by Jory Strong
The stallion pranced, tail lashing out and knocking silverware and plates off the table, the clatter of which caused the horse to spook and wheel into the dogs, stepping on several of them and making them yip, but also gaining their attention.
That’s all it took apparently. As one the pack gathered around the horse, baying once again in the excited sound of a hunt about to begin.
In a gesture of triumph, Atticus’ youngest brother took off his hat and nearly unseated himself in the process of taking a bow. His eyes danced with victory as his gaze met Atticus’—only to fill with stunned disbelief an instant later when he noted the raging erection still pressed against the front of Atticus’ jeans.
A quick glance at Bryn and Suriel the Trumpeter lifted the ill-used instrument, blasting out an off-key version Boots and Saddles. And then the black stallion wheeled and bolted, the hounds forging ahead and at its heels, all of them disappearing without a backward glance, though when the last of them was gone, a card fluttered downward from the height of the rider.
Atticus wanted to believe he’d seen the first and the last of his five brothers. That the youngest would pass on the news a courtship was in progress and they’d all leave him to his holiday and his taking of a wife.
He wanted to believe—oh yes he did. But he didn’t.
Ambulance chasers. Vultures. A wealth of images came to mind before he resolutely pushed them out of his thoughts in favor of concentrating on the matter at hand.
He had a bride to woo. He had a cock that would soon take on a life of its own if he didn’t get down to the business of putting it to good use.
Atticus took a step forward, intending to pick up the calling card his brother left in his wake but Bryn reached it first. Her face reflected a range of emotions, all of them captured and stored in Atticus’ memory to be taken out and examined, savored at another time—especially the last one, the one directed at him. It was a mix of curiosity and heat, anticipation and shy trepidation, longing and hesitation.
Bryn forced her attention away from the man who was commanding far too much of it. In all likelihood the hounds had somehow been separated from the huntsman. There was no doubt a fascinating story given the extremely odd horseman, but she’d seen the foggy edges of a ghostway and knew it was safe to say, “I think the hounds are gone for good now, Mrs. Haddon.”
The elderly woman nodded. She was still clutching gratefully at her son’s arm and Bryn took a great deal of satisfaction in seeing Billy pale and swaying slightly as a result of what he’d seen. It wasn’t charitable, but given the Stephen King moment she’d experienced when he went for the knife, she didn’t feel guilty adding silently, Take that, you bully.
Still she didn’t intend to hang around long enough for him to talk himself into a scenario where she was a mistress of special effects and had somehow orchestrated the show with the intention of fleecing his mother for every penny she had. Been there, done that. “I’ll be leaving now,” Bryn said, edging toward Atticus and the doorway.
“What do I owe you?” Mrs. Haddon asked, her voice shaky.
Bryn took in the trashed kitchen and didn’t have the heart to ask for money, especially when she wasn’t sure she’d actually done anything. “Just this,” she said, holding up what the huntsman had left behind. It was a tarot card. Number thirteen. Death.
Chapter Three
Is there no end to their lack of respect for the sanctity of Death? Atticus thought as he looked at the card in Bryn’s hand. Oh, he recognized it, of course. It was from his extensive and priceless collection of tarot cards.
In retrospect, he probably should have hunted Merlin down and asked the sorcerer for a no-trespassing spell. At a bare minimum, he should have affixed a skull and crossbones to the doorway leading to his side of the house—though on second thought, that’d probably draw the heathens rather than repel them. No matter, the expression on Bryn’s face as she studied the card made the trauma of seeing his possession tossed carelessly from horseback worth enduring.
They retreated from the house, leaving Billy and his mother to the task of cleaning up the mess.
Bryn’s heart sank when she saw the dent in the Aston Martin. It was still there, still as big as she remembered it. Nice to know I pack a punch, she thought, trying to cheer herself up.
She glanced down at the card. It looked old, hand-painted even. Maybe she could sell it on eBay. “About the car—”
“Please, have dinner with me. This is my first day of vacation and I’m new to your town. We can discuss the dent over dinner if you wish, though I’d much rather talk about what just happened in your client’s house.”
Bryn ran her thumb along the edge of the tarot card. She wanted to eat dinner with him, wanted to prolong the contact. There was something about him… not that she had to look very hard to get a good start on a list.
He was GQ gorgeous and had jumped to defend her, hadn’t hesitated even though she’d just dented his car. He seemed genuinely fascinated by the encounter with the ghost hounds. And it would be great to have someone to talk things over with.
In a lifetime of seeing ghosts, she’d never had any of them become almost touchable. She’d never had a spiritual manifestation leave physical evidence behind as they entered the ghostway. Sure, some of them had thrown things in a poltergeist’s rage, but none of them had left anything—especially a calling card for Death.
She glanced at the gaily-colored Death card. The dark hooded figure at its center gave her a chill, though the reds and yellows, blues and greens of what appeared to be swirling dancers made her want to smile.
Maybe she should be terrified, but it was hard to be scared when she was fascinated by what she’d seen. And other than a slight worry about the hounds becoming solid enough to knock her over and the horse real enough to accidentally trample her, she hadn’t for a moment feared for her life.
She pressed her thumb against the edge of the tarot card and glanced at Atticus, going with her instinct. “I don’t know this area very well, but I noticed a pizza place a couple of blocks over when I left the main drag.”
“Perfect. You lead and I’ll follow.”
His smile could raise the dead. It curled her toes and sent nervous jitters somersaulting in her chest.
It’s not a date, Bryn reminded herself as she got into her car, her spirits plummeting as she took in the patched upholstery and cracked, sun-bleached vinyl. “Well, one look at what I’m driving and he’ll know I’m not lying about needing time to cover the cost of fixing the dent.”
The Aston Martin’s engine purred to life against the curb. Bryn laughed softly. The car fit the man. She could definitely see him starring in a James Bond movie. And though she’d never been a fan of boxing, it had stirred some primitive part of her when Atticus had come to her rescue and pounded Billy with his fists.
Bryn’s cunt spasmed and her nipples tightened. “It’s not a date,” she reminded herself—out loud this time. But arousal slid from her slit and her cunt lips grew flushed as she remembered the soft touch of his lips on her palm and wrist, the erection she’d seen pressing against the front of his jeans.
She turned on the radio in an effort to distract herself and found Big and Rich singing about being caught up in the moment—a chance encounter and throwing caution to the winds as a result of an overwhelming physical attraction. Bryn grinned and started singing along with the radio, picturing herself and Atticus in the unfolding story images of the song.
The pizza place was easy to find. And whether by accident or design, Atticus took the spot to the right so she didn’t have to see the dent when she got out of her car. It was a relief even if out of sight wasn’t out of mind.
He took a minute to pull out a clean shirt, the open suitcase on the passenger seat serving as a testament to his vacationer status for the brief instant Bryn could take her eyes off his bare chest and the sight of his tanned fingers slowly buttoning the shirt. She wished it were a date or, better yet, that he was dinn
er. It was far too easy to imagine exploring him with her mouth.
“Is a vegetarian pizza okay with you?” Bryn asked when they got inside and it was their turn to order.
“I’d prefer it.”
His smile and his answer made her heart flutter. The nervous excitement usually reserved for first dates had her shoving suddenly damp palms into her pockets when he insisted on paying for dinner.
They claimed a booth far enough from the video games so they could hold a conversation. Bryn licked her lips nervously and nearly whimpered when his eyes darkened and his face went taut.
Atticus didn’t seem to be making any attempt to hide his interest in her. A sick feeling bloomed in the pit of her stomach and fed on her nervousness.
He was gorgeous, rich if the Aston Martin was any indication. What if he thought she’d pay for the dent with sex?
Bryn glanced down at the scarred wooden table where any number of initials enclosed in hearts proclaimed teenage love. “About the dent—”
“If you take me on as your apprentice and give me a place to stay, even a couch in your office, then I’ll take care of it with my vacation funds and the car will be returned to its owner without a mark on it,” Atticus said, skirting the truth but trying not to lie to his future wife in his need of an excuse to remain a constant in her life.
She looked up from her study of the table to meet his eyes. “The car isn’t yours?”
“No.” It was another uncomfortably close brush with falsehood. But the car was a family asset and he couldn’t very well tell her it was a manifestation made real by the power granted to those responsible for overseeing and managing Death.
He refrained from embellishing further, said, “I have a professional interest in death and what I saw today… I’d like to learn more about your work. It’s well worth using my vacation funds to pay for an apprenticeship, so to speak.”
Bryn’s eyes widened and her lips parted just enough to make it a struggle for Atticus not to lean across the table and cover her mouth with his, slip his tongue in to tangle with hers. He ached to touch her, to experience everything that came with finding a bride.
“You’re a mortician?” she guessed, her voice holding the same surprise he read in her face.
Atticus smiled. The worst was over. “I see the dead on their way.”
Bryn blinked. “When I think undertaker…I don’t think of someone who looks like he stepped out of an advertisement selling men’s cologne.”
His cock pulsed at the comment. The way she’d looked at him when he was changing his shirt had given him cause to think she was attracted, but…
His heart warmed and expanded in his chest at the subtle blush slowly coloring Bryn’s cheeks. Atticus couldn’t resist reaching over and taking her hands in his. “And when I think Ghostbusters I don’t think of someone as beautiful as you.”
Her eyes sparkled when she laughed and he thought he could fall right into them and live happily ever after.
“I loved that movie when it came out,” she said. “But I’m not a ghost buster. I’m not a ghost exorcist either, though I’ve been called one. Mainly I’m just someone with a strange gift who is trying to do something with it that’s useful and helpful.”
“Like today,” Atticus said, rubbing his thumbs over her knuckles. “The old woman was afraid of the hounds.”
“Not afraid of them, but afraid Billy would send her to a nursing home because he thought her mind was going and he didn’t want her to get hurt while he was gone during the day.”
“And now, thanks to you, Billy has seen for himself that his mother is perfectly sane.”
“I’m not sure it was just me. I’ve never had anything like that happen before.”
Bryn’s fingers gave his a little squeeze and Atticus closed his eyes briefly at the sensation it evoked. It felt like a hot wire ran from where they touched straight to his cock.
“I think maybe your being there is what made the difference,” she said. “Another few minutes and those hounds and the horseman would have been solid enough to touch. And then there’s the card. It’s very real, and it looks old. If I sold it—”
“No. Please don’t. Keep it. Let me worry about the dent. Let me spend time with you.”
Bryn found it impossible to refuse and the reason had very little to do with the state of her checking account. The sincerity in his voice, the way he was looking at her—desire mixed with earnestness—had any thought of resistance melting away before it could form.
They’d only just met, but she felt a deep connection to him, a profound need to get to know him better, to see where this would lead. She trusted her instinct when it came to being safe with him.
“My phone doesn’t exactly ring off the hook,” she warned.
His smile made her breath catch. “Then we’ll have more time to get to know one another better.”
She bit down on her bottom lip, not sure getting to know each other was better in the long run. “When you’re not on vacation, where are you?”
“I share a home with my five brothers.”
“A funeral home?” It was the first thing out of her mouth and Bryn felt the heat rise to her cheeks at how stupid it sounded.
Amusement danced in Atticus’s eyes. “No, though we’re all in the same line of work and at times it feels as though death would be a welcome refuge.”
His answer startled a laugh out of her, an immediate understanding. “I guess in your business you have to develop a dark sense of humor in order to cope.”
Atticus nodded, unable to speak for the lump in his throat. She was perfect for him, absolutely perfect. Intelligent. Generous of spirit. Accepting. Honest with her thoughts and emotions. Beautiful. Alluring. Just looking at her made him ache to hold her, bare flesh against bare flesh, to slide his penis into her sheath, join with her intimately and make her his wife.
“Do you know anything about tarot cards?” she asked, placing the card on the table between them.
He picked it up, studied it for a moment to ensure it’d come to no harm from being in his brother’s possession, even temporarily. “I’ve always been fascinated by the artwork, but I’m not a student of using them for divination though I do know something of their meaning. Contrary to popular belief, this card doesn’t necessarily represent physical death. It can, but it can also signify a major transformation, a facing of one’s greatest fears, a major change in one’s life, leaving one path to embark on another.” Atticus grimaced. “Or in the case of our exceedingly odd looking horseman, who I believe was doing a rendition of Suriel the Trumpeter, it could simply be a greeting card, a hello from one person in the business to another.”
Bryn’s eyes reflected surprise and Atticus cursed himself for what he’d said. But there was no way to head off her question.
“You’re saying the horseman was a manifestation of Death and not just a strangely dressed huntsman.”
Atticus shrugged. “My clientele has always been human,” he said, working his way carefully through the minefield of conversation. “But perhaps a little something extra is needed when dealing with lost pets and seeing them reunited with their owners or sent on their way.”
Bryn slowly nodded her head. “You could be right. This is the first time I’ve ever been asked to deal with ghost animals.”
Atticus breathed a quiet sigh of relief and jumped up quickly when the loudspeaker announced their pizza was ready. He retrieved it from the counter then took charge of the conversation, diverting it to a discussion of movies and books, and his favorite subject, Bryn.
He was completely enamored and extremely anxious to escape with her to a private environment by the time the meal was over. What a stroke of luck that her office and her living quarters were in the same place.
When she disappeared into the ladies’ room, Atticus couldn’t resist stepping into the men’s room. Curiosity dictated the restroom stop instead of necessity.
It’s a work of art, Atticus thought as he stare
d at his erection. It was just as he’d suspected with the first rush of blood upon finding his wife-to-be. In a fully engorged state he could stand with the best of them. Apollo, Backlum Chaam, Eueucoyotl and any number of other gods, none of them was more generously endowed than he was.
A laugh escaped as he remembered his brothers’ conversation assault on his clothing and their smug, cocky assurance they could do things better than him. If they could only see him now—
“You’re going to need a suit for that thing,” the brother currently going by the name Sammael said, making Atticus groan when his hand clenched involuntarily on his cock and sent a spasm of exquisite sensation through it.
Sammael leaned against the wall. “It’s definitely a great boner. But if you’re going to get any use out of it you need condoms. Remember AIDS? You should. It still keeps us busy in some parts of the world. I doubt your beautiful but very human wife-to-be is going to let you through the door, so to speak, without protection.”
“Go away and stay away.”
“Just trying to help.”
“I’m on vacation. Go away.”
A bathroom stall door started to open. Atticus gritted his teeth even as embarrassed heat rose to his cheeks while he hastily tucked himself into his jeans.
An old man shuffled out of the stall. He glanced around—not seeing or hearing Sammael of course—then proceeded to the sink.
“Used to talk to mine too. Still do on occasion,” the old man said, making Sammael snicker. “Never told it to go away, though, not even when I was young and stupid. You took that Cialis as a recreational drug, huh? Got more bang for your buck than you counted on. Well, beats the hell out of whatever they’re selling on the streets these days. ‘Course the ads say to go on down to the emergency room or some such thing if you’re still good to go after about four hours. Four hours. Imagine that. I’ve been a Viagra man, myself. But I think I’ll try that Cialis.” He tossed the paper towel into the trash and shuffled out of the bathroom.
