by Jory Strong
Mrs. Haddon shuddered. “Let’s go to the kitchen.”
Bryn followed her there, taking note of the dinner preparations on the counter. A salad. Meat marinating in something. A towel-covered bowl that probably held rising dough. Pots, pans, a rolling pin, a heavy cutting board with a knife and a pyramid of cheese cubes. It seemed like a lot of food for one person.
Mrs. Haddon’s gaze darted to the clock. She wiped her hands down her apron several times before clutching the material in her fist. “Will this take long?”
Bryn felt the first stirrings of misgiving. “I can come back another time if you want.”
Mrs. Haddon’s face grew panicked. “No. No. Please. Can we start? I’ve got candles and a Bible. And some holy water. I wasn’t sure what else you might need.”
“Mainly I need information. Spirits stay for a reason. A lot of the time just finding out why they’re present resolves the situation.”
Mrs. Haddon’s hands clenched and unclenched on the material of the apron. “I don’t know why I’m the only one who can hear them. They come every night at dusk.” Her gaze darted to the clock again. “My son’s afraid I’m going crazy. Billy. Bill. He doesn’t like to be called Billy now that he’s an adult. He’s afraid I’m going to get hurt here, too. That’s why he sold my house in Virginia and brought me here, because I fell. But there weren’t any ghosts in that house.”
Tears gathered at the corner of her eyes. “If I can’t get them to stop I’m afraid he’ll put me in a home. A woman at the senior center gave me an article about you. Can you really make them go away? It’s worth every penny I have if you can just make it stop.”
“Mrs. Haddon, I—”
“You’re not going to get your hands on any of my mother’s money,” an angry male voice said from the doorway and Bryn looked up to see Billy, the hulking epitome of a schoolyard bully plus about thirty years and fifty extra pounds, stepping into the room.
“I—”
“Get out of my house and don’t come back!” he yelled, face red, the stains on his shirt suddenly looking like the end result of a brawl.
“Billy, Please! Just listen to what she has to say. Give her—”
“No!” He lunged at the counter, going for the knife on the chopping block.
It was a scene straight out of a Stephen King novel and for a split second Bryn was frozen in place. But when his hand actually touched the knife’s handle she was out of her chair and out of the room, his footsteps thundering after her.
Get to the car! It was her only thought as she fumbled with the front door and nearly plowed through the screened-door in front of it.
There was a curse behind her, the frantic call of Billy’s mother. But Bryn didn’t stop. She didn’t turn around to look.
Get to the car! Maybe, maybe get lucky enough to actually get in the car.
She dashed into the street, surrounded by screaming, tortured music and envisioning the homicidal Billy behind her.
Bryn never saw the car that ran into her.
Or rather, that she ran into.
One minute the street was empty, the next she was sprawled on the ground and a gorgeous, dark-haired man was leaning over her, cradling her cheek in his palm, his gray eyes with their dark endless centers reminding her of fog-shrouded ghostways.
Chapter Two
Atticus knew the moment he touched the woman that she was the one meant to be his wife. She was the reason he’d suddenly decided on a holiday after centuries of going without one, the reason he’d chosen to vacation among the humans. She was the reason for the elusive worry, the unsettling sensation he’d written off as pre-holiday jitters at the thought of turning over the day-to-day business of Death to his brothers.
The woman who’d careened into his car and left a sizable dent was meant to be his. He could take her now, cast off the shell of flesh he’d lobbied so hard to gain. He could harvest her soul then take her home with him.
He could do it. But he wouldn’t.
No. He didn’t intend to make the same mistakes as his father.
It would be a challenge, and time was limited. At the end of his seven-day holiday he’d lose his corporeal form and until he claimed her as his bride, consummated their marriage physically in order to permanently link their souls, it would be risky. If she died without him nearby to take her home… If she got on a ghostway where he couldn’t follow…
Atticus shivered. For a moment the chill of Death threatened to return to the core of his being and spread outward until she was ice-cold, her heart stopped. The worry about losing her nearly weakened his resolve to give her time, to court her as she deserved to be courted. He’d been lonely for centuries, longed for a companion. To gamble on his future happiness…
He squared his shoulders and saw the vintage Aston Martin out of the corner of his eye. He reminded himself that it was the car of James Bond and Atticus Denali.
“Oh god,” the woman whispered, the husky sound of her voice drawing Atticus’ attention to her lips and scattering his thoughts.
He nearly blurted out the first thing that came to mind, almost told her that in his early days he had often been called a god but these days he was more typically considered an angel and in some cultures had been sainted—though in all honesty he found the mantle of Santa Muerte somewhat disconcerting. Not that it mattered between them of course. He was proud to say he was not only a part of history but a student of it and fully intended to have a marriage based on equality. No, he wouldn’t make a mess of things as Hades had done with Persephone. He wouldn’t alienate her as his father had succeeded in doing initially with his mother.
Atticus opened his mouth to offer the assurances bubbling furiously inside him. He was saved from making a complete fool of himself when he managed to look away from her lips and see that her focus was on the dent in the car. Her “oh god” was a response to it and not to him.
She slowly got to her feet, her dismay and anxiety obvious. He had the urge to take her in his arms, to hold her, to smooth away the distress as easily as the dent could be made to disappear from the car. But before he could utter a word, a large man burst from a nearby house, shaking off an elderly woman who’d apparently been clinging to him.
“I told you to get out of here,” the man yelled, charging toward them.
Atticus stepped forward, shielding his wife-to-be. Sheer amazement struck him when the human arrived fist first and the force of it sent Atticus to the ground.
He was on his feet in an instant, returning the favor, thinking that only a person with a death wish would assault Death himself. But of course, as Atticus felt the uniquely satisfying sensation of flesh connecting with flesh, saw the man stagger backward with the force of the blow, his blow, he was reminded that, in fact, Death was on vacation.
He followed the first punch with a second, driving the man toward the house even as he dodged a beefy fist. Adrenaline surged through Atticus. It was followed by understanding, a clarity regarding combat he hadn’t gained until this moment though he’d been to a million fight scenes to collect the losers and send them on their way.
Exhilarating! There was no other word to describe what he was feeling. The excitement of not only testing his mettle, mano-e-mano, but to be doing so in the service of his lady—it was absolutely astounding!
Atticus grunted, doubling over when his opponent plowed a fist into his gut. The pain of the blow chased more intellectual thoughts away.
He responded with an uppercut that sent the human sprawling, momentarily dazed as blood poured from his lip. Before Atticus could do more, the elderly woman was kneeling, crying, dabbing at the blood with the corner of her apron as she pleaded with the man whose name was apparently Billy, saying over and over again, “Please don’t send me away, Billy.”
The tears and desperate pain in the woman’s voice were like the stab of a knife through Atticus’ heart. The scene was too close to ones he’d witnessed before, especially in the old days, during times of plague an
d civil war, though the words were different. Please don’t leave me. Please don’t die.
He turned away. His breath caught in his throat when his eyes met the concerned ones of the woman who would soon be his wife. A shiver went through him when she reached for him, her hand brushing dirt and dried grass from his shirt. “Thank you,” she said. “I—”
“It was my pleasure.” He captured her hand. His cock filled, and the sensation of a throbbing erection pressed against his boxers was so novel he wanted to freeze the moment in time and savor it. He wanted to forever capture in his mind the first rush of blood to an organ that now seemed to pulse in time to the beat in his heart. Because while there might be life after death, there was no possibility of life from Death—at least not until a bride was found and claimed—the curse of impotence a penalty for some long ago ancestor’s unrestrained and unfortunate predilection for sacrificed virgins.
Atticus closed his eyes. He mentally divested himself of clothing and tried to imagine what the tightness of his jeans was telling him, to confirm what he’d always hoped was true about himself—that fully aroused he was in fact well-endowed, even when compared to gods like Apollo and Backlum Chaam and Eueucoyotl. But of course there was no way of knowing for sure until he was in a private place with his intended.
He opened his eyes and kissed her palm, rejoiced when he felt her shiver and witnessed the subtle blush stealing into her face. “I am Atticus Denali,” he murmured, unable to resist the impulse to kiss her again, this time in a butterfly caress against the pulse at her wrist.
“I’m Bryn DePalo,” she said. “Thanks. I know I said it before.” Her free hand went to his silk shirt and anxiety returned to her face. “I can pay to have this cleaned.” She worried her bottom lip and he wanted to take it between his teeth, to suck it into his mouth. “It’ll take me a while to pay for the dent in your car. I don’t think it’s covered by my insurance and I can’t afford to have them raise the rates anyway.”
The huskiness in her voice sent another throbbing rush from Atticus’s heart to his penis. Every chivalrous impulse inside of him demanded he tell her not to worry about the dent. The car would be returned to its pristine state as soon as it was once again in the family compound—the only price to be paid that of enduring some comments from his brothers regarding his skill behind the wheel.
It was a price Atticus was more than willing to pay. A price that paled in comparison to the importance of gaining a wife.
“I believe we can reach an accord,” Atticus began, somewhat unsure of how to proceed and surprisingly grateful when he didn’t have to because the elderly female joined them, his opponent lagging behind her and holding a tissue to his lip.
“Please come back inside,” the woman said, addressing Bryn.
“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Bryn said, hesitant to point out that Bill was glowering and as far as she was concerned, the evening was already a disaster. She doubted any ghost intervention Mrs. Haddon could possibly need would cover the costs already incurred.
Bryn glanced again at the dent she’d put in the Aston Martin when she ran into it. She felt queasy just looking at it. It wasn’t a huge dent, not compared to some of the ones that had actually come with her car when she bought it. But on an Aston Martin—a vintage James Bond car if she could believe what her eyes were telling her… It wasn’t a car to take to just anyone and have him pound out the dents then do a quickie paint job.
“Please,” Mrs. Haddon said. “Please. Any minute now they’ll start.”
“The ghosts?” Bryn said, drawn to the woman’s pain, wishing they’d had a chance to discuss the details earlier, inside, in private—then again, what was the point? Bryn wasn’t going to hide who she was though it took a supreme act of courage to glance at Atticus. And then it took a second, longer glance to confirm what the first had revealed.
He was smiling, practically grinning—but not with mirth or disbelief. The look in his eyes, the eagerness that seemed to be radiating from him, was excitement, anticipation. Happiness.
Bryn’s eyebrows drew together and for the first time she wondered exactly how he’d come to be in this neighborhood and in front of this house in particular. Did he also have a talent for ghosts? Had Mrs. Haddon called both of them? Had she meant to hire them both or was she so desperate she’d decided to hedge her bets in case one of them didn’t show up?
“You’re interested in hauntings?” Bryn asked Atticus, twinges of nervousness spiraling through her chest as she waited for his answer.
“Very much so.”
Bryn shivered at his answer. His words resonated with an almost otherworldly truth, a deeper meaning that inexplicably frightened and thrilled her at the same time.
Her gaze locked to his. Once again she saw gray eyes that reminded her of foggy shrouded ghostways—at least until they warmed, heated, stirred something deep inside her so it uncoiled and slid through her cunt, making it flutter and causing her labia to flush and swell, her clit to stand erect.
She broke the contact, aware of the blush staining her face and neck as she forced her attention to Billy first—who continued to glower, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, his body stiff though he kept his lips pressed tightly together—and then to his mother, whose hopeful look was a painful contrast to the tremors making her hand shake as she reached out and touched Bryn’s forearm. “Please. Please come back inside. Billy’s sorry for his behavior. He’s a good son. He—”
“I understand,” Bryn said, covering the elderly woman’s hand with her own. “He doesn’t want you to be taken advantage of. We can go back inside and you can tell me about the ghosts.” She looked at the Aston Martin still in the street, at the dent that still needed to be dealt with, and added, “If it’s all right, I’d like for Atticus to join us.”
When Mrs. Hammond nodded, Atticus made quick work of parking the car and rejoining them. He could barely contain the emotions cascading through him. And if The Fates had been present, he might well have kissed them in his gratitude and giddiness over gaining a bride already in the business so to speak.
Not that The Fates had anything to do with him finding Bryn, of course. He had only a nodding acquaintance with them—thankfully. They were a capricious lot, one that any being was well advised to steer clear of.
Atticus grinned like a fool as he followed the others into the house and into the kitchen. He knew he should pull his lips back into their usual somber position. But with the rigid length of his penis making every step a sensory experience and his soon-to-be-wife’s presence, he couldn’t.
It took a supreme effort to keep from rubbing his hands together in anticipation of watching his future wife at work. He felt the ghostly energy against his skin. It swirled, built, was tied to some long ago event and triggered by the approaching dusk. Even in his current incarnation he could know the details of it with a mere thought. But he wanted to be surprised. He wanted to witness for himself Bryn’s touch when it came to sending spirits on their way.
He glanced at his vanquished opponent and took great satisfaction in not only seeing the split and swollen lip but in witnessing the gathering fear in Billy’s eyes as the ghost energy grew and somewhere on another plane, a hound began baying, followed by a second, a third, a fourth, more, until it was a pack of animals on a hunt.
Well, that’s what he gets for not believing his mother in the first place, Atticus thought, guessing his presence was a catalyst for Billy being able to experience the haunting his mother had been privy too.
“Do you need the Bible and the holy water?” their elderly hostess whispered, her grip white-knuckled on her son’s arm, her question directed at Bryn.
Atticus disguised his spontaneous laugh as a cough. He glanced at Bryn and his chest filled with pride and warmth at the negative shake of her head, at her serious features and obvious concentration.
The pack arrived in ghostly form, black-and-tan hounds of medium size chasing through the house, the bayin
g so loud it was nearly ear-splitting. Atticus fully expected a huntsman to appear and collect the beasts, but by the time the pack had circled through the kitchen for a third time, he wondered if they were lost and searching for a way home.
Intriguing! He could hardly wait to see how his bride-to-be would solve the problem. After all, how did one reason with hounds, especially when the hunt was taking place on another plane?
The grin Atticus had managed to subdue started to reform, then just as quickly changed to a severe frown. He had only enough time to think, Surely not, before a horse and rider emerged from the hallway. Not just any rider but a bad marriage between Zorro and a Highwayman. The end result being a caped, masked, tone-deaf individual blowing a trumpet and wearing a tri-cornered hat while sitting astride the skittish black stallion Death himself had retired to the stables!
His youngest brother sat astride the beast, doing a particularly atrocious manifestation of Suriel the Trumpeter, also known as Sauriel the Releaser. It was almost too much to bear, even for a man on vacation. But there was nothing Atticus could do other than to allow the farce to continue.
To interfere would require him to return to his own realm. And so he gritted his teeth as the would-be Suriel charged around the house, ostensibly gathering the hounds, but in fact adding his energy to theirs so all of them became more solid in form—so solid, in fact, that one hound lunged for a pyramid of cheese on the counter, scattering the cubes as it dug its snout into a bowl of marinating meat and began lapping and gnawing without success.
Another hound knocked a bowl to the floor, shattering it so bits of glass mixed with the rising dough. The remaining pack members snapped and growled as they started to fight over food they couldn’t eat.
Atticus grimaced but couldn’t fault them for their behavior. Centuries of being without food could do that to man or beast. And if he was completely honest with himself, his own arrival might have changed the normal course of the hounds’ hunt, though in all likelihood it was the arrival of his brother that had done it.