Supernatural Seduction: 5 Paranormal Novellas

by Holley Trent

  And what was up with Kyle? This ghost tour had been his idea, but he was sure acting nervous. He couldn’t be taking this stuff seriously. Anyway, Miss Fontaine’s spiel was more entertaining than spooky.

  Abby stayed in the back of the group. The four-block walk to the cemetery took them outside the parameters of downtown, and Miss Fontaine passed out flashlights as they neared the black wrought-iron gates. This place was eerie in the daylight, but tonight a dense fog blanketed the rolling hills, making visibility negligible. The flashlights created weird patterns through the fog, almost like ghosts rising from the graves.

  As she caught up with everyone, Malcolm stood by a tall gravestone, peering across the vast graveyard. The corners of his mouth turned down in a sorrowful expression, and Abby’s heart ached for him. Her parents had told her she had too much sympathy. Both doctors, they said she’d need to toughen up if she expected to follow in their footsteps. Medicine had been her original dream … until she’d taken a class from Malcolm McClellan, and she veered to teaching. But the pain that swelled in her heart for Malcolm was more than sympathy. It was empathy. She grieved with him. Damn. This ghost tour was turning out to be a very bad idea indeed.

  She looked at Kyle, who was blowing on his fingers. She could strangle him for suggesting this stupid tour. He didn’t even seem to be enjoying it.

  Miss Fontaine droned on and on about various markers and how flowers disappeared on graves and then magically appeared again. Yada yada.

  Malcolm meandered through the markers, stopping at a few, but not seeming engaged. He wore a blank expression, which was an improvement over his sorrowful one. A wave of relief washed over Abby’s heart.

  Now that Malcolm had calmed, Abby’s attention turned to the plummeting temperature. She didn’t want to appear rude, but her toes were numb in her sheepskin boots, and she could sure use a beer. She nudged Kyle, who took the hint.

  When Miss Fontaine paused, Kyle interjected, “If you don’t mind, Miss Fontaine, we’re going to peel off and head to Dobbins for a brew. It’s been enlightening … and loads of fun.” He applauded, and the group followed suit. “Thanks so much.”

  “Thank you,” Abby whispered under her breath to Kyle. “One more ghost anecdote, and I may have puked.”

  “Don’t puke yet. Not until you’ve gotten a few ales under your belt, at least.”

  Ordinarily, Kyle would have jabbed her in the ribs and laughed with a comment like that, but he just headed off to the exit gate. Weird.

  Dobbins Tavern was crowded as usual. For a raucous time, you couldn’t beat the old tavern. It was housed in Gettysburg’s oldest, most historic home. Abby loved the beamed ceilings, bookcases, and cozy atmosphere of the place. And tonight, the fireplaces would definitely be appreciated. The old house had played a role during the Civil War, harboring slaves on their journey to freedom. Abby headed straight for one of the fireplaces and began warming her hands over the glowing embers. Though she wanted to search the group for Malcolm, she resisted. Before she’d had a chance to order, Kyle brought her a tankard.

  “Porter, correct?” He handed her the brew.

  “Perfect.” She sipped. “Are you all right?”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  He didn’t look fine. “Okay, whatever you say.” Abby turned back to the fireplace, and then a hand circled her waist. She jumped when she looked up at the face of the bartender from Night Fright. She’d have recognized that wall-eyed glare anywhere.

  “Whoa, where’d you come from?” She looked from the bartender to Kyle, who grinned.

  “This is my friend, Arlo,” Kyle said, clipping Arlo on the shoulder.

  “You’re kidding. I mean, really?” Abby backed away from Arlo’s chummy hand. “Why didn’t you tell me you had a friend at Night Fright when I went to Philly?”

  “What, and spoil the fun for independent you?” Kyle chuckled. “Arlo and a couple of his cohorts will be hanging around the theater to keep an eye on our star. Make sure his portrayal is authentic.”

  “I suppose he sees his share of vampire wannabes.” Abby looked sideways at Arlo. “Mighty accommodating of you.”

  “Where is our star?” Arlo asked.

  Abby scanned the dark tavern, but Malcolm was nowhere in sight. “He must have peeled off after the cemetery.” Abby chugged her tankard, and then she slapped her thigh. “I think I’ll head out.” She started to hold out a hand to shake Arlo’s, and then thought better of it, scratching her nose instead.

  “Nice to see you again,” Arlo said. He half grinned.

  As Abby left the tavern, the tour guide’s words played in her head. That letter she’d read, with the soldier named Malcolm, had punched Abby in the gut. Of course, Malcolm was an old-fashioned name, and in the nineteenth century, it was used more prevalently than today, but as Abby recalled the Civil War photographs on Malcolm’s mantel, a shiver that wasn’t due to the cold temperature rose up her spine. Had he really been a Union soldier? She shook her head. Nonsense.

  Chapter Seven

  Sarah stroked Malcolm’s uninjured arm. He hadn’t regained consciousness since collapsing in her arms.

  Dr. Hayes patted Sarah’s back. “He’ll be better off resting at home than here,” he said. The doctor had bathed and bandaged Malcolm’s wound, which had finally stopped bleeding.

  “He seems to have lost a lot of blood.” Sarah frowned.

  Dr. Hayes shook his head. “Yes, more than he should have with this type of wound. A few vessels were clipped, but I thought I’d never stop the bleeding. Does he bruise easily?”

  “He frequently has bruises, but he’s a very physical man, doctor. Isn’t that common for someone who works with horses?”

  “It’s a matter of degrees, Mrs. McClellan. I suspect his blood is thin, and he’s certainly lost quite a bit of it.” Dr. Hayes wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “What he needs is rest. Take him home, and when he rallies, try to get some soup down him.” He put a hand on Sarah’s shoulder. “Can you and your sister carry him in a stretcher? I can’t spare anyone here.”

  “Of course we can carry him.”

  • • •

  Malcolm didn’t remember the journey back to Caroline’s house, and he drifted in and out of consciousness for several days. It seemed that every time he woke up, Sarah was there with a spoonful of soup. By the third day, he was able to sit up and take some soup by himself. “I need to get back to my regiment,” he said to Sarah as she sat in a rocking chair, mending his uniform.

  “I knew you’d say that as soon as you could talk.” She smiled at him. “But General Lee has retreated, and I’m sure you’ll hear from your superiors soon enough. They only have so many colonels to spare.”

  Two more days passed, and Malcolm was able to take short walks around the house. Following one such excursion, he noticed that Sarah eyed him provocatively as he returned to bed. She set the mending on her sewing basket, got up from the rocker, and walked slowly to their bed. Sitting gently on the edge, she took Malcolm’s hand. “Before I let you go back to the saddle, I need to make sure you’re fit to ride.”

  “And how do you propose to do that?” Malcolm gave her an expectant grin.

  Sarah crept onto the bed, and then stood, straddling Malcolm’s legs. With hands on hips, she swayed back and forth. She fisted a hunk of skirt and slowly began hiking up the calico material, revealing shapely ankles. She swished the skirt around her legs as the material inched up her calves. She teased him with her knees, first showing a glimpse, and then quickly covering them. The next time her skirts rose above her knees, she pulled higher, to her thighs.

  Malcolm gasped, and she giggled.

  She eased the material up her thighs, revealing a complete lack of undergarments and the lush curls hiding her treasure. Laughing, and then falling to her knees, she knee-walked to his thighs. She fid
dled with the drawstring on his drawers, and then stopped. “Please tell me to stop if you’re not feeling up to this.”

  “I believe you’ll find I’m quite up to it.” He glanced down at the decided tent in his pants.

  She took the book from his hands and tossed it on the floor. Tugging on his drawstring, she loosed his engorged manhood and began stroking the considerable length of it with one hand while with the other, she pulled the ribbon at the neck of her gown.

  “Here, let me help with that. You already have your hands full.” He separated the muslin bodice, flimsy from many washings, and traced her tender nipples with his calloused thumbs.

  She closed her eyes and adjusted her hips. Placing the tip of him at her bud, she dipped him briefly inside to taste the honey of her sheath, and then withdrew him to circle the epicenter of her pleasure.

  “Put me inside you,” Malcolm said, his voice rough. He moved a hand to her feminine folds and caressed her bud with his thumb.

  She slipped him inside, but drew back when the depth of his thrusts became too deep. “In this position, you’re a touch too big for me.”

  “You’re small inside,” Malcolm said, “and I love how tight you hold me there, but I never want to hurt you.” He gripped her hips and moved her slightly back, where he could continue to thrust without bumping the entrance to her womb. “Is that better?”

  “Yes.” She opened her eyes. “Now, no more talking.” Sarah focused on Malcolm’s lips, which were slightly parted. His blue eyes blazed as his breathing hastened to a jagged rhythm, matching his thrusts. He closed his eyes and gripped her buttocks. His arms flexed against her and his fingers dug into her flesh. When he came, the explosion of his climax sent sparks of warmth and power through Sarah’s limbs.

  Malcolm pulled Sarah down to him and wrapped his arms around her. He whispered in her hair, “Sarah, Sarah. I lose myself in you.”

  Chapter Eight

  Malcolm drummed the eraser of his pencil on his leather desk blotter and watched a bank of melting ice plummet from the roof outside his office. Something about the finality of that thud as the ice shattered on the balcony reminded him of his heart. Damn. Hadn’t he figured out how to live in the human world? One hundred and fifty years of peace and solitude had served him well. Then Abby had sauntered into his office and fixed him with those hazel eyes.

  What was it about this woman? He was used to come-ons from coeds and colleagues, and he was impervious. When he’d lost Sarah, he put his heart into cold storage. Memories of her surfaced unexpectedly when the scent of the lilacs she’d planted sweetened his property in the spring or when a new student roll listed a coed named Sarah. He’d allow himself a brief moment to savor the recollection of her body under his. That lovely memory was usually chased by a hammering guilt and grief, and he’d dive back to his seclusion. With Abby’s appearance, the closed chamber of his heart released a feeling he hadn’t experienced since the nineteenth century — hope.

  Like the first time he’d seen Sarah, when she flirted with him at the Harvest Ball, Abby held the promise of good things to come. He remembered when she’d been his student and the day she’d come to his office, just when he’d hit his lowest ebb. He was so struck by her sincerity when she’d told him how he’d inspired her that he couldn’t even think of a reply. Inspiring? Not an adjective he’d use to describe himself. Not anymore. He’d lapsed into a life of endless gray, and his students all had the same face. Abby was a woman who saw possibilities at every turn. He rarely thought beyond the next exam; she envisioned her students on graduation day, proudly accepting their diplomas and making their way in the world.

  And then there was the matter of her body, soft and supple as south Indian silk. He massaged his temples. Leave her alone, you fool.

  • • •

  “Abby, did you hear me?” Kyle waved his hands in front of her.

  “Huh? Oh, yeah, you asked about costumes?” Abby shook her head from thoughts of Malcolm — for about the hundredth time that day.

  “Go check the FedEx deliveries. We should have received that taffeta you ordered.”

  “Oh, right. I mean, absolutely. I’ll get on that.” She backed out of Kyle’s office while he shook his head at her.

  “We’re on a very tight deadline, Abs. I shouldn’t have to tell you that.”

  “I know. I’m sorry. Just a bit distracted today.” She closed the door behind her and took a deep breath before considering her next destination … the campus post office.

  Distracted? No shit.

  This called for some brain thrashing. Exhibit A: Garden-variety woman. Exhibit B: Superman … and possibly something else. No, don’t go there. Where’s your common sense? Wake up, Abby. Her fascination with Malcolm would probably fade when she didn’t have to see him every day. Once the play was over, he’d retreat to his reclusive lifestyle, and she could go back to thinking about the next production. And what were Kyle and his creepy crony up to? Making sure Malcolm’s portrayal was authentic? Seemed mighty odd.

  Let’s just get past this play.

  Stepping up her pace, she arrived at the post office, picked up the parcels of material that had arrived from New York and rushed to the costume mistress across town. Mental note: set up sewing machine at home for last-minute alterations. She checked her watch, two P.M. She’d have just enough time to visit Pat, and then grab a veggie burger before the four P.M. rehearsal.

  Patricia Wiggins, the best seamstress Abby had ever known, was leaning against the open door to her shop, Retro Mania, when Abby approached. The shop specialized in vintage clothing, costuming, and alterations. She was smoking a cigarette through a long black holder … à la Holly Golightly, though that’s where the resemblance stopped. Patricia was more zaftig than svelte. And her clothes were recycled gypsy, flowing, gauzy fabrics sprinkled with tiny bells that tinkled when she moved. Her wrist-to-elbow arm bangles would have weighed down a smaller woman. Everyone said Patricia was a gypsy, and some even called her a witch because she had a little fortune-telling slash séance business on the side, but Abby just thought she was highly intuitive. Over the years, she’d asked Pat for advice more than a few times, and the clairvoyant woman had always come through with profound insights.

  “Hey, lady.” Abby kissed Pat on the cheek. “I brought the material for you to do your magic. Sorry it’s so late, and as you know, we’re on a tight deadline.”

  “No problem. I can always use real magic to help me with the straight seams. I’ve almost mastered set-in sleeves, but I think I used one too many spider legs the last time I tried. I ended up with so little give that I had to recycle the sleeves as jock straps.” She chuckled. “I’m just kidding.”

  “I never know when to take you seriously.” Abby didn’t laugh.

  “What’s with the long face?” Patricia motioned for Abby to enter her shop, where Pat’s three black felines played hide and seek among racks of jewel-toned costumes.

  “Sorry. I’ve got the weight of the world on my shoulders.”

  “Wouldn’t have anything to do with that hunk of a professor, would it?”

  Abby froze in her tracks. “Geez, Pat, does nothing escape you?”

  “I keep tabs on the people I care about, and for better or worse, you’re one.” She put her arm around Abby’s shoulders. “Tell me if you want me to butt out. I know you had to bring me the material, but I was going to get in touch with you today, anyway.”

  “I could use some advice.” Abby thawed enough to plop on Patricia’s overstuffed loveseat, which rested inside a canopy of palm trees at the back of Pat’s shop. Abby never understood how Pat could grow palms inside, without natural sunlight, in non-tropical Pennsylvania, but Pat and her shop embodied quirks and mysteries.

  Pat sat next to Abby and took her hand. She closed her eyes, paused, and then began speaking with her eyes still shut. “P
romise me you won’t freak out.” She peeked at Abby with one eye.

  “I promise, and believe me, I’m already beyond freaking out.”

  “All right.” She patted Abby’s hand. “Here’s what you need to know.” She took a deep breath and blew it out through puffed cheeks. “Malcolm McClellan is not exactly of this world, but you can trust him.”

  “Oh, geez, I’ve been driving myself crazy.” Abby’s pressed her hand to her heart. “Is he really, truly what I think he might be?”

  Pat looked sideways at Abby. “What do you think he might be?”

  Abby chewed on her lip. Her lungs constricted, and she thumped her chest with her fist to get the words out. “I’ve got stacks of research that point to him being something besides human, but there’s one characteristic that doesn’t line up.”

  Pat grimaced. “You mean the one about tolerating daylight?”

  Staring wide-eyed at Pat, Abby said, “All right, fill me in.” She slumped back into the loveseat and gripped the padded armrests. “I’ve been wrestling with myself ever since I saw those vintage photos at his house. And then on the ghost tour, our guide read an old letter that mentioned a soldier named Malcolm in the Civil War. It gave me chills. The truth is, my one thread of hope has been the daylight thing.”

  “Not to dash your hopes, my dear, but some creatures of the night have special abilities.”

  “Oh, criminy.” Abby squeezed her eyes shut, and then had to force them open to look at Pat. “He’s a vampire.”

  Pat nodded. “I’m afraid so, but it’s not the end of the world. You have feelings for him, don’t you?”

  “Oh, God, right now I don’t know what I’m feeling.” Abby threw up her hands. “I’ve always been attracted to him, but when I thought he might be, you know, a vampire — ” she grimaced, “ — I just didn’t see how that could compute.” She clutched her throat. “As a fantasy, the neck-biting stuff is kind of romantic, but in reality, it totally creeps me out. Besides, I’ve never believed in anything paranormal.”