The Reunited

by Shiloh Walker

  “If tips are good tonight, I’m gonna call Candise—she’s going to blow me so hard to make up for shortchanging me last time.

  “Damn it, we need to get moving. If it starts to rain, half of these idiots will whine about a refund . . .

  “Why in the fuck couldn’t there have been any decent girls on this one . . .”

  The wind grew sharper, colder. Lifting his face to it, Joss breathed it in. “Do we really need to stand around here while you try to play armchair psychologist, Cap?” Joss said. “I came out here to see the cemetery—I wanted to do the night walk through, and the only way to do it is with you. If it rains before we get through it because you wanted to chatter, I’m going to ask for my money back.”

  Something ugly flickered in the man’s eyes.

  Joss stared him down, and as the guide turned away, he smiled.

  * * *

  HE couldn’t get inside.

  But he didn’t need to.

  Just standing out in front of the little family mausoleum filled him with the strangest sense of peace, even as it flooded him with urgency.

  When Joss was here, he didn’t hear her screams.

  But he needed to find her . . . because until he found her, he was only half of who he needed to be.

  He didn’t hear her screams, but he could remember the echo of her laughter.

  The soft murmur of her voice, even if he couldn’t follow the words.

  Here, he felt like he was closer to her.

  Amelie . . .

  Sighing, he sat on the single, small stoop and ran a hand down his face. Lost in the shadows, he rested his head against the column behind him and looked toward the door. It was dark and he couldn’t read the little plaques over the door, but he knew them.

  Amelie had died first.

  A few years later, her parents had passed on.

  There was no other family. Just the parents, their daughter.

  His Amelie.

  He could keep watch over her all night. Seated there on the stoop in front of a mausoleum of a family long gone, he felt more complete than he did at any other time in his life.

  And he could have stayed there, happily, for hours. Forever, even. But his phone intruded, vibrating in his pocket.

  Joss ignored it, pulling to mind the memory of her face. He knew her face, had dreamed of her for so long. Longer than he could remember.

  He’d had her face in his dreams for far longer than he’d known her name, but he knew her face, knew her name . . . knew that she’d cried over him. Once . . .

  Eyes closed, he thought of the plaque that bore her name.

  AMELIE CARRINGTON

  BORN APRIL 1, 1870

  DIED APRIL 1, 1890

  Died on her birthday, twenty years . . . to the day.

  Amelie.

  The name was a song in his mind.

  It whispered to him, called to him. And it had ever since the first time he’d seen it, back when he’d just been a kid, his first year in college, stumbling through here on a dare with his friends.

  It had been pure chance that he’d found this place. He’d stumbled onto the porch, ended up much like he was now. And he’d looked up. Seen her name . . .

  And it hit him.

  Chance.

  And fate.

  Because he’d found the woman he’d dreamed of for so long. The dreams hadn’t started here. He’d always had those, but seeing her resting place had ripped open a hole inside him, like tearing open a floodgate.

  He dreamed about a woman who’d died. And when he finally found her, it wasn’t her . . . she’d been gone for years. More than a century.

  After he’d seen this place, everything got so much more intense, almost painful sometimes. Dreams that haunted him even when he was awake, the echo of her laughter chasing him at the oddest times.

  He couldn’t go a week without the dreams. Couldn’t go a day without thinking of her.

  All the while, he waited.

  Obsessed.

  Where are you? Am I going to find you?

  Questions he’d asked himself for years. Questions that still had no answers.

  Off to the left, he could hear the rest of the tour group—they were all walking around carrying coat hangers. Dousing rods, that’s what good ol’ Cap had called them.

  Joss could have told all of them that Cap was wasting their time in this part. There weren’t any ghosts waiting for them. If there were any ghosts to be found, they were up in the newer part. Not here. Not that he could really see any ghosts, but that remnant energy was a buzz that a lot of psychics were sensitive to, and he wasn’t feeling it here.

  His phone vibrated again. And again, indicating that whoever was calling was not giving up. Scowling, he pulled it out, thinking he should have left the damn thing in his car. But old habits died hard.

  It wasn’t a surprise to see the name Taylor Jones pop up on the screen. But why in the hell was the boss calling him? He had a few days off. Not that the SAC would let a minor detail like that get in the way. The Special Agent In Charge didn’t let little details stop him.

  Instead of answering it, Joss hit ignore and went to text him.

  Busy. What’s up? Once he’d sent the message, he brushed a few leaves off the stoop, some debris. Once he’d almost brought flowers.

  But he hadn’t. Because something—not a memory exactly—but something . . .

  I would rather see the flowers growing than to have somebody cut them so they wither and die . . .

  He didn’t want to leave her something that would have made her sad.

  He thought about bringing something he could plant. Would that be okay? He’d have to check with the people who took care of the cemetery. They’d ask questions—a hassle, but he had some idea that she’d like something that bloomed. Yeah. He could almost see her smile over that.

  His phone buzzed again. Aggravated, he glanced at the screen.

  You’re needed. And my wife wants to know why you’re standing in a graveyard.

  Joss scowled and lifted his head, emerging from the shadowed sanctuary of the crypt and studying the area just beyond the fence line.

  Well, hell. He’d just been spotted by the rat-faced tour guide. Cap came scurrying his way, a tight frown on his face as he spied the phone. “You need to put that away. Those are very disruptive to the deceased. Spirits don’t like technology.”

  “Really?” Out of pure curiosity, he texted Taylor back. Ask Dez if the dead care about technology.

  The answer was almost immediate. Why in the hell should they? It doesn’t affect them, and the older ones aren’t even aware of it.

  Glancing up at Cap, he smirked. “I have it on good authority that the dead don’t care about technology.” Resuming his perusal of the cemetery, he eyed the dim shapes of cars, shadows he couldn’t quite make out. Then he saw one car, idling a few dozen yards away, and he knew. When he saw it, he sighed and then looked back at Amelie’s crypt. He wanted to linger, say something, but he wasn’t about to give this guy any sign of his thoughts. He knew better than that.

  I’ll be back, baby.

  * * *

  “YOU’RE into ghost tours now?” Dez asked as Joss came striding toward them. Up until three months ago, it had been Desiree Lincoln, but then she’d somehow lost her common sense and she’d married Taylor Jones. She was Desiree Jones now.

  Joss tried not to hold that against her.

  “Yeah. I wanted to do the real thing, but I figured Taylor would punch my lights out if I asked you out on a date to show me the real ghosts,” Joss said, flashing a grin at her.

  Dez chuckled. “Nah. He’s not the violent type. I might punch out a woman for flirting with him, but he’s more collected than that.”

  Under most circumstances, Joss would have agreed with her. Taylor was a cold bastard and nothing affected him—violence usually came because people got worked up over something. Jones didn’t do worked up, not really.

  Dez was a different story.
<
br />   Jones had hidden that pretty well from most people and that wasn’t particularly easy, considering how he was surrounded by psychics on a daily basis. If anybody could block out their thoughts, it would be Taylor. He had that control thing down pat. Were somebody to look up the word contained, they just might see Taylor’s picture next to the definition.

  But Joss was around Taylor more than most of the others, and if the boss had anybody he’d call a friend, it was Joss. The two of them had spent many a long night together, and usually, Joss had his head jacked up with somebody else’s talent, a skill that let him read the heart, the mind, or both. Taylor wasn’t the easiest person to read, but eventually Joss figured out that the boss had feelings for Dez that were anything but cool and collected.

  Speaking of the boss, he looked over at the car and saw the man of the hour. “You know, I’m supposed to be off. For like the next five days straight. I haven’t had many of those mythical off days lately, and I specifically requested a few days of personal time.”

  “Yes, you did.” Taylor shrugged. “Sorry, Crawford. This just got dumped in my lap rather unexpectedly and it can’t wait. Your particular talents are needed.”

  Joss snorted. “My particular talents are nonexistent. I’m a fucking myna bird. I mimic everybody else. Find whoever I mimic and stick them in.”

  “I can’t . . .” He shifted a look at Dez.

  It was just a bare glance—a quick flick—and then his eyes were back on Joss’s face. But it was enough. Okay . . . so Jones wasn’t willing—or able—to send his woman into this? Was that it?

  Dez sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. It was a little longer than she usually wore, falling almost to her chin. “He needs more than a ghost talker on this gig, Joss. But if he sends in more than one person, we’ll be made. And besides, I’m not exactly the . . . ideal . . . person to do this. And I’m assuming the other person isn’t going to work any better than I will.”

  Joss had heard her. He had. But the one thing his mind focused on was “more than a ghost talker.”

  A sinking sensation settled in Joss’s gut.

  Without even look at the man, without opening his mind, he knew. “You’re going to mind-fuck me again, aren’t you?”

  Silence stretched out between them.

  Finally, Taylor sighed. “Joss, I don’t have much choice. You’re the only man I’ve got who can do this. You’re the only agent I’ve got who can pick up any given ability at any given time; I need multiple abilities and I need them now.”

  “Where?” He didn’t bother trying to talk his way out of it. There was no point. He was in this line of work because he had to be. He wasn’t in it for fun, for kicks, or for the money. If he was needed, then so be it. He was needed. After one last glance at the garden of stone, he looked toward Taylor. The pull had been stronger this time . . . so much stronger . . .

  “Just an hour south. In Orlando.”

  THREE

  "JUST . . . get away.” Blood trickled from his mouth as he spoke. “Get away from him, Amelie. Don’t let him . . .”

  “Shhh. Hush, now. Do not fret about me. You need to save your strength,” she told him as the blood burned out of him to stain the ground beneath him red. This was her fault. Hers. If she had just left with him as he’d asked . . . “Just rest, love. Will you do that for me?”

  He squeezed her hand. “You have to get away from him. Promise me . . .”

  He pushed something into her hand. Whispered it again. “Promise . . .”

  * * *

  FROM the penthouse, she could see the bright lights of the amusement park . . . and the castle. A bit of whimsy hit her, and she remembered how she’d once stood at the base of that castle as a child, gazing up at it in rapt wonder.

  She was glad that girl no longer existed, glad that girl had had the wool ripped away from her eyes a good long time ago, so she couldn’t see what was happening to her now.

  Glad the girl she’d been wasn’t still sitting around waiting for her Cinderella moment. If Drucella Chapman had a Prince Charming in her future, she’d yet to find him. And if he was lurking around, well . . . he’d have to get in line. She had a job to do.

  Resting her hands on the balustrade, she thought of the so-called prince who was currently in her life. He was more like a snake.

  He was the villain of the piece, in truth. And she was trapped with him. For now.

  Two years . . . bloody hell. How had she lost two years to this?

  Sighing, she lowered her gaze, stared at her hand. It wasn’t supposed to be this damned complicated. Patrick Whitmore wasn’t supposed to be part of her life, not like this.

  Yet here she was, wearing his ring. And in a few short weeks, she was supposed to marry him. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way. She should have been done by now, well before this travesty of a wedding. But if she didn’t find some way to end this, find some way to pull off a bloody miracle, she was going to be Mrs. Patrick Whitmore very shortly.

  Backing out just wasn’t an option.

  Too much was at stake.

  If she had to marry the devil himself to fix things, then she’d do it.

  Of course, that wasn’t too far off from what she was doing.

  It made the bitter pill she had to swallow even more distasteful. The practical, cynical part of her knew she had to do it. So she pulled that practical bitch to the forefront as she turned from the window and made herself ignore what should have been a magical sight.

  Patrick Whitmore was just another mark. A job. Nothing more. Nothing less. It was taking a little longer than normal to get that job done, but she’d get it done and then she’d move on . . . forget about the evil that was Patrick Whitmore.

  If she could . . .

  Finish the job first. Then she could worry about getting away . . .

  You have to get away from him . . .

  Scowling, she shoved that bit of memory back to her mind. Ever since meeting Whitmore, she’d been plagued by nightmares, nasty ones. Her dreams had never been particularly pleasant. So much worse than the typical dream, one where she’d be naked in front of a class, weirder than dreams of talking animals or nightmares where she ran endlessly . . .

  There was no understanding her dreams, no understanding why they’d gotten so much worse lately.

  And she’d rather not think about them if she didn’t have to. She always died in them. Why would anybody want to think about that?

  The dreams got worse until she’d resorted to taking sleeping pills and hoping they’d helped. The dreams couldn’t interfere with the job. With the blasted wedding.

  Dru sighed and pushed a hand through her hair. “My bloody wedding.”

  At least she didn’t have to feign the interest in planning it. That was all being done for her, and all she had to do was fake interest in what they were doing. Pretend to be excited, pretend to be nervous.

  And it wasn’t a far stretch for her. She was excited. Several years’ worth of work were coming down to the finish line. She was nervous, and she had every right to be so. After all, if he found her out, he’d very likely kill her. She was on her own and nobody would stop him. Nobody would care.

  I could kill you . . .

  She jerked her mind back to the matter at hand as those insubstantial bits of thought tried to settle inside her head once more.

  He could kill her. And she knew it wouldn’t be a first for him. He could kill. He had. So she had to be careful.

  The knock at the door caught her off guard.

  Closing her eyes, she blew out a breath. It’s bloody well past time he let me sleep, she thought, scowling at her toes. Then she smoothed away the scowl, checked her reflection. She had a part to play. A job to do.

  A job she was damn good at.

  When Dru opened the door, she did it with a smile on her face.

  “Hello, darling,” Patrick said, dipping his head to brush his lips against hers.

  Her instinct was to flinch away. Dru had l
ong since learned to control those instinctive little tells and she held still under the cool, dry brush of his mouth, smiling at him. “Patrick, what a pleasant surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you so late.”

  “I just wanted to see you, see how you were settling in, Ella. It’s an odd place you wanted to stay.” He made no attempt to hide his distaste.

  “If this is too much, Patrick, I can find someplace else,” she said, folding her hands together, her eyes on the pale cream of the carpet. Taking a stab at his wallet was the best way to get what she wanted. He’d told her she wouldn’t be moving in until after the wedding, and although part of her was thankful for that, the other part was frustrated. What if the answers she needed were on the estate?

  There were ways around that part, though, and she’d do better if she was someplace more . . . public. Not to mention that she didn’t want to be anyplace remotely private, not if she could avoid it.

  It had been easy enough, giving him a convincing reason why she wanted to stay here close to the park. Although why she was so certain she had to be here, she didn’t know. “I just . . . well, I have happy memories of this place. The park, you see,” she hedged, glancing out the window at the brightly lit castle. It wasn’t a lie. Back in that other life, her parents had brought her to this place, back when she’d still had some bit of innocence to her, back when some part of her had believed in magic.

  Back before her life was overrun by monsters.

  Like the one standing before her. “Would you like me to stay elsewhere, darling?” she asked, giving him a demure smile.

  He waved a hand. “Don’t be silly, Ella. I just fail to see the appeal.” He glanced around, eyeing the remains of her meal, her laptop. “Are you settling in well?”

  “Of course.” For the past eighteen months, she’d commuted back and forth between London and Orlando—or rather, that was Ella’s story. She’d had a lovely apartment here in the States, a lovely flat back home in London. And then three weeks ago, her “employer” let her go . . . oh, the tragedy.

  Patrick had been quite happy to step in and take over her life. He’d been ready to do that for quite a while anyway.

  The employer was a contact of hers and the job had been real enough, another way to solidify her life as “Ella.”