he heard the lock turn and catch, and then he pulled a wing chair to the center of the room. He sat there, facing the dresser where he saw the flickering traces of light. His feet were planted firmly on the floor, his arms rested on the arms of the chair. His heart pounded hard and fast. No matter how many times he did this, it was always frightening. And exciting.
He took a moment to slow his heartbeat, to make himself connect with the light that teased and danced.
“Alistair,” he said, his voice low. “Speak to me. Speak through me.”
One of the fragments of light came toward him. Slowly, waveringly. Alistair was no more certain about this than Eve had been.
“I’m here to help,” Lucien said, trying to reassure Alistair as he had earlier assured Viola. “Please, let me help you.”
After a moment, where the light hovered, waiting, it shot unerringly and quickly toward Lucien’s heart.
Lucien felt the spirit enter him. There was a moment of pain, followed by a sensation of a deep peace he never felt when he conversed with the living.
Alistair was here.
Chapter 6
Lucien knew what he was doing. He always did. As he often said, he was a scientist. An expert. He didn’t take unnecessary chances.
Eve waited as long as she could, pacing in the hallway, wringing her hands and fiddling with the key she’d used to lock Lucien in that room. Who was she kidding? He did take chances, she knew that too well. He took dangerous risks on every job; he took chances every day of his life! And she’d allowed him to force her out of that room, as surely as if he’d picked her up and carried her!
A voice, Lucien’s and yet not Lucien’s drifted to her through the closed door.
“That’s it,” she said, taking the key and inserting it into the lock. “I’m not going to stand here and… and do nothing!”
She threw open the door to find Lucien sitting in a wide, padded chair that had been placed in the middle of the room. His head rotated slowly as she entered the room. He smiled at her. That was not Lucien’s smile.
“Well, hello,” he said, his deep voice colored by a Georgia accent. Lucien’s own voice was usually more clipped, more precise and with a hint of New York, where he’d been born. “Aren’t you a pretty one?”
Eve’s eyes widened. She held her breath. She’d heard that before his marriage, Alistair had been somewhat of a ladies’ man, a charmer. Apparently that was true. She was rarely called pretty, and even then… it was usually her aunt who made that kind observation, or perhaps one of her cousins. “Hello, Mr. Stamper,” she said when she found her breath again.
He lifted a hand and motioned for Eve to come closer. Against her better judgment, she did. She had seen Lucien channel a spirit before, several times, and it never ceased to amaze her. Lucien was here, and yet he was not. Alistair Stamper was dead and had been for thirty years, and yet he was present in this time and place. When she stood beside the chair, Lucien… Alistair… reached out and took her wrist in his hand.
“You’re so warm,” he said softly, a hint of longing in his voice. “I miss… warmth. There are times of reliving and remembering when the warmth seems almost to be there, but this… this is good and real and alive.” His fingers rocked over her wrist as his smile faded completely. “Viola isn’t warm anymore. She hasn’t been warm for a long time. She’s punishing me, I suppose, taking away the warmth I crave. Coming to me and then… running away when I call to her.”
A chill worked down Eve’s spine as Alistair continued to caress her wrist. Lucien’s fingers were warm, but she also felt a hint of the spirit’s coldness, as if a touch of cold air manacled her.
“Perhaps Viola has good reason to run from you,” she said, trying to make her voice steady.
“I tried to tell her I’m sorry,” he whispered. “She won’t listen to me.”
“She’s afraid of you,” Eve said softly, making an effort to keep her voice even. Her own fear was very real at the moment. She knew Lucien would never hurt her; she could not be so sure about Alistair.
“I gave her no reason to be afraid,” he said angrily, the grip at her wrist tightening. “I just made one small mistake!”
“Murder is not a small mistake,” Eve said.
Lucien’s head snapped up, and the eyes that glared at Eve were not those of the man she loved. They were darker. They were the eyes of a stranger. “Murder?”
Something sharp shot through Eve. At first she thought it was a knife, that she’d been stabbed in the back just as Viola had been, thirty years ago. But the pain faded quickly and she was filled with a strange sensation, as if light became substance and flooded her entire body.
Eve was no longer alone in her own body. Viola was with her, inside her, a part of her. She experienced the spirit’s fear, and confusion, and love as if they were her own. Most of all, she felt love.
“Viola,” Alistair whispered, seeing, sensing, or feeling the presence of his wife in Eve. A wry smile crossed his face, the grip on her wrist gentled.
Now Eve knew why Lucien didn’t stand. Having Viola’s spirit inside her weakened her considerably. Her legs began to buckle, and as if he knew what she was feeling and that she was about to fall, Lucien pulled her onto his lap. She dropped there gratefully.
“Why?” Eve whispered, and the question was not her own.
Lucien’s fingers traced her jawline, brushed her cheek, trailed down her throat. “How many times do I have to say I’m sorry? I couldn’t help myself. It was an impulse I could not control. I’m a weak man, imperfect and impulsive.”
Eve shook her head. “I thought you loved me.”
“I do.”
“Then how could you…”
Lucien drew her close. His lips hovered over hers. “We were never good with words, Viola. Let me show you how I feel. Let me make love to you, while we’re warm and soft and alive.”
“I shouldn’t want you,” Eve whispered.
“But you do.” He kissed her, softly at first and then hard. His tongue delved just inside her mouth, teasing her own. When he began to unbutton her dress, starting with the button at the top and working his way down, Eve didn’t even think to protest. She wanted to know what it felt like to have Lucien’s hands on her body, and Viola wanted to feel Alistair. No matter what he’d done. No matter that he had killed her.
Eve closed her eyes when Lucien slipped his hand beneath the bodice of her brown dress and caressed the swell of her breasts. His fingers were warm, tenderly and unexpectedly arousing. It was startling and yet right, as if she’d waited all her life for h
im to touch her.
“So many clothes,” he whispered, as he finished unbuttoning her dress, parting the fabric to reveal her yellow corset. “Such pleasant surprises beneath,” he drawled in a teasing voice. “A corset of yellow like sunshine, bright and pretty as spring flowers, hidden underneath that drab brown dress. What else do you hide?”
He kissed her mouth well as he blindly unfastened the hooks and eyes down the front of her corset. In the back of her mind, Eve knew she should order him to stop… but she allowed Viola to take over, for a while. She let the unexpected passion rule, just for a moment. This sensation was too delicious to push away.
The corset fell open, and Lucien’s hand returned to her breasts. He didn’t just touch, he caressed, he teased. He rolled the nipples between his gentle fingers, plucking at the sensitive tips and then laying his mouth against her throat to suck at her hungry flesh.
She was alive everywhere, her blood danced through her veins, she throbbed.
Lucien often talked about how becoming a home for a spirit, even for a short while, was draining. There had been an initial weakness, but right now Eve didn’t feel drained at all. She was alive and tingling. The blood rushed through her body, washing away all her fears, her anger, and her indecision. There was just sensation and love, and they were both powerful. And wonderful.
“Touch me,” he whispered.
Eve didn’t hesitate, didn’t even stop to think. She unbuttoned Lucien’s shirt, laid the fabric back, and pressed her hands against his bare chest. Firm and well shaped and hard, he was unlike anything she had ever touched before. A sprinkling of dark hair teased her fingers as she ran her hand across his chest. She laid her mouth against the hollow of his throat, tasting his salty flesh, flicking her tongue over his skin. Something shot through her… like electricity, a jolting charge so powerful it shook her to her bones.
“God in heaven, I love you,” he said softly.
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