The Undead in My Bed

by Katie MacAlister; Molly Harper; Jessica Sims

  “We’re preferrin’ the term ‘spirit,’ ye ken, lass,” the ghostly man said in a heavy Scottish accent. He waggled his eyebrows at Teresa, then made her a courtly bow, losing his translucence as he shifted to a solid form. It took him only a second to sweep up Teresa into a passionate embrace.

  “Erm . . .” Noelle didn’t know if it was polite to interrupt a ghost when he was kissing someone, but she knew this had to be a shock to Teresa. “Excuse me, but who are you?”

  The man finished his kiss, setting Teresa upright on her feet again before saying, “Ah, but ye’re a bonnie lass, too. I’m Jock, Jock McTorgeld. What be yer names, me beauties?”

  “A ghost!” Teresa whispered, her eyes never leaving the man as she waved toward the door behind her. “I should film . . . Raleigh should be here . . . Miles . . . holy Mary, a real live ghost! Noelle! Can you see him, too? I’m not going insane, am I?”

  “I can see him, too. That’s Teresa,” she told the ghost, “and I’m Noelle.” It struck her that for a Scotsman, his accent was awfully broad, almost exaggerated in its rolling of Rs and gargling of vowels. “Do you . . . er . . . live in this room?”

  “Here?” He looked around with a curl of his lip. “Nay, lassie. ’Tis but a servant’s room, this. Jock McTorgeld roams where he pleases, when he pleases, and that’s always where the bonnie lasses are.” He leered at her, no doubt trying to drive home his point.

  “Teresa,” Noelle said slowly, having taken full measure of their new acquaintance. “Why don’t you go get Raleigh and Miles so they can meet our friend from Scotland?”

  “Yes,” Teresa agreed, her eyes huge as she nodded quickly. “Yes, Raleigh, Miles. We should film Jock. A real ghost. We have a real ghost. Holy mother . . .”

  Noelle closed the door as Teresa drifted off muttering to herself. She eyed the ghost, who was striding toward her with a devilish glint in his eye. “All right, she’s gone. Now, who are you?”

  “I’ve told ye me name, my heart. Now ye’ll be thankin’ me, as is the way of me people, and if ye’re as sweet as ye taste, I may be lettin’ ye see what I’ve got on under me kilt.”

  Noelle had a hard time not rolling her eyes, but by dint of an almost superhuman effort, she managed it. “You can stop with the phony Scottish bit, too. I’m British, not Czech, and I know what a real Scot sounds like, and you aren’t it.”

  The ghost came to an abrupt stop, his eyes narrowing on her. “Ye’re daft, lass. I’m as Scottish as the wild thistle that grows above the burn.”

  “You’re about as Scottish as my ass, and I’m not Scottish at all. Now, who are you, and what are you doing here?”

  “Me name is Jock—”

  “Right,” Noelle interrupted, rolling up her sleeves. Before the ghost—who was in corporeal form and thus bound to the same laws as any other living being—could do so much as roll another R at her, she had a binding ward drawn and slapped over him. “Now, let’s have the truth, shall we?”

  “What the . . . Christos, you’re a Guardian, aren’t you?” the ghost said in a completely different voice, one that was slightly French. His form shivered and morphed into that of a tonsured young man in a faded grayish tunic, scapula, and cowl. He remained bound to the spot, held firmly by the ward despite his attempt to move out of it. “Just my luck, a couple of toothsome wenches finally show up, and you’re Guardians.”

  “I am, but my friend is perfectly normal and doesn’t know what a Guardian is, let alone what we do, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention that. Why were you pretending to be a Scot?”

  The ghost sighed and shifted to his noncorporeal state, which left him partially translucent. “Women love a man in a kilt. I learned that . . . oh, must have been twenty, twenty-five years ago, when a group of women on a historical tour took the house for a week. They loved old Jock and his dashing accent. Tumbled more ladies that week than I did when I was alive.”

  Noelle couldn’t help but laugh. “You’re a monk, aren’t you?”

  “I was,” he said, sighing. “Doesn’t mean I didn’t enjoy a lusty wench when I saw her.”

  “I think we’ll just let that go. What’s your real name?”

  “Michel,” he admitted. “Michel de Nostredame.”

  “Nostredame?” Noelle couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You’re Nostradamus? I thought he died an old man?”

  “He did. He was my cousin. I could have been famous like him, too, you know,” Michel answered with an annoyed twitch of his head. “I had visions all the bloody time, but I never wrote the blasted things down like he did. If I knew then what I know now, I’d have been just as rich and famous as he was. More, because my visions were better than a bunch of vague mumble-jumble. I had visions of beauteous women performing many and varied acts of much interest. Much interest!”

  “I just bet you did.” Noelle considered the now-agitated ghost. “What are you doing in the Czech Republic, Michel?”

  He grimaced, sat on the edge of the bed, sank through it to the floor, and got up, returning to corporeal form before sitting again. “Don’t call me that, please. Michel is my cousin’s name. You can call me Nosty. It’s what all the dairymaids in Provence called me. As to your question, I was on a pilgrimage.”

  “In the Czech Republic?”

  He shrugged. “I got sidetracked by a widow with the biggest—” He made a gesture that Noelle had no difficulty recognizing. “Somehow I ended up here with her. And then it turned out she wasn’t a widow at all, and her husband found us in bed, and as it happens, he took me by surprise and gutted me before I could so much as explain that I was simply giving his wife a . . . er . . . blessing.”

  “Uh-huh,” Noelle said, giving him a knowing look. “Well, it sounds like you brought that on yourself, but regardless, I hope you didn’t suffer much. To be honest, I’m surprised we didn’t see you two days ago, when we arrived and started filming.”

  “Filming? You’re doing a movie?”

  “You know what a movie is?”

  “Of course. I’m dead, not an idiot,” he answered with an irritated sniff. “There was a film crew here a few decades back. I learned a lot from them. And the young starlets.”

  Noelle ignored his lascivious grin and explained about the reality TV show and asked if he kept himself to the upper floors of the house.

  “I wander all over. Normally, I stay around the grounds, because that’s where you see the most people passing by. I’ve been over visiting her ladyship the last few days, though. I try to do that regularly, since it cheers her up.”

  “Her ladyship? Is there someone living on the grounds?”

  “Lady Joan. She’s a spirit, like me. She lives over in the cottage on the north side of the property. Very lonely and has many sad tales to tell of her life. A gentlewoman, she is, in case you’re getting the wrong impression, not one who wants a quick tumble now and again, unlike some folks I could mention,” Nosty said with a jerk of his head. “There’s a couple of snooty Czech wenches living on the property next to ours who won’t even pass the time of day with you, except when they have an itch that needs scratching, if you get my drift. Bah. Foreigners.”

  “Hmm.” Noelle was in a quandary. Part of her felt obligated, for Teresa’s sake, to present a bona fide ghost on Haunted Miles, but a sane inner voice warned her that revealing Nosty to the mortal world might cause more trouble than she could at that moment imagine.

  She was just about to suggest a compromise when the ghost leaped to his feet, his eyes wide with surprise. “It is . . . it cannot be . . . no, it is him! What is he doing here? Now? Nom de nom, he is coming! You must away! Dépêche-toi! Vite!”

  “Hurry to where? Who’s coming? Miles? I assure you that he’s perfectly harmless, if a bit naïve—”

  Without another word, the ghost disappeared, leaving Noelle standing perfectly alone in the dingy attic room. She was still standing there when, a few minutes later, a breathless Miles skidded to a stop in the doorway, Teresa and Raleigh pa
nting behind him.

  “Where is the ghost?” Miles demanded, glaring around the room before narrowing his eyes on Noelle.

  “He . . . er . . . left.”

  Miles’s face turned red as he sucked in a large quantity of air. “Amateurs!” finally burst out of him. Then, turning, he shoved the others out of his way and stomped back down the stairs, a tirade about the woes of letting others meddle in affairs about which they knew nothing trailing after him.

  Chapter Three

  It took several hours of distracting business before I was confident that I could face the luminescent Noelle again without pouncing on her. I had also intended on feeding, to quell the hunger that had burst so insistently to life with Noelle’s nearness, but none of the women in the small town outside the Abbey appealed to me. They were too tall, too thin, too blond or brunette, too . . . mundane. None of them had that little sparkle of amusement in her eyes, and none of them had silky-smooth skin that begged to be tasted.

  None of them smelled of lilacs.

  “I will not let this happen,” I swore to Johannes as we approached the west wing of the Abbey, where my rooms had always been.

  Johannes gave me a look that said he didn’t believe me. I ignored him, instead studying the house for a few minutes. I hadn’t been to it since the night I had arrived to find the usurpers in possession, lest they were minions of Amaymon. But no demon in his right mind would consort with a Guardian, which meant they probably had designs on the house itself, rather than me. “Which is also not going to happen.”

  As I rounded what was once a sundial set in a small rose garden—but was now a sad jungle of weeds and rusted bits of metal strewn on the ground—the sound of voices had me ducking into the shadow of a wild yew hedge. Johannes marched past me to sit a few feet away, watching with interest the scene before him.

  “No, no, no! She’s ruining the whole thing, Teresa! Where did you find her, the local amateur theater group? Look, Noreen—”

  “Noelle.”

  “Whatever. You’re supposed to be a nun who’s meeting her lover, the bishop, clandestinely here in the garden. You’re ready to die for your love, not go for a power walk, for God’s sake. You have to drift around slowly, as if you are contemplating the carnal act you are about to commit. Honestly, Teresa, I shouldn’t have to produce the show and star in it as well.”

  The tone in the man’s voice grated on my nerves, enough so that I moved into the shadows of the hedge to watch what the usurpers were planning.

  Noelle was there, once again in a nun’s habit, her bright hair glittering and shining even when lit only by one lamp held by a slight man with a digital video camera. Not even the damned shapeless gray robe she wore stopped heat from pooling in my groin even as the hunger growled deep in my belly.

  “I’m doing the best I can, but I’m not an actress,” Noelle told the other man present. My eyes narrowed on him. He had a prancing, arrogant air that instantly annoyed me. “I will walk slower, but I don’t know how I’m supposed to be contemplating having illicit sex with a monk—not a bishop, by the way, since the tale in question concerns a monk who was stoned for impregnating half the local countryside—without making all sorts of lewd gestures. I’ll try to look contemplative about the joys of sex, but that’s about all I can do.”

  A monk who was stoned for promiscuity? Dammit, Nosty must have been telling tales again.

  “Teresa!” the arrogant man snarled. “She’s ruining it!”

  “Now, Miles—”

  “Did I hear someone invoking my name? Or, rather, my tragic story?”

  I groaned as a familiar form shimmered and appeared next to Noelle. The blonde who had attacked me the day before screamed and clutched at the arrogant man, who stumbled backward until he tripped over a stone bench overgrown with climbing plants. The man with the camera dropped it, shining a shaking light on Nosty, who, I noticed, was leering at Noelle in a way that made me see red.

  “Nostredame, if you don’t stop trying to look down her robe, I’ll rip your nonexistent eyes out of your spectral head and shove them down your ghostly throat.” I snarled as I strode forward, Johannes at my heels.

  Nosty’s eyes grew wide as he saw me. “Eep!” he said, and disappeared into nothing.

  “Gray!” Noelle said at the same moment, emotion lighting up her face in away that had the fire in my belly sending out tendrils of warmth to all my limbs. “You’re back. I’m so glad I didn’t scare you off for good.”

  “What the hell?” roared the man on the ground as he let the female usurper help him to his feet. “Who are you? What’s going on here? Dammit, Teresa, stop fussing over me. I didn’t trip, I was thrown backward by some evil spectral force. You—yes, you—this is a closed set! We’re making an important show here, and no one is allowed, especially not overzealous fans. Begone!”

  “Fan?” I scowled at him. “Just what in the devil’s name is going on here?”

  “This is Gray Soucek,” Noelle said, introducing me as the other three people eyed me curiously. “That’s not his cat Johannes. Or, rather, that cat, which is not Gray’s, is Johannes. And I’m pretty sure Gray’s not a fan, zealous or otherwise. In fact, he’s . . . uh . . .” What exactly are you?

  A Dark One, dammit. You know that.

  Yes, I know that, but what are you doing here?

  This is my house.

  I thought so, she said with a sense of satisfaction. “Gray is the owner of the Tomas Abbey. Gray, that’s Teresa—she’s my friend and the producer of a reality ghost-hunting show called Haunted Miles—and that’s Raleigh, the cameraman, and over there is Miles.”

  “The star of the show,” the arrogant man said with a disdainful look as he brushed off his jacket. “Yet another amateur. Just what we need.”

  “Oh, you’re the owner,” Teresa said with an odd look toward Noelle. “I think we’ve met. You . . . uh . . . you are the man I saw last night, aren’t you?”

  “The one you hosed down with pepper spray? Yes, that was me.” My left eye twitched with the memory of the few hours that followed that experience. Johannes eyed the woman with interest.

  She looked contrite, at least. “I’m so sorry. We’ve had a little trouble with some of the locals, you see, and when you popped up out of the dark like you did and demanded that Miles stop communing with the nature spirits, I thought you were one of the troublemakers.”

  “Communing with nature? He was taking a piss on a Sarazin statue of Leda and the swan. That was my mother’s favorite, and I’ll be damned if I’ll let anyone defile it.”

  “He was?” Everyone turned to look at Miles.

  “There are many ways to commune,” he said with an irritated sniff. “The spirits wanted to speak to me, and I didn’t have time to run back to the house. Besides, it’s outdoors. It’s had worse things on it, I’m sure.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the point,” Noelle said quickly as I took a step toward the bastard. She moved in front of me, her scent immediately wrapping around me, making my entire body tighten with need. “I don’t blame Gray for being upset to find people at his house when he obviously didn’t expect them. Did you?”

  “No,” I said, breathing deeply despite myself. Who knew that lilac could be such an erotic scent? “I seldom do expect to find trespassers at my house.”

  “I’m really sorry I didn’t ask you who you were last night,” Teresa said, making a vague gesture toward the others. “We’d just run off a fan earlier who tried to interrupt our filming and disrupt Miles while he was holding a séance, so . . . well . . . I’m just sorry about last night. I hope you can forgive me. But we aren’t trespassing, you know. The estate agency rented the house and grounds to us for two weeks while we film the pilot of our show. I have the agreement, if you’d like to see it.”

  She pepper-sprayed you? Noelle squinted in the dim moonlight. You don’t look hurt at all.

  I’m not now. It wasn’t any fun at the time, however.

  I’m sure it wasn�
��t. Why did you come back? Was it to see me? It was, wasn’t it? I can feel how . . . um . . . hungry you are. Do you want to feed from me?

  It took an effort, but I managed to think it. No.

  One of her silky eyebrows rose. Oh, really? That’s why you’re thinking about it right this moment?

  I’m not. And stop pretending you can read my thoughts.

  I glowered at the pretentious Miles as he expounded about some foolishness or other, glancing at the papers that Noelle’s friend had presented me with. “These look in order,” I allowed, irritation lacing my voice. “I will have a word with the agent about leasing the house for such a purpose, but I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  “Oh, please don’t throw us out,” Teresa pleaded, glancing repeatedly at Noelle. “The Abbey is so perfect for us, and now that we’ve met the resident ghost, I know the show is going to break new ground and become a huge success.”

  I glanced at Noelle, who was watching me with quiet amusement in those soft gray eyes. Why do I think you’ve had something to do with Nosty finding his way to the public’s eye?

  Actually, it’s just the opposite. She quirked her luscious pink lips. I’d really prefer he stay hidden.

  Why? He can only do your friend’s show good.

  Yes, but I’m a Guardian. We try to keep all Otherworld beings from the attention of the mundane world.

  I doubt if one ghost, even one as randy as Nosty, will do any harm. Now, stop talking to me in this manner. It does not mean you are my Beloved, and I dislike having you rummaging around in my thoughts.

  I’m not rummaging, although I really do like that bit about licking me. I think I’d like you to lick me, Gray. I’d like to lick you, too. That chin dimple is driving me nuts. Would you be offended if I bit your chin?

  With almost superhuman strength, I managed to keep from grabbing Noelle and carrying her off to the nearest bedroom. Yes, it would offend me to the tips of my toes. It would physically sicken me. It would be such a repugnant act I might actually vomit.