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Eternal Press
www.eternalpress.com.au
Copyright ©2007 by Eternal Press
First published in 2007, 2007
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CONTENTS
The Seekers: Into the Light
The Seekers:
Dedication
Contents
Things That Go Hump In The Night
Dying For Love
About the Author
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The Seekers: Into the Light
In case you're wondering what a girl with a name like Martee Hollywood does for a living, I'll fill you in. I'm a psychic medium.
You can stop laughing now.
I was born that way. Just like I was born with a double e at the end of my name instead of the standard y. It's the hand I was dealt, and I've chosen to play it. A girl's got to make a living (I use the term loosely) and it's best to use your natural talents. My talent happens to involve dead folks.
Let me take a moment to clarify. A medium is always a psychic, but a psychic isn't always a medium. Psychics operate mostly on their highly sensitized intuition and deal with past, present, and future. Most specialize in the future. A medium can have a heart-to-heart with a deceased individual. I'm both. I can tell if you'll marry your new beau and then have a chat with your dead Aunt Ida.
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The Seekers: Into the Light © 2007 by Sommer Marsden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic of mechanical including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locals is entirely coincidental.
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Edited by Deborah Nemeth
Layout and Book Production by Julie D'Arcy
Eternal Press * October 2007
Production by Eternal Press
Printed in Australia and the United States of America.
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The Seekers:
Into the Light
Sommer Marsden
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Dedication
~ For David and Eileen. I know you are together, I know you are laughing, and I know you are proud. Love always. ~
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Contents
Things That Go Hump In the Night 6
Dying For Love 19
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Things That Go Hump In The Night
My name is Martee Hollywood. My father wanted a boy. When I emerged, kicking, screaming, and pissed off as usual, he went with the name anyway. According to Pop, he compromised by giving me the “more feminine” double e at the end of my name.
My mother swears she tried to change his mind. She blames it on the pain medication.
The Hollywood was Holstein, once upon a time. Pop was a talent agent. Holstein just doesn't cut it when you're sweet-talking a club owner into using Rita and Her Dancing Donkeys! in their dinner theater. And so the Hollywood moniker was born, and it stuck. I was thirteen before I knew my real surname was Holstein. By then, it was too late. I was who I was. I still am.
In case you're wondering what a girl with a name like Martee Hollywood does for a living, I'll fill you in. I'm a psychic medium.
You can stop laughing now.
I was born that way. Just like I was born with a double e at the end of my name instead of the standard y. It's the hand I was dealt, and I've chosen to play it. A girl's got to make a living (I use the term loosely) and it's best to use your natural talents. My talent happens to involve dead folks.
Let me take a moment to clarify. A medium is always a psychic, but a psychic isn't always a medium. Psychics operate mostly on their highly sensitized intuition and deal with past, present, and future. Most specialize in the future. A medium can have a heart-to-heart with a deceased individual. I'm both. I can tell if you'll marry your new beau and then have a chat with your dead Aunt Ida.
My “gift” became evident when my first imaginary friend turned out to be the spirit of a little girl who'd lived in my family's house during the fifties. She'd been run down by a Studebaker driven by the middle-school principal. She told me he was drunk as a skunk and dozing off at the time he hit her. From what she says, he never felt the impact. Went on with his life while hers suddenly ended. So much for my “gift."
I spend my time working for the Seekers, a paranormal research team started by my best friend and former lover, Trip Ericson. We get distress calls more than you'd think, and they're not all about thumps in the attic. We run the gamut of the paranormal. Last week a woman called because the full moon is approaching, and she suspects her husband is a werewolf. I say she's off her meds, but hey—you just never know. That much I've learned.
I've actually fallen in love with my work. It gives me something to do. As of this writing, a personal life is just a pipe dream. Who can hump the handsome blind date with a ghost staring over her shoulder? Maybe you can, but, to be honest, it freaks me out.
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"The new owner called last night,” Trip said.
We sat in the van and stared at the neglected Victorian monstrosity. The paint was a faded pink with sickening aqua gingerbread trim. Everything about the house looked crooked. The steps slanted to the left, the porch tilted to the right. I was getting vertigo just looking at it.
"Upset?” I asked. I took a sip of bitter, cold coffee and shivered. Even coffee can't stay hot in thirty-degree weather.
"Not really. Unsettled would be a better description."
"Ghosts do that. They unsettle us."
Make no mistake—there were ghosts in this house. More than one. I was too far away to tell how many, what genders, or what their stories were, but I knew they were there. I could feel them even as I sat at the crumbling curb out front. Ghosts tend to stick to their territory. I'd make contact the moment I crossed the threshold.
"Mikey coming?” I asked.
"He should be here any minute. He's bringing Missy and Liz with him."
"The whole gang,” I noted.
"I thought you'd be happy.” He ran a hand through his already disheveled black hair and lit a cigarette.
"I'm thrilled. I'll take all the help I can get."
Mikey is Trip's cousin and constant partner in crime. They are inseparable, and I'm almost certain they share one brain between the two of them. Missy is a romance writer by day, a ghost hunter when she gets the call. She claims it gives her plenty of romantic, tragic material to work with in her novels. She sells quite a few of them, too. Looking at her mousy exterior, it's hard to believe she writes some of the steamiest novels I've read. The group was complete wi
th Liz. Liz is our gal Friday. Hot coffee, cigarettes, new batteries, extension cords—you name it, she fetches it.
I put out a silent prayer to my companion angels to whisper in Liz's ear to bring me hot coffee. It probably wouldn't happen. That falls under the heading of personal gain, and that, in the spiritual world, is a no-no. Getting paid for what I do is pushing the boundaries, but acceptable as long as I'm fair and reasonable with the folks I work with.
My worst payment ever consisted of twenty dollars and a hand-knitted afghan. The woman who gave it to me needed me to release several confused yet harmless spirits in her house. I did the job and hugged her after she paid me. That afghan is damn warm, too.
"Here they come” Trip stubbed out his cigarette and zipped his jacket. “Looks like Lizzie brought fresh brew."
I mouthed a silent ‘Thank you,’ and heard a faint tinkling in my left ear. That's the angels signaling that I'm not alone. I'm hardly ever alone. I'm used to it now.
"Gang's all here!” Mikey hopped from foot to foot on the shattered concrete. “What're we looking at, Trip? Spill it fast, ‘cause I'm freezing my balls off."
Liz gave him a stern look for his language and passed out scalding hot cups of coffee.
"Bless you, Liz. I was dying. I need a caffeine fix.” I took a sip and burned my tongue. After a curse, I took another.
"Let it cool,” Liz scolded. Always the mother hen. She does daycare on the side to supplement her meager Seekers’ income.
"Screw it. I just need the jolt. Doesn't matter if I taste it."
"Listen up, ladies” Trip's breath feathered out in white plumes. “The current owner, Mr. David Richards, says he's heard women laughing. No women currently live with Mr. Richards. On more than one occasion he's also smelled pipe smoke. He's not a smoker. At night, when he sleeps, the furniture is rearranged to resembles the original owner's layout. He found a box of photos in the basement furnace room this week. Needless to say, he's unsettled. Not necessarily scared, but wary."
"That's not too bad,” Mikey said. “No ectoplasm, flying furniture, or otherworldly booby traps this time. We're dealing with an afterlife Martha Stewart."
This earned him a giggle and blush from Missy. Missy wants to get in Mikey's pants so bad it's sick. The sad part is I'm an empath. I pick up on people's emotions. It's such a strong gift that if I'm not careful, I can mistake them for my own.
A surge of excitement blossomed in my belly and a quick zing of arousal shot through my groin. I was picking up on Missy's feelings.
I said a quick prayer and closed my eyes. Imagined myself surrounded by bright white light, and blocked her out. Once I got in the house I'd have to shut the defenses down. For the time being, it would keep me from dry-humping Mikey on Missy's behalf.
"You okay?” Trip asked. His bright blue eyes looked tired and glassy. The fatigue didn't stop them from being gorgeous.
Picture perfect recollection flooded my brain. I saw in perfect detail our last steamy night together. Those blue eyes looking so serious as he thrust into me. For a moment, I felt his mouth on my nipple, his hands holding my hips firmly. The grand finale had taken place on the sturdy butcher block in my kitchen. I felt a flare of arousal all my own and pushed it away. Bright lights wouldn't fix this one. I owned these feelings.
"I'm fine. Just cold, tired, and ready to get moving."
He nodded. “Good. Let's go then. Everybody have what they need?"
The great part about being the psychic in the mix is that I don't have to lug equipment. I am the equipment.
Mikey gathered several duffel bags while Missy grabbed what looked like an oversized briefcase. Liz followed suit and wheeled two suitcases up the crooked front walk.
Trip settled his arm around my shoulder and gave me a squeeze. “You sure you're okay, darlin'?"
I allowed myself to relax against him for a moment, breathing deeply to steal a whiff of his own personal scent. I forced myself to back off and gave him a smile.
"I'm fine. Really. I think I just need some R-and-R."
"You were thinking about us, weren't you?” Trip always cuts to the chase. He's a no bullshit kind of guy. It's one of his most redeeming qualities.
"Nope.” I didn't even convince myself.
"You broke up with me, Martee. I'm always here if you change your mind."
I didn't get to answer because Mr. Richards opened the door. As soon as it was open, the flood of information started. I sagged and felt grateful when Trip steadied me.
"A lot?” he muttered.
"Tons. All strong, too."
David Richards looked a little worse for wear as he silently ushered us into the house. His face was pale and drawn, denoting lack of sleep. His hazel eyes were bloodshot, and his short, dark hair stood on end.
"Sorry I'm such a mess,” he said. “I just got up. I was awake till the wee hours listening to what sounded like an orgy. Couldn't see a damn thing, but I could hear every last giggle."
"You're not crazy,” I said quietly as I absorbed his frantic energy. He was fearing for his sanity, and rightfully so. Most people aren't used to being privy to so much spiritual activity.
"And you are?” he asked, smiling just a bit.
"Sorry. Mr. Richards, this is Martee. She's the resident psychic. I'm Trip Ericson. We spoke on the phone."
Richards shook hands all around as Trip went on to introduce the rest of the group.
"So I'm not crazy?” he asked. His eyes told me my answer was important.
"Not at all. They're everywhere."
"Good. I feel better already. I have hot coffee if anyone's interested. It's all set up in the kitchen with a box of donuts. Do you need anything from me? Because I'm late for work already."
"Just a few questions,” Trip said. Mikey had already wandered off with his equipment bag, presumably to set up. Liz and Missy stood there looking antsy.
"Any rooms we should focus on? Any place where there's been repeated contact?"
In my mind's eye I saw an ornate, masculine bedroom. My guides also showed me a large room stuffed with sofas and wingback chairs. I saw a huge glass chandelier and a stone fireplace.
"The master suite and the sitting room,” Richards said without hesitation. “I've had an encounter or two throughout the entire house but those two rooms are the most active. I've actually moved into the guest room. I try to avoid the master suite if I can."
"Did you buy all this furniture?” I blurted.
"No. It came with the house. The original owner died about ten years ago and his family inherited."
"And they sat on the house forever and let it be. Then they needed the money, so it was auctioned off—lock, stock, and barrel,” I finished, receiving the information on my own.
"Yes.” He looked startled and comforted at the same time. “I really have to go."
Trip grabbed his bag. “We'll call the cell phone number you provided if we have any more questions."
"Good.” Davidson left without combing his hair.
"He's frazzled,” I said, meeting Trip's eyes.
"I'd think he was nuts if he weren't."
"Let's get started.” I moved toward the master staircase while taking in the richly upholstered, antique furniture that peppered the foyer. Probably worth a fortune.
Trip gently touched my arm. “I meant what I said out there, Martee. I know he saved you from answering, and that's fine. I am, however, not over you, even a little. Not by a long shot."
"We've got work to do,” I said around the growing lump in my throat. I missed the solid feel of him. Missed his chin resting in my hair. I missed the feel of his lips. What I wanted to do was step into him and let him wrap me in his arms. Instead I moved up the staircase.
My first spirit met me at the top. Her long red hair hung in perfect ringlets. Her skin was the color of milk and peppered with little red freckles.
Lily. That was her name. She laughed a laugh only I could hear and grabbed the lacy bodice of her dress and flashed
me. Her breasts were the size of teacups, perfect in every respect. Enviable, really. I laughed despite myself.
"That's a hell of welcome,” I said.
"What?” Trip yelled from the first floor.
"Not talking to you,” I answered.
"Sorry, babe. Forgot."
Lily pointed to the left and I followed her lead. The master suite was exactly as I'd seen it. A large, mahogany bed dominated the room. It was covered with a red brocade bedcover that probably weighed a ton. Matching curtains managed to stifle all but the bravest rays of sunlight. The room was large and very masculine in a bordello kind of way.
Lily hopped onto the bed and laid back as if she owned it. I knew she didn't, but she was very at home here.
She waved to get my attention and sent me a picture. Clear as day, I saw a man kneeling before her—his face buried in her sex, his hands gently, but firmly, forcing her legs wider. Lily's head was thrown back in pleasure, and her lips parted. Her pink kitten tongue roamed over swollen lips. The man inserted two fingers inside of her, and continued to lick and stroke with his tongue. Right before she came, Lily grabbed both tiny, brown nipples and twisted them almost violently. Her orgasm shook her body mercilessly as her lover rose from his knees and unzipped his pinstriped trousers.
I sank to the bed as the vision passed. I felt moisture invading my cotton panties. My hand moved to my crotch and settled on the zipper of my jeans. I placed it there to steady myself, to smother my arousal. The pressure only served to heighten it.
"You okay?"
I yelped in surprise as Trip walked in. He took in the scene. Me flushed, breathing hard, and holding myself.
"What the fuck?"
"Sex,” I managed. “There's no malevolence here, but oodles of sex. I've only met one, but she just about brought me to my knees.” I summoned a weak smile. I guess it's better to get turned on than have furniture hurled at you.
"Been that long since we were together?” he asked knowing damn well how long it had been.
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