Mystic Hearts

by Cait Jarrod

  Evernight Publishing ®

  www.evernightpublishing.com

  Copyright© 2014 Cait Jarrod

  ISBN: 978-1-77233-143-1

  Cover Artist: Jay Aheer

  Editor: JS Cook

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  WARNING: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, and places are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  DEDICATION

  To my dad, thank you for always being there.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Special thanks to the awesome critique duo: Norma Redfern and Neva Brown. Their support has been invaluable. To my beta readers—Patricia Smart, Susannah Hutchison, and Julie Fowler—you’re awesome!

  Cheers to my friends and confidantes, DC Stone and Lea Bronsen, for your endless encouragement.

  To my editor JS Cook and the rest of the Evernight Publishing team, thank you. A special thank you to Jay Aheer for a fantastic cover.

  MYSTIC HEARTS

  Band of Friends, 2

  Cait Jarrod

  Copyright © 2014

  Chapter One

  Charlene Smith gaped at the two-hundred year-old plantation house as she sat parked in the driveway. Reports of flying ghosts, peculiar noises, and floating hands surfaced, making her decision to stay at the eerie, menacing Greenwood Manor not only questionable, but her actions desperate.

  When a member of the Band of Friends, Paul England, asked if someone could watch over the place on Halloween to ward off any vandalism, she’d volunteered. She believed if she could stay in a spooky place, the terrifying sensation she’d held onto since she was kidnapped and rescued would disappear.

  She gazed at the back porch, her grip tightening on the steering wheel from the apprehension creeping up her spine. Her knuckles whitened as her stomach churned.

  Two lights installed on the corner of the porch illuminated the outside. One angled toward the driveway, highlighting two outbuildings, while the other spotlighted a one-room schoolhouse in the opposite direction, closest to the field.

  During the day, the white house with green trim had been welcoming and magnificent. At night, a totally different description came to mind…ominous.

  What had she gotten into?

  “Confront your issues.” Her grandmother’s words replayed like an old record. Her wisdom had helped lead her through troubled times on more than one occasion.

  If she could stay the night in the haunted house, she trusted her edginess would subside. No more looking over her shoulder whenever a car drove past her home. No more flinching when a friend touched her shoulder. She’d be cured of the trepidation the abduction had caused.

  The jury was still out if her idea to come here was brilliant or plain stupid. For her sake and her son’s, she hoped the former. For that reason, she would follow through with her plan. She had to. Henry couldn’t have a mother scared of her own shadow.

  She sucked in a deep breath, shoved open the driver’s door, and stepped onto the gravel driveway. A gentle wind brushed her skin and tumbled her hair over her shoulders. Crickets chirped. A cow bellowed in the distance.

  Comforting sounds she recognized.

  No heavy footsteps, no angry voices like in the mountains.

  From the driveway, the sidewalk led to the back steps, and farther, past large bushes and the corner of the house. She had to walk by a tree and twenty yards of grass before reaching safety. Not hard to do.

  She bent inside her compact car and snatched an overnight bag and purse.

  A coyote howled.

  Dark, black panic shot through her system. She jolted. Hit her head the car’s roof and her hand landed on the door.

  She straightened, rubbed the top of her head and scanned the area, wide eyed. Coyotes rated up there with ghosts. She didn’t like them. None were in sight, but she hoped they didn’t lurk behind the buildings, watching her.

  After slipping her overnight bag’s strap over one shoulder, she closed the car door and dug into her purse for the house key.

  Oh, no!

  She eyed the car’s lock pushed down to her keys dangling from the ignition.

  When Paul gave her the house key before he left town, she’d put the key on the ring so she wouldn’t lose it.

  She went to the passenger’s side and jerked on the handle…locked. Her next breath slid through gritted teeth with a hiss and a throaty growl. She had to get her act together.

  A hide-a-key had to be stashed nearby. Most people had them nowadays. Right? Hers was under the rock near her back door. Haunted houses shouldn’t be any different. An odd awareness someone watched her wriggled down her spine. Each stride brought on more goosebumps.

  She managed to reach the back steps without flinching, and smiled.

  One step closer to attaining my goal.

  Each rock and brick she looked under had worms, dirt, or cement. No hidden key. Disgusted, her vivid imagination making her flinch and causing a troublesome situation, she slumped onto the porch. Her bag and purse dropped to the boarded floor with a thump and echoed.

  The situation gave her limited options. Leaving the farm, for one, wouldn’t happen. She’d given Paul her word. That, and…well, she couldn’t very well drive home with the keys locked in the car. Another, one of the Band of Friends, BOFs as they liked to be called, would come.

  Then she remembered volunteering, how she’d begged actually, after Paul exhausted his options with the other members. Since they hadn’t volunteered to help Paul when he asked, then they’d be unavailable to help her.

  Not having one of them to call on left her feeling out of sorts. She had grown close and trusted each one of the members in the last few months. Their generosity, amazing and impressive, caused her to grow fonder of them than she believed possible.

  With an elbow braced on her knee, she plopped her chin on her palm, and thought about another person who hadn’t joined the BOFs despite his close ties with the male members: the man who had saved her son on that horrendous day.

  The auburn-haired man stayed in her dreams, day and night. Her emotions toward him were so intense she didn’t trust them, for fear they’d developed out of gratitude. Knowing she’d have a hard time letting her guard down in his presence, she’d avoided contact as much as possible.

  That day, before they left the mountain, he’d given her his business card and said to call whenever she needed something or wanted to talk. She never called.

  After months without communication, would contacting him be right? He would have the tools to unlock her car. It’d be silly not to call. She fished his card and cell out of her purse, and spun the thin rectangle of paper between her fingers. Once again, she pondered her choices. His driving out to the manor and unlocking her car would force her to make a decision. Did she take control of her trust issues and ask him to stay with her, or did she smile, say thank you, and insist he leave?

  Or the alternative: she’d stay on the porch for the rest of the night…with the animals …insects…and whatever apparitions might decide to appear.

  The desire to call Larry grew strong. Still, she slid her phone back in her purse. Her attraction to him stopped her. Feelings for someone equaled giving someone power over your life. “Been there, done that, have the scars to prove it.”

  She shook her head and searched the objects lying on the porch. Anything to keep her mind off Larry’s honey-colored eyes that had gazed at her with such compassion she wanted to melt.

 
A picnic basket was positioned near the door, half of the top raised a few inches over the other side. She placed Larry’s card atop her purse and lifted the lid. A bottle of Moscato, a plastic glass, and a cork opener, all the items needed for a romantic moonlight picnic.

  Yet, no one was around. Even the wildlife and insects had quieted. So, who had left the basket? Paul said no one lived in the house and that he let the foreman, who worked during the day, know she’d be staying at the house tonight. Maybe he left the basket.

  The promising taste of fruit teased her.

  This time, the decision, should she or shouldn’t she, was a no-brainer. Tomorrow, she’d replace the wine. She uncorked the bottle and poured some into a glass. She savored the flavor of pears, apples, and a hint of a fruit she couldn’t name while the liquid warmed her veins and eased the stress. She drained the glass and refilled it.

  “Whew!” The alcohol went straight to her head. The buildings and bushes wavered. She looked at the ground. “Hello!” The ground spun. She slid her gaze upward and fixed her sights on a small structure.

  Time literally stopped. The buildings stopped spinning. The ground stilled. Her hand, holding the wine glass, halted near her mouth.

  A white patch…with no shape…no defined lines…glided through the air.

  Anxiety, so heavy, constricted her throat. Barely daring to breathe, she shifted to peek over her shoulder.

  The whiteness glided past pine trees, and the hue grew more vivid. Still, she couldn’t make out the shape.

  A ghost?

  The patch flew behind the one-room schoolhouse, disappearing.

  “Oh, jeez.” She jumped to her feet, lost her balance, and smacked a hand against the porch’s interior wall. The wine glass tumbled to the floor. The adrenaline rush mixed with the little bit of alcohol turned her legs and head to mush. She wiped a hand down her face and reached for the doorknob, hoping the knob would turn.

  It did.

  Odd. Then why did I need a key?

  She stepped into the screened-in porch, and a woodsy smell swamped her. Underneath the row of windows, a pile of wood was stacked hip high, the source of the overwhelming scent. An antique gumball machine rested on the corner of a yellow cabinet. A glow of light shined out of the double doors leading into the kitchen. She returned to the small exterior porch. Careful not to lose her balance again, she stepped through the spilled wine and slowly lowered to grab her purse and overnight bag. With the straps over her shoulder, she snatched the wine bottle and glass and moved into the kitchen. She locked the door behind her.

  She rested against the door and caught her breath. The scent of flour and spices filled the air. The kitchen was double the size of hers. There was a table in the center, and cabinets lined three walls. A flour mill cabinet and appliances filled the empty wall spaces. The room looked at peace, yet everything about the extravagant home possessed an air of mystery, encouraging her to explore.

  Adrenaline cleared her fuzzy head. She shoved off the door, set her belongings on the kitchen table, and filled her glass with wine.

  An opened salon style door revealed the formal dining room. Flipping the light switch up, she gazed at the crystal chandelier over the brim of her glass. The light sparkled off the crystal and reflected onto the cherry table’s dark surface, giving the furniture a hint of elegance.

  Double doors in the room’s exterior wall opened to a moonlit room with wicker furniture. Books and magazines covered a small table, a means to pass time.

  The light from the chandelier dimmed then brightened. She emptied the glass of wine and scanned the room. Looking for what, she had no clue. The peculiar occurrences gave the impression someone was indeed there: the wine basket, the unlocked doors, and now the lights dimming when only a gentle breeze stirred.

  She remembered the reason Paul asked someone to stay. On Halloween, he’d been worried about trespassers wanting to have fun with the old house. With the manager out of town, Paul had said no one was available to check on the place. Was he misinformed? Was someone here…now…aiming to play a trick on an unsuspected victim…on her?

  Another step, the lights flashed.

  Backtracking, her heart pounded against her ribcage as if a drummer beat against it, readying for battle.

  Emptying her glass and setting it on the table, she opened a cabinet drawer, frantically searching for a flashlight, candles, anything for a light source. What a fix she was in. No car, no one around to call for help. Holding a knob, she paused. Why not call Larry? He’d come, but if she did she would be back into the same predicament, not facing her fears on her own. People couldn’t keep babysitting her. It was time for her to confront her phobias and reservations head on and get a grasp on her overactive imagination.

  The next drawer she flung open with more force than she meant. Silverware flew out, stabbing and hitting her hand and arm before falling to the floor. She knelt, picked them up, and after a few minutes of consideration whether to wash them first or not, she tossed them in the sink.

  The electricity gave another warning as to what would happen shortly. Three times, the lights had blinked. At her home, the electricity would flick off any second and not return for hours. She yanked open the drawer closest to the refrigerator. Matches and a couple of candlesticks rested inside. Images of horror stories entered her mind, her walking through the old house, carrying a candle to guide her way. She shivered. Spooky.

  Shoving the images away, she set the sticks on the kitchen counter and gazed out the window. The moon glowed and stars twinkled over the stirring trees and bushes. The schoolhouse looked cute, quaint, and harmless. Not the same thoughts she had earlier, when the ghosts hid behind it.

  She covered her mouth with a hand, blocking the sound of a hiccup, and braced her elbows on the counter.

  In the distance, an unusual glow of diamond-shaped sparkles dotted the hillside. Three…no, four dots glittered, similar to the way a lightning bug’s nervous system turns on and off in short, rhythmic flashes.

  But that couldn’t be. The bugs didn’t come out this time of year––the cool weather made sure of it. She pressed a thumb against a closed eyelid, fingers on the other lid, to clear her vision before looking again.

  The lights vanished.

  A loud noise vibrated through the house.

  The coldness of fear spread through her body, threatening to tear her apart and sucking the air out of her lungs. She forced in a deep breath and gazed at the ceiling, waiting with nervous energy for what would happen next.

  A loud thump, and she jumped.

  Damn it!

  At this rate, she’d be looking over her shoulder, beneath mattresses, in closets everywhere she went. The plan to move beyond scared was backfiring.

  An eerie scrape came from outside. The noise sounded like nails dragging across a chalkboard. Charlene rubbed her fingernails against her palms, cringing, and lifted on her tiptoes to peek out the window. Uncertain of what she might find unnerved her, yet didn’t sway her determination to see what caused the disturbing sound.

  The breeze had picked up. Tree branches moved like disjointed arms. One of the branches hit the aluminum siding. Nothing serious. She dropped back to her heels and gazed across the field.

  The fake lighting bugs blinked. This time the rhythm of the flashing lights was familiar: Morse code. Having been fascinated by the communication system, she studied it and learned the alphabet. Now, when her learning it would be beneficial, her vision was skewed from the wine. She couldn’t decipher the dashes and dots.

  The house lights flicked off. The moonlight produced dancing shadows on the cabinets.

  “Come on!” The hair lifted on the nape of her neck. Her mouth grew dry. She ran a hand over the countertop, found the candles and matches, and lit a wick. On high alert, she glanced around the room, darting her eyes from one side to the other.

  Overhead, scratching noises scampered upstairs followed by creaking.

  Enough!

  Weak or n
ot, smart or not, she was phoning Larry. Either she called, or went berserk. She grabbed her purse and searched the contents for his business card.

  It wasn’t there.

  She recalled picking up her bag and not paying attention to the card on top. She snatched her phone and slipped it into her pocket, grabbed the glass and bottle and headed outside, away from the creaks and thuds.

  Since she’d gone inside, the autumn air cooled, sending goosebumps over her body and making her wish she’d dressed warmer than a cotton tee and a pair of jeans. The wind tossed her hair, blocking her view. She tucked the long locks behind her ears and made a quick survey of the outer porch.

  Like she’d thought, Larry’s card lay face up near the basket. She sat down on the top step, poured a glass of wine, and sipped. The fruity flavor soothed her dry throat and relaxed her tense muscles. Again, she contemplated the wisdom of contacting Larry.

  She flashed back to that horrible day, high on a mountain, nothing but trees and a couple cabins nearby. Members of the Black Scorpions, a terrorist group, had kidnapped her son to force her to do their bidding. She’d had to persuade her boss and friend, Pamela Young, to go to the mountains so the Black Scorpions could enact their revenge on her boyfriend, Special Agent Jake Gibson, and Charlene would get her son. Things didn’t work out the way they’d said. At gunpoint, they’d thrown her and Pamela in a cabin.

  The worse part of the whole horrible situation had been the day she learned her son was taken. She ached just as much today as she had then. Tears filled her eyes. She sipped some more wine. No amount of alcohol would ever take the pain away, but she’d given it a try a few times since then. Either her mother or one of the BOFs stopped her from having too much. Thankfully, she had enough sense not to drink when Henry was near.