Once Haunted, Twice Shy (The Peyton Clark Series Book 2)

by H. P. Mallory

  Also by H.P. Mallory

  The New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Jolie Wilkins Series:

  Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

  Toil and Trouble

  Witchful Thinking

  The Witch Is Back

  Something Witchy This Way Comes

  The Dulcie O’Neil Series:

  To Kill a Warlock

  A Tale of Two Goblins

  Great Hexpectations

  Wuthering Frights

  Malice in Wonderland

  For Whom the Spell Tolls

  The Lily Harper Series:

  Better Off Dead

  The Underground City

  The Peyton Clark Series:

  Ghouls Rush In

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 H.P. Mallory

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Montlake Romance are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477824061

  ISBN-10: 1477824065

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2014903118

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Being possessed isn’t exactly a walk in the park.

  Granted, I’ve only been possessed for a few days, but they’ve been a very long and exhausting few days. As to how I became possessed and who is taking up residency in my body? Well, luckily for me, it wasn’t like I was taken against my will. It was nothing like the Hollywood histrionics you see in movies like The Exorcist. Instead, I actually permitted the ghost of Drake Montague, a twentieth-century French Creole policeman, who also happens to be the biggest Casanova I’ve ever encountered, to share my body.

  “Ma minette,” Drake’s voice sounded in my head. “Please tell me we will venture outside the confines of our home today? I believe this ceaseless imprisonment shall cost me my sanity!”

  Oh, and one other thing: Drake has a flare for the dramatic. “Really, Drake?” I mentally replied as I busied myself with painting my toenails “Feelin’ Hot-Hot-Hot!” pink by OPI. “You’ve been stuck inside this house for, oh, the last ninety-five years and you haven’t lost your sanity yet. What difference could another three days possibly make?”

  Our conversations usually went exactly like that—like two voices in my head, only one of them wasn’t mine. At first, it was sort of weird—having a random, disembodied, masculine voice periodically spouting off in my head. But, after a day or so, the novelty wore off and I was left mentally arguing my viewpoint with a very obstinate, stubborn man who seems set on nothing more than getting his own way.

  If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can actually see Drake, and that makes our conversations a little more normal because then he isn’t just an ethereal voice. As for the rules on how all of this ghostly stuff works? I’m not really sure. I wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert when it comes to things that go bump in the night—or getting possessed by things that go bump in the night, as the case may be. Basically, whatever visual I get of Drake is whatever visual he chooses to send me. That is to say, when I close my eyes, Drake is the one who creates the scene that unfolds behind my eyelids. One thing I can say, though, is that it usually involves him in some state of undress; he’s oftentimes missing a shirt or appears in his chonies. One time, he even had the gall to appear completely naked, causing me to immediately open my eyes, thereby shattering the visual. And, of course, he got an earful for that one. Drake, in general, is pretty self-impressed; but what’s even more frustrating is that I can’t deny that seeing him in the near buff makes my breath catch and my heart race . . . at least a little.

  Although I don’t know much about how the possession ritual worked, what I have learned is that despite Drake’s spirit sharing my body with me, my spirit predominates. Even though I’m possessed, I ultimately have control, because it’s my body. So when there are times that I’d prefer he not see and hear what I see and hear (like when I’m getting dressed or using the facilities), I can shut him out just by thinking those exact words.

  “This is quite different, ma minette,” Drake continued, calling me by my pet name, which means “my pussycat” in French.

  “How is this any different?” I railed back at him, pausing from painting the little toe on my right foot. I leaned back to admire my paint job, while trying to maintain my balance and keep from falling off the bathtub lip. As to Drake, it was difficult not to get irritated with his constant complaining. Sure, I wasn’t exactly providing for his needs. I mean, he had been shut up in my house (well, what once had been his house) for nearly one hundred years, haunting it. And now he had the chance to experience life through me, so of course he was eager to get on with the adventure. But, on the other hand, it had only been a few days since Christopher, the warlock, and Lovie, the voodoo witch, performed the ritual that allowed Drake to take possession of my body. And to say the whole ritual exhausted me was an understatement—I’d basically had to sleep off the fatigue for at least a day or so. Even now, I felt as if I were just getting over a terrible flu.

  “How is this different?” Drake repeated, obviously put out. “Quelle audace! The nerve! Prior to my taking residence within you, I was stuck within the confines of these walls. I had no gateway to the world outside this house.” He cleared his throat. “But now I do—in you. Yet, you actively impair me from experiencing a world I have missed these many years.”

  “Drake,” I started as he huffed, as if to say he would not be swayed on this point. I took a deep breath as I prepared myself for the continued lecture that was sure to come.

  “You have kept me from experiencing the joy of sunshine on my back; of inhaling the exquisite aroma of the rose; of tasting the richness of crawfish étouffée, and the sweetness of a woman’s lips, and the taste of her skin . . .”

  “Stop there, Rico Suave,” I said with a laugh as I shook my head and carefully placed my foot with the painted nails on the ground. I pulled my other foot out of the tub and positioned it on the lip of the bathtub. “I won’t be kissing or touching any women for your benefit anytime soon, Don Juan, so wipe that thought right out of your, er, my head.”

  “Ah,” he replied with a dramatic sigh. “Vous me blessez, you wound me, ma minette.”

  “Then consider yourself wounded,” I continued, my tone of voice conveying my lack of empathy. Leaning down, I unscrewed the cap on the nail polish and started on my big toe.

  “Quelle horrible odeur!” Drake said, giving me
the distinct impression that he was turning up his nose and making a funny face. “Whatever it is you are painting your toenails with, the odor is quite potent!”

  “Zip it!” I thought back as I started in on the next toe. “For a supposedly manly man, you sure act like a whiny little girl sometimes.”

  “Humph,” was his response.

  As to why I’d willingly allowed Drake’s spirit to possess me? Well, at the time it seemed like a good idea because Drake had taken it upon himself to act as my protector of sorts. What that means is there was an even bigger and badder spirit in my house. This bigger and badder entity sought to take possession of my soul, and Drake, ever the dedicated police officer and protector, guarded me from said spirit. In the process, the malevolent entity latched onto Drake like a parasite and, little by little, weakened him until he was in danger of being engulfed by it. By allowing Drake to possess me, not only did I save his spirit from certain doom, but I buffered my spiritual protective forces as well. Two spirits in one body are apparently better than two in the bush . . . or something to that effect.

  After painting my little toe, I screwed the cap back onto the nail polish, closed my eyes, and decided to try to have this conversation with Drake as much in the flesh as possible. Otherwise, it just felt like I was arguing with myself. It didn’t take much concentration before I found myself looking at Drake, who was standing in “our” living room. Except the living room appeared as it would have back in 1919, when Drake had been very much alive and my house had belonged to him.

  He was leaning against the large, black marble fireplace centered against the wall in the living room, five floor-to-ceiling picture windows flanking either side of the fireplace. The windows were trimmed in cornflower-blue silk drapes that danced in the Louisiana breeze coming through the windows.

  I couldn’t help but smile as I took in Drake’s frown, his furrowed brows, and his arms, which were crossed against his expansive chest. With his thick neck, broad shoulders, long legs, and considerable height, he had an admirable physique. He was dressed in his police uniform, probably because he knew I found him incredibly handsome in it.

  As to the subject of Drake and handsomeness, the two go together like peas in a pod. He appears to be right around my age, in his early thirties. His thick, dark hair recalls what would have been in fashion in the early twenties for men: long on the top and short on the sides. With his tanned skin, square jaw, high cheekbones, strong but symmetrical nose, and large, penetrating dark-brown eyes, the guy is handsome and then some. But the kicker is that he knows it . . .

  “Do you really expect me to believe that back when you were alive, you just hung around your house in your police uniform all day?” I asked, sounding obviously put out. Sometimes the visuals in the mindscapes I shared with Drake were so detailed, I got confused between what was real and what wasn’t. It was like experiencing an incredibly realistic dream while sound asleep.

  Still picturing Drake’s living room in my mind’s eye, I figuratively threw myself into one of the two French bergère oak chairs in front of the fireplace. The chairs looked as if they were from the early 1900s and were upholstered in a light blue to match the drapes. One thing I could say for Drake was he had very good decorating sense. Well, that is, if he had been the one who decorated the place—which was highly questionable given the number of women I felt sure he must have “entertained” in his time.

  It was an odd thought that all I had to do was open my eyes to shatter the image of Drake’s living room as it existed nearly one hundred years ago. Even stranger to grasp was the fact that everything I was experiencing was a mere hallucination of my mind, just images created by Drake’s memories. None of it was real.

  Drake dropped his arms from where he’d been clasping them tightly against his chest. The three metal buttons on the lapel of his jacket and his badge reflected in the sunlight streaming through the windows. I frowned and cocked an unimpressed eyebrow at him while he smiled and eyed me like I was Little Red Riding Hood and he was the Big Bad Wolf.

  “Why do you bear prejudice against my uniform?” he asked, shrugging his large shoulders as if he was purely innocent in this game of cat and mouse.

  I leaned forward and rested my elbows on my knees as I glanced up at him and smiled, all the while shaking my head. I had to admit that even though conversations with Drake tested the limits of my patience, he was amusing. “So, did this whole innocent, ‘woe is me’ shtick work with women in your era?” I asked, continuing to shake my head. “’Cause, I gotta admit, it’s not working with me.”

  Drake dropped his smile and cleared his throat, before offering me a frown. “If you must know, ma minette, my wooing skills rarely failed me . . . if ever.” Then he grew silent as he glanced toward the ceiling, as if trying to remember an incident when his “wooing skills” were anything but successful.

  “Let me guess,” I started with a laugh. “Can’t think of any examples of when they failed?”

  Drake laughed, a deeply resonant and pleasing sound. “Non, ma minette, I cannot think of one.” Then the laugh died on his lips, leaving a boyish smirk, which he aimed in my direction. “Save one, and I happen to be looking at her this very moment.”

  I rolled my eyes, wondering if it were possible for Drake to be anything but wildly flirtatious. Yep, he can also be wildly complaining and, as such, wildly irritating, I reminded myself. “So, anyway,” I started, still amazed by the realism of this visionary world as I leaned into the slightly uncomfortable chair and stretched my long legs out before me.

  Still in my mind’s eye, I glanced down at myself, taking in my Victoria’s Secret light-gray, stretch yoga pants that clung to my curves like a second skin. On top, I wore a baby-pink sweatshirt and my platinum-blond hair was pulled into a short ponytail, but most of my shoulder-length hair escaped the rubber band. Yes, I could have probably imagined myself wearing something more exciting, but there it was.

  “I do not understand,” Drake started as he shook his head and sighed, while studying me intently. “I do not understand how it is that I find you so attractive when your appearance is quite . . . slovenly.”

  I laughed, not taking offense because sometimes Drake was pretty funny. Thinking I should defend myself, though, I started to tell him to go find a short plank on which to take a long walk when I began to feel exhausted again. In response, I opened my mouth into a wide yawn.

  “Bonté! Goodness!” Drake said as he shook his head and chuckled while I remembered to cover my mouth. “Your manners!”

  “Ugh,” I grumbled. “You sound just like Ryan.”

  “Ah, le barbare, the barbarian,” Drake responded, his lips turning down in distaste. “Or perhaps, I should refer to him as your boyfriend?”

  I cocked my head to the side as I considered whether or not the title of “boyfriend” fit Ryan. The last time I’d seen Ryan, we’d had the whole “maybe we should take this friendship up a notch into romantic-relationship territory” conversation, so I guessed he was my boyfriend. But the road to boyfriendom hadn’t been an easy one, by any stretch of the imagination.

  Ryan Kelly was the general contractor on my house, which was currently undergoing a remodel. Even though I’d only been living in my house for about a month, Ryan and I had gotten pretty close. I had to wonder to whom I was closer: Ryan or Drake? Technically, I’d met Ryan first since he’d basically shown up on my doorstep the first night I’d spent in my house while Drake had made his presence known after a week or so. Not that it really mattered whom I was closer to . . .

  For as handsome as Drake was, Ryan was just as good-looking, only in a different sort of way. While Drake was tall, I’d guess he was maybe six one or six two, Ryan had to be about six six with the overall build of a football player. With incredibly broad shoulders and a barrel chest, he had a chuckle that rumbled through him like thunder. His hair was the color of honey and his dimples were enough
to melt a girl’s heart. His eyes were the same shade of amber as his hair, which, paired with his deep Southern accent, made me wobbly in the knees whenever I saw him.

  But, going back to the road to boyfriendom with Ryan, it was a road that was paved with obstacles, a road that was both bumpy and painful for me because it was basically impossible to know Ryan and not love him. And loving Ryan wasn’t something I did willingly. Ryan was a definite gamble because he was almost incapable of falling in love, since he was completely overwhelmed with grief. Ryan had lost his wife in a freak accident five or so years earlier and, as such, was living the life of a sequestered hermit where his emotions were concerned.

  “At any rate,” Drake continued, clearing his throat and frowning at me again, clearly irritated by the thought of Ryan, “I am tired of staying indoors and subsisting on your Kellogg’s breakfast cereals for all our meals of the day.”

  “What do you have against Frosted Flakes?” I asked, throwing my hands in the air with mock exasperation.

  Drake cocked a brow in my direction and appeared apathetic. “Perhaps if this cereal comprised only one of our meals instead of all three, I would not be so biased against it.” Then he frowned. “Do not forget, ma minette, that I have not tasted real food in nearly a century.”

  “How could I forget when you do nothing but constantly tell me?” I railed back, while reminding myself that everything I experienced, he experienced. I could only wonder how he’d deal with period cramps . . .

  As far as the Frosted Flakes that we’d been subsisting on for the last day . . . I hadn’t ventured to the grocery store since Drake took up residence in my body. That was mainly because I didn’t have the wherewithal or the energy to explain modern conveniences to him. Consequently, we’d survived on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches until the jelly ran out, then popcorn, and then Frosted Flakes. And I think we were on our last box . . .