by Angel Smits
Raging Spirits
Clarissa Elgin’s psychic powers have brought her trouble before. This time, her vision shows her a handsome man dying in her arms after being shot in a robbery. The stranger whispers the name Rachel as his killer. Soon Clarissa spots the man in real life. David Lorde, a bank vice president, is skeptical when she visits his office to warn him about the future; she also envisions an embezzlement scheme at the bank.
Another vision shows her a lovers’ quarrel between David and Rachel—his wife. He suspected her of marrying him for his money and prestige. A shot rings out. Did he kill Rachel?
Clarissa can’t get David out of her mind. As she falls in love with him she deduces that somehow his late wife’s spirit has cast a spell over him. An even more sinister evil is behind Rachel’s power.
Clarissa must risk her life to save him.
———
“ . . . a terrific ghost romance . . . The story line is action-packed from the first vision to the last spiritual encounter that will surprise the audience with a delightful final pirouette.”
—Harriet Klausner, Top Amazon reviewer
Other Books by Angel Smits
Memory Whispers
Raging Spirits
by
Angel Smits
ImaJinn Books
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.
ImaJinn Books
PO BOX 300921
Memphis, TN 38130
Ebook ISBN: 978-1-61026-028-2
Print ISBN: 978-1-933417-04-2
ImaJinn Books is an Imprint of BelleBooks, Inc.
Copyright © 2006 by Angel Smits
Published in the United States of America.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
ImaJinn Books was founded by Linda Kichline.
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Cover design: Deborah Smith
Interior design: Hank Smith
Photo/Art credits:
Man (manipulated) © Mast3r | Dreamstime.com
Puma (manipulated) © Anankkml | Dreamstime.com
Woman and moon © Konstantin Sutyagin | Dreamstime.com
:Esrt:01:
Dedication
This one’s for you Ron. Remember—I will haunt you. Thank you for all the support, patience and love you’ve given me since I started this quest. I love you.
Prologue
OLD, GNARLED TREE roots broke through the cement, making the walk up to the old house in the dark treacherous. She glanced at her watch. Two minutes before midnight. She reached the front porch just as a gust of wind showed up. The old, broken porch swing creaked and a pile of dried autumn leaves jumped into the air and swirled around her. She grimaced as a spasm of pain took her by surprise. Her fingers curled around the porch rail until they appeared white in the moonlight.
Then as quickly as it had begun, the wind stilled and everything in the night around her fell silent. Everything. Not even a cricket or stray cat tried to break it.
She took a deep breath as the pain subsided as well. Gripping her bag tighter, she stepped up onto the porch. Finally, a sound as the wood groaned beneath her feet.
She’d just lifted her hand to knock when the door abruptly swung open. Dim light fell at her feet in a small puddle of gold.
“Did you bring it?” the old woman standing in the doorway whispered.
She nodded. “It’s right here.”
“Come in then.” The old woman grabbed her arm and pulled her inside. The door slammed with a loud thud, and she hadn’t even seen the woman move.
The old woman was tiny, which surprised her. She didn’t know why, but it wasn’t what she’d expected. The woman’s white hair and her skin’s pallor were the only light in her dark attire and the dimness of the house.
She looked around as the woman hurried about, leading her down numerous halls and through doors.
Finally, they entered a round, windowless room. The old woman closed the door. She threw three bolts into place, each making a loud thwack as they hit home. Then she spun around, her talon-like fingers extended. “Give it to me. Hurry child.”
She struggled with the cumbersome purse, but finally she pulled out the small wooden box. The polished surface gleamed in the dim light, and for the first time she noticed all the candles set about the room. She frowned. Had they been there when she’d come in? She didn’t know and that frightened her.
Before she could stop her, the woman grasped the box, hurried across the room and set it in the center of a tall marble table. On each end of the table an ebony pillar candle glowed, its flame dipping with the breeze caused by the woman’s movements.
“Now.” The old woman spun back around to face her. “Do you have the other things?”
“Yes.” She dug in the purse again and pulled out a small paper bag. “Everything’s there.”
“Excellent.”
Despite the closed up room and the numerous candle flames, the room grew cold as she handed the bag over. She shivered as the cold seeped clear to her bones.
Everything happened so quickly. She blinked and the woman handed her the box again. Glancing at her watch, she realized that nearly an hour had passed. How had that happened? Time seemed to have vanished. She slipped the box back into her bag and tried to recall what the woman had done. All she remembered was candle flames and the table.
The woman escorted her back to the front door with slow shuffled steps. For the first time, she realized the woman hunched over as she walked, and was that a cane? Where had that come from?
At the front door, she breathed a sigh of relief, ready to escape the house. She’d accomplished her mission. Stepping out into the night, she didn’t even look back when the door slammed shut behind her.
The wind sang around her and bent the oaks nearly to the ground. But she didn’t feel it. She felt nothing except a solid coldness settle deep in her chest.
One
THE GALE FORCE wind whistled through the eaves and rattled the glass in the window. Clarissa Elgin slept fitfully, a part of her awake, watching the storm with growing trepidation. Suddenly, a gust blasted against her bedroom window. The glass shattered, and the broken frame slammed against the wall.
The breeze tugged at her, tearing at her hair and nightgown. She grabbed for the sheets, the blankets, the mattress’s edge, but to no avail. The wind pulled her from the bed. With ease, it sucked her through the broken window, and she tumbled weightlessly through the dark night sky. A scream froze in her throat.
Fascination mingled with her fear. Beneath her, elms, willows and majestic pines whipped in the same wind that carried her through the heavens. Thick, heavy branches twisted and danced like wild lovers in the night. Rooftops, a vaguely familiar church steeple, and a myriad of glowing streetlights whizzed by, dwarfed by the height at which she flew.
As quickly as it had begun, the wind ceased, and she tumbled toward the earth. The buildings rose to meet her, and she shut her eyes in anticipation of the coming impact.
Her descent slowed, and opening her eyes, she found herself inside a tiny, deserted diner. Before she could question why, she drifted slowly down to her feet beside the long counter.
She’d never been here before, and she looked around with relief and interest. Once-shiny chrome covered the walls and a scarred red Formica counter ran the distance of the room. Red vinyl stools sat at equal intervals along one side and matching booths lined the perimeter.
The whole scene could have come straight out of an old movie.
A large plate glass window formed one wall of the diner. Outside, night held the distant city tight in its predawn grip while a single customer sat at the counter. His face was turned away from her, but she found her gaze drawn to the thick, dark mane of brown hair tumbling over his broad, leather-clad shoulders. He turned then, giving her a silhouetted view of his features. He reached for his coffee. As he sipped the steaming brew, Clarissa’s gaze roamed over the rugged contours of his handsome face. There was a strength and sadness there that triggered her curiosity.
He didn’t look at her. She wasn’t even sure he knew she was there. He didn’t speak at all. Not to Clarissa or to the waitress who leaned against the counter and studied him appreciatively from beneath lowered lashes. Seemingly unaware of his audience, he continued to stare into his coffee.
Slowly, drawn to him and the aura of sadness around him, Clarissa walked to one of the stools beside him. He turned his head and his gaze raked from her head to her toes and back again. Looking down, she realized she still wore her pale blue nightgown and heat built inside her. A flush warmed her cheeks.
His dark eyes seemed to reach out to her. She crossed her arms over her chest, seeking protection from his predatory gaze and the answering sizzle it created in her blood.
A reluctant smile tugged at his lips, and his right eyebrow arched in question. “Interesting outfit to be running around town in at this time of night.”
The deep growl of his voice brought the image of a lion to mind, and Clarissa trembled in the wake of the sound. “I didn’t have much time to dress.”
She watched as he drank the last of his coffee and signaled for a refill. The waitress topped off his cup, and Clarissa wondered only briefly why she didn’t offer her one. The woman shoved a silver basket toward the man, and he tore open two paper packages and dumped the contents into his cup. The incessant clink of his spoon grew louder. Its pace slowed as his eyes grew distant.
A crash shattered the quiet as the door suddenly burst open. A man ran in. Clarissa gasped. He wore a black ski mask, but she saw the wild spark of madness in his undisguised icy-blue eyes. A chill gripped her and she shivered in the thin gown.
The punk pointed a handgun at the waitress. “Gimme what’s in the register.” When she stood motionless, staring in fear at the hooded face, he screamed, “Now!”
At the sharp command, the waitress pushed the buttons on the cash register. Her fingers trembled, missing the keys, and she had to repeat the procedure several times.
“You.” The crook pointed the gun at the man’s face. “Empty your pockets.”
“I don’t have anything valuable.” The man stood, seemingly unafraid, as he did as he was asked. A roll of candy mints, a handful of assorted change, a black comb missing two teeth and his driver’s license landed on the scarred counter.
“Where’s your wallet?”
“I didn’t bring it with me. I only came for coffee.”
“You’re lyin’.” The kid walked toward the man, stopping only inches away. The punk slammed his fist into the man’s stomach, and he doubled over in pain.
Despite her fear, Clarissa realized the thief couldn’t see her. She tried to move, hoping to stop the horror going on around her, but her feet seemed glued to the floor and her limbs were useless.
“This is for bein’ stupid.” The young man stepped away, raised his gun and his ice-blue eyes sighted down the barrel.
Clarissa watched as he pulled back the trigger. The hammer dropped into place and the bullet emerged.
“No!” she screamed.
The punk laughed. The sound, though muffled by the mask, lost none of its madness. In slow motion, the bullet slid through the air and hit the man’s broad chest. Clarissa watched the fabric of his shirt tear, then saw the skin beneath give and blood seep from the wound to soak his shirt. His cry of pain sent terror rocking through her as he tumbled to the worn linoleum floor.
The thief grabbed the money the waitress had removed from the till and ran. The merry jingle of the bell attached to the door reverberated mockingly around them.
“Get a doctor,” Clarissa screamed to the waitress who stared at her wounded customer.
“If only . . . ” the man whispered as Clarissa knelt beside him. She tried to stop the bleeding, but the blood came too fast. Her nightgown quickly soaked up the warm, sticky fluid.
“If only I’d stayed home tonight,” he rasped. “But she wouldn’t let me. Damn you, Rachel,” he cursed as more blood pooled on his shirt. “Damn you,” he repeated in a whisper, just as his head fell back against the cold floor, his dark brown eyes staring sightlessly at the ceiling.
“No,” Clarissa cried, but he couldn’t hear her—not anymore. Not . . .
She sat straight up in bed.
Her entire body felt cold and damp. The blue nightgown clung to her skin. Looking down, she was relieved to find it wasn’t soaked in blood but with her own sweat. The rumpled sheets were wrapped around her legs.
It had been years since she’d had such a strong vision. The last time . . . No, she refused to face those memories or that pain.
This one had been different, not like any before, she reassured herself. In the past, she’d only been a spectator or the receiver of a message, never a participant. No one had ever seen her before. Why had she been a part of the vision this time? What was the reason? Looking up, she realized the wind was gone and her window was closed, as it should be. Moonlight pooled on the rug. Even the storm had merely been a part of her vision.
She shivered and turned on the light beside the bed. It helped chase the shadows away. Still she spent the rest of the night waiting for them to return.
THE SCENTS OF steamed milk, cocoa, cinnamon, and, of course, coffee filled the air. Normally their familiarity soothed her, but not today. Clarissa bustled back and forth behind the counter of her coffee shop, The Angry Bean, filling orders and avoiding her own thoughts.
By noon, her hair clung to her face in damp blond ringlets, and she’d dropped three of her best mugs. Her nerves were stretched tight.
The crowd had thinned, so she made herself a triple mocha—with extra whipped cream. She hoped the caffeine in the espresso would bolster her lagging energy. She’d yet to take a sip when a voice broke the welcome quiet. “I hope that coffee has more get up and go than you do.”
Clarissa looked up and found her friend, Faith Burke, smiling at her from the other side of the counter. She couldn’t help smiling back as she automatically grabbed the fixings for Faith’s favorite drink.
“Extra whipped cream today.” Faith dug in the bottom of her purse for her loose change, like she did every day. Clarissa refused to let her friend pay, and each day Faith dumped change into the staff tip jar as a friendly compromise.
The whir of the steam machine drowned out any conversation, but as soon as it was done, Clarissa waited for Faith to speak. The silence startled her. She looked up and met Faith’s questioning stare. “What?”
“You look awful. What’s the matter?”
“I . . . ” What could she say? “I’ve had a busy morning.”
“Yeah, right. Like that’s unusual. Take a break with me and tell me what’s wrong. Is Lindsey in yet?”
“Not for another half hour.” There was no one in line and only a
few people sat at scattered tables. The shop was blessedly quiet for the first time all morning. She shrugged. “But I will take the break. Want a cookie?”
Famished and armed with her coffee and chocolate chip delight, Clarissa collapsed in a wooden chair. Unfortunately, she wasn’t sure if she’d be able to get back up again. Fatigue engulfed her, and she sipped her drink, praying for a jolt of energy.
Clarissa always believed a good defense was a blinding offense, so she struck out first. “How are those two men of yours?” Distraction was the easiest tool in her arsenal.
Faith smiled, settled onto her chair and snitched a bite of cookie. “Mom and Dad are in town. Dad and Cord are golfing, trying to bond, and Mom’s spoiling the baby. I’m on my own for a change.”
“Working on a new project?”
“Don’t try distracting me.” Faith playfully shook her finger. “Those dark circles under your eyes are a dead giveaway that something’s wrong. What’s up?”
“So, when did you become psychic?”
“Funny.” Faith knew all about Clarissa’s psychic abilities. Clarissa had helped Cord and Faith deal with a rather vicious ghost awhile back, and they’d both nearly died. Clarissa realized how close she’d come to losing her friend. Thankfully, they were not only safe now but happily married.
Still, old fears reared their ugly heads and she drank deeply, swallowing her uncertainty. Should she tell Faith about the vision last night? What would she think? They had been friends a long time, but would she understand?
“Don’t try to hide from me.” Faith frowned at her.
“I’m not.”
“Yes, you are. Come on. Spill it.” Faith grabbed the plate and pulled it to her side of the table. “Or the cookie’s mine.”
Clarissa laughed, knowing full well that had been Faith’s intent.
“That’s better. So, tell me what’s up.”
Still hesitant, Clarissa took a few minutes to gather her thoughts. “Okay,” she relented as Faith took a big bite. “I was sleeping and had a vision last night. I saw a man get shot.” Even to her ears the words sounded distant and unemotional. If only she really felt that way.
