by Susan Conley
“Magic isn’t magic,” she soothed, and led him away from the lake.
“What the feck is that supposed to mean?”
Annabelle sighed. “Let me try to explain, but it may take a while. Years, maybe.”
She grinned up at him and he kissed her on the tip of her nose. Making sure the daisy was safe and sound, he said, “I’m listening … ”
About the Author
Susan Conley moved to Ireland for twelve months — fourteen years ago. She studied at Trinity College Dubiln and gained a master in Irish Theatre Studies, parlaying that into a career as a journalist, covering diverse topics, from theatre and the visual arts, to pop psychology and beauty products.
She blogs at www.brightandbeautyfull.com, where she writes about her books and her favorite products (intensive scalp treatments and eyebrow definers are currently top of her list.) She is also the published author of Drama Queen and The Fidelity Project, and is currently working on two new novels, one of which is a sequel to That Magic Mischief. Follow her on Twitter @SusanEConley!
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Secrets by Lynn Crandall
Life After Death
Lillie J. Roberts
Avon, Massachusetts
This edition published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, Ohio 45242
www.crimsonromance.com
Copyright © 2013 by Lillie J. Roberts
ISBN-10: 1-4405-6557-0
ISBN-13: 978-1-4405-6557-1
eISBN-10: 1-4405-6558-9
eISBN-13: 978-1-4405-6558-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © 123rf.com; Jupiterimages Corporation
For my beautiful daughter, and two wonderful sons, for my husband who tolerates clicking keys in the middle of the night, for my friends who’ve provided so much support (both near and in cyber space … especially Lea, Blanche, Linda, and Amy), for all my author friends who provided guidance on my road to publication (you know who you are … and I thank you so much), for my dad and mom, for my sisters, brother, and all of my extended family … but most of all, for my own sweet Grams, who always believed in me and still does (and for sharing her addiction to romance with me). I love you all.
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
About the Author
A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance
Acknowledgments
I want to say thank you to Crimson Romance for taking a chance on a debut author, for providing guidance, and to my editor, Jess Verdi, you have taught me so much and I hope that speaks volumes for your own ability. Thank you all so much.
Chapter One
“Oh, crap!” Chelsea’s feet skated on the slippery surface. She reached out to catch herself, but in grabbing the curtain, she also yanked the cord. The hairdryer bounced against her knuckles before hitting the water, and she froze for a stunned second.
Her nose filled with the stench of burnt flesh and crisping hair. Her heart stuttered, pain tore through her chest. She fell from the tub and landed with a hard thud, her eyes bulging. She clutched at her phone and attempted to draw one last breath, 911 becoming her focus. “I … I … need … ” she choked out as her phone slipped from her grasp. Then her world spun away, maybe forever.
Chelsea Karmikel had died twice in her life, and now, at twenty-three, she’d died a third time.
• • •
Chelsea hated the hospital and hated the patronizing tone of the doctors even more. “Are you sure it’s safe? I won’t have a relapse … or … or something?” Chelsea asked the doctor. Physically, she felt great, other than the burns, the soreness … alright, she felt like death warmed over, but that’s what happens when you toss your blow dryer in the shower. Mentally, however, she thought she was losing it.
“Just call if you have any problems, Ms. Karmikel. And make an appointment with your family doctor.” The old doctor scratched his chin, avoiding her eyes. “Odd, there’s no brain damage, your autonomic responses are great, but we still can’t explain … Well, you never mind. You’re going to be just fine.” He patted her hand condescendingly, like she was some senile old lady, before backing from her room. “Nurse, please have Ms. Karmikel’s neurologist give me a call.” The door eased closed. What was that about? Was her hardwiring fine or not?
She didn’t have a death wish, just lousy karma. Three times she’d knocked on death’s door and three times she’d escaped. What was the saying? Three strikes and you’re out? Maybe this was her final strike?
This last time though, something different happened. And she remembered it, really remembered it, the whole damn thing, like some nightmare out of an old black and white movie. The doctors and the nurses, the way her body looked, but not felt. The scratch of surgical instruments, the stinging scent of sterile antiseptic, and the sounds of voices echoing far away. The dark figure who’d stood in the corner, watching and waiting.
Turmoil greeted her waking hours, and she wasn’t sure if she was insane or brain fried. But now her ears buzzed incessantly, almost the same as voices.
• • •
The old rambling farmhouse in Taylorville, Illinois was the only home Chelsea had ever known. She shivered, wishing someone waited to welcome her besides Grendel, her tabby cat. Her grandmother wanted to move home — why hadn’t Chelsea taken her offer? Maybe living alone wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She screwed up her face and chewed a fingernail. Did she really want to be here?
“Hey, lady?” The cabbie chomped a wad of gum. “We at the right address? You getting out?” He watched her in the rearview mirror. “’Cause the longer we sit here, the more you gotta pay.”
Chelsea glanced at the meter — fifty dollars and change — and the change was jumping higher with every passing moment. “Yeah, it’s the right place.” She fingered the door handle. “Thanks.” She shoved three twentie
s through the tiny hole between her and the driver, and opened the door. Before it slammed closed, the cabbie roared off, leaving a trail of dust behind.
She glanced up at the house. Was it just bad luck? Or was it something else? Sparrows filled the yard, hunting moths and grubs. She shuddered; there was something about sparrows that always gave her the creeps. Messengers of the dead, her great-grandmother had always said. They squawked at her intrusion, then paid her little attention. At least the sky had cleared.
She walked on the balls of her feet, her souls still tender. Thick bandages covered the tips of her thumbs. A black spot marred her right shoulder blade where the electricity had exited her body. Her skin tingled with a bee-like buzz, tremors quaked through her body. It was all supposed to go away in a few days — at least, that’s what the docs said. But none of it explained the nightmares that haunted her in the hospital, of people she didn’t even know. She hoped it would all go away now that she was home.
Chelsea unlocked the door and stepped inside the white two-story house. A picket fence guarded the front yard and maroon shutters stood like sentries at the windows — she’d always been safe here. “Grendel? Here kitty, kitty … ” she called softly. “Grendel?” The small yellow cat tumbled down the stairs to happily twine around her legs. She scooped the small cat up and buried her face in her purring neck. “Hi, baby.” Grendel responded by mewling loudly and pushing out of Chelsea’s grasp.
Her lips curved into a smile. “Are you hungry?”
Grendel blinked her strange cat eyes before scurrying to her bowl.
Chelsea coaxed her feet to move a few steps, but the buzzing worsened and the whisperings came to her ears, the same as in the hospital.
She cleared her throat, and shook her head. “Don’t be a baby, Chelsea Karmikel,” she chided herself. “Grow up! You’ll be fine, you heard what the doctor said.”
She determinedly continued toward the kitchen. She jerked open the pantry and grabbed a can of tuna. The buzzing increased in volume, more piercing, as the can opener churned. She covered her ears. “I wish this noise would stop!”
Grendel hissed, pulled back her ears, and the fur on her spine spiked in a curved arch.
Puzzled, Chelsea reached for her two-year-old tabby. “What’s wrong with you?”
She stepped towards the cat, but it was too late — Grendel skittered off, sliding across the hardwood floor to land under the couch where she lay growling.
Chelsea sat the tuna on the floor. “Well, when you get over whatever set you off, your tuna’s ready … silly cat.” She headed for her bedroom and the disastrous shower.
“Damn,” she said, as she entered her bedroom. “I forgot to stop and pick up a new blow dryer.” Hers had burned out when it hit the water. She peeled off her jeans and blouse, wincing as she brushed the tender places, leaving on her bra and panties as she turned back down the hallway to the spare room. There was an ancient dryer somewhere.
A pounding on her front door pulled her up short. Chelsea snatched her great-grandmother’s faded afghan and wrapped it around her body. She tiptoed down the stairs, cracked open the door, and peeked through the chain lock. Ozone still filled the air from the chilly morning rain.
“Can I help you?” She lifted her eyebrows at the young uniformed officer. She looked around — the birds had vanished, leaving behind only silence. Where had they gone? She shrugged her shoulders. Strange.
“I hope so, ma’am.” The man removed his cap. “I need you to do something for me.”
“Umm … I’m sorry, I don’t understand.” It was an odd request, but then again this was a week of oddities. Still, she didn’t open her door to just anybody. “Do you mind letting me see your identification?”
“Oh, sure.” He fumbled and flashed her a badge. “Sorry, I haven’t had to do that in a while.”
Reassured, she laughed, embarrassed. “No problem, can’t be too careful these days. As far as I know, there haven’t been any problems around here. So unless your car’s broken down or your radio is out, I don’t see how I can help you, officer.” She smiled. He was kind of cute.
“No, no, it’s nothing like that.” He smiled back. “I need you to get a message to my wife, Nicole.”
“Oh.” All the cute ones were taken. “I’m sorry, but you seem to have mistaken me for someone else. I don’t know Nicole, Officer … ”
“Sorry, I thought you’d know me. I’m Officer Davies, Brenden Davies.”
“It still doesn’t ring a bell.” His uniform didn’t look familiar — she didn’t think he looked like anyone local. In fact, now that she looked, he didn’t have a radio. Instead, an old-fashioned walkie-talkie was clipped to his belt. Did they still use those?
“Let me bring you my phone,” she offered. “Just one moment — ”
“No, I need you to do this for me. Here’s her phone number.” The young officer rattled off a number. “Please, just call her for me — now if you can. I’m afraid she’s worried.” He looked so lost, Chelsea’s heart went out to him.
She slid the chain free and opened her door wider. “Alright,” hesitation in her voice, “if you can give me a minute? Why don’t you come in?” There was no need to give the old farmers fodder for gossip. She’d seen Officer Davies’s ID, he was probably safe.
“Thanks,” he said, twisting his cap around in his hands. Chelsea could read the signs — he was nervous or scared, maybe both. Again, odd.
“I’ll be right back.”
“Sure.” But he didn’t relax. If anything, his face grew tenser.
She hurried up the steps as fast as her tender feet allowed, and came back moments later in a pair of boy’s grey sweatpants and a pink Dylan tee. Her feet she left bare. “Okay.” She opened her cell phone. “Nicole, right?”
“Right.” He smiled, relief apparent on his face. “Thanks for doing this, you don’t know how much you’ve helped. If you can just tell her I’m fine, and I’ll see her soon.”
“Wouldn’t you like to tell her yourself?” She held out the phone.
“Oh no, I can’t image how, you know, and besides, I don’t want to scare her.”
“Okay … but if it was me, I think I’d rather hear it from you. Did something happen this morning?”
“No, I just want to let her know I miss her.”
“Sure … ” She smiled in confusion, but she dialed the number and relaxed when it was picked up on the fourth ring.
“Hello?” An elderly voice came over the phone.
“Hi, my name is Chelsea Karmikel, would Nicole be available?” She looked at the young officer, and he nodded with a smile, and she smiled back at him.
“Speaking,” the voice returned.
“Nicole Davies?” She looked at the young officer, and doubt filled her voice.
“No, not anymore. Nicole Radley.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” Relief flowed through her body. “I meant to ask for Officer Brenden Davies’s wife, Nicole.”
“This is Nicole Davies. Nicole Davies Radley.” The voice became adamant.
Embarrassment colored Chelsea’s voice. “Oh, sorry. I guess I misunderstood.” She laughed. “Officer Davies is here at my home, and he wanted me to call his wife, Nicole, to let her know he was fine and he’d see her soon.” Chelsea glanced over at the officer, and he winked at her. She walked in a small circle, her own nerves showing. She began to shiver; it felt like the temperature had dropped twenty degrees. It was probably just the electricity, though, some kind of residual side effect.
“I’m sorry, I … I … I don’t understand. My Bren died in ’62, in a pile-up out on Highway 29. Who is this? You say there’s someone in your house?”
Chelsea swung around to face the young officer, but he was gone. The front door stood open, only his wet footprints remained, and they were rapidly evaporati
ng.
“I … I’m sorry. I must have gotten it wrong. Please forgive me.” She ended the call, and looked down as the cell phone slipped from her fingers. The buzzing had finally stopped.
Chapter Two
Chelsea walked over to the front door and brushed her fingertips across its grainy surface. It was icy cold, and it caused her to shiver harder. She gave it a little shove and it squeaked closed. She rested her back against the door surface and slid down to the floor. Then she started to laugh and laugh. She didn’t know if she’d ever stop.
“What the hell’s happened to me?” she demanded to the empty house once her laughter subsided, her cheeks damp with tears. “What the hell’s going on?” She shouted into the quiet, her voice breaking, her lower lip quivering. Grendel poked her head from under the couch. She’d growled and hissed the whole time Officer Davies stood inside the house. She slinked over to Chelsea, and rubbed her furry body over her legs. “Well, now you come out. You could have warned me.”
Grendel looked at her cross-eyed.
Chelsea lifted Grendel to her lap, and rubbed her ears gently. “Do you know what’s going on?” She lifted the cat’s face to hers, rubbing noses, and sighed. “No, I guess you don’t. At least you had sense enough to hide.” Which is exactly what Chelsea wanted to do right now. Hide from the world and pray for a better day tomorrow. She locked the door, picked up the purring cat as her prickly tongue tickled Chelsea’s hand, and carried her up the stairs. Tomorrow she’d buy a new blow dryer. Her shower could wait. She was exhausted; sleep was the only thing she wanted. She fell into bed, taking Grendel with her. She needed the warmth of the small cat’s body more than anything else. Within moments, she was asleep.
• • •
In Chelsea’s dream, Great-Granny was still alive and rocking in her favorite chair, the one now sitting in the corner of Chelsea’s bedroom. Her round lensed glasses perched haphazardly on the end of her nose, reflecting tiny bits of moonlight that seeped in through the open window. Her soft gray curls moved with the mild breeze lifting the curtain. Antique combs stuck in a random fashion kept her thick mass of cottony gray curls from spilling over her shoulders. Great-Granny nodded and smiled at Chelsea’s stunned face.