by Jackie Ivie
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Whatever gave you that idea?” Cameron returned.
“Just a feeling. You’re a strange egg. You know that?”
“Well. I am a paranormal researcher, Randy.”
“Three a.m., did you say?”
“You have about an hour. Don’t let me keep you. Oh. Be sure and alert the others, too.”
“Roger.”
Randy did an about-face by pivoting on the toe section of one shoe and proceeded to march his way from the room, down the grand staircase, and out the front door. Cam shook his head slightly as he watched and then listened to the fellow’s exit. These guys were incredible. Thick-headed and heavy-footed. He’d have to be extremely lucky to get another reading tonight.
The walkie-talkie crackled to life at his hip.
“This is Randy. Over.”
“Go ahead. Over.”
“Doc isn’t having any luck, either. Over.”
“Roger. Over.”
“He says three is the best time for ghosts. Over.”
“Three? In the morning?”
No. Three in the afternoon. A head shake wasn’t sufficient. Cam settled with a groan. Then again, he had secured at least an hour of uninterrupted time from any of them. That had to be worth something.
“Yeah. Over.”
“Roger. Over and out.”
The walkie-talkie went dead. It matched the sensation of deadness that settled in the room about him. Cam lifted his EVP recorder and started again.
“This is Doctor Cameron Preston. Attempting a second communication. Second floor. Ramsay property. Is there anyone here with me?”
He waited ten seconds.
“Are you willing to return?”
He waited again. Nothing happened. He might as well do a scan of the rest of the mansion while he waited for three o’clock.
He’d been off a little. These Beethan Paranormal Research Group guys weren’t just amateurs. They were morons. They gave ghost hunters a bad name.
CHAPTER THREE
The groom’s mother choked to death at 2:15 am.
Exactly.
Tessa watched her do it with a slight air of regret, a bit of tipsy delight, and a lot of disbelief. Nobody came to the woman’s aid, but there wasn’t anyone in the vicinity. That’s what happened when you alienated everyone. Nobody wanted to be in your presence. The woman’s lack of assistance didn’t cause the disbelief. It was due to the timing. And Tessa’s reputation. She specialized in accidents. No drama. No investigations. No strings. It was her signature. Brand. Modus Operandi.
She had a record to uphold. This assignment upped the bar. It was beyond perfect. She didn’t deserve the enhancement to her resume. Perhaps she should say something. Sound an alert. Pretend to save the woman. No. That would be stupid. Counter-productive. The assignment was complete. How it happened shouldn’t bother her.
It was clear no one else noticed. The party continued unabated. The band played on. People danced and drank and laughed, and occasionally shrieked. The festivities were probably scheduled to last until dawn. Senior celebrants, and those who weren’t fond of drunken fests, had long since retired. It had been a spectacular wedding.
Except that the groom’s mother passed away.
Tessa would have shaken her head, but she didn’t know what might ensue. The room was nicely blurred, the floor swayed visibly. She almost felt like giggling. Her dance with Mike – that was the groomsman’s name – had ended with a nice round of necking in one corner. At least, that seemed to be his intent. Mike hadn’t stood a chance. No human did when a vampire went for their throat. He hadn’t fought it. He’d seemed to enjoy the session...or he needed to work on his ecstatic-sounding groans. But Mike hadn’t just imbibed wine. His blood had been a cocktail containing all sorts of spirits. She’d received a good dose of rum and cola, gin and something with carbonation, tequila and lime and orange juice, red and white wines, sparkling champagne, and – she shuddered to recall it – a mixture of beers. Mike was probably lucky he’d run across a vampire. Draining a portion of his blood likely saved him from alcohol poisoning.
She’d left him propped in a chair, his upper torso draped onto a table, snoring audibly. Tessa watched the groom’s mother collapse into basically the same position after her choking spell ended. Tessa concentrated, homing in on sound. Couldn’t hear a heartbeat or a breath. She narrowed her eyes to see even better. She couldn’t spot any motion of breathing, either. Well. The woman might be in the same position as Mike. But she wasn’t snoring.
Tessa should leave. Sooner rather than later. She had a few hours before dawn, but her plantation island was quite a distance away. Hidden in the bayou. It wasn’t a difficult trip, but she’d never traveled while intoxicated. She was going to be moving while under the influence. She might even get a ticket. But...for what? They couldn’t call it a DUI. She wouldn’t be driving.
Tess giggled at her thoughts. The groom’s mother’s arm slid off the table and grazed the floor. That sent Tessa into even more hysterics. If this kept up, she’d have a hard time leaving the city, let alone finding the right swamp. And that’s when she remembered. She could stay overnight in the Ramsay place. She hadn’t used it in years, but it would be safe. She’d secreted a bit of earth from the place of her metamorphosis into the ground near the cellar. She could stay at the mansion without coming to any harm. She disliked the place, however. It held too many secrets. And too many ghosts.
She wasn’t alone in her opinion. Although a known safe haven for any VAL operative, the property wasn’t visited much. It had started a slow spiral toward death. Decay. The walls had probably even started to fall.
~ ~ ~
The walkie-talkie at his hip crackled. It wasn’t much of a warning. Cameron froze with a hand on the tripod that held the Helium Neon Laser Unit he’d snagged from his van. He was in the cellar. The place had two access points: a rickety set of stairs inside the mansion, and a ladder on the opposite wall. The ladder led to a set of metal doors located beside the kitchen foundation. Outside. Hidden by years of unbridled overgrowth. It looked sealed with rust, but had opened easily as if it had been oiled recently. It hadn’t made a sound. He knew. He’d used that entrance earlier. So the BPRG guys wouldn’t spot him.
“Doctor Preston? This is Scott. You there? Over.”
It was ten minutes to three. Cam was bent into a squat, since he didn’t trust the floor surface all that much. The place wasn’t low-ceilinged, but the beams intersecting it barely missed his head when he stood. It was dank. Dark. Smelled of mildew and worse things he didn’t wish to name.
He was there because his thermometer had shown an unstable temperature. It had been 62.3 when he’d first arrived. It had warmed significantly before dropping again. It read 64.5 right now. His EMF field detector had spiked near a floor drain when he’d done a perfunctory scan. He’d also experienced rapid battery failure. Twice. He’d had to replace with fresh ones. First with the EMP recorder. The power had drained as he watched. The other battery power loss was to the camera that was attached to his night-vision goggles. That’s why he’d retrieved his specialized equipment. This was a high potential zone. Might even be better than the bedroom. Looked like a great setting for any horror movie kill zone.
Good thing Cameron Preston wasn’t afraid of much.
He’d positioned the HNLR so it had a full view of the drain area. This section of the cellar had several incidents listed in the house file. It was suspected as the spot where the hatchet was cleaned off after the murder, but the authorities had botched the investigation, so nobody was certain. Cam was trying something innovative, since he was working solo here. He’d mounted the FLIR camera on one tripod stand and then connected the two units, so wherever the HNLU aimed, the FLIR should follow.
“Preston? Come in. Over.”
Cam slowly rose to his feet, keeping his eye on the HNLU. The unit spotted movement faster than the human eye could track. He watc
hed a sensor light blink as the unit swung toward him.
“Preston? Over.”
The BPRG leader was proving that his BPRG unit wasn’t just a bunch of amateurish morons. They were impatient, too. That was short-sighted. And stupid. Patience was a necessary element of any paranormal research session.
Cam snagged the walkie-talkie off his belt. He wasn’t quick enough. Scott started speaking again.
“Lance? Tom? We may need a recon of the house. Over.”
“Wait. Please. This is Doctor Preston,” Cameron spoke. He watched the temperature gauge. The reading was stable and back to where it at been initially: 62.3.
“Everything all right? Over.”
“Yes.”
“It’s almost three o’clock. Over.”
The thermometer started rising.
65.6.
65.7.
66.0
Damn it.
Cam sighed heavily before answering. “Yes. I know. Thank you.”
“It’s starting to rain out here. Over.”
Cam looked at the walkie-talkie for several moments, composing an answer that wouldn’t be quite as snide as he meant it. “Well. We may be dealing with the supernatural, Scott.” And then he even added in, “over.”
“Rain isn’t a problem? Is that what you’re saying? Over.”
Cameron couldn’t help it. He snickered. The Helium Neon Laser Unit’s indicators flashed all kinds of lights through the area. The FLIR recorded it. The lightshow was probably multi-hued. His night goggles showed it all as greenish flashes.
“Why don’t you tell me? What has been your experience? Over.”
There was a long span of silence. His chuckling was keeping the HNLU occupied. Any spectral presence had to find this amusing, too. The walkie-talkie finally beeped. Scott spoke.
“You need help in there? Over.”
From these guys?
Oh.
Hell, no.
Cam clicked the COM button. “That’s a negative. But, thank you.”
“I’ll send Lance. You still in the Hatchet Room?”
Damn everything. Cam shouldn’t have toyed with the guy. Now he was going to have company, and with this group that put his chances at investigating anything at about zero-point-five. Maybe less. The speaker crackled to life again before he could answer. He listened to the exchange with an eyebrow lifted.
“Scott! This is Randy. You need to get over here!”
“Carriage house? Over.”
“Affirmative. We’ve got movement!”
“Lance! Report to the carriage house. Over.”
“Roger. Over.”
“Keep me posted. Out.”
The unit went silent. The cellar gradually returned to that state. Cam considered helping them, but there hadn’t been any incidents in the file about the carriage house. Cam had scoped the grounds when they’d first arrived. The only indicators he’d received were in the house. Besides, he seriously doubted a paranormal being would manifest itself to any of these idiots.
But Randy had sounded pretty excited.
Maybe Cam should go.
Then again, Randy could be hearing rodent noise. There were four guys to assist if necessary. What good would Cam be? He’d just be in the way.
The indecision was palpable. Almost debilitating. And then the HNLU swiveled on its stand, aiming the lens toward the inner stairwell. It was followed almost instantly by the FLIR. Both pieces of equipment focused on the same area. Cam couldn’t see much. There was a lot of darkness in the cellar. Could contain a paranormal being. Could also be a whole lot of nothing...like rodents. Maybe even another BPRG knot-head. There were two still unaccounted for: Scott and Tom.
The indicator lights on both Cam’s units blinked nonstop. And then his temperature gauge started dropping. It hovered at 62.3 for several seconds, as if stuck there and then sank again.
60.0.
59.6.
Cam clicked his recorder on and started speaking. “This is Doctor Cameron Preston. New Orleans, Louisiana. Ramsay mansion. Cellar. Local time is 0300. Exactly. Is there anyone here with me?”
He waited ten seconds. The temperature sank again.
58.3.
58.0.
Good thing he wore a thinly-woven, moisture-wicking t-shirt beneath his dark blue work pullover. It was growing downright chilly.
57.9.
“Is there anyone here with me?”
“Yes.”
The word was whispered. Harsh. And raised every hair along the back of Cam’s neck. The temperature dropped again.
57.7.
He cleared his throat. The recorder caught it.
“What is your name?”
He held his breath for the ten seconds. Nothing happened.
“Do you have a name?”
He waited again. Eight seconds into it, he got another whisper, exactly like before.
“Jesse.”
There wasn’t a Jesse in the file. The alleged murderer’s name had been Louis. The victim was an Eleanor. Cam’s breath came out in a whoosh that audibly trembled. The recorder caught that, too. He was probably going to sound scared when they played it back. He wasn’t. He was excited as all get-out.
“Are you angry, Jesse?”
Seven seconds into his count, there was a slight thud noise as something fell. And then there was the distinct sound of trickling water. Both came from over his right shoulder near the outside doors. The HNLU spun. The FLIR followed it. Cam didn’t move his eyes. There was a glowing shape starting to take form within the span of blackness. He watched it with palms that grew damp and a trickle of sweat along his spine. And a mouth that went dry as dust.
He knew. He tried to swallow before speaking.
“Is that...you, Jesse?”
His voice was whisper soft. It got an immediate answer. From behind him. It didn’t sound remotely spectral. Or male.
“Oh my. My. My.”
There were distinct gaps between the words. Damn everything! The form he’d been watching vanished. It didn’t leave even a hint of mist. The only record he’d have of it was the camera attached to his goggles, and he’d better hope it was functioning. Cam’s eyes went wide, he sucked in a huge gulp of air to combat instant anger, and he was still working to contain it as he did a one-eighty to face the intruder.
And then his jaw dropped.
CHAPTER FOUR
Brain freeze-up was a physical impossibility. That didn’t mean it didn’t happen.
Cameron watched as a supermodel-type woman walked right toward him. The fabric of her dress glided along one curvy thigh and then the other. It wasn’t doing anything to prevent his eyes from watching the rest of her. He couldn’t tell much through the night goggles, but he could tell enough. She was dark-skinned and dark-haired. She was tall. She was incredibly gorgeous.
And because nothing was making sense, his mind started factoring probabilities, as if that was normal. It probably had to do with his science background and the unbelievable nature of her appearance. If his brain was working properly, he’d know.
Okay. Chances of seeing a black woman in Louisiana were pretty high. That was a given.
Odds of running across a stunning black woman in Louisiana? Probably up in the high percentile as well. Maybe...95%.
Chances of said knockout crossing his path while wearing an eye-popping, slinky evening gown? In the middle of the night? Depending on venue, the probabilities were still in the acceptable range, maybe 55 to 60%.
But, chances of having a super-stunning black woman wearing a form-fitting evening gown interrupt a productive paranormal research session? In the cellar of a vacant, decrepit haunted mansion? At three a.m. in the morning?
Well.
Chances of that were slim to none.
So. He was the luckiest guy on the planet or he was having a psychotic episode, which – for some reason – didn’t sound all that implausible at the moment.
She stopped about a foot away from him. Cam was
tall. A fraction under six-foot-four. Her head reached his mouth level as she looked him over. She had straight dark hair. It was greenish-tinted, as was everything else in his vision. It fell over her shoulders, framing a gorgeous face. Perfect brows. Mesmeric eyes. Lots of lashes. One heck of a set of lips. He’d never seen a woman this stunning.
Ever.
“I do so love a tall man,” she informed him.
“Uh.”
Cameron’s answer was more a grunt as the brain freeze effect apparently reached his mouth and speaking abilities.
Shit.
“And one with a bit of age to him,” she continued.
Age?
Cam straightened subconsciously. His head barely missed a ceiling beam. What the hell? He was thirty-nine. He rock-climbed and did organized sports events to keep in shape. He’d won some of them. He had trophies to prove it. He could keep up with any twenty-year-old. Thirty-nine was young in academic circles. It was young anywhere. She started walking around him. He could hear a swishing sound from the satin of her dress. Sense the oddity of her inspection. Smell a hint of something floral. Violet, maybe? It was mixed with a slight musky tone. And he felt what might be her finger tracing a line across his back. At the first touch, a pulse of something radiated through the area, looking like a lavender-shaded wash of color sweeping through the cellar.
And then it was gone. If he’d blinked, he’d have missed it. He hadn’t blinked. He didn’t even twitch. The freeze thing had apparently reached his entire frame.
She came back into view. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth open. She looked stunned, amplifying her unworldly beauty. And then she gave him a smile. With those lips? Oh. Holy hell. His heart surged and then dropped with an almost painful thud. His breath was another casualty of this. He’d been holding it. The air came out in a rush. He had a hard time pulling in another one.
“Oh. My. What’s your name, hon?” she asked.
Her voice was low. Husky. Almost purred. Extremely pleasant to hear.
“Cameron Preston.”
Shivers flew along his limbs at his answer. This was really weird. He wasn’t a social butterfly. He didn’t do chit-chat. Offer details. He wasn’t fond of people, especially unknown ones. He didn’t have a circle of friends. He didn’t even have a friend. Nor did he want one. And yet now, with a complete stranger, this happened?