Bad Boys of the Night: Eight Sizzling Paranormal Romances: Paranormal Romance Boxed Set

by Jennifer Ashley

More rocks, the earth slide increased. As if something had lost its foothold and slipped back a few feet, causing a cave in around it.

  Brendan was almost to the edge. His flashlight crawled over the terrain and then inched up to the piled dirt circling the chasm. The blackness around him seemed more complete because of the tiny rent he and his light put in it. He acknowledged the fear that threatened to buckle his knees even as he refused to give into it.

  He stopped just short of the plunging brink.

  “Brendan,” Analise said, her voice a shaky whisper in the disturbing dark.

  He leaned forward, trying to peer into the pit without actually going to the rim. He couldn’t see a damn thing, but more dirt shifted and skipped into the depths. Dirt he’d dislodged? Or—

  “Brendan, please come back. Please?”

  A deep and dank odor wafted up toward him. Like something dead and long ago rotted had escaped its sealed chamber. What the hell was it? Another step and then a rush of air blasted out in a gust that lifted his hair and scared a “What the fuck!” right out of him. The scrabbling sound raced up the ravine wall and Brendan stumbled back, shouting again as he tried to catch his balance. Behind him, Analise began to scream. Without thought, he turned and bolted.

  “Run!” he hollered, racing past her to the truck.

  She didn’t even know from what, but she didn’t stop to ask. She scrambled through the door he held open, over the seat to her side as he jumped in behind the wheel and threw the gear into reverse. The truck fish tailed before spinning around and out the way they’d come. Shaking and crying, Analise twisted in her seat and looked back.

  “What do you see?” he demanded.

  She was sobbing, too hysterical to even answer. He tore his gaze from the road and looked in the rearview mirror. A pale light seemed to hover over the pit. What was it? A face? But it glowed, not like skin but ... Without warning, it shifted and it felt ... it felt like it looked at him. Analise screamed.

  “What is it?” Brendan shouted. “Is it following us?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  Brendan had the pedal to the floor and the truck felt like it had wings as it flew across the desert, barely staying on the excuse for a road. It hadn’t taken them this long to get there, had it? Shit, was he lost? Had he gotten turned around? Where was the moon? Where was the fucking town?

  “Why did you bring me here?” Analise was crying over and over. “Why, why?”

  He turned in his seat and looked back. Nothing following, and yet ... a glimmer. The town. How had the town ended up on his right? Didn’t matter, as long as he got there. He cranked the wheel, his instincts telling him he was backtracking while his eyes insisted he was headed the right way.

  “No,” Analise shouted. “You’re going back.”

  He opened his mouth to tell her she was wrong, but now he was completely disoriented and his headlights picked out the gaping ravine ahead. At seventy miles an hour, they were going in.

  He turned hard left, taking the truck into a crazy spin at the edge of the abyss. He felt the wheels lose traction. Felt the pull of gravity trying to suck them down. The back end hovered for an instant over the great nothingness of it, and then slowly, the truck began to slide down.

  CHAPTER 2

  Some say destiny is unavoidable. Some say a person’s whole life is determined before he or she is even born. Reilly Alexander didn’t buy into that, which wasn’t the same as saying he didn’t believe it. When he looked back on his life, it seemed fate had done more than drive him around; it had plotted out a specific course that brought him here, now, to a bookstore in Los Angeles where he would meet his destiny.

  “We’ve put your table right up front,” the Barnes & Noble manager told him.

  “Thank you.”

  “I think you’ll have a good turnout. Your book has been selling quite well for us.”

  This was his fourth book, and he still couldn’t get used to hearing that it wasn’t complete crap. Maybe he’d never get used to hearing it. A part of him still believed that it was his nefarious and disastrous venture into the music business that brought the readers to his books, not the writing. Not his stories, but the story of a failed rocker turned literary genius. He smirked to himself at that. Yeah, that.

  But fans did come. The women, as often as not, looking for something better than a book to take to bed. The young musicians came because they thought some of his luck would rub off on them. It didn’t matter that his luck in the music business had run out fast. The others ... He still hadn’t figured out what drew the others. All in all, though, he ate well, traveled in fair style, and lived a life of quasi-fame. In honesty, more than he’d ever expected of himself.

  He ran a hand over his nearly shaved head, still expecting the shoulder-length shag he’d worn until a few months ago when he’d decided it was time to cut even that from his life. The impeccably dressed manager he followed to the table hadn’t said a word about Reilly’s appearance, but it was there in the look that skimmed his Flogging Molly T-shirt and faded blue jeans. In the beginning, when the first book had come out, he’d tried dressing up and felt like an even bigger idiot and imposter. The slacks and button-down had fit his image like panty hose and a sunbonnet.

  “Just let me know if you need anything,” the manager said before going about his business. A cold beer would be nice, but Reilly refrained from asking and simply thanked the man. All he could hope was that the next two hours went fast.

  During his college years Reilly had made his living as a lead singer and songwriter of a band called Badlands. When the group broke up after three years and one hit single, Reilly had been left with a bit of fame and little fortune. Individually, each of the band members had branched out and failed to produce anything worth listening to. Reilly had resorted to writing songs for others until he’d finally settled down and pounded out the novel he’d been thinking of for years.

  Four books later, he’d gained enough traction to warrant a fifth. Riding the infamy tide with Badlands had taught him not to believe his own press, though. They loved his books today, but only if he had something better to provide tomorrow. His problem of the hour was that he didn’t. The channel of ideas he’d been surfing had disappeared and left him lost and in a panic over what came next. Was it time for yet another career change?

  The signing started like clockwork with a steady trickle of readers who had fished his other titles off the shelves and now wanted his signature on the new one. It never felt real to scrawl his name on the title page, but he tried not to let it show. A few strays showed up, too, most of them looking for the bathroom, a couple in search of Cinnabon and its seductive aroma.

  When a young man in board shorts and an old Badlands concert T-shirt came up to the table, Reilly immediately took note. He hadn’t seen one of those shirts in years. It made him feel nostalgic for a minute.

  The kid told him, “I’m writing a report for my music history class about one-hit wonders. You know, where are they now?”

  “They’re all in hiding,” Reilly said. He knew for a fact that one or two of his own one-hit disaster group would probably shoot the pimply kid if he tried to out them. Oblivious, the kid sat on the edge of Reilly’s table and picked up a copy of his latest book, Broken.

  “So is this based on your life?” he asked.

  Reilly gave him a steady look. “It’s about a maniac who stalks groupies and murders them.”

  The kid nodded, still wearing the idiot smile.

  “So, no,” Reilly said patiently, “it’s not about my life.”

  The kid let go a snort of laughter. “Good thing, huh?”

  And so it went, until finally, the lull gave him a chance to sit back and drink the water so thoughtfully provided by one of the cute sales clerks.

  “Excuse me?”

  Reilly looked up to find an older woman standing in front of him. Fine-boned and birdlike, she had paper-thin skin the color of toffee—not black
, brown, or white, but a mixture that defied racial claims. Deep lines fanned from the corners of eyes that sparkled like black diamonds. She wore pink lipstick—a young girl’s color, but she managed to carry it off. Perhaps it was the white-toothed smile. A turban in bright African colors wrapped around her hair and a long flowing tunic matched it. Black pants with precise creases covered her legs and black sneakers completed the outfit. Reilly stared at the athletic shoes with a bemused smile. The words super granny came to mind.

  Behind her stood a hodgepodge of humanity that Reilly couldn’t have dreamed up and fictionalized if he’d tried. Like some kind of comic book depiction of a crowd, they clustered together, a few extremely tall and a couple excessively short, some unnaturally thin and others uncommonly fat. Their clothes crossed the spectrum from white gauze to fuchsia, tie-dye to black satin. One man wore white gloves and a priest’s vestments. Either this was the weirdest book club on the planet or they’d been beamed down from a circling vessel. The group watched the old woman with avid interest.

  “You are Nathan Reilly Alexander?” she said, her voice strong and clear.

  No one called him Nathan. If it wouldn’t have been such a pointless pain in the ass to do it, he’d have had the name removed from record. “It’s Reilly. Reilly Alexander.”

  He reached for the book she held out and opened it to the title page.

  “You can make it out to Chloe Lamont,” she said. “Your guide to your destiny.”

  He paused, pen poised over the page. “Come again?”

  “You’ve been waiting for me, haven’t you?”

  Reilly gave her a slanted look and a head shake. “Can’t say that I have.”

  “You haven’t been thinking of fate, of your destiny? Of where you go from here?”

  He wanted to scoff, but of course he’d been doing more than thinking about it. He’d been dwelling on it. He wrote, To Chloe, enjoy the book, signed it, and handed it back to her. She took it with a strange smile.

  “Don’t you wonder why I’m here?”

  “It’s a book signing. People are supposed come to them.”

  “There’s a town called Diablo Springs,” she said, ignoring his sarcasm. She had a rich and melodic voice with a trace of an unidentifiable accent that teased the ends of her words. “It was a notorious place once. Do you know how it got its name?”

  Reilly shrugged. He knew, but obviously she had her own theory and was dying to tell him.

  “It’s not named for the hot springs, as many mistakenly believe,” she said. “It’s called Diablo because it’s haunted by the devil himself.”

  “Interesting,” he answered, wishing she’d move along.

  She stared at a point over his shoulder and her body became unnaturally still. For reasons he couldn’t explain, every hair on Reilly’s body stood on end. He thought of pushing away from the table and bolting, but the idea of it was ridiculous enough to keep him rooted.

  As if hearing his thoughts, she snapped her attention back to him. “Diablo Springs is home to spirits that will never find peace. You’re familiar with this place, of course.”

  “Obviously, you know the answer to that.”

  She nodded. “I’ve been called there.”

  “Then you should go.”

  “I’ve been called to bring you. I’m leaving tonight.”

  “Listen, Ms. Lamont—”

  “You may call me Chloe.”

  He’d pass on that offer. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about Diablo Springs, Ms. Lamont, but I can pretty much guarantee that it isn’t true. It’s just a dried-up old town.”

  “A ghost town, but only the ghosts know it.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Aren’t you curious about who is calling me?”

  “No.”

  “Not even if it’s Carolina Beck?”

  Had she said Carolina Beck? That got Reilly’s full attention. He hadn’t thought of Carolina Beck since the last time she’d slammed the door in his face. Her granddaughter, Gracie, was another story altogether. He was pretty sure he’d never stopped thinking about Gracie. Once upon a time, sparkles and unicorns had filled Gracie’s eyes, and Reilly Alexander had filled her heart.

  But that was a long, long time ago.

  “You’re friends with Carolina Beck?” he asked skeptically.

  “Her spirit.”

  Her spirit? “She’s dead?”

  Chloe didn’t answer.

  Reilly leaned forward, intrigued now. “How is she calling you?”

  Chloe leaned in, “How did I know you’d care?”

  A pale man appeared at Chloe’s side, younger than she by about twenty years, but still graying at the temples. Tall and skeletal, he struck Reilly as a hybrid of a vampire and Abraham Lincoln. Where Chloe was color, he was transparent. He put a protective hand on Chloe’s waist and a watchful eye on Reilly.

  “You’re looking for your next story,” Chloe went on. “You’re worried because you can’t find one. It’s a question of destiny, but you can’t see what’s right under your nose.”

  “And you can?” Reilly said.

  “You’re part of this story, Nathan Reilly Alexander.”

  “And just what kind of story would that be?”

  “A ghost story, of course.”

  CHAPTER 3

  Gracie Beck pulled the brochure she’d created for a distance education program from her printer and gave it a critical look. The banner read, “See the world from the other side of the textbook.” It was the kind of program she’d longed to go on when she was in college. But by then she’d had a baby, a job, and more life experience than she cared to remember.

  On Monday, she’d proof it and give the layout a final review, but for now, she was tired. She saved the file and leaned back in her chair. This evening, the house seemed cavernous, though in reality it was just a tiny one-story bungalow built in the giddy days following World War II. San Diego was filled with houses like this one. Apart from the two bedrooms—hers and her daughter, Analise’s—there was a nook that doubled as an office, a living room/family room, and a kitchen with enough space for a dinette. The yard was small, but Lake Murray, where she could walk her pair of horse-sized dogs, Tinkerbelle and Juliet, wasn’t far off.

  Her third dog, a petite Yorkie named Romeo, sat on her lap while she worked. Gracie absently scratched behind his ears.

  She supposed she should get used to the silence in the house. Analise was sixteen and soon she’d be off to college. She was an honor student with gifts that ranged from math to music. First-chair orchestra, accelerated calculus; she’d have her pick of universities. Gracie would miss her, but she was so proud.

  Analise was at a sleepover tonight at her girlfriend’s. Nothing uncommon and yet the twilight hours had been filled with a bad feeling that wouldn’t go away. Her daughter had texted an hour or so ago—the kind of sweet check-in she always did—but still ... something felt off. Gracie had tried to talk herself out of worrying, but finally she’d called Analise and gotten her voice mail.

  Again, nothing to worry about. The girls were probably outside in the pool. So why was she so anxious?

  Standing, Gracie stretched, wincing as her joints creaked and muscles groaned. She’d just celebrated her thirty-third birthday, but she felt ancient. All three dogs stood when she did, but Juliet gave a sudden, low growl that lifted the fine hairs at Gracie’s nape. Tinkerbelle raised her head, ears pricked.

  Probably nothing more than the wind in the trees, but Gracie scooped up Romeo and let the big dogs escort her to the hall. She paused at Analise’s door and listened, though she didn’t expect to hear anything. Analise was gone. Quietly, she turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  The darkness and shadows cowered from the hall light that spilled into her daughter’s bedroom. Gracie stepped inside and stared with a mixture of worry and confusion. On any given day, a chaos of jeans, peeled off and left where they dropped, shirts discarded with sleeves half in, half out,
shoes strewn in between with stray socks and hair things—all would have littered the floor. But tonight it was spotless.

  The whole week Gracie had noticed little things that seemed out of character for Analise. Her hair styled out of her face, her makeup less severe, a grouchy mumble in the morning instead of a smile. But none of it sent up the kind of red flag the clean room did.

  A sound came from the front of the house and both Juliet and Tinkerbelle spun around with bared teeth and deep barks. Romeo joined in, late on the uptake but determined to be as fierce as his giant counterparts. He squirmed to get down and Gracie set him on the floor. Immediately, he tore out of the room.

  Gracie strained to hear beyond the yapping animals as she followed their furious barks. The hallway had never seemed so long, so dim, so cut off from the rest of the house. Gracie rounded the corner into the front room, filled with irrational fear. It was empty, of course. No intruder could make it past her dogs, and the front door remained closed, the windows shut tight. Everything locked up. But Gracie couldn’t shake the nagging apprehension.

  Without warning, Juliet launched herself at the front door, barking like a rabid wolf. Tinkerbelle charged just a half step behind and Romeo hopped between them. Over their ruckus, Gracie heard a sound, a scratching from the other side. Slowly, she approached as the dogs frothed in their excitement.

  From outside, Gracie heard a long, agonized shriek echo on the wind. High-pitched and loud, it raced through her blood like ice and brought the word keening into her head.

  Anxious, Gracie stepped forward. Her palms were damp as she braced them on the door and stood on tiptoe so she could see out the peephole.

  The porch was empty, lit by the bright light over the door. A strong wind blew the branches of the giant pepper tree in the front yard, making a rustling sound as it blustered through the dangling limbs. For a moment, it seemed that someone stood beneath it. A woman ... a small, bent woman. Familiar, yet too unlikely to be more than a trick of the eye.

  Still ... for a moment ... the woman had looked like Gracie’s Grandma Beck.