Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  They reached the porch, and Abby took her keys out of the utility belt and opened the door.

  "You can drop off your bag..." Her voice trailed off as Mike pulled on her arm.

  He dropped his bag on the floor of the porch.

  "I can't stay, Abby," he said. The laughter was all gone, and his eyes were steady and serious. "I have to go."

  "Go where?" she asked sharply. The Army was Mike's whole life. He had, she well knew, nowhere to go. "You just got here."

  "Arlington," he said. "My commanding officer got me a new assignment. I just came to... "

  "Arlington, as in Virginia?" she blurted out. This was a surprise. Mike's assignments were usually overseas.

  "Yep." He nodded, looking less than happy. "Back in the old U.S. of A."

  "That's great news," she said, meaning every word. Arlington wasn't that far away, a couple of her friends commuted there every day. It was a bit of a hike, but doable. "But it's not exactly a surprise. I bet you finished your tour of duty and met with a couple of bigwigs who instantly offered you a job."

  "Well, not instantly," he demurred.

  "Yes, instantly," she laughed. "You're the kind of person people hire, Mike. You reek of reliability."

  He looked a bit taken aback. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

  "Sometimes it is." She looked at his duffle bag and frowned. "And I think today is one of those times. Did you just leave base?" She asked the question, even though she knew the answer. "Like less than twenty-four hours ago?"

  He wouldn't meet her eyes. He was suddenly fascinated with her supermarket chrysanthemums.

  "You didn't take a break or anything," she continued. "No vacation, no R&R, or whatever you call it."

  He started to reply, but she cut him off with a gesture.

  "Don't bother lying. You're no good at it, and I know your habits. When I went to Germany to visit Cole, he practically had to drag you to that convention we went to in Munich."

  He looked offended. "Not everyone's into Star Trek, Abby, especially not in German, and I went to hear you sing. That counts as recreation."

  "Barely," she huffed. "Cole said you never went off base and never took a break. Just work, work, work and then more work."

  "Nothing wrong with work."

  Abby's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Work was like a religion with Mike. "Cole said that the higher-ups had to force you to take leave."

  He opened his mouth to protest, but she help up a hand.

  "They did, didn't they?"

  "That's none of your—"

  She interrupted him. "How long, Mike?"

  He gave an exasperated sigh, but didn't answer her question. Poor Mike.

  "Hear me out," she continued. "After you start your new job you'll rent an anonymous apartment, which you'll fill the with IKEA furniture, Tom Clancy books, and frozen dinners."

  Mike looked offended. "There's nothing wrong with frozen dinners. They help manage one's protein intake."

  "Yeah," she replied, rolling her eyes. "And I'm sure you have an app for that."

  He looked at the floor guiltily.

  "You'll run five miles every day, eat a granola bar for breakfast, then take the Metro to go to work at the Pentagon. You'll have a turkey sandwich for lunch with a bag of baby carrots, then return to your perfectly neat apartment in the afternoon, heat some mac'n'cheese concoction, and settle down to watch old JAG episodes."

  He chuckled, but it sounded a bit forced. "Well, the mac'n'cheese will be organic, and I'll probably watch NCIS reruns instead. JAG is too unrealistic."

  Abby shook her head, NCIS, for pity's sake, she couldn't allow this. She had to save Mike from his self-imposed exile into the land of bland food and blander TV.

  Kraft and Mark Harmon wouldn't take away the shadows from his eyes.

  "And I'm thinking of getting a ride," he mused. "Maybe a motorcycle."

  Her heart skipped a beat.

  "That can wait," she said firmly. "You can take your leave here. Arlington's not far and I know you Army guys sublet to each other on the military forums. You can set up your new life from here. "

  What was it with guys and motorcycles? She'd just spent an entire afternoon cheering up Zach Franco, who'd almost gotten himself killed in a bike accident in South America. He'd survived but his arm and back had been shattered. Luckily, he'd regained the ability to walk, but her lead guitarist would never be able to play the guitar again. The thought of Mike on a motorcycle terrified her, but she kept that to herself.

  "So how long is your leave?" she repeated.

  He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Well, I'm always subject to being recalled—"

  She glared at him.

  "Two weeks," he admitted, finally giving up the fight.

  "That's perfect," she said, thinking hard. "You can help us out and have, you know, fun while doing it." She glanced at his fatigues, which could, she was pretty sure, pass as a costume. "We're trying to get our Halloween party into the Guinness Book of World Records and we need every warm body we can get."

  "That sounds even better than the German Star Trek convention." His eyes shone with amusement. "No, as appealing as your offer sounds, Abby, I really need to go." He glanced at his bag. "I just have to deliver..."

  That gave her an idea. She grabbed the green duffle bag and pushed it—dear lord, what did he have in there? Kryptonite?—into the house. He stared at her in shock as she quickly locked the door.

  "There," she said. "Now you have to stay."

  Mike lunged for the key, but she jumped back, avoiding him. She stuck her tongue out at him and put the key in her bra. She didn't question why it was so important to keep Mike in Banshee Creek. She just accepted that, right now, it was the most important thing in the world.

  He frowned at her, no longer amused.

  "Oh c'mon," he said, again staring fixedly at her hair. "That's not fair."

  "All's fair in..." She was going to say "love and war" but thought better of it. "War" didn't sound quite right.

  And "love?"

  Love definitely sounded wrong.

  CHAPTER THREE

  "IF YOU call me Natasha one more time," Abby's voice was sharp as steel, "I'm going to take one of those arrows and stick it in your you-know-what."

  Mike smiled as the guy in the purple mask slinked away. At least he wasn't the only one who thought Abby's clingy leotard was a Black Widow costume.

  "I swear," she grumbled, glaring at the retreating figure. "People have no sense of history any more."

  They were waiting in line to be admitted to the party. It was early evening and the sky still glowed orange from a belated sunset. The trees were covered with golden leaves and a kid dressed like a Shaolin monk was playing "People are Strange" on his guitar. The creepy mansion he'd seen when he arrived in town loomed in front of them, all mildewed fish scale siding and peeling purple paint. The waterspouts were in the shape of gargoyle heads and each one held a small stone sign inscribed with an arcane symbol.

  He had to hand it to the party organizers, they knew how to create ambiance. The place was creepy as hell.

  "I guess this house is what started the haunted town stories," he said.

  Abby shook her head. "This? No, not really, the stories predate the town. A Powhatan Princess threw herself off the Banshee Falls when her father killed her lover. That was the first story. Then the Scots-Irish founded the town, and the banshee stories started. When the Civil War came about, the ghost stories multiplied, but the real catalyst was author Ambrose Bierce. He had a summer cottage here, and he wrote a book about all the weirdness he heard about during his vacations."

  "A whole book?"

  "Yep, Strange Occurrences at Banshee Creek. He published it in 1896 and it was enormously popular. It pretty much cemented the town's reputation." She shrugged. "We've been terminally haunted ever since."

  "Well, this house doesn't help."

  "No, it doesn't." She giggled. "Someone came up with the geomagnetic fault exp
lanation in the seventies. That didn't help either."

  He glanced at the long line of costumed partygoers stretching behind them. "It seems to attract tourists, though."

  He felt very conspicuous in his military fatigues, which were, after all, not a costume. But Abby hadn't allowed him to change. They needed all the warm, oddly-dressed bodies they could find and his fatigues would, she claimed, meet the world record requirements.

  He wasn't sure about that, but she'd insisted, which was why they were now standing in line waiting for the Guinness approval. The certification process was not going smoothly.

  "They ran out of wristbands," the girl in front of them said. "Again."

  She was dressed in a Japanese kimono, an intricate piece with peach silk fabric decorated with cherry blossoms. A pair of katanas was strapped to her back. She looked like a person one did not want to cross.

  But the party organizers had done just that.

  Mike stifled a sigh. Of course they ran out of wristbands. Abby's friends meant well, but they weren't exactly well organized. He assumed a rest position, hands behind his back and prepared for a long wait. After many years in a combat zone, he was used to long waits. Deployment meant long stretches of abject boredom and sudden bursts of sheer panic.

  At least the line seemed to be pretty peaceful. Abby and Katana Girl were exchanging makeup tips and the orc patrol in front was practicing its choreography. An elf girl clad in a purple gossamer fabric picked up her flute and started to play "Carry on Wayward Son." He hummed along as they waited. The elf girl was a talented flutist. Her version of the song was sweet and eerie at the same time.

  The melody broke off as a ghostly shriek pierced the quiet of the evening.

  Mike looked around, startled. What the hell was going on? The partygoers looked up to the sky, and many held up cameras and recording devices. A few made high-pitched hooting sounds, as if calling out to the...whatever the hell that thing was.

  Another shriek rang out and, in spite of himself, Mike shuddered. Man, that sounded sinister.

  Abby patted his arm. "It's just the barn owls."

  "That's an owl?" Mike's voice was thick with disbelief. "It sounds like a screeching harpy."

  She laughed. "Yes, it does. They're also known as banshee owls and we have tons of them. They're one of the reasons the place is called Banshee Creek. The other one is the story about the farmer who meet a ghost when he was returning home from the pub."

  "Right," he said with heavy skepticism. "The pub, that sounds like a credible story."

  The poor guy probably heard one of the owls and ran away in fright. Mike looked around one last time, still a bit spooked from the creepy screeching, but he saw nothing, just a bunch of people in costumes comparing owl recordings.

  "So, speaking of unbearable caterwauling." He turned toward Abby. "How's your singing going?"

  "Ha, ha," she said in a voice devoid of humor. "Very funny."

  The response surprised him. He'd just been teasing, after all.

  "No, seriously," he said, concerned. "How's it going?"

  She avoided looking at him, and his worry deepened. Abby worked as a waitress but she was a dedicated singer and she worked tirelessly at her craft. She wrote, composed, and toured constantly.

  At least she used to.

  He knew that she was still waiting for her lucky break and he waited impatiently for an answer, ready to provide comfort and encouragement. He didn't want Abby to lose her dream.

  She'd lost so much already.

  "It's going okay, I guess." She leaned to the side, looking at the line. "Will they hurry with those wristbands?"

  "Just okay?"

  She sighed. "Well, my band disbanded."

  "You mean broke up? Permanently?"

  That did not sound good. Abby loved her band and they'd been together for years. As far as he knew they got along famously. They'd never hit the big time, but they played obscure folk songs, many of them in foreign languages, so that wasn't much of a surprise. They had few fans outside of the college circuit, but they all seemed fairly happy with that.

  "Yes." She sounded positively despondent. "Zach, our guitarist, decided to enter a singing contest in Chile. He was going to sing Hijo de la Luna. Remember that one?"

  "Yes," he replied.

  The gypsy ballad about the moon's doomed albino child was one of his favorite songs. He'd first heard it in Germany many years ago, during a particularly memorable leave when Cole sweet-talked their unit into attending a German sci-fi convention. Softhearted Cole wanted to support one of his buddies who was presenting a new video game at the con. Mike agreed to go but the presentation turned out to be a party with a live band, lasers, and strange alcoholic concoctions. Not his kind of scene at all. He said his goodbyes and was about to head back to the base when the lights dimmed and the spotlight fell on a tall, slender girl in a white dress. He watched, spellbound, as she sang, in a quiet, haunting voice, a beautiful song about love and loss. He hadn't known then that she was Cole's girlfriend. She was just this lovely woman with an otherworldly voice.

  "Well," she continued. "Zach decided to make a road trip out of it and tried to cross the Andes on a motorcycle. You know? Like that Che Guevara guy?"

  He nodded. One of his goals was to complete the Motorcycle Diaries trip. The views, he'd been told, were amazing.

  "It didn't go well," she said, shaking her head. "He played chicken with a semi truck and lost."

  "Is he okay?" he asked carefully.

  "He's recovering, but it was touch-and-go for a while." She paused. "He won't be able to play guitar anymore."

  "That's tough," he replied. "But he's lucky to be alive."

  Abby nodded. An awkward silence followed, and he suspected they were both thinking about Cole, who hadn't been so lucky.

  "So, I guess you're taking a break?" he asked, bridging the conversation gap.

  She looked uncomfortable again. "Actually, I kind of..."

  "Yes?" he prompted. She looked guilty, which confused him. What did she have to feel guilty about?

  She looked around, making sure no one could overhear.

  "I have a new band." Her voice was almost a whisper.

  "That's good," he congratulated her. "What's the band's name?"

  She winced and looked around again.

  "The Space Cowboys," she said, in a very soft voice.

  "That's a cool name." He tilted his head, frowning. "Wait. Cowboys?"

  She shushed him quickly then nodded.

  "Is that..."

  "Yes." Her voice was bleak. "It's a country music band."

  He chuckled. He couldn't help it. She looked so depressed about it.

  "Don't you dare laugh," she said, punching his arm.

  "I'm sorry," he said, trying to comply. "I'm a big country fan. I love the music." He smiled. "But I just can't picture you singing in a honky-tonk."

  "It's not my fault," she wailed.

  "Really?" he asked. "How does one accidentally become a country singer?"

  That earned him another punch in the arm.

  "They were desperate," she explained plaintively. "They had a summer tour scheduled and their lead singer eloped to Australia with her boyfriend. I think they have a wombat farm now or something. Anyway, they needed a new singer pronto." She sighed. "And I wanted to make a demo."

  "A country one?" That did not sound right. Abby's song catalog tended to be melancholic, obscure and a bit macabre.

  "Sort of. I wanted to record some old ballads, but needed a couple of guitar players to get the right sound. Some of the Child ballads and maybe Rose Connelly or Crow Jane. Some were British, but a lot of them were from Appalachia or the Old West so my puny mandolin wasn't going to cut it." She became increasingly more enthusiastic as she talked about her project. "I needed different instruments and these guys can play anything, even Piedmont guitar."

  Mike nodded even though he had no idea what a Child ballad or a Piedmont guitar was. But Abby was a Mus
ic major in college with a Folklore and Mythology minor, so he guessed that she was talking about really old songs.

  "So we came up with a trade," Abby continued. "They agreed to do the demo with me, if I went on the tour. They got the singer they needed and I got to sing a couple of my songs to real audiences."

  "Sounds reasonable."

  "Yes," she said glumly. "It did. Only I didn't realize so many country fans knew those ballads. It turns out that Johnny Cash sang a lot of them."

  "They were popular?"

  "Immensely." She sounded positively depressed now. "My 'House of the Rising Sun' was a huge hit and a guy from Nashville asked us for a tape." Her shoulders slumped. "They're looking at it now. We even have a couple of shows lined up in Northern Virginia, you know, to get some audience feedback."

  Her voice dropped.

  "The guys say..." She swallowed hard and her voice grew quieter. "They say we may get a recording contract."

  Mike couldn't help but laugh.

  "Don't laugh, you idiot," she said, glaring at him. "Can you picture me as a country singer? With hairspray and rhinestones like Dolly Parton?"

  She shuddered and Mike reached for her arm, trying to reassure her that not all country music involved platinum blonde hairdos and sparkly clothes.

  But he didn't get the chance.

  A burly redheaded man in a black leather vest pushed through the line, glaring at Abby. Mike tensed, recognizing the leader of the biker gang he'd seen earlier.

  "Now, don't mess with Miss Dolly, girl." A deep baritone voice rang loud and clear and the lined up partygoers turned, heavily made-up eyes wide as flying saucers, to stare at them.

  "Them's fighting words," the biker growled.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ABBY SMILED at the leader of the Banshee Creek Paranormal Investigations Institute. The biker regalia did not intimidate her at all. But Mike did not seem to agree with her; his jaw tightened and he looked at Caine warily. She inched closer, trying to reassure him.

  "Hi, Caine," she said brightly. "I didn't know you were a Dolly Parton fan."