Shadows in the Mist
A Paranormal Anthology
Murder at the Mausoleum © Marianne Stillings 2013
Spellbound in Seattle © Shannon O’Brien 2013
Dead Moon © KL Mullens 2013
Evil Bites © Dawn Kravagna 2013
The Eye of Lilith © Sherri Shaw 2013
Origins: The Men of MER © Kristine Cayne 2013
All rights reserved.
ISBN-10: 0989197026
ISBN-13: 978-0-9891970-2-1
Book cover design by Sherri Shaw, 2013
www.sherribydesign.com
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Shadows in the Mist
A Paranormal Anthology
From the misty waters of Puget Sound across the wrinkles of time to the shadow of Mt. Vesuvius, mystery and magic intertwine to create haunting tales of everlasting passion. This anthology of six novellas is a collaboration of the Seattle-based Rainy Day Writers group.
Murder at the Mausoleum by Marianne Stillings—Out of work and desperate for a job, Stephanie Gabriel reluctantly accepts a position as Housekeeper/Girl Friday for Dr. John Mercilus at his isolated Northern California mansion. Sure, he’s wealthy, hunky, and single, but the fact he’s a Vampire has Stephanie more than a little worried. Though Mercilus promises she’ll come to no harm, there is nonetheless danger afoot. When a major snowstorm maroons them along with an odd assortment of house guests, it’s more than inconvenient – it’s murder, and the clues all point to Stephanie’s boss as the culprit. Now she has to decide whether to trust the enigmatic "Creature of the Night" she’s falling for, or find a means of escape before she becomes the next victim. (17,000 words)
Spellbound in Seattle by Shannon O’Brien—When Rose McCarty’s boyfriend was killed, she swore off witchcraft and love. But when his tall, dark older brother washes up on her houseboat’s deck three years later—muttering about doppelgangers and incubi—Rose’s lonely, spell-free world comes crashing down. (17,600 words)
Dead Moon by KL Mullens—During a Dead Moon Elspeth Saint has a strange encounter she can’t explain and a door previously closed becomes open; a gift is given; a promise is kept; and Elspeth who has never known what it is to be loved; learns what it is to be cherished. (11,000 words)
Evil Bites by Dawn Kravagna—Kim seeks revenge on the serial killer who viciously attacked and maimed her lovely sister. But she soon discovers that evil can bite back. (16,500 words)
The Eye of Lilith by Sherri Shaw—Marc Blakely has been bewitched by a rare artifact rumored to drive a man insane before compelling him to commit suicide. As a member of the Speaker of the Word coven, Cindi Jones uses her magic to destroy enchanted relics and protect the innocents they infect. Can she save Marc in time, or will he succumb to the Eye of Lilith? (19,400 words)
Origins: The Men of MER by Kristine Cayne—Petty Officer Wyatt Black had no idea what he signed up for by joining the Navy’s experimental MER program. When a domestic terrorist attack almost kills Dr. Claire Montgomery, the woman of Wyatt’s dreams, he is exposed to a lethal illness that poses a horrifying threat to mankind—but only because of what the Navy has done to him. In the midst of saving Claire’s life, Wyatt is forced to face the terrifying truth of what he has become: something not quite human. (28,500 words)
Mystery at the Mausoleum
By
Marianne Stillings
Chapter 1
8:45 A.M.
“Beggars can’t be choosy… beggars can’t be choosy… beggars can’t be choosy.” I repeated my mother’s oft quoted mantra to my reflection in the rearview mirror. Taking in a deep breath, I cleared my throat, lifted my chin, straightened my spine, sucked in my stomach.
“It’s true!” I enunciated with bravado. “Beggars can not… be… choosy! A lady’s gotta do what a lady’s gotta do! Um, time to woman up! There are no problems, only opportunities!”
And if you believe that, I have some ocean-front property in Nevada I’d like to sell you.
I down-shifted to take a tight curve, then checked my rearview mirror again. The hazel eyes that met mine were empty of the courage of conviction I’d been going for. No wonder I’d failed my high school drama class. In all fairness, however, it was tough to demonstrate courage, acceptance, and determination when all you felt inside was panic, fear, and apprehension. I’ll bet even Meryl Streep couldn’t pull it off.
Oh, God. I was so desperate.
My throat closed. Chin dipped. Stomach un-sucked. I let my shoulders droop. I could repeat Beggars can’t be choosy a thousand times and it still wouldn’t be enough to overcome the shame. At the age of thirty-five, my life was a shambles—bank account empty, credit cards maxed, no job, nothing of value left to sell, a sick mom who needed constant care, and a dog with mailman issues. My house was in foreclosure and I had to be out by the end of the week. I’d already sent my teenaged twins to go live with their dad and his “new and improved” wife. Bitch. Oh, that reminds me, the dog went, too.
Well, any way you sliced it, I was up Poop Creek without a paddle. I needed a job—any job that paid any amount of money. Now. Today. At this point, I was prepared to claim expertise in whatever task a potential employer might ask of me.
Normally, lying is lying, except when you’re applying for a job. Looking for work changes the civilized rules of behavior, and while a responsible applicant would never tell a lie in real life, in a job interview, it’s called “skill set enhancement” and is accompanied with either a straight face or an ingratiating smile.
Unless the job requires performing open heart surgery or anything involving higher math (such as balancing a checkbook), you can usually get away with it.
Can you juggle coconuts?
Yes. Five at a time with one hand tied behind my back.
Can you perform a somersault off the high dive?
Yes. My mother was an Olympic gold medalist.
Can you tune an engine?
Yes. My father was Mario Andretti.
Are you willing to relocate to Farflungistan?
Yes. My grandmother was born there. I am fluent in Farflungish.
As far as I knew, the job I was on my way to interview for required none of those aptitudes, but it never hurts to be ready, just in case.
Approaching an intersection, my GPS instructed me to turn at the next corner. I did, after which it claimed I was “Arriving at destination, on right.”
I slammed on the brake, jolting to a hard stop as my skull bounced against my headrest.
Destination turned out to be an enormous iron gate. The accompanying fence to which it was attached disappeared on either side into lithe willow branches and white-washed birch. P
ine trees rose high overhead, poking the inky October sky with sharp needles, while gnarled mahogany-skinned Manzanita clung to their trunks like frightened gnomes.
I studied the gate. No call box, no button to push, nothing to give me a clue on how to proceed. The agency hadn’t said anything about a ten-foot iron fence or how I was to get through it. As I reached for my cell phone, the gate began sliding open; not like the Red Sea would, split down the middle, but to the side, like a stiff living room curtain made of rusty metal bars. The mechanism grated and groaned as though it hadn’t been opened since Heck was a pup—as my mom would say. Nothing a little WD-40 wouldn’t fix—the gate, not my mom.
The atmosphere was creepy, especially given the nature of the man with whom I was applying for work. According to the agency, just knowing who he was—rather, what he was—had been enough to keep most applicants away.
But desperation is a mighty force that turns cowards into cowards-pretending-to-be-brave-but-who-are-still-cowards, whistling in the dark as it were.
Assuming the house must be around the corner just ahead, I slowly drove through the gate. Immediately, the iron bars squeaked closed behind me.
All right, then. I was in. I peered through my windshield at the predatory-looking vegetation. Boy, this place sure was out in the boonies. I felt goose-pimples tighten my skin and though the day was cold, it wasn’t the weather that had caused them.
As soon as I rounded the next curve, the road began to rise sharply. Downshifting, I forged ahead, up and around, and up again, curving left then right, until finally, I was nearly at the top. One last curve… and around… and there it was… the house. Ostensibly, my new place of employment.
The thought made me a little queasy.
In my brain, theremin music began to play, high-pitched and ominous like those eerie minor key whines they use to score for B-grade horror and sci-fi flicks.
Wait. A theremin, you ask? Not a violin? Yes, see, when you’re a writer—even a failed one such as myself—you pick up a lot of useless information, theremins being one of the more obscure facts I have vying for space inside my brain.
I shook my head, but the music remained.
The architecture of the three-story house, er, mansion I should say, had a 1920’s feel to it, but its exact style was difficult to define.
I tilted my head and narrowed one eye. Hm. Then I narrowed the other eye. Ah, better.
From where I sat, it looked like the Winchester Mystery House had collapsed onto a dilapidated English manor and been rebuilt by near-sighted Neanderthals using the blueprint for Hogwarts.
Even so, it was amazingly not un-attractive, consisting of dark half-timbers, turrets, leaded windows, red brick and white plaster. Spires and chimneys jutted up in odd places.
I parked near a stone walkway that led into the garden. Working to ignore my trepidation, I approached the house.
Raising my hand, I prepared to knock, but before I had a chance, the heavy door eased open, revealing a sort of… woman person. Her skin was pale as milk (but not like whole milk, thick and creamy; more like non-fat, watery and a little blue). Her Angelina Jolie lips were stained a congealed ruby, while her dark hair (parted in the middle), hung straight down her back. The ankle-length satiny dress she wore was black (what, you were expecting maybe a yellow-checkered summer pinafore?).
I stared. I couldn’t help it. I opened my mouth to speak; she beat me to it.
“You ran-n-n-ng?” she drawled, totally deadpan, sort of like Miss Transylvania on barbiturates. I blinked and nearly backed away, then stopped myself. Halloween was next week; maybe she was practicing or something.
I let the fact I had not rung or knocked or yelled or coughed go by, and simply said, “Hi.”
Her shiny black eyes studied me.
“I’m Stephanie Gabriel,” I added. “I have a nine o’clock appointment with Dr. Mercilus. It’s about the housekeeper position?”
The woman person raised her head and nodded, then literally looked down her aquiline nose at me. “I… ” she announced in her sonorous voice, “… am Leech.”
Of course you are, I thought. I would have dropped dead on the spot if her name had been Sally Sunshine or Felicity Happy Pants.
“You may call me… Leech. De dock-tor is in de study.” She stepped back, allowing me passage into the cavernous foyer. Closing the door, she turned to face me. Hands clasped over her stomach, she droned, “He is vaiting for you.”
The phrase He vants to drink your blood ran through my head, but I cast it aside as being silly and immature. I had nothing to fear. This was simply a job interview. Sure, an interview with the vampire—hm, that might make a good book title—but the agency had promised I would be in no danger.
Again, theremin music curled around my eardrums, and I resolved that if my potential employer showed the least sign of being thirsty, I was so out of there.
As Leech led me through the first floor of the house, I couldn’t help but notice how normal it looked—fairly normal anyway. It was a little shadowy, a little dusty, the windows needed washing, the carpet could use a good hoovering, as the Brits would say. Perhaps the slightly unkempt state of the place was the reason the doctor needed a new housekeeper?
Oil paintings the size of which approached the square footage of Delaware, and a variety of really old-looking tapestries adorned the walls, while palm trees and ferns set in gigantic ceramic pots reached for the high beamed ceiling, giving the room an unexpectedly airy, welcoming feeling—unlike my guide who gave me the impression I had interrupted her at feeding time.
We turned a corner into a long, long, long (taking in a mental deep breath) lon-n-n-ng corridor lined with gilt-framed oil paintings—portraits of the doctor’s ancestors, I assumed. At the end of the wide gallery stood an ornately carved oak door.
Without facing me, Leech lowered her head, knocked three times and slowly pronounced, “She is here, Dock-tor.”
What, not Master? I suppressed a nervous laugh.
Though no response was forthcoming from the study, Leech turned to me. “Vait here.”
I muttered a “Thank you” to her narrow back as she proceeded to retrace her steps down the corridor and vanish around the corner.
I didn’t hear the flap of batwings, so I assume she didn’t morph into a Creature of the Night once she disappeared from view.
“I hope she didn’t scare you.”
While I’d been musing over Leech’s true nature—Homo sapien vs. Chiroptera—the door had opened.
I turned to face the doctor, and…
Oh.
Oh, my.
Chapter 2
10:05 A.M.
Words would not come. Speech would not come. If I so much as tried to talk, I knew I would simply babble. The drool alone would have been prohibitive.
I’d been about to answer my potential employer’s question with a light It takes a lot more than Morticia Addams to scare Gab… uh, what was my name again?
Because when our eyes met… I… I… oh, hell, I don’t remember. I only know that whatever I had expected the doctor to look like, it sure wasn’t this. Him.
Dr. John Mercilus looked to be my age, give or take a few hundred years, and he was tall, many inches taller than I. He was good looking in an action hero sort of way, especially with that dark hair and those sexy glasses. Even in tailored gray slacks, a thin black belt and white fitted shirt, it was easy to see his body was… all right, I confess. Yummy is the word that comes to mind, and let me tell you, sister, I haven’t had a good meal in a long, long time.
Trying to gain control of my senses, I stumbled, “Oh? Uh. Leech? Scare? No. Me? Scare? No, but, like, well… I… you… I … we… who, she? Her? I mean she… or you, um, as for me, uh, I… I… I…”
I rambled, sounding as though I’d just stepped off the train from Witless Junction and all I had in my suitcase were pronouns.
As I stood there, apparently incapable of constructing a coherent sentence, he smiled.
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There was surely a throne somewhere on Mount Olympus missing a god.
Either unaware of or unfazed by my reaction to him, the hunky doctor chuckled. “Leech frightens many people, but I promise, she’s harmless.” Lifting his hand, he adjusted the gold-rimmed glasses he wore.
Sigh.
I don’t know, maybe it’s the Superman/Clark Kent thing, but broad-shouldered myopic heart-throbs turn my tummy all mushy. Okay, okay, full disclosure: Not exactly my tummy. A little farther south, if you get my meaning.
I offered my hand in greeting, but more, to have something to hang on to if my knees buckled. “I’m Stephanie Gabriel. Very nice to meet you. I appreciate the opportunity to interview for this job.”
His fingers wrapped around mine, warm, strong. He looked at me with eyes so utterly blue, they were nearly translucent. I was transfixed.
My lids drifted down.
I felt wobbly.
Cellulite apparently has the tensile strength of wet Kleenex because my thighs seemed to be turning to jelly a bit short on pectin.
I realize that’s too many metaphors, but my brain was simply incapable at the moment of editing my remarks. Confused as to what was going on, I inhaled a deep breath and shook my head to try and put all the marbles back where they belonged.
“I’m John Mercilus,” he said, opening the door a little wider. “Step into my office, won’t you?”
Said the spider to the fly.
Afraid to meet his eyes again, I moved past him into the study. He hadn’t yet released my hand. My heart began to flutter.
“Please, have a seat.” He relaxed his grip, allowing me to slip my hand from his. When he indicated the leather wing chair next to his desk, I sat, then watched while he picked up what was obviously a copy of my resume. “Let’s get down to it, shall we?”
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