Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1)

by Gonzalez, Ani

  That earned her a long, lingering kiss. The long-awaited caress took her breath away, and she leaned against him, hungry for more. Her breasts pushed against his chest and his soft cotton shirt rubbed enticingly against her bare nipples. The contact stoked her desire, deepening her need.

  His hands settled on her waist, as if gentling a high-strung horse. The light touch made her quiver and she waited restlessly for his hands to travel to more interesting places. Desire spiraled through her, a red haze surrounding her, frustrated ardor ringing like a siren in her head.

  Siren? Her mind cleared instantly.

  That wasn't a lust-fueled mirage. That was a real, honest-to-goodness, fire siren.

  She looked out the window, and saw pair of Fire & Rescue trucks approaching the house.

  "I guess the firefighters lost faith in the local legend," Mike said, frowning at the trucks.

  Abby stared at him, confused. His face was hard and his eyes were cold. Where was her passionate lover? Mike's luscious body was now tense and taut, like a soldier readying for battle. He zipped up her cat suit quickly and picked up his papers and jacket from the desk. Her confusion turned into admiration; this man was efficiency personified.

  "We need to get out." Mr. Efficiency wrapped the jacket around her shoulders, frowning.

  "Are you kidding?" she squealed, as he buttoned the jacket. "You have to untie me first."

  "Sorry," he said, looking completely unrepentant. "I don't have scissors. And my knife is in my duffle in your house."

  He grabbed her arm and led her toward the stairs as she wriggled furiously, trying to loosen her bindings. Her efforts were useless though. Those stupid plastic ties were stronger than steel.

  He bent down to whisper in her ear. "And I like having you bound, Mrs. Peel," he said softly, as he guided her down the steps. "It keeps you out of trouble."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  MIKE HELD Abby's arm, leading her carefully down the rickety steps. Well, he actually held her elbow, her hands were still tied behind her back and he felt slightly guilty about that.

  The key word was slightly.

  At least the bindings weren't painful. This particular restraint position could be held for hours without discomfort, and, try as he might, he simply couldn't conjure up the slightest bit of remorse. Something about Abby, dressed in his fatigue jacket and walking with uncharacteristic docility, just felt right.

  Now that was something to feel guilty about, and confused. This entire experience had an air of unreality about it, much like the time his convoy hit a fougasse bomb in Afghanistan and he found himself outside the flaming vehicle, holding a wounded comrade, with no clue as to how he'd escaped the vehicle or even managed to drag someone else along. His reaction to Abby was pretty much the same, befuddlement and disorientation.

  Her curvy body peeking from under the voluminous jacket did not help. And neither did the frequent stumbles that caused her to lean against him unsteadily.

  After all, she was his best friend's girl.

  Sure, he'd been in love with her for years, ever since he first saw her singing in Germany. But he'd done the right thing. He'd hid his feelings, the way a good friend would, and had limited his interaction with Abby to "Hi," "How are you," and "No, the Bermuda Triangle doesn't actually exist."

  At least until Cole's death.

  It was just a couple of e-mails, at first. Just checking up to see how she was doing. Then it evolved into endless Facebook and Twitter updates on new songs and performances. They talked about life and music and, sometimes, UFO encounters—or random weather balloon sightings, as he liked to call them.

  All of it perfectly innocent.

  So how did that lead to plastic ties and passionate kisses in an abandoned attic? He was still confused about that. This was a fantasy he hadn't even known he had.

  But he'd have to think about that later. Right now he had to get Abby out of the dilapidated, and very flammable, house. They reached the second floor landing and he looked around for an exit. Like the rest of the house, the landing was completely devoid of furniture. Torn wallpaper, a particularly bilious shade of green with a fancy scroll motif, and scuffed wood paneling were all that remained of the house decor. A pair of metal sconces with dusty shades provided dim illumination.

  The landing was quite crowded with costumed partygoers, looking for the exits. No one seemed concerned though. The atmosphere was that of a public high school complying with the fifth fire drill of the school year. Abby dodged a gaggle of hobbits and headed for the stairs to the first floor, but Mike stopped her and pointed back.

  "No," she exclaimed, struggling against him. "That's the wrong way."

  "Everyone will head for the front door," he explained. "We're taking the back exit." He pointed down the hallway. "This way."

  "There's another exit?" She walked unsteadily down the hall, swerving to avoid a group of Buffy The Vampire Slayer clones who were heading for the front door. "How do you know?"

  "There's always a second exit," Mike said firmly. He was a firm believer in having multiple retreat alternatives.

  But he didn't get a chance to explain. A girl in black plants and a tight top turned around at the sight of Mike's voice. She caught sight of his fatigues and squealed, "Riley."

  Mike stopped, confused. Who was this Riley person?

  "Oh, no," Abby whispered. "It's the Buffies."

  "The what?"

  The girls turned and stared. They all had brownish hair with gold highlights and dark leather boots.

  "The Buffy clones," Abby hissed, walking quickly. "You know, like in the vampire slayer show? Run!"

  He looked at the girls, bewildered. They looked harmless, well, mostly harmless. One of them was holding a sharp wooden stick, but he didn't think she could do much damage with that.

  "It's the Initiative," the girl in a leather jacket shouted gleefully. Her companions smiled in tandem, eyes glinting.

  He took a step back. Okay, maybe they weren't so harmless after all.

  The clones clustered around Mike, backing him against the balustrade. He was completely surrounded. But Abby avoided the onslaught and reached the end of the hallway safely. She looked back and smiled at his predicament.

  "Oh my god," the shortest clone exclaimed. "You look just like him."

  "No way, this guy's better looking," another said. "The haircut's a mess, though."

  "Don't take her," a skinny clone in a cheerleader uniform said, pushing her friend aside. "Take me."

  Mike gazed beseechingly at Abby, but she shrugged, silently claiming helplessness. The ersatz vampire slayers huddled around him, blabbering about controlling chips and whatnot. The hallway opened up to the foyer downstairs and he was seriously tempted to leap over the rail and escape.

  He was about to do exactly that, when a loud voice boomed out.

  "Keep it moving, ladies." Caine moved down the hallway, urging the girls forward. "You're holding up the evacuation. "

  The clones tried to stand their ground, but Caine and his posse pushed them inexorably toward the stairs.

  "No, wait." The petite slayer hung on to Mike's arm. "My Spike just dumped me. Be my rebound, Riley," she wailed as one of her friends pulled her toward the exit.

  Caine made sure all the girls made it down the stairs, then turned back to Mike. The biker seemed strangely calm for someone supervising an emergency evacuation.

  "I take it there's no fire," Mike said.

  "Here?" Caine snorted. "We could have a blowtorch juggling exhibition in this place and the flammability risk would be zero." He shook his head. "No, it's those crazy old biddies from the Historical Preservation society trying to sabotage us. They called Fire and Rescue on us."

  Crazy old biddies? Sabotage? Caine was raising doubts about someone else's mental health? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

  "They're not crazy, Caine," Abby said. "They are just uncomfortable with all the paranormal stuff."

  "And they make their di
scomfort felt, don't they," Caine spat. "Stupid muggles don't know they're sitting on a gold mine." He scowled fiercely. "Well, they'll find out soon enough."

  Mike tensed. Muggles? He wasn't much of a reader, but he knew what that word meant, and he found it a bit offensive. Rational human beings who weren't taken in by spooky stories and questionable tales weren't muggles, were they? Perfectly reasonable concerns about safety and security didn't turn one into a mundane antagonist, did they?

  Apparently, in Banshee Creek it did.

  "Are you guys going out the back?" Caine asked.

  Mike nodded.

  "Good idea," Caine replied, heading for the stairs. "I'm going to clear the main floor."

  "Wait," Mike called out. "You wouldn't happen to have a knife on you, would you? Or maybe scissors."

  He felt a sharp pain on his shin. Abby, who'd just jabbed her pointy boot into his leg, was glaring at him.

  "No," Caine said, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

  "No reason," Abby said quickly.

  Caine looked at them strangely then shrugged. "Well, make sure the Zombie Liberation Army made it out. I told them to go, but they just acted dumb and ignored me."

  "They're probably just in character," Abby replied reasonably.

  "Yeah, right," Caine grumbled, as he stalked down the stairs. "They'll method act themselves all the way to a hefty fine if they don't get out of this house soon."

  Mike turned to Abby, trying not to laugh. "C'mon. Let's round up the shambling undead and get out of here."

  He followed her down the hallway towards the back staircase. "Why did you kick me?" he asked, once Caine was out of earshot. "I was just trying—"

  "Caine's the biggest gossip in town," Abby interrupted, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. "If he finds out that we were making out in the attic, it will be all over town in a nanosecond."

  "Oh." He didn't know what to say to that.

  "And the ties don't hurt at all," she said, smiling in a conciliatory manner.

  Well that was a relief.

  "I guess you've done this before," she continued, her smile turning mischievous,

  The question startled him. "Um," he paused, trying to think of an accurate yet non-incriminatory response. "Not for recreational purposes."

  That made her laugh. Her chortling made the jacket shift around her shoulders, uncovering her cleavage. He cleared his throat and tried to come up with a distraction.

  "Is the town really mounting an anti-paranormal campaign?" he asked.

  "Nah." She crouched to avoid a fake spider web. "That's just Caine being paranoid. The Historical Restoration Committee has a lot of rules and regulations, but the rules don't say anything about ghosts. They do have a lot to say about moldings and light fixtures and stuff like that. That's the reason the buildings are in such great shape." She gave an exasperated sigh. "It's also the reason why it took twenty-four weeks to get the paint colors approved for my house."

  He had to concur. The town, in spite of the lingering economic malaise, did look nice. The buildings were well kept and the architectural styles were coherent. There was something to be said for rules and regulations. They kept things looking neat and organized.

  "They were the ones who saved this house," Abby continued, sidestepping a sitting skeleton outfitted in pirate regalia. "A couple of developers wanted to buy it and tear it down, but the Historical Preservation regulations didn't allow it. The buyers held several town meetings, trying to get the regulation struck down, but the Committee stood firm."

  He nodded. These Historical Preservation Committee folks sounded like his kind of people.

  "So, yeah," Abby went on. "The Committee is a big deal in this town. They do a lot of good."

  Mike agreed wholeheartedly. Rules were good. In fact, they were the only thing standing between us and chaos. The Historical Preservation Committee was definitely on the right track.

  "Too bad everyone hates them," Abby concluded, finally reaching the back staircase.

  That took him aback. "Everyone?" he asked plaintively.

  Abby nodded. "With the passion of a thousand burning suns."

  A group of raggedy youths in gray makeup wandered up and down the stairs. A young girl with a plastic axe stuck in her head looked up and saw them.

  "Braaaaaaains," she moaned as she shuffled towards them.

  Abby didn't flinch.

  "Can it, Nora," she said firmly. "Brains is what you're going to need to get out of the fine Fire & Rescue will impose if you don't get out of here now."

  The group moaned in a distinctly un-zombie-like fashion and Zombie Nora grimaced.

  "Oh man," she wailed. "Not another fine. I'm still paying the one I got for that graveyard display on my yard."

  Mike flinched. He guessed that the yard display fine was from the Historical Preservation Committee. Zombie Nora must be one of the "thousand burning suns" people. He watched as the group trudged down the stairs, muttering restlessly.

  "It's my yard, isn't it?" Mike heard Nora argue. "If I want to hang shrunken heads from my cherry blossom tree, then that's my business, isn't it?"

  A guy in a bloody shirt agreed. Someone suggested creating a Zombie Libertarian Party. The suggestion was greeted with hearty cheers.

  Mike sighed and followed Abby as she shepherded the undead parade out of the house. She was right in her element, joking and laughing with the zombie horde, but he felt acutely out of place. They seemed to be trading Dawn of the Dead quotes and he wasn't a horror movie fan. The Buffy clone's words still rang in his ears: "Be my rebound, Riley."

  Was the attic interlude with Abby only that? A rebound fling? That was a very real possibility. Was it enough? He saw something on the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a severed arm, with realistically rendered blood and bone. Someone had spent a lot of time getting the fingernails right.

  He stared at the ersatz appendage, confused. He didn't know exactly how he'd ended up here, in Banshee Creek, rounding up a pack of rogue zombies and falling in love with a folk-musician-slash-British-spy. But he knew one thing.

  He didn't belong here.

  And, yet, part of him wanted to.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  "WELL, AREN'T you the lucky girl."

  Abby frowned and turned toward her friend, Cassie, who was sporting a...Margaret Mead costume? Did the famed scientist have blue-tinged hair? She peered at the nametag, which said "anthropologist, ethnologist and all-around badass."

  Yep, only Cassie would come up with a Punk Margaret Mead costume.

  Cassie glanced meaningfully at Abby's military wardrobe and Abby gave a resigned sigh. Her messy hair and half-open cat suit left little to the imagination, and she was sure that news about her—how did Mike put it?—recreational activities would get around.

  Cassie smiled at her broadly, but Abby did not return the favor. She saw little to smile about. She was stuck outside shivering in the cold October air, surrounded by a segmented Horta and other costumed partygoers who were all waiting for Fire & Rescue to let them go home. She was frozen stiff, tipsy and sexually frustrated.

  And, she had to admit, the Horta acid fumes were a lot less attractive up close.

  "Do you know why they're keeping us here?" she asked. "And for how long?"

  "Pressure tactics," her friend replied, her shrug making the stuffed gorilla on her shoulder bounce dramatically. "The Fire Chief wants to make this as painful as possible to make sure that we don't do it again. It will probably be another couple of minutes."

  Great. Banshee Creek Fire & Rescue occupied its own little rift of time and space where a "couple of minutes" could mean "right now" or "within the next couple of hours." Could this night get any worse?

  At least Mike's jacket hid her bound hands. She was spared that final humiliation.

  "Here." Cassie put a pair of small, foil-wrapped packets in the front pocket of Mike's jacket. "In case you need them. I know you probably don't have any around. And remember to use zinc cream for t
he wrist abrasions. It works really well."

  Okay, so maybe the jacket didn't hide that much.

  Cassie patted her on the back and walked away before Abby could respond.

  Which was actually a good thing. What could Abby say? "Don't worry. Mike's a wiz with the plastic ties and they don't hurt a bit"? Or, maybe, "Thanks, this not-having-sex-in-two-years thing means I'm a little light on the birth control front"?

  She shivered inside Mike's jacket and the cold night air had nothing to do with it. Those three thoughts—plastic ties, birth control, and Mike—were a combustible combination. She couldn't stop thinking about the plastic ties, the attic...and the kiss.

  But Mike didn't seem as affected as she was. He was right next to her, but was busy arguing with Caine about the biker's upcoming expedition.

  "They saw it last year, up near the mountains," Caine was saying. "It fit the description perfectly—red eyes, huge wings, enormous size."

  "And it came all the way from West Virginia?" Mike asked, his skepticism clear. "Why would it do that?"

  "They all come," Caine said, arms spread as if encompassing all paranormal creatures. "It's the geomagnetic thingamajig. It attracts them."

  Mike looked doubtful, and Abby sympathized with him. Some of Caine's theories were a little hard to stomach. But the monster-hunting trip would be a lot of fun. So what harm could it do?

  But Mike placed an arm around her back, his fingers caressing the sensitive skin of her nape. She tensed and all rational thought fled. She stood there, immobile as a now familiar warmth spread through her body.

  A shrill screech shattered her lustful reverie. The crowd quieted, then, when they were sure there was no follow-up call, they broke out into cheers.

  "An owl." Mike smiled. "That's it. Your monster is probably an owl."

  He said this in a firm, clear tone, much like a doctor telling a hypochondriac patient that his life-threatening attack of appendicitis is just gas.

  Abby winced at his answer. She knew her friends were, well, a couple of jalapeños short of a nacho supreme platter, but Mike didn't have to be so brusque. He could try to humor them a little.