Rogue, Renegade And Rebel (In Her Paranormal Majesty’s Secret Service Book 1)

by Michael Anderle

His words were laced with dark intent. The air quieted. Worthington stared deep into the man’s eyes and saw only darkness.

  “I’ve got a counter-proposal,” Worthington told him.

  The specter growled, his hands curling into tight fists. His arms shook with rage, and his teeth ground together.

  Worthington placed his hands in front of him. “Hear me out. I promise I can make it worth your while.”

  The specter’s hands shook violently. A ghostly flame began to burn from the ring of his fists, ignited like the fanned embers of a dying campfire. They spread across his fists until two balls of flame stood at the end of his arms.

  Charles took another step back. Worthington’s heart rate quickened. His eyes widened hungrily as the heat of the flames began to make its way around them, the inside of Lady Liberty’s torch swelling with heat and light.

  “I’m listening,” the specter grumbled. “You’ve got two minutes before I flambé your asses and burn you to the ground.”

  “Excellent.” Worthington grinned darkly. “Two minutes is all I need…”

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  New York City, USA

  The showroom glittered like the reception hall of a yet-to-be-invented spaceship. Twinkling LEDs built into the ceiling shone exquisite light against the perfectly lacquered floor. The metal frames of the cars scattered on raised plinths across the showroom sparkled as though they were nothing more than imaginary vehicles created from pixie dust.

  Baxter crossed the floor without making a sound. In life, his giant frame would have created footsteps that echoed and bounced around the room like mini thunderclaps, but in death, his immaterial form created no sound.

  “How do they keep this place so pristine?” He marveled, mouth agape as he walked up to cars and melted inside of them.

  Jennie knew his head would be deep down into the engine’s interior, examining the drivetrain, the wiring, and the way the damned thing worked.

  Any chance at exploring the cutting edge of technology in all its forms was Baxter’s greatest vice. For a specter who had spent several decades studying the sound systems of the various theaters and concert halls around New York, Jennie imagined cars must be just as exciting to an ex-inventor who had died mid-experiment.

  “Do you like what you see?” The sleaze-ball who had met her at the door with an eager eye and an elbow to his colleague asked.

  He wore a wrinkle-free gray suit with a mauve tie. His shoes were immaculate and clicked across the floor. His hair was gelled into a perfectly managed mess that would not look out of place on the cover of GQ magazine.

  He was divine to most women he met. A perfect catch. He had the face most women imagined instead of their husband’s as they bit the pillow and moaned their declarations to God.

  To Jennie, he was the polar opposite. A scumbag with an ego complex and a pocket full of money.

  Jennie followed the man without many words. Not that she needed to say much, considering he launched straight into his sales spiel, talking about the higher-end vehicles and what they meant for the people who bought them. How status was King and showing off your cash was Queen. How every car would make Jennie feel like a real woman, and she would be followed by every set of eyes in New York.

  She smirked, remembering the middle-aged man in the red mustang who had flirted with her at the crosswalk. If anything, nobody respected that guy. They just recognized his mid-life crisis and allowed him to pass along his way. There’d be no blonde-haired bimbos sucking his lollipop throughout the remainder of his life just because his four wheels cost more than a goddamn house.

  When the man—who she learned was called David Nelson after he eventually handed her a card with a wink and promised he gave “personal service” to anyone who rang that number—paused for breath, Jennie put a finger on his lips before he could say another word.

  “When you’re quite done getting off to the sound of your own voice, I’d like to actually tell you the requirements of the vehicle I’m seeking.”

  David grinned, gently took her wrist and tried to ease it away from his mouth.

  She held fast. She was stronger than David had expected, and after a couple of seconds of failing to move her, his smile slipped.

  “Good boy,” she praised, lowering her hand. “I want a car. A fast car. A reliable car. I want an eco-friendly car, because, well, why would I want to fuck up the planet for the sake of my own ego? I want a Mustang Ecoboost, and I’m ready to pay cash right now, should you have it.

  “Of course, cash upfront would mean I’d ask for a twenty percent reduction off market value for the convenience of taking the car straight away. That might mean you have to surrender your commission, but you’d do that for a pretty woman like me, wouldn’t you?”

  She eased down her glasses and stared at him over the top of them. His eyes traced the curves of her body, taking in the strange leather corset and the white shirt which accentuated her breasts. He licked his lips, although she was sure he didn’t realize he had done so.

  He considered her words, fighting the internal conflict between surrendering his cash for the slightest imagined possibility of getting laid. Would playing Mr. Nice Guy get him a shot in bed with this incredibly beautiful redhead?

  “Follow me,” he told her at last, glancing either side toward his colleagues before leading Jennie around the back of the showroom.

  Thirty minutes later Jennie drove out of the showroom with her car, almost thirty thousand dollars less cash, and a broad grin on her face.

  The Mustang was everything she wanted it to be. The smell of leather was divine, the seats were plush and comfortable, and a light touch on the accelerator launched the car like a rocket. She squealed out of the showroom and opened the window.

  A moment later, David’s business card fluttered to the ground, discarded and forgotten.

  “Now, this is style.” She beamed, cranking the radio’s volume to eleven. The car was instantly filled with the sound of drums and guitars as Guns ‘n’ Roses set up the track for Axl Rose to belt out his vocals.

  “Does it really have to be so loud?” Baxter shouted at the top of his lungs, keeping his hands pressed against both of his ears. “I get that you’re excited, but damn!”

  Jennie bellowed a laugh, then brought the volume down, but not by much.

  Baxter dropped his hands into his lap and studied the various elements of the car. “You really get full 360 sound, don’t you? I wonder what brand the speakers are. You’ve got your woofer somewhere down there… Where’s the…ah, that must be the sub-woofer. Nice! Crisp sound. And your tweeters are there.” He nodded appreciably. “Innovative design.”

  “I’d hope so,” Jennie told him. “Just a shame it didn’t come in the right color.”

  Baxter stared out of the front window and stared at the sleek black of the car’s hood. “What’s wrong with the color?”

  “I wanted red.”

  “Like the mid-life crisis guy?” Baxter asked.

  “Yeah.”

  Baxter exploded with laughter.

  “What?” Jennie asked.

  “Why would you want to have the same car as that guy?”

  “Because, my short-sighted spectral friend, I’m able to look beyond the owner of the car to the beauty beneath. Red stands out. It makes the world look at you. Do you know why women wear red lipstick? Because it’s sexy. It draws attention to your lips.”

  “You don’t think you’re sexy enough?”

  Jennie considered this. “When you put it that way, I suppose black will do. Besides, when I thought about it, the black is far less noticeable. It might mean we can keep cover a bit more when driving around at night. My car back in England is red, and that shit draws eyes like moths to a flame.”

  They drove around the city for some time while Jennie got used to the Mustang and Baxter checked out every gizmo and gadget inside it. She placed her brand-new iPhone 11 into the cradle, connected it to the car’s speakers, and soon enough, th
e score to Gilbert and Sullivan’s Pirates of Penzance began to play.

  “What the hell is this?” Baxter asked.

  Jennie shot him a look. “What? Don’t you know classical music when you hear it?” She adjusted her grip on the steering wheel, relaxed into her chair, and lowered the window. “Gilbert and Sullivan. Master songwriters. You know their operas were always played at the London Savoy?”

  “The Savoy?” Baxter exclaimed. “How do you know that?”

  Jennie shrugged. “Because I lived it.’

  Baxter opened his mouth to ask another question, then thought better of it. Jennie hardly ever spoke about her past. In fact, ever since she had learned of the betrayal of the queen to her order, she had become harder to open up than a walnut through gloved hands.

  Maybe she would come out of her shell again sooner or later. Maybe it would be after this ridiculous shopping spree, when Jennie had healed her wounds with some rather egregious over-spending on things she didn’t necessarily need.

  The opera played on, a vast juxtaposition to the power rock which had earlier played over the radio. Jennie seemed to find her calm as the traffic stopped and started in the city. They made their way farther into the heart of things, and soon Jennie pulled the Mustang into a multi-story parking lot on the upper west side of Manhattan.

  The Mustang roared as they climbed the levels, the sound of the exhaust echoing off the walls. People turned to stare, and Jennie simply smiled. There had been a time when money had been a thing she had desired, too. Now, after many decades of smart investments, playing the stock market, and earning her living as the queen’s go-to girl for getting shit done, money wasn’t something she had to think about anymore.

  She parked the car and exited the vehicle. The silence suddenly pressed in on her until she was down on the ground level and headed toward their destination.

  They wandered down Seventy-Eighth Street and soon found themselves in Theodore Roosevelt Park. A great stone arch funneled them toward the doorway of the American Museum of Natural History, and it was at the front doors that they found Tanya, Lupe, and several other members of the Spectral Plane waiting patiently for them.

  They looked strange. For the first time since she had met them, they were in their civilian clothes. No robes or cultish pendants hung around their necks to speak of, just several people waiting patiently for their friend.

  Sure, now I’m going to stick out like the oddball here.

  “You could have warned me,” Jennie complained as Tanya hugged her and then took a step back.

  “What?”

  Jennie pointed at their clothing, then she pointed at her own.

  “Oh, come on. You’re not going to be the strangest-looking person in there.” Tanya laughed. “People might just think you’re one of the exhibits come to life.”

  “Or a performer,” Lupe suggested. Although he was dressed in a casual polo shirt with a popped collar and jeans, they did little to mask his appearance. His face was covered in scars and would always draw attention no matter where they went. Jennie could see why he preferred to wear his robe with his hood high over his head.

  Jennie moved out of the way of a flock of schoolchildren following their distressed-looking chaperones into the museum. Once they had passed, she thumbed toward the entrance. “You’re sure it’s in there?”

  “Relatively,” Tanya replied. “Either way, we’ll soon find out.”

  Lupe tutted. “You told me it was.”

  “And you told me you’d stick by our side and introduce us to the spectral world when you released those damn spirits,” Tanya snapped, glaring at the short Latino man.

  “Fair point,” he conceded.

  Jennie chuckled. She could sense the tension between them both, but she knew she needed them both present. If what she thought was about to happen was actually a possibility, then she’d need all the help she could get to make this work.

  Jennie waved them all ahead. “Okay, then. After you.”

  Lupe gave Jennie a salute with two fingers, and unbeknownst to Tanya—the Spirit Mother with no actual powers—grinned at Baxter as he passed.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  American Museum of Natural History, New York City

  The Museum was heaving.

  Excited children ran here and there, weaving in and out of amused tourists with cameras around their necks and maps in their hands. Unamused parents shouted after them until their voices grew hoarse. Tour guides led flocks of people from room to room, detailing the scripted notes of a history long gone from the world as they now knew it.

  Jennie took in everything she saw. She had been to the Natural History Museum and the Science Museum in London on countless occasions, always keen to spend her days off learning and seeing what the latest “truths” were. Jennie always thought of “truths” in air quotes, after having lived through decades where the truth of the time was re-written by the man with the largest bank account.

  But this was something else.

  It took much longer than anticipated to move from room to room, partly because of the flow of human traffic, and partly because Jennie desperately wanted to see as much of the museum as possible. Eventually, they made it through a door with a large sign which read, Harry Frank Guggenheim Hall of Minerals.

  “They’re in here?” Jennie asked as they stepped into a room much quieter than the others they had visited. She suspected young children and a large portion of the general public would hold much more fascination for the sabretooth tiger skeletons and the various other dinosaurs and taxidermied creatures than one of the world’s largest collection of rocks and semi-precious stones.

  “Rockin,’” Tanya murmured.

  The walkways were spacious, with collections of various types of rocks and gems lining the walls. Chunks of sandstone, limestone, and granite were dispersed among displays of amethysts, emeralds, and topaz.

  Tanya led the way, her eyes fixed straight ahead as she spoke. “You know there have been at least five reports in the last month of spectral activity in this room?” She spoke softly, but the room magnified her voice.

  Several visitors glanced their way, then quickly turned back to their own displays.

  Tanya paid them no attention. “They only appear at night-time. The night security guards reported them all at around five minutes past one on each morning.”

  “What do they see?” Jennie asked.

  “Ghostly figures wandering the walkways,” Lupe replied in his gruff voice. “Floating lights and low groans echoing around the hall.”

  “I was telling the story,” Tanya snapped. She regained her composure. “Ghostly figures and floating lights. Occasional murmurings of someone walking through the hall after hours. Of course, the museum owners and curators believe it’s just bullshit. Delirium brought on by the irregular hours of the night security guards, combined with weather patterns and fractured light from the glass in the ceiling.”

  “There is no glass in the ceiling,” Jennie commented, neck craned upward.

  “Exactly.”

  “So, what do you think it is?” Jennie asked.

  Tanya grinned. “Well, if I’m right in my assumptions, and my research is correct, then we should be looking at another case of spectral entrapment.”

  “Spectral entrapment?” Baxter asked.

  “Spectral entrapment,” Jennie repeated for his benefit.

  Tanya gave Jennie a look. “You really don’t know what I’m talking about?”

  “She’s asking for his benefit,” Lupe told her.

  “Who’s ‘he?’” Tanya looked at the men and women she had brought with her.

  “Her specter friend,” Lupe replied. “Don’t tell me you don’t know she is always accompanied by specters? I have to say, I prefer the company she’s keeping now compared to that uptight shit from before.”

  Tanya made an “Ooh” face as if she were concerned Lupe had offended Jennie.

  On the contrary, Jennie nodded. “Me, too. Bax
ter is a lot better company than a pompous arsehole with trust issues.”

  Baxter put the back of his hand to his mouth. “I thought you were the one with trust issues.”

  Before Jennie could reply, Tanya whirled on her. “He’s here? Show me! Show me! Show me!”

  Jennie slid a hand down her face. She had tried, on several occasions, to find a way to somehow make Baxter appear before Tanya. As a woman who had always been obsessed with specters, ghosts, ghouls, and poltergeists, Jennie had thought it was the least she could do to introduce Tanya to the specter.

  Only when it had come to it, she discovered she just didn’t have the capacity to make it happen.

  Over the years, she had met specters who were able to make themselves appear to humans at will—and somehow, she suspected the specters they were tracking were of that particular breed—but she had learned long ago that she didn’t get to dictate which ability she harnessed from the specters. It was completely down to whatever powers the specters possessed.

  “You know I can’t,” Jennie told her solemnly. “If I could, I would.”

  Tanya huffed. “But Lupe can see them.”

  “Maybe he’s lying,” one of Tanya’s men suggested. He was thin, with sandy hair that swept across his forehead. His eyes, which were light ocean-blue, withered under Jennie’s stare.

  “Lupe is telling the truth,” Jennie interjected. “You guys should give him the respect he deserves. The Spectral Plane only exists in the afterlife because of your friend.”

  “A traitorous friend,” the man murmured.

  “Erik!” Tanya scolded. “Learn when to keep your mouth shut.”

  “But he—”

  “Enough,” Tanya stated.

  The man folded his arms but did not protest any further.

  “So, ‘spectral entrapment?’” Jennie nudged.

  “Right,” Tanya replied. “Spectral entrapment is a process by which specters are trapped and locked into confinement within particular gems, rocks, and minerals. It’s the same process we witnessed in Central Park in which the rock cracked and the spirits were supposedly…” she raised two fingers and made air quotes, “released.”