by Nikki Sex
To me, it has a certain symmetry.
When else would she have called?
There is no matter, space, time, or distance for someone who lives a ghostly existence. Here is probably one place for us, but for a disembodied spirit, here may consist of everywhere.
Obviously, Sammy’s mother felt her son’s joy and release from the earthly plane at the exact moment her parents did. Why? Because her son was also with his mom at the same time. A ghost can be in countless places at once.
Sammy had been haunting her, as well. Seemingly, he remained on this plane of existence in order to bring resolution to his mom, too.
Time has little meaning for a ghost. When someone’s dead, twenty years, or even five-hundred or more may have passed. With a ghost’s perception of time, this is no time at all.
For those trapped on earth and living in a spiritual form, it’s all here and now.
I watch the astonished couple answer their phone. Tears well in their eyes. The grandfather speaks first, his tone dumbfounded, his voice gruff and grateful.
The conversation glows with love and forgiveness. My lips curve into a satisfied smile.
Aww. Hallmark moment.
With their attention absorbed by their phone call, it’s the perfect time for me to make an exit. Sammy’s grandparents don’t notice as I get up and quietly slip away.
Chapter 5. Late
As I walk toward work, I pull out my phone and check the time. Damn it. Usually I make a point to be early, so I’m on time for everything.
While in my hand my phone vibrates as I receive a text message. I check and find my boss’s secretary has asked me to stop in his office when I arrive. It’s a little embarrassing since I’m going to be thirty minutes late. I doubt the boss will mind.
Still buzzed by heavenly energy and pleased about Sammy, I pick up speed. By definition, a problem is the struggle between two or more opposing forces. In this case, it was the ongoing, unseen battle between Sammy’s grandparents on one side—their daughter and son-in-law on the other.
Poor kid had been stuck in the middle.
The beauty of situations like Sammy’s is—you only have to deal with one side of the problem. Why? Because once you do, the battle is over. The opponents in the ongoing war abruptly wonder, “What have I been upset about?”
In this happily concluded case, all conflict disappeared as completely as a thick morning fog on a sunny summer day.
It’s hard to explain, but my demon does communicate…kind of. I can tell he’s happy about Sammy and overjoyed with the energy zap.
“I agree…it was glorious,” I say under my breath to my friend.
I pause for him to take this in, but his reply makes my stomach tighten with gnawing, aching hunger. He craves more energy than this little taste.
Damn him.
Strong, often unpleasant sensation is how he nags. Thankfully, I lost the urge to snap at my inner monster years ago. I’ve become the queen of keeping my temper in check. Tolerance and respect are virtues he’s learning from my example—I hope.
My demon has to communicate somehow, after all.
“Yes, yes, we’re still going out for a larger, baser meal later,” I reassure him, recalling our plans for picking up someone tonight at a club and enjoying hot, no-holds-barred, toe curling sex.
My demon feeds by gathering energy through connection. The more complete the joining, the greater the banquet. Helping ghosts pass to the other side gives us both a pleasant power buzz, but mostly I keep my friend sated with twice-a-week sex. A quick tumble with a stranger is what I look for.
One of my problems is demon sex is evidently addictive. People who fool around with me desperately want to do so again. Even the most irredeemable player suddenly aches to become monogamous. They stalk me, begging for commitment and marriage.
That’s why I wear wigs, contact lenses, and various disguises when I go out for a feed. It’s also why I fuck my partners to unconsciousness, then sneak away.
Love them and leave them—that’s how I roll.
It would be nice to have a relationship, but it wouldn’t work for my demon and me. People who are infatuated trust the objects of their affection. They confide their biggest secrets because it feels safe to let go.
I can never completely let go.
As wonderful as it sounds—for me, having a relationship and falling in love is far too dangerous.
Chapter 6. Janice St. John
MacLeod International takes up the topmost four floors of a thirty-story high-rise in Vancouver’s business district. The area is up and coming, packed with towering skyscrapers surrounded by water.
I tip my head back, checking out the building I work in for anything suspicious. All clear. No red-eyed ravens. No crazy angels falling from the heavens. No God-awful malignant smells. Pleased, I walk inside.
In keeping with my persona, I timidly hold out my ID so a security guard can check it.
“Ms. St. John?”
“Yes.” I nod nervously, like the twenty-two-year-old I appear to be. He smiles kindly as though he’s my big brother, waving me through. The building is modern, full of chrome and white. It gives a new and spacious feel.
I adore my current name Janice St. John. My boss calls me Janney, while I’ve asked most people to call me Jan. Jane would have been more apt. Plain Jane suits my chosen role.
Contrary to popular belief, I can’t simply make up a new name from scratch. I must take a name, birth certificate, and social security number from someone who died—preferably at birth. The deceased must be near my age (if she had lived).
Janice St. John died the day she was born, twenty-two years ago. This makes her perfect as an identity. I’ve used her name from the moment of my most recent arrival in Canada, three years ago.
The surname of St. John is a hoot. OK, maybe a “hoot” isn’t the word for how that name makes me feel. It brings back memories of a magnificent man I once knew.
Stafford St. John.
My low heels click on white marble as I walk to the bank of elevators. My thoughts return to the past.
I had a short but intensely passionate affair with Stafford when crossing from Southampton to New York in 1928. Stafford had been a handsome “older” man, maybe thirty-five to my apparent early twenties. High IQ, well read, and extremely nearsighted with a good sense of humor, there had been nothing bad boy about him. He’d been fit, healthy, and muscular in a wiry way.
Thick, dark brown hair and shockingly dark eyes—I’ll never forget his hands and tongue touching every inch of my body. I shiver as I remember how he took me, how he licked, and bit. The scent of him, the feel of him in my mouth, the expression on his face—his groans as he came.
Stafford was a nerdy science guy who had visions of changing the world on a cellular level as far as I could tell. Because of my condition I’d sworn off making love with anyone, but he determinedly romanced me during the five-day Atlantic crossing.
It wouldn’t have made any difference.
The chemistry we had together! Talk about lust, love, and instant attraction. It had been that way for both of us.
Stafford had been bitten by a werewolf immediately before boarding. I often wonder if he survived the transformation.
I hope so.
Lycanthrope is the European folklore term used throughout the middle ages. It means a human with the ability to shapeshift into a wolf or a wolf-like creature, either purposely or due to a curse.
The affliction is spread via a bite or scratch from a werewolf. Additionally, what is passed from the wolf to the victim is not germ-filled contamination, but earth energy comprised of animal magic.
The contagion rate is 100%—except for me. I’m immune to everything. Apparently, in the fight between demon magic and wolf magic, demon magic wins.
Stafford is over a hundred and twenty years old by now. Weres age slowly, living twice as long as humans so he probably looks sixty or seventy—if some stupid wolf dominance fight h
asn’t killed him already.
Hooking up with Stafford St. John had been a violation of all my rules of survival, but how could I resist him? Nor could I ever regret it.
Stafford had made my Atlantic crossing romantic and fun.
Thank God I had enough restraint to wait to let him into my bed. Instead, for five whole days, we talked, we flirted, we laughed and teased. He opened doors for me, fetched me a blanket if we sat on deck, brought me flowers.
In short he treated me like royalty, his closest confidant, and his best friend.
We arrived in New York before we both frantically jumped each other like a couple of feral, sex-starved creatures. As if hyped on Viagra and steroids, we’d bruised, bit, and scratched each other in our desperate need.
I’ve had some smoking hot sex in my life, but my time with Stafford St. John was the best sex ever. Erotic, intimate, carnal…raw. He bent me over, held me down, and took me from behind like the animal he was destined to become.
After the first few hours of urgency, he’d loved me slowly. Stafford could be tender, caring, and passionate.
We made love.
Our hotel in N.Y. gave me the opportunity for an early morning escape—an impossible achievement when stuck on a boat at sea. I have an unbreakable rule. I never, ever get together with someone I’ve already fed from.
To prevent complications, I sneak away after sex. Further energy donations result in sex-addiction for them. Such intimacy is one of my main no nos.
Janice St. John—what a good name.
My breath catches, my body tenses. I’m flooded with sensory memories. I recall how we were up all night, screwing the ever loving hell out of each other. Multiple orgasms, rough, mind-blowing synergy—alternating with soft, caring caresses. Our power consumption was off the charts.
My demon was full of energy, utterly sated.
By the time we were through, my skin was covered in bite marks. Whisker rash had reddened my jaw and neck, and especially between my legs. Bruised and deliciously sore, it was a wonder I could walk the next day.
Other than Lord Cecil (who doesn’t really count) the delectable Stafford St. John was one of the few men I’ve allowed myself to get to know, to feel something for, and to make love with—as opposed to merely having sex.
St. John scared the crap out of me. I honestly worried I’d fucked him to death. I left him unconscious but breathing. I think he was OK, anyway. For all I know, he expired in that hotel room. At least I sent a maid to look in on him.
Until the moment he passed out and his eyes rolled up so only the whites showed, it had been the best night of my life. A relationship would have never worked out, but…
I wish I could have kept him.
I sigh. Ah, those were the days.
Upon my arrival at the elevators in the high-rise, the door to one car opens, going up. I quickly enter, push the button for the top floor, move to the back, and stand with my gaze lowered. Five others join me in my car, all human.
None of these people are very observant, while I notice everything.
I’ve felt weres and vampires in this building before, some even work for MacLeod’s—not that it matters. Supernatural creatures are everywhere. I avoid them. Even though my demon is crazy for paranormals, it’s too risky permit him to feed from them.
Like people everywhere—kind, generous, self-centered, or cruel—some supernaturals are very, very bad. The repellant scent of their evil makes my heart pound, my throat dry, and my teeth ache.
Unfortunately, even the good ones would kill me if they could.
A pretty, dark-haired woman jumps in right before the doors close. Psychically sensitive, an enticing whisper of her magic sends a tingle of raw lust inching up my spine. Bubbling like freshly-poured champagne, power and pleasure flare across my skin.
Yum. Raw energy.
My demon hums with desire.
My breasts swell and ache, my muscles tighten. God, I feel as though I could do her right here. I suck in a deep breath, hold it.
Shit. I usually have more control than this.
The woman is unaware of her magic. Without even trying, I immediately know so much about her—when she first came into her gift, her fear of being different, her unconscious choice to suppress and deny her talent.
That works well, until a shifter or vampire discovers her. People with magic are rare and sought after.
I close my eyes as hunger pours over me in a sensual, heated wave. My demon wants her—he adores anything with an extraordinary energy signature. He knows I allow him to feed on humans. Why not her?
“Soon,” I mutter to him. “Not now. Tonight.”
Deliberately, I ignore both my own response and that of my inner monster. Instead, I focus on getting to work.
The company motto for MacLeod’s is, “Discrete, trustworthy, we get the job done.” Our customers have a money back guarantee.
The family-owned organization has been operating for over eighty years. MacLeod’s offers a range of services including experienced troubleshooting consultants, missing persons, security, detective work—all with or without informing the police as the client dictates.
Nothing is beyond our range of expertise.
Mr. Jonathan MacLeod, my boss, is the great-great-grandson of the man who began the business. With his wife of forty years, four children, and five grandkids, he’s a wealthy man—and I’m not talking about money. Nine healthy descendants and still happily married?
If he isn’t rich, who is?
I fully checked into his background before I applied for a job. In fact, I knew exactly how to ensure I obtained the position once I researched him.
With my experience, I leave little or nothing to chance.
I was hired as his personal assistant to manage—would you believe?—his filing systems. I updated everything, scanning microfiche and paper onto computer, while maintaining a comprehensive method to locate hard copy originals (the ones I let him keep).
There’s a little obsessive compulsive in me—OK, a lot of obsessive compulsive. A natural clutter banisher, even my car has everything I could possibly need, exactly where I want it. I work on the Kondo method of discarding things that don’t spark joy, then organizing what’s left.
I made Mr. MacLeod’s records a work of useful art. The process of finding and implementing the perfect system is like soothing Zen for me.
MacLeod’s is a liberal minded organization—no one cares how a case is solved, as long as it’s brought to a satisfactory conclusion.
Eventually, I took on a more active role in the company. Once the boss and I learned to trust each other, I told him of my preternatural abilities with ghosts.
When I take on psychic duties, he adds a large bonus to my wage for every successful outcome.
As I’ve said, I don’t need the money but a good mystery? Hell, yes! Where do I sign up? My demon and I are both drawn to that kind of thing.
Chapter 7. Why I love my Boss
I view my reflection in the tinted windows of the office. My shoulder-length hair is mussed, my face flushed from a rapid pace. I wear brown slacks, a matching jacket, and a cream blouse. Clothed in cheap, off-the-rack stuff, I look as though I’m making an effort to dress like a professional.
Excellent.
Dutiful, embarrassed, in a hurry, and in character, I push open the glass door. Then I walk inside to face the dragon.
The dragon’s hot glare burns through me, her eyes as piercing as double swords. In her mid-fifties with coiffured graying hair, Brenda Gagnon is highly capable. Aware of everyone and everything in the company, she is exceptional—the perfect PA. Regrettably, she’s not much fun for us underlings.
“Hi, Brenda,” I say timidly to my boss’s secretary—not because I’m shy in the least. While at work, I play the angelic sweetie pie.
I approach her warily, alert to her mood. Generally, she’s a mega bitch, extracting immediate compliance from even the most rebellious staff. The woman is a lion
tamer who wields her tongue like a whip.
Cowed, I lower my gaze meekly to show her I’m not worth her time. All the while, my body language is clear: See how shy I am? Aren’t you being unreasonable to glare at me? You should be ashamed of yourself. How can you pick on someone as young, kind, sweet, and nice as I am?
“Hello, Janice,” she says with a long-suffering sigh. Is that a trace of cynical amusement I detect in her voice?
Brenda’s lips curve into a ghost of a smile.
Oh, goodie, she’s letting me off the hook. Her dark eyes flash with a sardonic spark of humor. Sometimes I feel certain she knows exactly what’s going on. Perhaps she’s playing a part—like I am.
Whatever. For now, the woman is in a good mood—for her. Neither lively nor prickly, this mild, understated demeanor is Brenda at her “cheerful” best.
“Sorry I’m late.” I barely meet her gaze. My shoulders hunch with shame. “I missed my bus.”
I lie with earnest, remorseful features. I don’t blink, flinch, or tense. My heart rate remains steady. When it comes to acting, I’m a master.
I use the “halo effect” to get my way. This effect is the preference folks have for people who are good-looking, have nice smiles, or possess some other appealing characteristic. These paragons walk around with an invisible halo.
Meek, soft spoken, co-operative, and young; people don’t see me as a threat. They also bend over backwards to help me—perhaps because they recall the awkward, shy periods of their own youth.
Walking around work with my innocent halo, I can do no wrong. It’s intentional and all part of the plan.
Studies show what really screws relationships are negative interactions. Success with my colleagues is about avoiding unpleasantness. I make sure all my exchanges at work are either positive or neutral.
With my unimposing guise, it’s easy. Due to the halo effect, no one questions me. They assume I’m telling the truth or doing the right thing.
In reality, I’m dangerous as hell. Inside me lives a deadly weapon, yet people trust my innocent persona.