“I think so,” Clara said.
She heard the sound of applause again; time for their curtain call. She hurried out at the appropriate moment, meeting up with Larry Hepburn, taking his hand.
She received all kinds of beautiful flowers, and she, Larry, Ralph, Simon and Connie all congratulated one another as they headed to their dressing rooms. The director called out her satisfaction regarding the show.
Thor was waiting for her in her dressing room. He wasn’t alone.
She’d known he’d be with Jackson and Angela; Angela had met them before the Fate had sailed.
Jackson was basically his own boss, and apparently his office of special units ran like clockwork—it was like an ensemble cast, Jackson had once told her. The Krewe of Hunters all worked together.
She knew, too, that Thor had accepted an assignment with the Krewe.
What she didn’t know was that there would be another guest in her dressing room—an extremely distinguished elderly gentleman with silver hair, a perfectly tall physique and wonderful light eyes. He seemed to have a strange combination of authority and kindness about him.
“Adam Harrison, Clara Avery,” Thor told her. “And Josh, his son.”
She glanced around at Josh. He was a thin youth who appeared to be seventeen or eighteen. He had a quick smile, slightly tousled brown hair and a great manner. “How do you do,” he told her. “You were brilliantly cool, by the way.”
Clara went to take his hand; only then did she realize that he was a ghost. She swallowed hard—what? You saw one ghost and the floodgates opened?
She thanked Josh then and asked them to make themselves at home and apologized—the dressing room was very small.
“No, no, we apologize. We need to get out of your hair,” Adam Harrison said.
“Adam is our great and fearless leader,” Angela Hawkins told her.
“Ah, yes, well, I knew about people like you because...because, well, Josh was always especially talented. I started putting the right people on the right project years and years ago and then, well, friends at the Bureau and I got together and formed the Krewe.”
“I see. Wonderful, and a true pleasure,” Clara murmured.
“Actually, I have a proposition for you, Miss Avery.”
“Clara, please,” she murmured.
“Just let me show you something,” he said.
He pulled an iPad from his jacket and touched it a few times, then offered the screen. The facade of a magnificent Victorian theater leapt onto the display; wide, sweeping marble steps led to an outer patio, stained-glass windows led into the foyer. Adam ran a finger over the screen; she could see the audience, the mezzanine, the orchestra pit and the balconies. He touched the iPad again—she saw the size and majesty of the stage.
“It’s a beautiful theater, fantastic really! Where is it?”
“Alexandria, Virginia. Easy access from DC and Northern Virginia. People even come up from Richmond for performances,” Adam told her.
“It’s beautiful,” she said, waiting. Had Thor finagled her a position at the theater? “Is it public, or private, or...”
“I’ve just purchased it,” Adam said.
“Oh!”
“But it needs management—an artistic director. Frankly, I just wanted to buy it. It was up for sale, and it could have gone the way of many a beautiful old historic property.”
“Well, I know something about running the books, but—”
“I believe we can hire a bookkeeper. But! We need someone who knows plays, who knows actors and actresses, a casting process...and, of course, someone who performs, themselves, someone who can make children love theater.”
Clara looked at Thor, amazed, worried. “You are joining the Krewe, right?”
“I am,” Thor said.
“Did you...did you ask Mr. Harrison to buy a theater because...”
“Oh, no, no—I bought the theater a few months ago,” Adam said. “And now these strange cases, and a call from Jackson...and here Josh and I are, aboard the Fate!” He had such a great smile and he shrugged with one of those grins. “I mean, hey, seems like fate to me, right?”
“Oh, thank you! But, I... I’m afraid! That’s major—”
“I haven’t seen you afraid enough not to fight, ever,” Thor said lightly.
“Are you kidding me? Say yes!”
She hadn’t realized she hadn’t closed her door. Ralph, Simon, Larry and Connie were just outside, listening to every word.
Ralph walked in and introduced himself boldly, saying he’d be delighted to help with such an enterprise and that they were an ensemble, ready to really give every bit of energy and talent they had to make a go of such a place.
Then Larry and Simon were in the room, and everyone was talking and somewhere in it all, she said, “Yes, yes! As soon as we finish out our contracts here, of course.”
Everyone was kissing her—even Josh, with a cool brush on her cheek.
There was champagne; people talked and talked. She finally changed, and they met on the Promenade Deck and talked some more.
And finally, very late, she wound up out on the deck with Thor. They could see the crystal glaciers rising by the ship’s light, because even in Alaskan waters, it was nearly dark by then.
They kissed.
“We’ll both be away from home,” she murmured. “Hm, maybe home is where the huskies are?”
It seemed impossible. They’d both start life anew. Even Jackson, in his way.
“You are home to me,” Thor told her, his lips close, his whisper sweet, and it all ended with a fantastic kiss in the gentle chill of the night air and the strange display of light and shadow that was an Alaskan late summer night.
Clara was seeking just the right thing to say as their lips parted, but she never had the chance.
They were interrupted.
“Sweet! Oh, yeah, how almost flippingly nauseatingly sweet!”
Of course, it was Amelia, looking faint and pale.
Clara laughed and said, “Oh, Amelia. Join us!”
Amelia came to them. She’d been wearing one of her cocky expressions, but that wavered and her eyes were wide when she said, “I’m scared.”
Clara noted then that Thor was looking outward—toward the glacier. He shook his head. “Strange,” he said. “There’s a ray of light. It doesn’t seem to be from the ship. It’s not moonlight, and I don’t see what else...”
He broke off. Clara knew why. The light was different from anything she’d ever seen. It seemed to pour in a glittering and golden line toward them.
She heard Thor inhale and say softly, “Mandy.”
She saw the woman, too. She was part of the light. She was beautiful with dark hair and large eyes and a face that was serene and perfect. And she smiled and reached out a hand.
She wasn’t looking at Clara—or even Thor.
“A friend,” Clara said softly. “Amelia, you don’t need to be afraid. You have a friend—you won’t be alone.”
“Oh!” Amelia said.
“Just go forward. Take her hand.”
Amelia turned to look at Clara. “You would have been such a great friend. But I’d have been too stupid to know it...to care.”
“You never know,” Clara said. “I feel I’m saying goodbye to a friend.”
“A good friend,” Thor said.
Amelia hesitated a minute longer and then shrugged. “Maybe they have a form of television up there. Oh! You do think I’m going up?” she asked nervously.
“Mandy is definitely going up,” Thor said. “And she’s waiting for you.”
Amelia nodded. And she moved forward and took the hand offered to her—the hand of Mandy Brandt.
Thor slipped his arm around Clara. It was an Al
askan sky, yes...
But the light show that they saw then seemed to rival anything, anywhere in the world.
And then it ended, just as magically as it had begun.
Thor’s arms tightened around her. She leaned against him for a moment, and she smiled. And she had to wonder if meeting him here might have really been...
Fate.
* * * * *
Keep reading for an excerpt from HAUNTED DESTINY by Heather Graham.
“Dark, dangerous and deadly!
Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life.”
—RT Book Reviews
Looking for more great reads from New York Times bestselling author Heather Graham?
Don’t miss the first entry in a brand-new series packed with deadly intrigue, exhilarating romance and heart-pounding suspense:
Flawless
Find out what happens when a criminal psychologist and FBI agent are thrown together by circumstance, drawn together by attraction and threatened by criminal intent…
Order your copy today!
Connect with us on www.Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
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Harlequin.com/newsletters
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If you loved Deadly Fate, don’t miss a single story in the spine-tingling Krewe of Hunters series, featuring the FBI’s elite team of paranormal investigators, the Krewe of Hunters:
Phantom Evil
Heart of Evil
Sacred Evil
The Evil Inside
The Unseen
The Unholy
The Unspoken
The Uninvited
The Night Is Watching
The Night Is Alive
The Night Is Forever
The Cursed
The Hexed
The Betrayed
The Silenced
The Forgotten
The Hidden
Haunted Destiny
And discover the electrifying Cafferty & Quinn series, where an antiques collector and a private investigator are drawn together in New Orleans as they investigate the city’s most unusual crimes:
Let the Dead Sleep
Waking the Dead
The Dead Play On
“Dark, dangerous and deadly! Graham has the uncanny ability to bring her books to life.”
—RT Book Reviews on Waking the Dead
Order your copy today!
Connect with us on www.Harlequin.com for info on our new releases, access to exclusive offers, free online reads and much more!
Other ways to keep in touch:
Harlequin.com/newsletters
Facebook.com/HarlequinBooks
Twitter.com/HarlequinBooks
HarlequinBlog.com
Haunted Destiny
by Heather Graham
1
They’d started out on foot that morning—not long after the murder was reported.
The murder that would soon bring the Big Easy to its knees; the eleventh attributed to the man the media had dubbed the “Archangel.”
And who had now, apparently, moved into New Orleans.
The perpetrator had already left his mark on other cities. The first two killings had taken place in Charleston, South Carolina, where two women were murdered, their bodies found in churches; the actual crime scenes had never been discovered. That was eight months ago.
After that there’d been a lull. At that time the Archangel hadn’t been given his moniker yet and he hadn’t been on the nation’s radar as a serial killer.
Some people wanted to believe that the killer himself was dead, or that he’d been incarcerated on other charges, the true extent of his crimes never known.
But those first two murders had held a strange signature—both victims displayed in churches with a saint’s medallion around their necks. And most investigators expected the killer to strike again.
Which he did, four months later.
The killer had come farther south, taking two lives in Miami, Florida, and quickly followed by two more, just up the coast in Fort Lauderdale.
Then, for another four months, nothing.
Law enforcement worked day and night, certain that he’d strike again—but not knowing where.
He did.
He’d traveled on to Mobile, Alabama. There, he’d killed three young women and a young man—the boyfriend of one of them, by all accounts. He’d arrived too late to save the last female Mobile victim, and was not at all prepared for the homicidal knife-wielder he’d come to meet. An actor returning home after his show, he’d obviously put up a fight. The young woman had been left on church steps, the boyfriend dumped in an alley. They knew this time, however—from various cell phone calls and messages—that the couple had been attacked at the young woman’s home, a small bungalow in a wooded area of the city.
But despite the disarray and the traces of blood in the bathtub, the killer had left behind no fingerprints, no fibers—no hint of his identity.
The last four had died in a period of three days, all while local law and the FBI scrambled after the Archangel like ants, certain they were getting close. They’d called out the National Guard in Mobile—only for the killer to refuse to strike again.
The one male victim had been dumped in an alley with no ceremony, while the young women’s bodies had been discovered at a church, sometimes on the outside steps, sometimes by the altar. The Archangel had left each female victim laid out as if prepared for burial—arms folded over her chest, a silver saint’s medal around her neck, almost covering the ribbon of red where he’d slit her throat.
Jude McCoy had seen the pictures; practically every agent in every city in the country had seen the crime scene photos of the victims.
And they’d all looked just like this young woman he gazed down at now. She lay before the altar of a church on the outskirts of the French Quarter, arms folded over her chest, a medallion of St. Luke around her throat.
Her name was Jean Wilson. She lay there, in front of the altar, a choir robe draped over her naked body, the telltale blood line around her neck—as if it was a chain for the medallion on her chest. She’d been young and beautiful with long, luxurious dark hair and coffee-colored skin.
Seeing her, Jude McCoy felt a mixture of horror, pity, rage—and helplessness.
He knew that no one in law enforcement was to blame. Not the bureau, Homeland Security or any branch of the local police. There were, according to the FBI specialists and scholars at various universities, anywhere between twenty and several hundred serial killers operating in the United States at any given time. This one, however, had been making headlines and had the entire nation on edge.
No one had known where he’d strike next.
Before this morning, Jude and the other members of his division had already been alerted. They’d sat through lectures by the bureau’s behavioral sciences professionals. What they learned was that this killer was organized, and he was smart. He was either independently wealthy or had a job that allowed travel. He was aware of the need to wear gloves and leave nothing behind. He also had the ability, in a short span of time, to choose and stalk his victims and silence them quickly, although he never sexually assaulted them. They’d all been found in or near churches; murdered elsewhere, their bodies weren’t dumped there, but displayed. They hadn’t been killed in the churches; two, at least, were murdered in the victim’s own home. Under most circumstances, Jude McCoy would have remained with the police and other FBI officers on the scene, since it was apparent that the victim had been moved from the crime scene and that the k
iller was long gone. He would have walked the church over and over again, making note of any little detail. He would have studied the street and determined just how the killer had traveled there with the body, how he’d brought it into a locked church and displayed it—without being seen.
But not that day.
After the medical examiner had arrived and Jude and Jackson Crow listened to his on-site findings, Jude moved back to the steps of the two-hundred-plus-year-old church to survey the sidewalk and the street.
Not surprisingly, nothing was usual that day. Everything felt different. The murder, of course. And maybe it was because he’d been abruptly paired with a stranger. And maybe because he’d heard things about Jackson Crow and his elite Krewe of Hunters unit. The Krewe had been formed right here in NOLA several years ago. Jude had received directions that morning. He would be on special assignment with an agent who knew the area well and had followed the trail of victims from Miami to New Orleans—Assistant Director Jackson Crow. When the body of Jean Wilson had been discovered, Crow had already been on his way in from Mobile, Alabama; he’d made an educated guess that the killer’s next strike might well be the city of New Orleans. He’d been on the case for some time, or so Jude understood, and in this situation FBI involvement was expected. Jackson Crow headed up a paranormal sector of the FBI—that was the rumor, anyway. They were unofficially known as the Krewe of Hunters—ghostbusters, some people said. Whether that was true or not, Jude didn’t know. He’d looked up their records out of curiosity; they did have an uncanny success rate hovering at almost 100 percent.
For Jude, the change of partners was not only an abrupt change, it was also one he wasn’t sure he felt comfortable with. His usual partner, Gary Firestone, was at the scene, as well. In fact, with all the law enforcement agencies involved, the greatest danger was that evidence might get lost because of the number of people messing around.
But Crow seemed aware of the danger and quickly organized staff into work units. Somehow, he seemed to manage it all without incurring resentment. He was spare with words, determined, efficient in movement.
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