Eternal

by C. C. Hunter

  “Holiday, she’s a ghost expert, and … she’s afraid that Natasha and Liam are already dead.”

  “No,” Chase said adamantly, his light green eyes brightening with emotion. “If we don’t find them, they will be. I kept hearing this voice telling me to find Natasha.”

  “Me, too,” Della said, finding it odd he’d heard the same voice, and for some reason it gave her more hope. But since Holiday was sort of the knowledgeable one in all things ghost, it didn’t take all her concern away. “It still scares me because she thinks—”

  “I don’t care what she thinks. She’s wrong,” he insisted.

  “I guess we have to believe that.” And standing there—only a few feet from him, agreeing with him, she had some kind of a weird epiphany. They, her and Chase, were supposed to do this. They were supposed to work this case together. But who decided that? Fate? The death angels? The ghost? And who the hell was she? How was all this connected?

  “Have you done this before?” Chase asked.

  “Done what?” she questioned, having gone inside her head and lost track of the conversation.

  “Visions? Voices?”

  Like his earlier admission, hers came with a touch of hesitancy. “Yeah. Chan, and then … Lorraine. But the vision with Lorraine was different.”

  His brows tightened as if he was assessing what she said. “Lorraine? The female victim who was murdered in the case we worked?” His brow creased. “Why didn’t you tell me that?”

  Maybe because you don’t tell me shit, either. She breathed in a mouthful of early morning air and it came with his scent: mint, some kind of herbs, and sunshine. “I … I kept hearing a voice, but I wasn’t sure and…” The wind stirred her hair in front of her face and she pushed it away. “Hell, if I’d told you I was hearing ghosts, you would’ve thought I was crazy.”

  He dropped his hand from his pocket. “Probably. I didn’t think we vampires did the ghost whispering thing.” His gaze shifted and he glanced around at the tombstones.

  Did he feel the same haunted feelings she did? As if something longed for her to walk the grounds and search for something—but what could be found here but the dead? Lost souls.

  “Holiday thinks we have the ability because we’re Reborns.” Questions about when Chase had been Reborn started to percolate. Was he one of the few who survived on his own, or had someone helped him? Was he bonded to someone else? Now didn’t seem the time to start littering him with questions. Besides, he wasn’t known for handing over answers.

  He ran a hand down his face as if fighting the edginess she felt. “Does Burnett deal with this shit, too?”

  Oh, he was getting good at asking questions, wasn’t he?

  Was divulging information about Burnett wrong? Chase’s eyes met hers and she decided he needed the truth. She didn’t think Burnett would disagree. “He hasn’t had visions, but he experiences a connection of some kind. Supposedly, anyone who can visit the falls without being repulsed has a little of the … gift. ‘Gift’ is Holiday’s word, not mine.”

  He stood there as if considering something and then asked, “Can we communicate with anyone who’s dead?”

  She had the feeling he was thinking of his family who Della remembered had all been killed in a plane crash. Unexpectedly, her heartstrings tugged at all that he’d lost. “I don’t know how it works. Holiday could tell you.”

  His gaze went back to Chan’s tombstone. “I know this is tough.” He paused and the silence of the graveyard seemed almost loud. Then his voice came again and it felt as if the wind pulled it away. “You actually spoke with Chan?” He looked back at her.

  More questions. All she could do was nod.

  His eyes tightened with some emotion she couldn’t read. “Does he blame me, too? For his dying?”

  She suddenly recognized that look. Guilt. She hadn’t thought he cared. Had she been wrong?

  “He didn’t blame anyone,” she answered around a tightness in her throat. “That wasn’t Chan’s style.” Her heartstrings pulled again, this time for all she’d lost.

  Another few beats of silence filled the haunted place. Her phone rang, the noise seeming to bounce against tombstone after tombstone. She looked at it, and saw Burnett’s number.

  “Did Burnett know you were coming here?”

  “He forbid me to come here,” he said matter-of-factly. “But he seems pretty smart, so he probably knew I’d come anyway.”

  “You seem to have a thing about breaking rules.”

  “I don’t set out to break them. I just make my own.”

  She pretty much did the same, so she sure as hell couldn’t judge him for it. She looked back at the phone and made a decision. Changing her phone to vibrate, she slipped it back into her pocket.

  Chase’s voice, deep and soulful, sounded again. “Do you want to go see the files?”

  She’d told Burnett where she was going, and he would probably be pissed at her, both for not answering his call and for deviating from the plan. Emotions tied to the vision—desperation, hunger, fear—walked across her heart, leaving heavy footprints. Burnett would just have to be pissed.

  “I’m ready when you are.” But she looked back at Chan’s grave one more time.

  * * *

  Chase took off, and much to his credit, he flew amongst the trees. They’d had to land twice to jog over urban areas where the early morning traffic moved and they could have been spotted. Della followed close behind him, vaguely recalling being unable to keep up with him earlier. Not that he was flying at full speed; he seemed to abide by Burnett’s rules of not showing his true powers. But before, even at this speed, longer than ten minutes would have been pushing her stamina.

  His route was a little different from Burnett’s, but she recognized the terrain below. They were heading back toward Fallen, Texas … toward Shadow Falls. A couple of miles from camp, he followed a curvy dirt road and went down into a semi-clearing in the woods.

  Her feet hit the ground with only a slight jolt. She looked behind her at a cabin. Not like the cabins at Shadow Falls, but like a fancy-schmancy cabin rented out to rich people to do yoga retreats or to get in touch with their inner spirit.

  Whoever designed it did a good job. The logs formed an A-frame residence, constructed in such a way that it grew up and out of the natural landscape. Attached to the building was a large wraparound porch complete with wicker gliders and rockers. Only a few feet from the front porch seating were five bird feeders spaced out amongst the trees. The front part of the cabin held more glass than wood, so even those inside wouldn’t feel closed up.

  Chase walked to the front porch. She followed. As she made the steps, she spotted a car parked to the side of the house. A fancy, bright blue convertible. She was far from a car expert, but it looked fast—and expensive.

  Was someone else here? She took in a big breath and didn’t pick up anyone’s scent. Except … a dog.

  As she passed one of the wicker chairs, she noted a pair of binoculars on top of one cushion. She glanced back at the bird feeders and recalled Miranda’s claims that birding was good for a person’s soul and aura. Refocusing on Chase with disbelief, she asked, “You’re a birder?”

  “No,” he denied it, a little too fast. She glanced inside through the large glass windows to the lodge-style decorations. Big leather furniture, wood floors, and colorful rugs.

  “Who lives here?” she asked.

  “I do,” he said. “Well, me and Baxter.”

  “Baxter?” she asked.

  He shifted a little and opened the door. “Meet Baxter.”

  A big black Lab with a gray muzzle came barreling out. Even though he ran right toward Chase, Della took a step back.

  She wasn’t afraid of dogs, just cautious.

  Chase gave the dog a good scratch behind his ear and the animal’s entire backside wagged with excitement. Della recalled Chase telling her that the only “someone” he hadn’t lost in the plane accident had been his dog. Was this the same dog
? She suspected it was.

  “He won’t bite,” Chase said when she still stood a step back. “Will you, Baxter?” he asked the dog.

  Baxter seemed to take that as an invitation and moved closer. While his gray snout put him in his older years, his toned body and movements didn’t show signs of age. She held out her hand for him to sniff then she slowly turned her hand over and ran her palm over the top of his head.

  The canine accepted her touch, but stared up at her with caution. Della pulled her hand back.

  “Not a dog person?” Chase asked.

  “No, I like dogs. My dad wasn’t too big on them though, so we never had one. But my neighbor had several through the years, and I sort of got attached to a couple of them. My neighbor was a divorced man who was always late with the dog’s supper; some nights he wouldn’t even come home. I had my mom buy dog food, and I’d feed him when I saw he wasn’t home after dark.”

  A slow smile appeared in Chase’s eyes. “So Della Tsang actually has a soft spot?”

  “It’s not a very big spot.” She shot him a frown. The truth was that soft spot was larger than she’d like.

  She shifted and a bird swooped right past the porch. She glanced at the feathered creature as it landed on one of the feeders. It piped out part of a song, almost saying thank you, dug its beak into the wire mesh to snag a piece of food, and then flew off.

  “I knew I heard a…” Chase said.

  She looked back at him. He had the binoculars plastered to his eyes, and when he lowered them, his expression looked victorious. “That bird’s not supposed to be here now,” he said.

  She almost grinned at his enthusiasm. “Not a birder, huh?”

  He didn’t really appear embarrassed, just caught. “Maybe a little. But it was forced on me. My mom was an avid birder. She dragged me to bird-watching events four or five times a year.”

  Della heard devotion in his voice when he talked about the woman who’d raised him the first fourteen years of his life, and it made her realize how little she knew about this guy. Not exactly her fault. He’d been secretive from the beginning.

  And still was. Her gut said he knew more about who had sent him to check on her and Chan. And that someone could be the one person Della was searching for: her uncle. She’d recently learned her dad’s brother was a vampire who’d faked his own death years ago, and she wondered if he’d made contact with Chase.

  She wasn’t going to forget that she didn’t completely trust Chase. Hopefully, if they collaborated with the Vampire Council, she might get answers there. Hell, her uncle could even be one of the council members. That thought sent a wave of urgency to get this case started—to find Natasha and to find her own answers.

  Chapter Twelve

  Another bird swooped past, and awkwardness slipped into the moment. Della and Chase stood there on the huge front porch, gazes locked, each lost in their own thoughts.

  She focused back on the trees and asked another question. “Did this place belong to your parents?” When he didn’t answer right away, she looked at him.

  “No,” he said, watching the bird feeders. “Though my mom would have loved it.”

  And, just like that, in spite of just telling herself she didn’t trust him, she felt herself wanting to know more. More about his past life, his present. That desire suddenly felt wrong and dangerous. Forbidden. An image of Steve flashed in her head as guilt sat on the edge of her heart.

  She swallowed the uncomfortable feeling down her throat and remembered why she was here. “We should look at those files.”

  His right brow arched ever so slightly, as if he knew she was purposely pulling back, but he opened the glass door wider to let her in.

  The aroma of wood and leather filled the room, along with light traces of Chase’s smell and his beloved Baxter.

  “Sit down,” Chase said. “I’ll grab the files.”

  She didn’t feel comfortable enough to sit. Alone, she stood by the large coffee table and brown leather sofa and studied her surroundings. She gazed up, a little awed by the high ceiling and immaculate decorations. Against one wall was a huge pine cabinet holding a large television. She envisioned Chase there, Baxter curled up beside him watching TV. Next to that, she noted a few framed pictures decorating some of the shelves. She listened to make sure he wouldn’t catch her snooping. Hearing him rummaging through a drawer, she edged closer and stared at the first image—two girls, their arms around each other, laughing like best friends. The second was a group picture. She picked up the image that appeared to be a family portrait.

  She recognized a young Chase, probably thirteen, tall and a little lanky, but already showing signs of becoming a man. The girl, who looked like his sister, was one of the girls in the first photo. Della sighed, thinking about her own sister, and how little they were a part of each other’s lives now.

  Touching the glass, she passed her finger over the images of the other people.

  Family. Family lost. Her chest suddenly felt empty remembering the pictures of her own family. Pictures now hidden in a drawer, not on public display. Did that mean losing someone to death was easier than watching them turn their backs on you?

  She studied Chase’s image in the photo. Happy. Surrounded by people he loved. Now they were gone. She supposed it hurt both ways.

  Her sinuses began to sting. Swallowing, she put the picture back.

  Baxter inched closer to her and sat next to her leg. The animal stared up with intensity. His gaze didn’t come off threatening, just evaluating.

  She dropped her hand and let him smell her again. He bumped her knuckles with his wet nose and breathed in her scent. Not just once, but twice. Slowly, his tail began to wag, and he moved in closer, lovingly leaning his head against her leg.

  It was almost as if the dog could smell Chase’s blood inside of her. Was that possible? Did she smell different now that she had his blood? She lifted her hand up and sniffed her own wrist near her vein. She didn’t detect anything different.

  She knelt down and stared into his large brown eyes.

  She leaned close to the dog’s ear. “I’m not out to hurt him, just work with him.” She whispered the words so low Chase wouldn’t hear. “Not that I haven’t wanted to kick his ass a couple of times.” She ran her hand over the dog’s side.

  Moving her hand up, she touched the collar and felt some engraving in soft, aged leather. Brushing the hair back, she turned the collar in a circle to read the inscription.

  The tap of footsteps moved into the room. “Never turn your back on a challenge,” she repeated what she’d read. “Is that for the dog or you?”

  “Both,” he said.

  A flash of emotion touched his eyes. She had a feeling the saying meant something, but what? She batted back the curiosity. She was here to work the case, not get chummy.

  “You two made friends?”

  He held two files in his hands.

  “Looks like it.” Della stood and walked to the large table. The dog followed her and rubbed against Chase as he joined them in the center of the room.

  She dropped into a chair. Chase sat in the one next to her. Not so close their shoulders touched, but close enough she thought about his nearness.

  He nudged the files over to her, his brows tightened. “I’ve already gone over them. Dozens of times. I’m not sure they are going to help. Getting more information would require we pay either Craig Anthony or one of his hired goons a visit. I have a feeling the FRU won’t allow it.”

  “Burnett will allow it,” she said, certain Burnett would do everything in his power to save someone. She pulled the files closer.

  “All we have are two possible names. There’s nothing in there that can tell me which one is our Natasha. And while having a name seems important, I’m not even sure that will help us.”

  “It has to.” Della flipped open the first file.

  She scanned quickly, looking for … she found the name of Natasha Owen’s mother. Jenny Owen. “It’s not Nat
asha Owen.” She closed it and reached for the other one.

  Chase put his hand on top of the file. “How do you know?”

  She decided not to lie. “Because her mother’s name isn’t Asian.” There was a slight possibility that Natasha’s mom might have taken on an American name. Lots of Asians did that, but usually it was the younger ones. Someone older than thirty or forty normally held tight to the culture of their parents.

  “What? How? I don’t understand,” he said.

  “Natasha’s half Asian.” She tried to pull the file from under his hand, but he flattened his palm on top of it.

  “How do you know that? It was so dark in that vision that you … you couldn’t have seen her.”

  “I didn’t.” She lifted up off the chair and pulled the picture from her back pocket. “But I’ve got this.” She considered not showing it to him until he released the file. But she was tired of playing games. They had to trust each other.

  Not on a personal level, she reminded herself, still believing he held secrets, but enough to work on the case.

  Enough to save two people … two people possibly in love, who needed and deserved to be saved.

  Save Natasha.

  She handed him the picture and cut her eyes around the room.

  He studied the photo.

  “Turn it over,” she said.

  He did and then looked back up at her as if puzzled. “Turn it over to see what?”

  He handed her back the picture. Her breath caught.

  “I don’t … But it was … There were names here earlier. It had the name ‘Natasha,’ along with my aunt’s and Chan’s.” Glancing up, hit hard by the doubt in his eyes, she frowned. “I’m telling the truth!”

  She stared again at the pristine white, unmarked back of the picture. Oh, hell, was her mind playing tricks on her?

  Or was it the ghost?

  * * *

  Della looked at Chase standing by his refrigerator. “It was there earlier,” she said for the tenth time in the last five minutes.

  “So you think the ghost wrote it then erased it?” He held out a canned drink for her.

  “I … I don’t know.” She accepted the cold soda. It wasn’t diet, but she took it anyway. The icy cold against her palm reminded her of what it felt like when a spirit came for a visit—when they felt too close. She popped the top open. The fizzy sound triggered her need to be with Kylie and Miranda at one of their round-table meetings—to have them help her make sense of this, because it certainly wasn’t making sense to her right now.