Shadows From Beyond [Anthology]

J.J. Massa, Sassy Rebel, Logan Blue

SHADOWS FROM BEYOND By J.J. Massa Sassy Rebel Logan Blue

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The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Shadows from Beyond Copyright (c) 2005 by J.J. Massa, Sassy Rebel, Logan Blue ISBN: 1-59836-096-5 Cover art and design (c) 2005 by Nix Winter All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form without permission, except as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law. Printed and bound in the United States of America. For information, you can find us on the web at www.VenusPress.com

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J.J. Massa, Sassy Rebel, Logan Blue

BELONGING TO MacGREGOR By J.J. Massa

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Dedication:

To my lovely editor, my husband and family, my best friends and BBW everywhere

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J.J. Massa, Sassy Rebel, Logan Blue

Prologue

“Let me go lass, ere the waters pull you under, too!” Eian ordered, his strong voice becoming thready and weak. “I’ll let you go, Eian MacGregor, sure enough, but not to death.” The determined young lady leaned over and pressed her lips to the blood-drenched cut on the large man’s throat. Lifting her head, she choked out, “The waters will take you to your rest but know this. In time yet to come, one of my daughters will call upon you to help her and be her man. You will save her from the Campbell and in so doing, save yourself.” “Bless ya for stayin’. Now go an’ save yourself, lass,” Eian gasped, the strength of his words stolen by an especially angry wave. “You will not die of wounds or drowning, me Laird!” She promised him, “You will wait in between. When ye find your true love, she will bring you alive and you will live out your days with her to their natural end!” The young woman was tossed to shore while what remained of the proud Laird, Eian MacGregor, was pulled out to sea, his body never recovered. Eithne Findley later married her cousin, Filib Findley and they had two daughters and a son. Their son, Iain, later married Finola MacGregor, niece of the late Laird. The struggle for Gregorstac Isle continued from one generation to the next.

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Chapter One

The sea was violent with blue-gray waves crashing against the rocks as Eian pushed against the harsh wind. He walked along the cliff’s edge making his way up to the point. Only a fool or a ghost would be out in this building storm. A clap of thunder reverberated through him and the black sky was illuminated with a bright flash of light. Eian knew it was time that he returned to the castle. He wondered who’d be there when he returned. These days, it was impossible to tell. Time didn’t mean much to him any more. He had no idea how long he’d been at the cliffs – perhaps days, perhaps years. Laird Eian MacGregor had passed the realm of the living more than two hundred seventy years prior, but life was still no easier. His entire world consisted of his home, the cliffs surrounding it and the beach below the cliffs. “Surprise, surprise,” Eian thought. “It is verra busy here today.” He noticed the simple man and woman who’d spent so much time at his house these last years. They seemed very excited. Oddly enough, he was pleased to find them still alive, though much older than when he’d last gone to the cliffs. There had been a child here the last time he’d seen them. She’d made him uneasy somehow. When an old man had attacked her, however, he’d intervened. “Ida, has the big picture arrived? Our Elsabetta likes to have it near her.” That had to be Malcolm, Ida’s husband. “It has Malcolm, but I’m not sure if we should put it in her chambers or over the fire in the sitting room.” Ida was quite flustered. “We’ll hang the large one over the fireplace and put the smaller one in her room. We can hang it above the hearth there. How’s that?” Ida was apparently satisfied and Eian followed the couple as they went about finishing their tasks. Eian was intrigued by their enthusiasm. 7

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“I can’t wait to see her again,” Ida was saying. “Why, it’s been ten years since she last came home, hasn’t it?” “She was fourteen when she left this house, so it’s been twelve years, Luv.” Malcolm embraced his wife. “It’ll be like having our own child back with us again.” “She’s as beautiful as any of the pictures she paints,” Ida sighed. “Take the wrapping off that huge thing so we can see it. We’ll have Toby come and help you hang it later.” Invisible to the excited couple, Eian looked on as Malcolm removed the brown paper from the large painting. Upon seeing the images on the canvas, the three of them gasped. “It fair takes my breath away, it does,” sighed Ida. “No doubt the lost Laird himself would swear to a likeness,” Malcolm agreed. The painting depicted Eian dressed in the clothes he’d died in. He was standing at the edge of the cliff wearing his feilidh-mhor - big kilt - in dark green and red tartan, as his father had worn, over his saffron colored shirt with his thick socks and brogues. He wore no headgear--his long dark hair was braided at the temples and secured by a length of hide at his neck. The wind tugged at his clothing and his head was turned slightly. The sun was setting as he stared out over the water. Malcolm had removed the paper from a smaller painting. This one was not as big but showed him from the waist up, hands behind his back. The likeness was so remarkable that it was as if he was looking in a mirror. Even the dark blue of his eyes was correct. Eian was stunned. Who was this woman who’d painted his portraits? The notation above the signature on the large painting read: Eian MacGregor, brooding. The other one said: Eian MacGregor, glaring. They were signed Elsabetta Finlay and dated nine and eight years prior, respectively. **** Since his curiosity had been piqued, Eian stayed nearby. He listened as the older couple talked to each other. He also listened as the young man from the village came in and helped hang the pictures. “I brought this write-up from the paper so you’d know what the press is saying about her,” Toby, who’d come from the village five miles away, told them. He handed the paper to Malcolm as Ida scooted close. 8

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Eian stood behind the couple, trying to read over their shoulders. The title of the article read, “Elsabetta Finlay Mourns the Loss of Her Marriage and Her Husband.” The article described how that the twenty-six-year-old artist had been married to writer, Duncan Morland, for five years. There was speculation about the couple’s relationship since the two were last seen the evening of Mr. Morland’s death dining with Catherine Paulson. Ms. Paulson, a widow, was killed with Mr. Morland when her executive jet crashed upon landing in Las Vegas. A suite had been reserved for Mr. Morland and a guest at Harrah’s of Las Vegas. Sources confirm that Mr. Morland and his wife had filed for a Summary Dissolution of Marriage, to be effective within two weeks. According to the article, Ms. Finlay could not be reached for comment. Her publicist read a statement that the couple had parted amicably. Ms. Finlay and Ms. Paulson were good friends. Ms. Finlay was now grieving for the loss of not one, but two people who were dear to her. The picture that accompanied the article was fuzzy and showed a good-looking man and two women in opera garb. The two young ladies seemed attractive enough, but Eian couldn’t really tell. Following closely after the older couple and Toby, Eian noted that they had readied the master chamber for Elsabetta and hung his portrait in that room. He’d suspected that the older man and his wife were servants but he’d paid so little attention.

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Chapter Two

Eian watched her from the moment she’d arrived. He couldn’t take his eyes off of her. For reasons he couldn’t name, he hid as if Elsabetta could see him. Anyone who could paint his portrait so perfectly made him nervous. “Bòidheach” he groaned when he first saw her. Beautiful. She wasn’t so small that he feared a good wind would blow her away. In fact, she had the kind of curves he’d always admired. Elsabetta Findlay was soft and round and would fill his arms nicely. She had long, wavy, chestnut colored hair, restrained in a French braid that hung just above the small of her back. He thought of how it would hug her round, plush rear when let loose. “Bòidheach” he murmured again, not paying attention to his surroundings. He was standing in a doorway farther down the hall and she whipped around. He stepped back, surprised. All this time no one else had seen or heard him. She had heard him from down the hall. Ida and Malcolm, thrilled to have her home again, took her all over the house, showing her the changes. She paused for a long time in front of the large painting of Eian over the fireplace in the den. He stayed nearby as Malcolm approached her with questions and problems. Many upon MacGregor lands looked to her for help and support as Lady and owner of the castle. She was able to address many of the needs presented to her but in time she begged Malcolm to bring these problems to her the next day. Malcolm understood that she was tired and in need of rest. She needed him. Eian knew it clearly. She wanted to help the people who depended on MacGregor castle, but she was overwhelmed. He could have told Malcolm what to do instantly in every case he’d presented to Elsabetta. It didn’t matter that times had changed. Governing his people wasn’t that much different now from when he’d been living. 10

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When Malcolm left her, she buried her face in her arms and wept like a brokenhearted child. Eian couldn’t help himself. He stepped behind her and stroked her hair until she dozed. As his hand moved over the silken chestnut locks, he stopped in mid-stroke. He could feel her. He could feel the texture of her hair. What was going on? She’d heard his voice. She’d seen his likeness enough to paint him. Now he could feel her hair beneath his fingers. Eian dropped his hand and backed away. He bumped a small table and it shook. He’d felt the edge of the table. The girl’s sleepy head moved toward the rattling sound of the jostled table. “Wha…?” she mumbled. He turned and fled the room. Elsabetta was glad to be home, but she was so tired. Duncan had helped her in the past when problems arose among the people of Gregorstac Isle. It wasn’t that she didn’t know enough about the needs of her people – it was that she was too soft. She wanted to be fair to everybody. Sighing, she walked out to the verandah to look over the grassy park that led to the cliffs. Malcolm and Ida had been so good to her. They plied her with food and were so glad she was home. The sweet couple wasn’t getting any younger. She knew that Malcolm needed to relinquish some of the responsibility for running the island. “Oh, Eian, where are you now?” she breathed. “I guess it’s silly. I do na need the imaginary hero from my childhood. I need a real man to help me now. Do they even make real men like you anymore?” Elsabetta settled herself into a chair on the wide verandah and pulled her knees to her chin. She fell asleep thinking of the time her grandfather had beaten her and something – she’d imagined it to be the virile ghost – had stopped him. That was when her grandfather had sent her away to boarding school. She awoke hours later when Ida gently guided her up the stairs and to her bedchamber. Barely taking time to remove her clothes, Elsabetta climbed into bed and was fast asleep. When she awoke the next morning, she dressed hurriedly and prepared herself for a busy day of problem solving. 11

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Chapter Three

Finally, Eian could take no more. This woman drew him as no other had, even when he’d been alive. He wanted to see her privately but Ida and Malcolm were all over her. He made his way to the chamber above hers and waited for her to come to her room. It wasn’t long before he heard the sound of running water. He waited in her chamber, holding his breath as she emerged from her bath wearing a satiny green robe, cinched at the waist. He watched as she pulled a bench up to his portrait hanging above the small fireplace in her room. Standing on it, she reached out and touched the likeness of his face. “Have you missed me, Eian?” she asked. His breath caught. “I wish you could be in my bed tonight instead of hanging on my wall.” “I can think of no better place to be, mo rìghinn,” he responded. My lady. “Your wish is my command.” With a gasp, she spun around on the padded bench and it began to wobble precariously. Eian surged forward to catch her knowing that he couldn’t. He knew that she would fall through him to the floor. He couldn’t say which of them was more shocked when he snatched her in midfall and clasped her against his chest. Her eyes were huge as she looked up at him. She trembled in his arms. “Eian MacGregor,” she whispered. He continued to look down at her. “None other.” “It can’t be…You are my dream man.” “And you, Bòidheach rìghinn, are the woman of my dreams.” Beautiful lady. If he could hold her and touch her, he could kiss her. Eian needed to kiss her. He hadn’t had human contact in almost three centuries. He wasn’t letting go of this woman now. 12

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Yes, over the years, some had seen him. Some had heard him. But this woman was real and solid. He felt her. He needed her. It was obvious to him that she needed him, too. Swinging her into his arms, he strode to the bed and placed her upon it. He reached up to his shoulder to release the clasp at his shoulder of his kilt, then removed the belts he wore. Her eyes never left him as he pulled his shirt over his head and removed his brogues and socks. Turning back to her, he was naked, his manhood jutting proudly from the nest of black curls between his legs. He hadn’t removed his clothes in two and a half centuries, nor had he felt the stir of desire in all that time. Now, looking at her, he was filled with a sudden urgent ache that shocked him to his core. He lay down alongside her and catching her face between his hands, he lowered his mouth to hers. Without thought he covered her mouth with his own, kissing her deeply, hungrily, his tongue a sweet invader as she held on for dear life. “This can’t be,” she moaned. “Shall I stop?” he asked, with no intention of do so. “No, please no! I need you. Even if this is a dream, I so need you.” Eian groaned and began kissing her again, parting her robe and covering one breast with his large calloused hand. He kneaded her breasts while his mouth explored her face and neck. Slipping his hand from her breast, he trailed it down over her belly and finally cupped her femininity. He heard her gasp when he began to probe her with one finger, delving in and out of her tight, clinging passage, then pulling free and rubbing her tiny nub of flesh. “Eian, how is this possible?” she moaned. “Feels so good, so good.” Lowering his mouth to her nipple, he rumbled, “Do I bring you pleasure, mo rìghinn?” “Oh, yes!” she moaned. Breathlessly, she asked, “Can I touch you, too?” “Mmmm, s’eadh!” Yes! He sucked her rigid nipple into his mouth, nipping it gently then wrapping his tongue around the hard little peak and then tugging it into his mouth, sucking hard. Kissing his way over to the other breast, he lavished the same attention upon it. 13

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He was sure he would have died for the second time in less than three hundred years when she grasped his hard cock. Gently teasing and enticing him, she pumped her hand up and down on him. “Please, Eian, can I…” She trailed off, nervously. He lifted his mouth from her breast and stilled his stroking fingers. “I am your willing dream lover, mo rìghinn, yours to do with as you desire.” He couldn’t imagine what she wanted from him but he was willing to agree to whatever she desired. For nearly three centuries, he’d felt nothing. Now, a beautiful woman had her hand wrapped around his cock. Death was looking better than it ever had. She bent to his pulsing shaft and sucked on the tip, savoring it, dipping her tongue into the small slit and sucking lightly. Once again, she wrapped her fingers around the base of his shaft and began stroking him, as she licked and suckled the top of his cock. Her other hand cupped and cuddled his balls. “Sguir! Stop! I would spend inside you,” he growled. She lifted her head. “You do not like it?” She sounded hurt. “I like it much but I desire my seed to spurt into your body.” She could have no doubt about that. He pulled her up underneath him and spread her legs with his knee. He fought the urge to plunge mindlessly into her and instead pressed forward slowly. Taking his time, he pushed through her wet folds and stopped in shock. “You are still a maiden?” he gasped, pulling out of her. “That canna be,” he breathed. Her eyes filled with tears. When she would have rolled away from him, he held her firmly. Her hazel eyes were wide and moist and she closed them. “Seall agam!” Look at me! Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and looked up at him. His erection still pressed firmly against her thigh. “How is it that a man has taken you to wife these five years and yet you remain a maiden?” he rumbled. His eyes were narrowed on her. “I’ve no doubt he preferred women above men or he would not have died with another one.” When she would have turned her head away, he took her chin in his hand and kept her immobile. His dark brow arched and Elsabetta knew she had to answer him. 14

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“Duncan was my friend. We married so that he could gain his inheritance and I could keep MacGregror lands from the man I was betrothed to.” When his eyes narrowed, she continued. “William Campbell was promised my hand by my grandfather—my mother’s father—when I was a teenager. It was decided that I would marry him and end the hostilities between our families. I hated him.” “’Twas Fenella Campbell who killed me with her lover and cousin, Erskine Campbell,” he snarled, rolling to his back. When Elsabetta began to turn away, he tugged her up against him. “Finish your tale woman,” he growled. “He’s taunted me for years. He said I was frigid. He said…” she sniffed and large tears rolled down her face. Eian looked down at her and gently brushed her tears away with his knuckle. “What lie did Campbell hurt you with, mo rìghinn?” “He said it was lucky that I–I had a thing for a ghost. He said I would freeze a living man to death.” She studied her fingers and wished she could disappear like a ghost. “Had you nothing to say to that, mo rìghinn?” The look in his eyes made her breathless. “I told him that even two hundred and seventy years dead, you were a better man than he was any day he was alive.” She felt her face burn. “Do you believe yourself to be frigid, Elsabetta Finlay?” His voice, his eyes, the hand on her thigh-all of these things had her blood heating up. She felt hot liquid gush at her center. “I do na know,” she choked. “If I love ye, Elsabetta,” he looked at her sternly, “if I take your maidenhead, I will make you mine. Leamsa–mine. Do you understand what that means?” “I–I–I think so.” She wasn’t really sure. “You will be my woman. I will tolerate no other’s hands on you.” His midnight blue eyes blazed possessively. “I am Eian MacGregor–dead these two hundred fifty years, yes. But if I am man enough to make you a woman, Elsabetta Finley, you will be Elsabetta MacGregor and mine alone.” She didn’t know how this was happening. None of it made sense. How could this be a dream? Dream or not, she’d always felt drawn to Eian MacGregor. She’d seen him 15

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–she thought–off and on throughout her childhood. She’d believed herself in love with his ghost as a teen. Even as a young woman, he’d been the man in her girlish fantasies. When she’d pleasured herself, it was his face and his body she’d imagined. Now, it would be Eian MacGregor who truly made her a woman. “Eian, what happens if you find out that you don’t like me?” she couldn’t help worrying. He had a wicked gleam in his eye when he rolled over and kissed her mouth hungrily. Lifting his head he said, “I like you verra much, Elsabetta Finley. Would you have me to show you how much?” “Yes please, Eian,” she submitted breathlessly. When he rolled away from her again, she was petrified. Was he leaving her? Did he change his mind? Had a figment of her imagination rejected her? When he leaned over her again, he had two rings in his hand. He handed her the larger one. They were heavy gold with the MacGregor family crest sculpted into them. The crest was the head of a roaring lion wearing a crown. Rubies dotted the larger crown, and emeralds the smaller one. The belt that framed the lion bore the motto “My Race Is Royal” written in ancient Gaelic. Celtic knots were engraved into both sides of each band. “We will say our vows, Griogarach.” At these words, she sucked in her breath. Belonging to MacGregor. “I will say mine first and then you shall say yours.” She nodded. In Gaelic, he said, “I, Eian MacGregor, now take you, Elsabetta Finley, to be my wife. In the presence of God I promise to be a loving, faithful and loyal husband to you, until God shall separate us by death.” In halting Gaelic, she repeated, “I, Elsabetta Finley, now take you, Eian MacGregor, to be my husband. In the presence of God I promise to be a loving, faithful and loyal wife to you, until God shall separate us by death.” He slipped the ring on the third finger of her left hand and held his hand out to her. Nervously, she slipped the heavy ring onto his finger. Her mind was whirling with questions. How could a ghost hand her a heavy gold ring? The ring he’d placed on her finger fit perfectly. It was also very real. 16

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Before she could ponder much else, Eian pulled her into his strong arms. As his lips lowered to meet hers, a sigh escaped her and he took it in as his mouth covered her lips. While he tasted her, he explored her, moving his hand from her breast, over her belly, finally cupping her femininity once again. She gasped when she felt one large finger probe her, delving inside. Eian slowly moved his finger in and out of her tight, clinging passage, then pulling free and rubbing her tiny nub of flesh. Powerful jolts of pleasure shot through her until she thought she’d fly apart. When he moved down her body so that his head was between her legs, she struggled a little. In seconds she felt his breath on her most intimate center. When she felt the hot moisture of his mouth, felt the brush of his tongue, a rush of acute pleasure shot through her, causing the muscles in her belly to clench tightly. A moan burst from her as she absorbed the incredible force of her body's reaction. Grasping his hair, she tried to push him away, but he was immobile. She couldn’t escape this almost unbearable pleasure. Soon, she no longer wanted to move away, instead clutching the sheets in her fists as wave upon wave of passion crashed along her nerve endings. Increasing in strength and intensity, the tension inside of her burst, causing her to shatter into thousands of miniature shards of ecstasy. Before she knew what was happening, he was poised above her, the round head of his manhood nudging at her entrance. “Leamsa,” he growled. Saying that one word, he pushed through her aching folds and filled her completely. Pain shot through her and she whimpered, gripping his shoulders. “Shhh, wife, you will feel pleasure again soon. No more pain.” He kissed her tenderly. He began to pump gently and slowly inside of her. With his encouragement, she wrapped her legs around him and lifted her hips. His length and thickness seemed more than she could bear. After she relaxed, he began to move inside her, slowly at first, then more quickly, sinking deeper inside her with each thrust. She could feel every part of him from the hair on his chest teasing her aching breasts to the thick muscles of his thighs as he moved in 17

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and out of her. Clutching his muscular arms, she felt the corded tension in his biceps, noticing the scars from past battles at the same time. He swept his hands under her, cupping her bottom and pulling her tighter against him. She clung to him, feeling his thick shaft pump inside of her. As his thrusts increased in speed and depth, she could hear her own soft, whimpering moans, her own panting gasps. Shudders racked her body when her climax overwhelmed her. The cries of her orgasm surrounded them both. He thrust once more and then with a roar, his body jerked and shuddered above her as his own release took him. For long minutes, she lay under him and he continued to hold her bottom in his hands still pressing her tight against him. Finally, he pulled out of her and rolled to his back, taking her with him. He settled her into the crook of his arm before he spoke. “So, Rìghinn Griogarach, what think you of being claimed as a wife?” He still sounded a bit dazed, she thought. “Is it always like that?” she asked in wonder. “It will improve over time,” he assured her. She sucked in her breath. “I didn’t think I’d survive this. I might die if it gets better,” she gasped. His rumbling laughter didn’t hide his pure male satisfaction.

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Chapter Four

Eian started when he heard noises in the house. He couldn’t believe it but, for the first time in two and a half centuries, he’d slept. Turning his attention to the woman in his arms, he remembered what had made him tired. He’d been killed–murdered–on the day of his wedding, December 1, 1735. Now, almost two hundred and seventy years later, he’d finally married. And, if the fates were screaming the right message, he had finally chosen the correct bride. His sweet, virginal, innocent little Elsabetta needed him and he knew he needed her. He needed her for more than that human connection he hadn’t felt in so long. The moment he’d laid eyes on her, he’d craved her, never imagining that he could sate that craving. Running his eager hands over her soft, smooth flesh, he knew he was far from sated. He was busy resisting the urge to bury himself deep within her for the third – or was it fourth time - this morning when he heard a quiet tap on the door. “Elsabetta?” That was Ida’s sweet voice calling Eian’s new wife. “Elsabetta? Would you like coffee this morning?” “Cnmphtr?” came Elsabetta’s muffled reply. Ida opened the door and tiptoed in. “I didn’t get that Luvvie. I’ll leave the coffee tray by the bed, shall I? Perhaps you’ll try some of the brown toast I brought? With jam?” Eian leaned over and whispered, “Leave that and bring tea and Herring in oatmeal.” Elsabetta groaned and lifted her head. “Yes, Ida, please leave the tray. Can I have extra today?” “Of course, Lass, what’ll it be?” Ida was only too eager to provide. “Strong tea and Herring in oatmeal?” she pressed her face into Eian’s neck. “Ewwww” she groaned. 19

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“Coming right up, Luvvie!” Ida promised. “You will brush your teeth after you eat, right?” she collapsed onto the bed. “I am Eian MacGregor,” he growled. “The same dead body that thinks he’s gonna kiss me with fish on his breath?” she mumbled, burrowing into his chest. “Gross!” He laughed deeply. “The verra same, wife.” “Did you hear that, Malcolm?” Ida asked her husband nervously. He’d waited outside the door with Ida and hadn’t missed her exchange with Elsabetta. Malcolm had been as surprised as Ida when the young woman had ordered oatmeal with fish. She didn’t like fish and never had. When Ida left the room, he’d heard her speaking to someone else. Now, huddling in the hall, both Ida and Malcolm heard the deep baritone laugh of a man. Ida had seen their young mistress in bed – alone. Apparently alone. But that laugh was definitely a man’s deep timbre. The bed had curtains but Ida felt sure that she would have noticed a man in bed with little Elsabetta. When Ida returned, she went to place the tray down upon the bed, but the mistress pointed to a small table and asked her to place the tray upon it. With weak legs and shaking hands, Ida carried the tray to the table. Lowering herself into a nearby chair, Ida croaked, “Miss, please, can you come here?” “Of course, Ida,” she said, concerned. Pulling her robe close about her, Elsabetta went to the older woman and knelt in front of her. “What is it? Are you unwell?” “May I see your hand please, Miss Elsabetta?” Ida whispered. She didn’t miss how the girl looked over her shoulder before she extended her hand. Elsabetta held out a shaking hand and Ida took it gently. Her shaking finger grazed the tiny lion’s head with the jewels on its crown. “Will you trust me, please, Ida?” Elsabetta asked in a low voice. “I’ll explain later, just trust me, please.” “This was one of the rings gone these two hundred seventy years, lost with the Laird himself,” she said as if reasoning with herself. “Tell Malcolm to leave a list of the day’s problems in the study, Ida.” she pulled the older woman to her feet and planted a kiss on the thin skin of her round cheek. 20

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Ida looked into Elsabetta’s eyes. The young woman looked at her and nodded and then seemed to look over her shoulder, near the bed. Ida glanced back but couldn’t make anything out – something didn’t seem quite right but she wasn’t sure what. “Okay, Miss, and will ye be joining us for lunch then?” she all but whispered, unaccountably nervous now. “I expect so, Ida, don’t worry. I’ll see you then,” she smiled encouragingly. “Okay, then, okay,” she mumbled making her way out the door, still looking at the odd spot near the bed. Something wasn’t right there, but she just couldn’t tell what. **** Elsabetta turned when the older woman left and headed for the shower. Eian had been curious about the shower for many years. He wasn’t about to miss the opportunity to shower with his new wife. She reached into the curtained tub and turned some knobs and he heard water begin to run. Carefully, she stepped over the high lip of the claw-footed tub and moved under the hot spray. He let out an audible groan when he joined her there. “Ahhh!” she called, startled. “I was thinking so hard I just…” she trailed off. “Mmm, you forgot about me, hmmm, my sweet wife? Not even married a full day yet and I am but a dim memory for ye,” he rumbled, a hint of laughter in his voice. She looked closely at him, apparently trying to decide if he was serious. He pulled her against him under the flowing water and covered her mouth in a breathstealing kiss. He’d never been so happy in his life–or his death. Turning her so that her back was to him, he reached over her head and poured a handful of shampoo into his palm, soaping her long hair. “Ohhh yeahhh,” she sighed as he worked the slick liquid into lather. “I do na think Ida could see me but I think she could see something,” he mused as he massaged her scalp with his fingertips. “Mmmm,” she moaned, leaning into his caressing fingertips, “um, yeah, so do I. And I think she could hear you, too,” she murmured, allowing him to turn her under the water as the soap rinsed from her hair. Once she was rinsed, he shifted her out of the way and soaked his own hair, bending down so that she could lather his hair. What decadence this is. What luxury. Three centuries ago there’d been nothing like this to tempt him. He could think of no better time to return to life. 21

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“Is that what this is?” he murmured as he stood to rinse. “What?” she asked, “I think we should each just wash the rest ourselves, Eian, or we will never make it downstairs.” she poured some soap into his palm and wriggled away from him. “I wonder if it is that I am coming to life again…” he mused absently, finishing his shower while she did the same.

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Chapter Five

Malcolm noticed that Elsabetta paused before she reached the door to the study. He couldn’t be sure but there must have been a breeze. Doors just didn’t open by themselves. Still, what could have made her jump and giggle like that going into the study? Perhaps the strain of losing her husband and her friend had finally taken its toll on her. As instructed, he’d left the list of grievances and needs on the desk for Elsabetta to look at and hopefully make some decisions. For the last two days, he’d presented her with the community’s problems and felt so sad for her, while watching as she struggled with solutions. Malcolm was entering the kitchen for his morning cuppa when Elsabetta called from just beyond the door. “Malcolm, we…I’m going out for a stroll! I’ll have tea when I return.” “We, Malcolm!” Ida gasped as he moved next to her. “She said we,” she exclaimed with a hysterical pitch. “Put the kettle on, Missus,” he kissed her cheek. “I’ll have some of those lo-vely…” his voice trailed off as he stared out the window. “Per’aps you’ll take some of these nice butterscotch crisps? Malcolm?” He knew he’d scared her but he was stunned himself. She joined him as he watched their young mistress, far down the lane, floating as if… as if she were being carried. That was the only explanation–she must be being carried, he told himself. “Carried, Ida Luv, must be,” he murmured. “B-but Malcolm,” her voice was ever closer to hysteria now, cracking on a high note. “Malcolm, no one is with her! She’s alone…” There was a pleading note in Ida’s voice now, as if Malcolm could make sense of the impossible.

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As the floating young lady disappeared from view, Malcolm turned and put an arm around his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll get to the bottom of this, never you fear,” he promised her gruffly. “Never you fear.” **** “Ida looked a bit pale, didn’t she?” Elsabetta asked, sipping a strong cup of tea after the woman left. “She was looking at you quite oddly,” Eian rumbled, reaching for the teacup. “Should I tell her about you, do you think?” she wondered, looking up at him. Before he could answer her, the telephone rang. He startled and jumped, muttering, “I do na know if I’ll ever get used to that.” She chuckled a little, reaching for the phone. “Hello?” she asked into the mouthpiece. “Well, my dear. It’s high time you were home, now isn’t it?” Elsabetta felt a cold chill shoot up her spine. “William Campbell.” she growled, “I’m home yes. Did you call to express your condolences?” “Condolences? For what?” came his hateful reply. “I will be there the day after tomorrow to set the date for our long delayed wedding. You will uphold your end of our family’s agreement.” “I can’t,” Elsabetta returned, angry now. “I can’t marry you, William. I’m already married.” “To whom?” he sneered. “A ghost?” “As a matter of fact, yes,” she clipped back at him. “How did you know?” She held the phone away from her ear with a grimace when he slammed it down on his end. “The Campbell was it?” Eian gave every evidence of anger as he strode over to her. “So, he thinks he’ll put his hands on my bride does he?” “Maybe he thinks so, Eian, but of course he won’t,” she tried to placate him. “No he bluhddy well wil’na, the luinnseach mhor!” Eian’s voice was getting louder and louder as he became more agitated. “Um, Eian,” she began, as the study door burst open. He apparently didn’t notice in his anger. “Ahl die with him before he lays a hand on you, Griogarach! And that ul be sure!” he bellowed. 24

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With a flushed face, she turned to Ida and Malcolm who stood stunned just inside the door. “He just gets all excited. Really it’s fine,” she turned back to Eian, not realizing that they were staring at him, too. “Eian, you can’t die with him, stop shouting,” she admonished him. “Ahul du chus so, boireannach,” he roared, “an ahul ask you why not?” “You’re already dead, for heaven’s sake, Eian, so stop shouting,” she snapped, grabbing his arm. For a long moment, stunned silence descended on the room. Like an earthquake deep within him, Eian began to shake and rumble. Suddenly, he swept her into his arms and twirled her around. “You, mo rìghinn, are a sweet little flower in my arms,” he announced as he kissed her long and deep. “I’m not very sweet and I’m a hundred and fifty pounds past little,” she countered, affected by his kiss but a little put out at his behavior all the same. “Eian, Ida and Malcolm are going to wonder why I’m flying around in the air this way,” she whispered loudly as she nodded in their general direction. Slowly, Eian turned and, sure enough, there they were, staring directly at him. Carefully lowering Elsabetta to the floor, he walked toward them, reaching out. Just before his fingertips reached her cheek, Ida flinched. Eian turned quickly and made eye contact with Malcolm. “Eian MacGregor,” Malcolm croaked. “You see me?” Eian hissed. “Sure an I do,” Malcolm muttered, awe clear in his voice. Ida, eyes trained on Eian, said obviously to Elsabetta, “What have ye gone and done, me girl, what?” Elsabetta moved up behind Eian and slid an arm around his waist. “I’ve gone and married the man of my dreams, Ida. I think that might have brought him to life.” In response, Ida slumped against Malcolm in a faint. Eian tried to assist the smaller man as he staggered under the unexpected weight. As he helped Malcolm guide Ida to a nearby couch, Eian glanced over at the other man. “So you know who and what I am, then?” he asked, his voice calmer now and his pronunciation more modern. 25

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“Aye, I guess I do,” Malcolm answered roughly. “I canna help but believe, now can I?” he asked. “There hangs your likeness, over the hearth.” “Fair enough, then.” Eian turned to Malcolm and extended a hand. “You are the closest man my lovely Griogarach has to a sire here. I ask your blessings on our union.” Malcolm stood back and looked from Eian to Elsabetta. “Is this what ye want, lass?” he asked gruffly. She stepped forward, taking the weathered hand in both her own. “Yes, Malcolm, this is exactly what I want.” Eian was moved to see tears on his new wife’s face. “You have my blessings, love,” Malcolm said, taking her in his arms in a fatherly hug. “Ohhhhhh,” Ida began to sob on the couch. Elsabetta dropped down to embrace her as both women cried together. “My baby child,” Ida wailed. Malcolm and Eian looked at each other in manly empathy and rolled their eyes.

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Chapter Six

It was nearly seven o’clock in the evening when William Campbell parked his BMW in front of the heavy entrance door to the small castle. He’d had enough of the lagging and dragging by his distant cousin. She, along with the castle and the island, Gregorstac Isle, had been promised to him more than two decades ago when she was first born. Why, one would think that the frigid, overweight woman would be glad he wanted her. Not that he did, of course. She weighed twelve or thirteen stone he was sure, just less than two hundred pounds, and his taste ran more toward the latest cover model. No, he didn’t want her. He wanted what she had. Yes, she had property, and yes, she had money - a lot of it. But really, her husband had just died, all but in the arms of another woman. They’d been on the verge of divorce! How dare she reject him? William marched through the door without knocking. It would be his home soon enough – well, his property. He would most likely tear it down and build a resort here. There just weren’t enough places to vacation in Scotland. He knew that Elsabetta kept only one couple on as staff but he found no one about as he stalked through the halls. Turning a corner toward the study, he heard voices. Standing in the doorway, he glared at the group. There she was, the future Lady Campbell, and she was taking tea with the help! “What is it you’re doing?” he barked at Elsabetta. He turned to Ida, “You, woman, bring fresh tea, at once!” To his consternation, the old woman looked to Elsabetta who gave her a warm smile and a nod. “Go ahead, Ida. It’ll be fine.” William smirked in satisfaction. At least this cow knew when to do as she was told. “It’s high time for you to come to your senses, cousin,” he sneered. “Perhaps I’ll let you keep the old couple when you move to the family home in Loch Fyne.” 27

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“Move, William? Whatever for?” she inquired, her trilling laugh like splinters of glass on his nerves. “Enough of this nonsense,” he growled. The tea must have been hot and steeping in the kitchen, he decided. The old woman wheeled the ancient trolley in and poured their cups full, her husband hovering until she finished. “That’s fine, Ida,” Elsabetta murmured and William was at least glad that she had basic manners as befitted the wife of a lord. “Now then, William, what is this nonsense you’re spouting? This is the twentieth… no it’s the twenty-first century. You can’t force me to marry you. And besides, I’m already married.” She held out her hand, and the flash of an emerald caught his eyes. “And what is that in aid of?” he scoffed. The ring looked real enough but it had to be fake. After all, it looked just like the legendary wedding jewels lost with the dead Laird almost three centuries prior. “I know you’ve been fixated on that rotting corpse for a lifetime but really, Elsie,” he mocked. “I’ll thank you not to speak to my wife in such tones,” a deep and ringing voice warned. “Who said that?” William sprang to his feet, spilling his tea. He looked frantically around the room but couldn’t find the owner of the voice. “Why that’s my husband,” Elsabetta said pleasantly, rising to her feet. “Who? What? What kind of foolishness are you the cause of now?” he screeched at her, sure she was playing a joke of some kind on him. “A fealla-dhà I am not, Campbell!” came the deep and resonant voice once again. “Seall agam! Beachd Eain MacGregor!” Look at me! I am Eain MacGregor! Before his very eyes, the outline and then the form of a large man materialized. The giant was a larger man than he could ever remember seeing, and he looked just like the man in the painting above his head. “If this is some kind of a prank…” his voice was a high-pitched squeal. Fear was alive within him when the kilt-clad gargantuan stalked toward him. **** Eain couldn’t help but laugh when the supercilious man fled the room. He’d had to snatch his lovely bride up and out of the way of the overturned tea trolley, but still, it had been amusing and satisfying. 28

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He held his sweet bride against his chest, pleased with himself and the turn of events. Once again, the distant words of Eithne Findley echoed in his memory: “In time yet to come, one of my daughters will call upon you to help her and be her man. You will save her from the Campbell and in so doing, save yourself.” Those words had crossed his mind countless times over the decades since his death. He’d puzzled and fretted over them, examining every new MacGregor women as she’d come along. Finally, well before Elsabetta’s time, he’d given up. Whatever power - fates or gods or pixies – was responsible for his current good fortune, he owed that entity a debt he could never repay. He would spend every minute of the time available to him from this point on worshiping the woman he now carefully lowered to her feet. If he was truly coming back to life, he wouldn’t squander it on anger and hate. He’d done enough brooding and hating for several lifetimes during his tenure as a ghost. Now he would love, did love. He loved Elsabetta Findley MacGregor. “How fare ye, little one?” he murmured, his lips brushing hers. “Well rid of that Campbell, we are.” “That felt good,” she grinned up at him, her eyes sparkling with mirth and pleasure. He lowered his mouth again for another, more determined kiss when they both heard a cracking pop and Ida’s scream. “Ida!” Elsabetta cried, wrenching from Eian’s stunned embrace. Before he could stop her, she was through the door and running for the front entrance. Malcolm, lay in a pool of blood, groaning and murmuring, “He has her, he’s taken my sweet bonnie love.” As quick as a flash, Elsabetta was out the door after them. Eian hesitated. As a ghost, he’d never been out the front entrance. He’d tried many times but never had he been able to pass through. Mistaking his hesitation for worry over his wound, Malcolm urged, “Hurry lad, he’s a bad’un. I’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.” With a sharp nod, Eian headed for the door. What would be would be. From now on, he would have faith. 29

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Chapter Seven

“Enough tricks, cousin!” William bellowed at her, waving a small pistol madly. “Get in the car and I’ll let her go!” “Now William,” Elsabetta tried reasoning with him, her voice soothing. “You know I’ll never fit in that tiny car.” She would have, but the nasty man always liked to make an issue of her weight. Oddly enough, she hadn’t considered how big she was or wasn’t since the moment she’d returned to the castle. It wasn’t an issue to those who loved her and so it hadn’t been an issue to her. “You can sit in the back,” he growled at her over the sound of Ida’s frightened whimpering. “We are leaving this godforsaken place and leaving now. You will marry me and give me what I am entitled to.” “You want what yir entitled to, do ye?” came a deep and angry voice. “Fear not then, I have yir entitlements for ye,” Eian rushed at William as the other man fired the pistol frenziedly. Shot after shot rang out, none of them doing any real damage. William scrambled backward, pulling the trigger compulsively now as Eian continued to advance on him. Elsabetta’s heart was in her throat as she caught a frantic Ida. Ida squeezed her in a hug and ran past. “I must see to Malcolm and phone the police,” she imparted as she hurried along. “Ahul teach yiu to molest women,” Eian growled as William continued to crabcrawl backward, still pulling the trigger on his gun over and over. Suddenly what sounded like a very small explosion or a very large firecracker resounded through the air, punctuated by swearing. Elsabetta didn’t recognize every word, but it was definitely swearing she was certain. “Eian!” she shrieked, realizing that there was blood pouring from a wound on his side. “Oh my God! Eian!” 30

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Before she could run to him he’d reached William and grabbed him by the throat, ignoring his gushing wound and neatly dodging the pistol as the other man flung it. It didn’t’ take much to see that he’d choke the other man in a matter of seconds if she didn’t’ stop him. “Eian! Stop! You’re going to kill him, stop!” she screamed, grabbing him by the arm. “Aye, mo rìghinn, that’s just what I intend to do,” he announced in a rumble. “No, Eian, no, don’t! He’ll be jailed. The police will put him in a cage. He’ll have to live in a cage, he’ll be punished, don’t!” She wasn’t sure if she was getting through. His entire face was a mask of rage. “If you kill him, they’ll take you instead. What will I do if they take you? I need you, Eian MacGregor, I love you, please…” Eian opened his hand and dropped the gasping man, paying no attention to his choking sobs as he tried to drag air into his nearly crushed throat. “Me, Elsabetta Findley MacGregor, you’re sure of it? You love me?” “I’ve loved the idea of you all my live, Eian MacGregor,” she heard herself crying now, emotion making it hard to talk. “Knowing you, loving you in reality is so much more than I could ever dream of.” “Elsabetta, it’s true I love yiu, too. Ye have brought me ta life again but I think I…” Elsabetta closed her eyes tightly, filled with gladness. She opened them a minute later when she heard the sound of her very large, strong, and manly husband crumpling to the ground in front of her.

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Chapter Eight

“I’m tired of being pampered,” Eian moaned, cracking one eye open to see if his little wife believed him. “Are you?” she bent over him, fluffing his pillow. “Yes I am,” he roared, wrapping both arms around her and pulling her down, rolling her beneath him. Sliding both hands under the hem of her light cotton sweater, he pushed it up and off, overcoming her token resistance with ease. He tugged her bra off with his teeth. He took both her hands in one of his and palmed one of her round breasts. The nipple instantly hardened against his hand. He could see that her other nipple had hardened as well. He sucked as much as he could of that breast into his mouth while pinching and plucking at her other nipple. She was thrashing against the pillow, moaning. He moved his hands and his upper body down to her waist, taking her skirt and panties down with them, tugging her boots and stockings off and kissing each bare inch of skin along the way. “Ahh, bòidheach,” he moaned settling himself between her legs and enjoying the bounty he found. “Leamsa,” he groaned pushing his long black hair over a shoulder as he lowered his head between her legs. She had a little triangle shaped tuft of dark, curly hair covering the front of her sex but was completely shaved otherwise. He didn’t wait to stroke that soft skin with his tongue. In fact he enjoyed stroking, touching, and exploring with his tongue. Finally, he separated her labia with his hands and buried his tongue deep inside her. She whimpered and gasped and he felt her passage begin to throb. He inserted a finger as he sucked on her clit. He felt the muscles convulse as her cries echoed in the room. 32

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He moved back up the bed and over her. She looked dazed in the aftermath of her orgasm. “Taste yourself on me, wife,” he murmured. “A most wondrous flavor.” His rod nudged her center and she moved her hand to touch him. She squeezed him and pumped his shaft when he groaned. “Put me inside you,” he directed her, loving how she touched him – a delightful mixture of reticence and need. With trembling hands she ripped open the little package and rolled it over his thick cock. She took his sheathed staff and guided it to her wet pussy. She moved the head up and down on her slit. He reached with both hands and pulled her legs around his waist. He poised at her entrance looking into her eyes. His mind screamed, MINE! He plunged. He thrust into her, grinding himself against her soft mound. She arched her back and met his thrusts, then arched again taking him deeper still as he continued to pound into her. He felt her channel clench over and over again around him. It was so good it was killing him. Again and again he thrust into her, until he could hold back no longer. He came on a roar, wrapping his arms around her. They lay there quietly for long minutes. He thought she might have gone to sleep. Elsabetta dispelled this notion by reaching out with one finger and touching his semiflaccid cock. The instant she touched it, it began to harden again. He groaned and grabbed her hand. Although he always wanted her, he knew he had to let his wound heal. She turned to face him. “Eian?” she murmured, face bowed. “Aye?” he answered, feigning relaxation but on the alert now. “You know… You don’t have to stay with me…” She was trying to sound as if the thought had just occurred to her but he could tell it had been on her mind awhile. “Is that so?” he returned, conversationally. “Um, well, now that you’re real again… I mean, now that you’re not dead…well, you could do just about whatever you wanted.” She tipped her head back to look at him. “Really, I bet you’d like to leave here after all of this time.” He traced her jaw with a finger. “Is that what you want, mo rìghinn?” he asked her. “Are you ready to move on?” “Oh no!” she gasped. “I love it here!” 33

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“And me, wife? Tell me true. Are you ready to move on from me?” He waited, dreading her answer, but needing it just as much. Her arms came around him and she buried her face in his neck. “No, Eian, no. I love you so much. I didn’t think I could ever feel this way. I guess it’s just… I just…” He brushed her heavy hair aside and nibbled his way down one ear. “If you’re fearing my love for you isn’t real, Griogarach, let me promise you. You are what that word means. You are belonging to MacGregor. This MacGregor. Every minute of my time spent waiting for you was a small penance indeed for the bliss of having my arms around you.” He felt her shaking against him and pulled back to look down at her. Tears poured from her eyes as she struggled for breath and worked to make a sound come from her mouth. When all that failed she just waved her hand in negation and plastered herself against him, sobbing for all she was worth. Both, resigned and amused, he was also pleased with her reaction. Almost three hundred years dead and he was alive again with a living, breathing, idiosyncratic, and beautiful woman in his arms and in his life. He now had everything he’d ever wanted. He was a fortunate man.

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About the Author

J.J. lives on the Jersey Shore with her husband, her teenaged daughter, his nineyear-old daughter, and his thirteen-year-old son. To complete this eclectic family, she has her writing partner and yellow lab, Cosmo, at her side all the time for plot twists and character advice. There are some visiting cats, aquatic turtles, and an assortment of hermit crabs just to keep things interesting. There's never a dull moment in the Massa household. Maybe that's why there's never a dull moment in J.J. Massa's books...

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Reflections By Sassy Rebel

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Dedication:

I want to dedicate this story to River Butler who helped me find the ending.

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Chapter One

“Going, going, gone! Sold to the lovely young woman in blue, lot number thirtysix for $2,500.” Miss. Phalendria Gunn smiled at the auctioneer and did a fairly credible job of appearing nonchalant. However, she was dancing on the inside. She had been drawn to the ornate Victorian mirror the first time she set eyes on it that morning. Wandering through the rooms during the preview with her trusty notepad, she made a list of all the things she knew she just had to have. The mirror was at the top of her list. It was a beautifully beveled with a gilt frame and in excellent condition. The catalogue listed it as having belonged to a Mrs. Emma Granger of Alabama. The daughter was selling off all of her recently deceased mother’s things and moving to Europe to be with her husband, who was in the military. As sole proprietor of Another Man’s Treasure, Boston’s most prestigious antique and decorating shop, Phalendria spent most of her time scouring the countryside for unique items for the shop and attending estate sales all over the country. It was just these kinds of sales where she found her best pieces. She had been known to fly to distant cities at a moments notice when she got wind of something unusual for her collection. Nothing intrigued her more than the stories that came with the items she purchased. It was what made it fun for her and it was the thing that made her shop so popular. Every item came with a story. Like this mirror and chest, they came together in one lot which created a mystery all its own. The mirror and chest were both at least two hundred years old. Phil knew there had to be a story to go with them. Phalendria could hardly wait to see what was in the chest. She envisioned love letters and momentous from the previous owners. She secretly longed to find an enthralling tale of passion and romance that she could expound upon to fascinate her clientele. 38

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Her own love life was practically non existent, unless you counted Clive Weston, the curator of the Boston museum, which she didn’t. They had been out to dinner a total of once. He was just too dry and clinical for her. She liked the romance of things, and cared less for the cold hard facts. Clive was all about the data She made her way through the crowd to the clerk’s desk where she showed her ID and paid for her purchases. Another clerk, a handsome and well-muscled young man, helped load her newly acquired treasures into her Lincoln Navigator. She was not at all gratified when he gave her the eye. Thank God, she was past getting picked up by college-aged, over-stimulated, pretty boys. If she were going to make a move in that direction, it would have to be with man of substance. All the way back to the shop she fantasized about what she would find when she opened the chest. She was intrigued by the past, where the men were men and a woman could be feminine and still hold her head up with pride. Something that didn’t seem to happen in today’s hard-assed corporate atmosphere. She felt like she had been born in the wrong era. Part of her yearned for a strong man to be her partner in life. Another part, knew she didn’t really “need” a man, but it sure would be nice to have one in her bed at night. Phalendria wheeled the Lincoln into the parking lot of Another Man’s Treasure and pulled around to the back of the store. It was Sunday afternoon and the shop was locked up, but Jenna would be there waiting for her. Jenna Ridgleigh, the shop’s general manager, was almost as fanatical about AMT as Phalendria was. Coming in on Sunday afternoon to help her unload her latest acquisitions was nothing unusual. Jenna didn’t have a sustainable love life either. It was just another bond between the two women who had known each other since kindergarten. She backed the Navigator up to the loading doors and parked. Jenna appeared just as Phalendria was getting out of the car. She hurried around to open the back hatch to show Jenna her newest find. “Wow! That’s a real beauty,” Jenna exclaimed, examining the mirror. “The gilt frame and the festooned bow at the top are fabulous. I bet Mrs. Winchell would love this.” “That’s exactly what I was thinking. I’ll call her first thing in the morning.” Phalendria said. “Wait till you see the chest that goes with it. I just know there is going to be something special in it.” 39

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“What makes you think so?” Jenna peered over her horned-rimmed glasses at her friend. They had slipped down her nose as usual and she hadn’t bothered to push them back in place. “Just a feeling I have. Ever since I saw it at the preview, I’ve been all jittery inside.” “Oh, great, the last time you got all jittery inside was when you bought that fake Hepplewhite chair. I think it was the dark, mysterious, con man that sold it to you, that caused all the excitement.” “Damn, Jenna, that was four years ago, right after we opened, and the curator at the museum was fooled too. It’s not like I’ve ever made that mistake again. Are you never going to let me forget that?” “Probably not. I have to cling to what little ammunition you give me. After all, perfection is soooo annoying.” Jenna grinned crookedly and poked her in the ribs. “For God’s sake, I’m not perfect.” “Yeah, right. Perfect size eight, perfect even white teeth, perfect naturally curly, golden blond hair and liquid brown eyes like flipp’in Bambi. Also, let’s not forget the Mensa IQ and dead on instincts for antiques that make you a genius in this business.” Phalendria paused and leaned on the side of the tailgate, balancing the mirror with one hand while she surveyed her friend. “What’s gotten into you Jenna? Are you mad at me for something?” “No, not really,” Jenna sighed. “It’s just that that cute guitar player we saw at the Night Owl on Saturday night called. You know, the one with the killer blue eyes and eye lashes longer than yours.” “That’s great Jenna.” “He called for you.” “Oh…well damn. I’m sorry. I wasn’t even talking to him.” “I know. That’s what makes it so frustrating. You don’t even have to try and guys call you.” “Oh, for God’s sake,” Phalendria said, laughing. “I’m not taking this from you. You know it’s never the ones I want that call, and you have a string of lovers that would wind around this block. So don’t give me that sad sack routine. And by the way, whatever happened to that art dealer from L.A. that you were so chummy with last 40

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month? The one with the sun bleached hair and the bronzed chest. Did you wear him out already?” “You mean Guy? Jenna asked, picking up the other end of the mirror and backing through the door into the storeroom. “No, turns out he prefers the athletic type. He wanted me to go rappelling with him down some zillion foot high mountain in Montana. I hyperventilated just looking at the pictures. I could just see myself dangling at the end of a nylon tether and having it come lose from the cleat or whatever they call those things.” “Gee, Jenna, rappelling might be fun. Why don’t you give old Guy a call and tell him you changed your mind. The fresh air and exercise will do you good, clear your mind and all that.” Phalendria shifted the weight of the mirror against her hip as she went through the door. “Just in case, can I have that green leather Hobo bag you bought at Longchamp’s at Christmas? In case you do go off the cliff, I mean?” “No, you insensitive monster, I’m leaving everything to my cats.” “Ha! You don’t have cats,” Phalendria declared. “No, but before I do anything too daring, I’m going to get a few.” Still laughing the friends set the mirror down on top of a seventh century Spanish Catalan table that was covered with a padded cloth. Leaning it against the wall they stepped back to take a look at their most recent purchase. “It really is lovely, Phil. You sure have an eye for elegance.” The mirror was still in good condition with only slight speckling. “I don’t think the speckling detracts from the over all beauty of the piece, do you?” Phelandria asked her friend. She valued Jenna’s opinion very much. She might have an eye for a deal, but Jenna instincts for what their clients would buy was flawless. “I think it adds to the charm, if you ask me. It gilt is fine and the reflection is bright. I know Harriet will love it. It will fit right into that foyer where she put that Henry II table she bought last month.” “My thoughts exactly. I’ll take it out to her on Monday and let her decide. Right now, though, I want to see what treasures are in the chest.” Phelandria left her friend still admiring the mirror and rushed out to the car to bring back the chest. She came back in a minute holding a small ornately decorated, leather bound chest. She was talking as she came through the door. “The instructions from the estate 41

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were to sell it with the mirror, but unopened. It’s kinda like the grab bag at the church bizarre only a hundred times more intriguing. “Oh, Phil, that’s so romantic. I bet your just salivating. Maybe this one will be the story of your knight in shining armor. The evidence of true love and lasting devotion you’ve been searching for.” Phalendria gave her friend a look that was supposed to shut her up, but never did. Jenna rattled on. “Let’s get the thing open. I’ve got a drawer full of jewelry box keys in my desk. I’ll bet we can find one to open the chest without damaging the lock. Isn’t it exciting? Just think, someone put something in this chest two hundred years ago, just so you could find it today.”

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Chapter Two

Their breaths came hot and fast, both of them panting with exertion. The man labored over the woman with focused intensity. The woman responded with equal energy, wrapping her arms and legs around him with surprising strength. Their bodies were damp with sweat and they moaned together in shared pleasure. Muscular thighs pumped against smooth flesh. The wet, smacking sound of their lovemaking was loud in the shadowy room. The heated rhythm gained momentum. The woman began to sob, “Yes, yes, give it to me please.… The phone rang. Mick Galloway sat up a gasp. Damn, he’d been having that same weird, erotic dream again. His heart was pounding like a bongo at a Reggie concert and his cock was as hard as an elm. He reached for the phone. “Hello, Mick here.” “Mick, old sock, what’s shak’in?” the booming voice on the other end of the line asked. Mick held the phone away from his ear. His sidekick, Michael McPhee, the other half of Mick and Mike Investigators, never spoke in a normal tone. He always seemed to be attempting to communicate with someone across the room, or the town, Mick was never sure which. “Were ya sleeping Boy’O?” “Yes, I was. What the hell time is it anyway and why are you calling me? It’s Sunday.” Mick glanced at the clock on the nightstand. Its glowing red letters informed him it was seven twenty in the morning. “It’s a bright beautiful Sunday morn’in, my friend. I’m calling to invite ye to church.” “Are you drunk? It’s awfully early, even for you. Or haven’t you been to bed yet?” 43

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“Ah, you wound me, Boy’O, you truly do. Tis nothing of the sort, ye ungrateful dog. The church has a graveyard and one very interesting gravestone in it, so don’t be so quick to judge. I think I’ve found a clue to your dream woman.” Rolling over Mick sat up and put his feet on the floor. Yawning and stretching the sleep out of his system, he shook this head like a big dog and got up. “You’ve got my attention Mike. What’s the deal?” “Well, I’ve been looking up that strange name you gave me and I tracked down a Miss Phalendria Witherspoon, who died under mysterious circumstances not far from here. She’s buried at Christ Church, just outside of Pendleton. I figure the church must have some information on the family if she’s buried there. We might find a clue about that mysterious mirror as well. So get your sorry ass out of bed and meet me downstairs in twenty minutes.” The phone clicked and went dead before Mick could protest. Mike on a mission, was like a runaway horse with the bit between his teeth. There was no sense in resisting Heaving a huge sigh, Mick padded on bare feet into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Nope, nothing extraordinary there. Just the reflection of his square-jawed face and sleepy blue eyes. Damn, maybe today the mystery would be solved. Strange things had been happening to him for the last six weeks. Weird unsettling dreams about a mirror that was a window, haunted his nights and odd coincidences dogged his days. Every place he went he kept hearing references to the “mirror,” but he had no idea what mirror. He didn’t own a mirror unless you counted the one he was staring into. Somehow, he didn’t think his bathroom mirror warranted that much attention. He hoped Mike had found something that would explain the odd occurrences. He had never heard of anyone named Phalendria. But now he heard her name in his dreams every night. He was downstairs dressed in boots, faded jeans and a corduroy shirt, waiting at the curb, when Mike pulled up in his Chevy pick-up. Swinging into the front beside his friend he clapped him on the shoulder in greeting. “So, fill me in.” “It really was quite simple once I got the idea to look on the internet. I simply did some searches on that name, Phalendria. I figured there couldn’t be too many people named that. And I only found one, well two actually, but only one of them is dead.” “You mean there is someone walking around today with that name?” 44

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“Yup, it’s Phalendria Gunn, and she lives right here in Boston. She’s the coowner of that swank antique shop on Seventh Avenue. I know you’ve seen it, the one with the façade that’s been redone to look like a something from the French Quarter in New Orleans. And she is sometimes on local public TV, doing one of those antique roadshow kinda things. Real looker and smart too.” “Since when do you watch public television?” “Since whenever the hell I feel like it. Or I’m investigating the weird dreams and obsessions of my best friend. Too bad you don’t have the second sight, like your mother. We’d be way ahead of the game.” “My mother did not have second sight, you heathen. She was just intuitive.” Mick had never been comfortable with is mother’s gifts. The kids at school teased him about her ability to talk to spirits. He didn’t really believe in that stuff, but people were always coming to the house to consult with Lady Margaret. That memory made him smile. One of her clients had researched their family tree as a present to his mother and discovered that they were descended for the Barons of Abercorn in Scotland. After that, everyone always referred to her as Lady Margaret. He wished she were still alive, he’d consult with her himself. The drive to Pendleton to view the gravesite was uneventful and strangely quiet. Mick pondered his persistent dreams and the ghostly woman that haunted them. The woman kept coming toward him but never reached him. It was sort of like one of those dreams where you are running, but never get anywhere. Very frustrating and unsettling. He could almost make out what she was trying to tell him, but never really got the words, only that she was in extreme distress. He had the feeling that she was in danger. He was mostly afraid he was falling in love with this dream woman. It wasn’t just that the fantasy sex was off the charts. There was a deep heart connection, too. The kind of connection he’d been longing for his whole adult life. He had to solve this mystery before he lost his mind… An hour’s drive found them pulling up outside a quaint Anglican church with a small well-kept cemetery in back. The men stepped out and made their way up a stone path to the door of the rectory. A boxwood hedge bordering the front yard lent a homey touch and the honeysuckle that threaded its way through the hedge made the morning air sweet. 45

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Mike lifted the knocker and rapped twice sharply. Footsteps could be heard in the distant reaches of the house. The friends waited patiently for the steps to reach the door. The door was opened by an elderly woman in a black dress. “How may I help you?” She smiled as she spoke and Mick could see that she must have been a ravishing beauty in her youth. She was still quite lovely and he would guess her age on the long side of seventy. Her deep blue eyes examined them both and an appreciative twinkle sparkled within the blue depths. “It’s not often I open the door to two such fine strapping young men. Are you looking for Father Douglas?” She stepped back and waved them inside as she spoke. Mick and Mike paused in the foyer to look around. The interior was as cozy as the outside. Over stuffed chairs and a comfortable looking sofa filled the small living room, and there was the smell of beeswax in the air. Mick could see that everything was spotlessly clean. “Pardon our intrusion ma’am. My name is Mick Galloway and this is my partner Michael McPhee. We are here to find out what information we can about someone we think is buried here in the church cemetery.” “It’s nice to meet you both. My name is Alice Cochran, I’m the housekeeper.” She shook hands with Mike first and then reached for Mick’s hand. Her grip was surprisingly firm and she didn’t let go. Smiling up at Mick she said, “You’ve been dreaming about her, haven’t you?” “Holy, St. Christopher! I knew we were on the right track. Yes, ma’am, Mick’s been having these dreams about a woman who is trying to tell him something that he can’t understand and everywhere he goes there are references to some kind of mirror. It’s driving my friend right mad, it is. Her names Phalendria and we think she is buried here.” Mick just stared at his friend, unable to stop the rush of words that poured out of him. He would have preferred to leave out the part about his dreams and had concocted a credible story about a long lost relative. He should have known better. Mike was incapable of subterfuge. Especially, now that it seemed they had encountered another Scots woman with the sight. “Father Douglas is away this morning visiting with a sick parishioner. Why don’t we go into the parlor and talk? I’m the church historian and I’ve been housekeeper to 46

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Father Douglas for forty-five years. There’s not much about Christ Church and its people that I don’t know.” Alice led the way into the living room and seated herself in a comfortable looking chair near the empty fireplace. She waved then onto the sofa opposite with an elegant gesture of one slender hand. “Start at the beginning,” she prompted Mick. “Well, really there’s not too much to tell. About six weeks ago I began having this strange, very intense dream. A ghostly woman named Phalendria keeps calling me, and in the dream she’s running toward me with her arms stretched out. She is crying and telling me something. I get this great sense of danger, but I can’t make out what she is saying. She never gets any nearer to me and I never can hear her words. It’s very frustrating.” “Anything else?” “Oh yeah,” Mike cuts in, “There’s this image of a mirror, very fancy, that keeps popping up. Only when he looks into it there’s no reflection.” Mick looked at his exuberant companion in exasperation and held up both hands to try to stem the tide of words. “Do you mind if I tell it. It’s my dream after all.” “Well, get on with it Boy’O, we’re all agog to hear it.” Mick laughed in spite of himself. He could never stay mad at McPhee. He was like an overly affectionate pup, all wagging tail and lolling tongue, trouncing all over your best shoes, but too well-meaning to scold. “The other aspect of the dream is the ornate mirror that seems to hover around. When I walk up to it and peer at it, there is no reflection. It’s as if I’m the ghost instead of Phalendria.” “Why do you say she is ghostly and how do you know her name if she never speaks to you clearly?” Alice asked. “Her figure is clad in a long white dress, but the image is shadowy. It seems to fade in and out like bad TV reception, and someone is always calling her name but I can’t see who it is. Can you shed any light on what is going on?” “I’m very sure I can. The name Phalendria is very familiar to me. Can I get you a spot of tea before we begin? It’s a rather involved story.” Both men accepted the offer of refreshment, and when it came, they settled themselves in to hear the tale. 47

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Chapter Three

“I know I must have a key in my collection that will open that chest,” Jenna said, walking away. “I keep all the strays, you know. Sorta like mismatched socks. I always think I’ll find a mate for the socks and a lock for the keys. Hummm…to bad that theory doesn’t work with men. Lock and key, get it?” Jenna chuckled at her own joke. Phalendria rolled her eyes and followed Jenna into her office. The office had been built into the east end of the storeroom. The space was neat and organized, just like Jenna. She knew where every single item in the shop came from, when and where it was sold and what the buy and selling prices were. Every transaction was meticulously filed on computer and could be recalled at the touch of a key. Paperwork was filed neatly in a bank of locked file drawers underneath the shelves that held dozens of reference books. Jenna kept the business part of Another Man’s Treasure running smoothly, as well as doing an amazing job of customer service. She remembered every customer’s name and everything they had ever bought. Phalendria didn’t know what she would do without her. She placed the chest tenderly on top of Jenna’s desk. Jenna sat down and pulled out a cigar box from the bottom right hand drawer. Phalendria pulled over the only other chair in the office and sat down next to her. “Here are all the odd keys. Geeze, it’s amazing what you can collect in just a couple of years,” she said, peering down at what looked like dozens of keys of every description. The two women began to sort the keys by size until they had identified four likely candidates for the task of unlocking the mystery chest. Jenna sat back and handed the keys to Phalendria. ‘This is your baby. You open it.” Phalendria took a deep breath and carefully tried the first key. No luck. She tried the second one, but it refused to turn.

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“Damn, this is killing me,” Jenna exclaimed. “Let me try one.” Taking the third key from Phalendria’s hand, she inserted in into the lock and tried to turn it. It didn’t budge. “Okay, last key. It’s your go.” Closing her eyes briefly, in silent prayer, Phalendria gently inserted the last key into the lock. Slowly she turned it expecting to feel that telltale resistance, but the key kept on going. A soft click and it was done. “Way to go, Phil. It worked,” Jenna cried. “Open it.” Phalendria suddenly felt reluctant to lift the lid. What if there was nothing there? She had become so wound up about this that she didn’t think she could stand the disappointment. “You do it,” she said, shoving the chest toward Jenna and turning away. Her heart was pounding so hard she could hardly breathe. This is ridiculous, why should I get so emotional over this particular chest. Get a grip girl, she scolded herself. Not needing a second invitation, Jenna pulled the chest over in front of where she sat and coolly lifted the lid. Leaning forward she peered inside. “It’s not empty Phil. You can look now.” Lying in the red, velvet-lined interior was a shell cameo pendant on a silk ribbon and under that a piece of folded paper. Jenna lifted out the cameo and examined it briefly before handing it to Phalendria. “This is beautiful. Look at the detail of the carving. I would guess it’s probably Diana or Athena, by the elaborate headdress. And the filigree around it is probably fourteen carat gold.” Phalendria studied the pendant, turning it over in her palm. The front was indeed a beautifully carved shell silhouette on a pinkish background. The delicate filigree around the one and a half inch piece was wrought in a dainty heart pattern. It was a fine example of Victorian cameo work. At first she thought the back was plain until she noticed the hinge. “Look Jen, it’s a locket as well.” Carefully she eased the two halves apart. Inside was an exquisitely executed miniature of a very handsome young man with blue eyes and curly black hair that reached his collar. He was dressed in classic Victorian style. “Hey, let me see.” Phalendria held the pendant out so Jenna could look at it. “Wow, he’s gorgeous. I wonder who he was? Maybe he’s your knight,” she said grinning. 49

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“Just my luck, my knight has been dead for a coupla hundred years. Thanks a bunch. Is there anything else in there?” Jenna turned her attention back to the chest and retrieved the folded paper. Carefully, she unfolded the single sheet and began to read. “Oh, my God, Phil, it’s a letter and it’s addressed to you,” she gasped. “That’s not funny Jen. Cut it out.” “No, Phil, I’m totally serious. See for yourself.” Phalendria plucked the yellowed paper from Jenna’s fingers and began to read aloud. My Darling Phalendria, Forgive me. I know my words will break your heart as they are breaking mine. You know I adore you with every fiber of my being, but I felt compelled to do the honorable thing or I could not live with myself or with you either. Today I told Jennifer about us. I couldn’t live the lie any longer. She cried until she made herself sick and begged me to stay. She swears she will take her own life if I leave her and I think she truly would. I couldn’t live with that on my conscience and I know you could never be happy with me under those circumstances. I cannot see my way out of this horrible tangle except to comply with her wishes. My heart bleeds. I am in agony. The thought of never seeing you again is killing me. Please, my darling, meet me at the cottage. I have made a vow to love you chastely for all of eternity, but I must hold you one more time before I let you go. Don’t fail me. Your adoring, Mikhail The friends sat staring at each other in stunned silence. “Holy shit,” Jenna said, breaking the spell. “This must be some distant relative of yours Phalendria. What an amazing coincidence.” “It’s more than amazing, it’s down right eerie.” 50

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“Yeah, now that you mention it, it is kinda spooky,” Jenna said, with a shiver. She rubbed her hands up and down her arms. “Did your Aunt Olivia ever say anything about another Phalendria in your family? You must have been named after this woman. How many women named Phalendria could there be in the world?” “My Aunt never said a word. I did ask her about my name once, but she only said my mother found it in a book and liked it. After the fire there were no records or photos or any family history left. My aunt wasn’t a sentimental person. She didn’t keep mementos. I only have one picture of my Mom and Dad taken just before they died. You know I was three at the time, so I don’t remember much about them and I know even less about my distant relatives.” “Well, girl, I think it’s time you investigated your family tree. Seems like there’s is some mystery to unravel. At least there is a love story to discover. Maybe it will be the tale of eternal love you want so badly to believe in. I wonder how the mirror figures into it?” Jenna stood up and brushed the dust from her hands. “I’ve got to run. I told my mother, who isn’t dead, God bless her that I would come by for dinner. I’m sure she’s trying out some new recipe on me. I’m the designated guinea pig. She’s baking her own bread now, you know, and drinking raw milk. I’ll probably be eating bean sprouts and tofu tonight. Pray for me.” Phalendria laughed and hugged her. She knew perfectly well that Jenna adored her mother and was secretly proud of the lively and energetic life she led at seventy plus years of age. From what Phalendria heard, Betty’s love life rivaled both girls put together. “Tell Betty I said hello, and she can try out her recipes on me any day. Thanks for coming in to help with the mirror.” “No problem. And if you want to suck up, you could come with me and divert her attention when she starts asking me about my love life. Why don’t I call Mom and tell her to throw a few more sprouts in the pan?” “No, no, that’s okay,” Phalendria said holding up her hand. “I am going to stick around here for a while and do some research on the mirror and maybe polish it up a bit. I’ll grab something from the deli on the way home. Something without sprouts.” “Now, that’s cold,” Jenna protested. “Well, you know what they say about all work and no play. Don’t say I didn’t warn you and don’t stay here too late. I don’t like 51

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to think of you here all alone after dark,” Jenna said, digging in her handbag for her keys and heading for the door. “Don’t worry, I’ll be perfectly safe. After all, I have my knight to protect me.” She picked up the pendant and looked at the face of the man who had vowed to love her namesake forever. Jenna didn’t respond, she was already out the door. Phalendria wandered into the storage area and over to the table where the mirror rested against the wall. She didn’t bother to turn on the lights. The late afternoon sun shone through the windows and cast long shadows on the floor, but there was still light to see clearly. The room was crowded with furniture, some covered with dust cloths, some waiting for a touch up or a drawer pull or some other repair before being taken into the shop. Phalendria was proud of her accomplishments. She made a good living and was doing something she loved with her best friend in the whole world. Still there was something missing. She wanted a partner. Someone to share her most intimate dreams and desires, someone she could build a future with. She wanted a family. With a sigh, she turned her attention back to the task at hand. Sunlight slanted across the edge of the mirror and made the gilt finish glow. It really was a lovely piece she thought. Stepping closer she examined the reflective surface. It was quite bright. The speckling did not distort the representation. She was examining the festooned ribbon at the top of the mirror when she became aware of another image in the glass.

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Chapter Four

“Phalendria Witherspoon lived in this parish one hundred and eighty-seven years ago,” Alice began. “She was the daughter of a wealthy industrialist in Boston, but they had a cottage here at the lake. She would come down often in the summer to escape the heat in town and visit her cousins. Her cousins, the Gunn’s, were a local family connected to the railroads and very well respected in Pendleton. Her father trusted that she would be properly chaperoned and protected. However, Phalendria was a young woman with a mind of her own.” Mike sat forward, his elbows on his knees, his eyes riveted on Mrs. Cochran. Mick sat back in a more relaxed pose, but he was taking in every word. “Mr. and Mrs. Gunn had betrothed their daughter Jennifer, to the scion of the Spencer family. “Spencer? Did you say Spencer?” Mick asked, starting up out of his seat. “Why yes. The Spencer’s were another wealthy, local family with interests in the shipping industry. Is it important?” “My mother was a Spencer,” Mick said. He felt like he had been hit by a bus. He had never really expected to find any kind of connection to the woman in the dream. This was really bizarre. His mother had never said much about her relatives. There were no longer any close ties to her family and he had never met any of the Spencer’s. “My, my. Now we know how you are connected. I wonder what Phalendria is trying to tell you?” “Hot dog, now we’re getting somewhere,” exclaimed Mike. “Please, go on with the story Mrs. Cochran.” Mick urged her. “You try to behave,” he said, scowling at his over eager buddy and drawing his finger across this throat in warning. “Well,” Alice continued. “The marriage was intended to unite the two families’ business holdings. Jennifer, a rather spoiled and high-strung young woman by all 53

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accounts, was enamored of Mikhail and very much wished for the marriage. Mikhail being an ambitious young man, could see the advantages, so although he wasn’t in love, he went along with the arrangement. It was, in every sense of the word, an arranged marriage.” “Then along comes the beautiful, vivacious Phalendria Witherspoon and the fat was in the fire, as the saying goes. Mikhail and Phalendria fell madly in love. The short version is that they had a torrid love affair, and Mikhail planned to break it off with Jennifer and marry Phalendria. Jennifer demanded that Mikhail give Phalendria up. Rumor is, that she threatened suicide. Mikhail apparently believed her and meant to break things off with Phalendria, to save her from the scandal, but couldn’t resist seeing her one more time.” “Jennifer got wind of the intended rendezvous and went to the cottage to wait. She took a gun with her. The exact events that transpired are unclear, but Jennifer and Mikhail died that day. Phalendria came back from the cottage hysterical and covered with blood. She said Jennifer had confronted them, crying and waving the gun around. Jennifer and Mikhail struggled and he was shot. In her grief Jennifer turned the gun on herself, or so Phalendria said. She also said she tried to stop her, but couldn’t.” “It’s just like Romeo and Juliet,” Mike commented, ecstatically. Mick smiled. He knew what a romantic McPhee was. Between the fantasy sex, the tragic star-crossed lovers, and now this family connection, he was never going to hear the end of this. Mike’s somewhat misguided reference brought a smile to Alice’s face, too. “That’s close enough, I guess.” “What happened to Phalendria?” Mick asked. “Nothing official. There was an inquest and the deaths were ruled accidental. It was a huge scandal in these parts and created something of a family feud. Some of the locals didn’t want the couple buried in the church graveyard, but Phalendria’s father appealed to the Bishop at Phalendria’s insistence and made a large donation to the church school. The difficulties were smoothed over and the bodies laid to rest.” “Sadly, it seems Phalendria really did love Mikhail Spencer. She collapsed at the funeral and had to be taken to the hospital. She never regained her health. She died the next year of an inflammation of the lung. Her father blamed Mikhail and cut the family connection and set out to put the Spencer’s out of business. He brought them to the brink of bankruptcy before he was satisfied.” 54

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“That’s some story,” Mick said. “It might also explain why my mother doesn’t have a close family. How do you know all this? “From family papers, letters, journals, and diaries, things of that nature. People in those days were readers and writers, they corresponded often. A scandal that juicy gets a lot of press.” Alice smiled her beautiful smile. “Times haven’t changed all that much.” Her tone indicated that she wasn’t necessarily pleased about it either. “Do you have any idea how the mirror comes into it?” Mike asked. “Oh, yes, the mirror. I almost forgot. It’s interesting that the mirror appears in your dreams, Mr. Galloway, because it was that mirror that finally gave the lovers away.” Alice got up and went around to a file cabinet in an alcove on the other side of the room. She opened a file drawer and withdrew a fat file. She flipped through the contents briefly. Coming back to Mick she opened the file and handed him a wrinkled sheet of paper. “This is the receipt for the mirror. It was a gift to Phalendria for her twentieth birthday. Mikhail had it shipped down from Boston. Jennifer found out about the mirror and thought it was a gift for her. She and Mikhail had admired it when shopping in town for wedding things. When she saw it hanging in the cottage by the lake she didn’t have to have the “sight’ to know something was very wrong.” “Phalendria had beautiful golden blond hair and according to reports she was very vain about it. A mirror was the perfect present for the reigning beauty of the district. At least it seems Mikhail thought so.” Mick sat spellbound on the sofa. The paper in his hand seemed to swim before his eyes. He knew he had seen it before, but that made no sense. He glanced up at Mrs. Cochran, but couldn’t get any words to form in his mind. Mrs. Cochran continued with her story seemingly oblivious to his reaction. “We were fortunate to find this birthday card among Phalendria’s things. That’s how we know about the gift.” She pulled another item from the file and handed it to Mick. His fingers tingled as he held the card. On the front was a lovely summer scene painted in soft hues. Inside a bold hand had written: My darling Phalendria, No more beautiful face than yours 55

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Ever graced a looking glass Happy Birthday All my love, for always Mikhail Mick’s head began to swim and black spots danced before his eyes. He put a hand up to his forehead. “Are you alright Mr. Galloway? You look pale.” Alice put her fingers against Mick’s cheek and then snatched them away. “You’re connected in some way to this tragedy Mr. Galloway. I can feel the spirits hovering close to you. Phalendria and Mikhail are reaching across the void to speak to you.” “I knew it, I just knew it,” exclaimed Mike, almost bouncing in his seat. “Can you do a séance Mrs. Cochran? Let’s see what the spirits want to say to Mick. I told you Boy’O, we’re onto something. This is fantastic.” “I’m fine, Mrs. Cochran. Please ignore my crazy pal. We are certainly not interested a séance. He’s obviously slipped a cog.” Mick gave Mike a hard look and willed him to be silent. Mike opened his mouth and shut it again. “Would it be possible for me to see all the records you have regarding this affair? I’d really like to learn more about what happened. Maybe I can discover why I am having these dreams.” Alice looked back and forth between the young men. “We don’t usually let our research papers out of the rectory, but I have a feeling you need this information more than I do at the moment. Just please take care of the material.” She handed the file to Mick. “Now you know that you are actually related to the Spencer’s it makes more sense that you have this strong a connection. Take the file home with you and bring it back when you are satisfied.” The two men rose to leave. “Thank you for your time. I’ll be very careful with the file. I should have it back to you next week,” Mick said. He started to walk to the door when Alice grabbed his sleeve and stopped him. “Wait just a minute. I’ve just remembered something important.” Alice disappeared into the back of the house and reappeared a few minutes later carrying something. “I keep this on the mantel in my room along with a collection of other similar 56

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portraits. This is Mikhail Spencer,” she said, handing Mick a small ornate frame with an ink drawing in it. “I think you look remarkably alike, don’t you?” “Let me see,” demanded Mike. He took the frame from Mick’s unresisting fingers. Mick’s head was reeling. “This portrait looks just like one my mother had done of me for my twenty-first birthday,” Mick said, faintly. “There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.” Alice quoted. “Shakespeare knew what he was talking about, you know. Keep the file and the portrait as long as you need to. I look forward to hearing how you resolve this mystery.” She walked them to the door and opened it. “Take care, my dear, and keep an open mind. There are some big surprises in store for you.”

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Chapter Five

Phalendria drew back from the mirror with a start and whirled around. Jenna’s warning whispered in her head. She scanned the room, but there was no one there. I must be seeing things. She glanced back at the mirror but all she could see was herself and the empty room behind her. Shrugging away her fears, she walked across the room to the utility cupboard and got out a clean piece of old T-shirt and a lump of the carnauba wax they used to polish fine wood. Back at the mirror she wrapped the wax inside the soft cotton and began to rub it along the beveled frame. Concentrated on her project she forgot her jitters and lost herself in her task. Phalendria enjoyed these simple jobs as much as she enjoyed winning the bid at auction. Well, almost anyway. She loved beautiful things and old furniture was her favorite. As she worked she thought of the craftsmanship required to produce each wonderful piece in her collection. She could almost feel the love that went into the art. And she truly thought of it as an art. She stepped back to admire her handiwork and it was then that she saw his face in the mirror. Phalendria stood rooted to the spot. She realized with a start that it was the face of the handsome, young man from the locket. Strangely she was not afraid. As she continued to watch, the form of the man took shape. He was dressed as he had been in the portrait with high color, wide tie and fitted coat. “Phalendria, I’ve been searching for you for so long. Where have you been, my darling?” The man spoke in a soft, deep voice, and reached out a hand towards her. Phalendria turned around to look behind her, but there was no one there. Turning back to the mirror, the image of the young man remained. She looked around the room, but she was alone. Amazingly, the image did not seem to be a reflection, but actually inside the mirror. 58

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“My love, I thought I would never find you again. I’ve been so desolate without you. Have you forgotten me? Please say you have not.” Unable to resist the love and yearning in his eyes and in his voice, she answered him without thinking. “No, I remember you. You’re Mikhail.” As she said the words, she realized she did remember him and with that memory, came the most intense feelings of love and longing she had ever experienced. Her heart felt as if it was breaking and all she wanted was to be held in this man’s arms again. “Come to me, Sweetheart. I need you,” the handsome face smiled a smile of infinite charm and he reached for her. Phalendria felt suddenly lightheaded and slightly confused. She reached out to steady herself and he grasped her hand, pulling her against his chest and wrapping her in his arms. There was a faint popping sound as she moved through the glass, but she was only vaguely aware of it. All of her attention was focused on the man who said he loved her and wanted her. He was more real to her in this moment than any of the men she had ever dated. The world beyond the mirror faded from her awareness. “I was afraid I would never see you again,” Mikhail whispered against her neck. His arms felt warm and strong around her and she felt a bone deep contentment. “Oh, Mikhail, I’ve missed you too,” she said, stepping back slightly and looking up into his eyes. “I got your note. I can’t believe you really mean to give me up?” The late afternoon sun shone in through the cottage windows and the lake was visible through the trees. This was their love nest, the place where they always met to be together in private. It was impossible that he could turn his back on what they had shared here. “You don’t understand. Jennifer confronted me this morning and demanded that we break off our affair. I told her it wasn’t an affair. That we are truly in love and plan to marry. She became hysterical and threatened to tell everyone that we have been sleeping together and make her father tear up the contracts he signed with my father’s company. When I didn’t knuckle under right away, she threatened to kill herself if I don’t end it.” “What did you tell her?” “What could I say? I can’t have her death on my conscience. Would you want me at the cost of your cousin’s life?” He lifted her chin and stared into her eyes, pleading for understanding. 59

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“Jennifer is just a spoiled brat. She won’t do it.” “Do we dare take that chance? And what about the scandal? I won’t have your name dragged through the mud because of me. You’ll be an outcast in society. What will your father say? Sweetheart, you know it’s you I love, but what can we do?” Phalendria looked at Mikhail and saw the torment in his eyes. She reached up and took his face in her hands. “Mikhail, I won’t give up what we have just because she threatened you. Jennifer will have to learn to live with the reality. You don’t love her. How can she want you under those circumstances anyway? It’s only her pride that’s wounded. That pain will pass, but marriage is for a lifetime. How will both of you feel in five years? Ten years? Resentment will grow and your lives will be miserable.” She kissed his lips tenderly and smiled. “As for my father, he loves me and wants me to be happy. He will grumble and grouse, but in the end he’ll give us his blessings.” She kissed his cheek and then his ear. “Love me, darling. I want you,” she whispered. Mikhail was no match for this tender seduction. He turned his head and captured her mouth. He kissed her deeply and held her in a crushing embrace. “Phalendria, I adore you. I don’t think I could have let you go, truly. Are you sure you can bring your father around? What if he disowned you?” “He won’t and I don’t care if he does. You are all that matters to me. There are other places to live. We can always go to Europe for a while if need be. This will be old news before you know it.” She kissed him and molded herself to his body. The feel of his rock hard erection made her smile. Taking his hand she led him down the short hall and into the small bedroom at the back of the cottage. She stopped by the side of the bed and turned to him. “Make love to me Mikhail.” She began to unbutton the front of her dress. “Let me feel your love. Let me feel the heat of your passion and forget about Jennifer and the rest of them. Show me how much you love me.” Mikhail began to kiss the soft swells of her breasts as she revealed them. He eased the dress off her shoulders and took a nipple into his mouth. She moaned deep in her throat and clung to his shoulders. “You are so beautiful, Phalendria. I want to bury myself deep inside your hot sweetness and feel you clinch around me. I want to hear you scream my name when you find your release.” 60

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“Yes, that’s what I want too.” She reached up and began to undo his tie with urgent fingers. In minutes they were both naked. Mikhail lifted her and placed her gently on the bed. She spread her legs and beckoned him to her. He fell over her with a groan and drove his shaft deep into her soft wetness. She cried out with pleasure and wrapped her legs around his hips. This was the connection she craved. She would never give him up.

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Chapter Six

Mike began to chatter the minute they got into the truck. “That was some story, huh, Boy’O? Beautiful woman, murder, big scandal, and you’re smack dab in the middle. An actual member of the family.” “Take it easy Mike. It’s just a dream I’m having, not an affair. I’m not likely to be involved in anything more exciting than a couple of nocturnal emissions.” “The sex is pretty hot, huh? Mick asked. “Yes the “dream” sex is very hot, for all the good that does. What I want is a real flesh and blood woman, not a phantom.” “Why would this Phalendria, be contacting you every night if there wasn’t some important reason? She’s trying to tell you something. Maybe it’s some kind of warning. Maybe the real life Phalendria is in some kind of danger. We just have to figure it out.” “I imagine the real life Phalendria has a husband and family to look after her. I appreciate your interest Mike, but I don’t see how “we” are going to figure it out when “I” am the only one having the dream.” “You have to start keeping a notepad by your bed. When you wake up the first thing you do is write down what you remember about the dream. That’s what they tell you in all the dream books.” Mick shifted around in his seat to stare at his friend. “Since when have you been reading dream books? “Since right after you told me about the dreams. My Aunt Hella used to study dream interpretation. Didn’t I ever tell you that?” Mike asked. “I called her up and she loaned me couple of books. It’s pretty interesting actually. Lots of symbols and stuff, archetypes they’re called.” Still staring at his friend, Mick said, “No, you never told me about your Aunt Hella. And I’m really not interested in reading any books on the subject. I give in. Let’s go visit this real life Phalendria, the one with the antique shop. Maybe meeting an actual 62

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descendent of Phalendria Witherspoon will put an end to the whole business. But, I’m not telling about the sex dreams, and if you open your mouth about it even once, I’ll tell your mother you’ve been secretly dating your high school sweetheart for two years. I know she always wanted Elaine for a daughter-in-law.” “You’re a harsh man, my friend. But I think meeting Phalendria is a right good idea,” Mike exclaimed. “Let’s go by the shop and take a look.” “It’s Sunday remember? No one will be there. How about we wait until tomorrow morning?” “Come on, Mick. It’s almost lunchtime. We can have a bagel at that little deli around the corner on Sixth Avenue, I know there’re open today. And then we can stroll over to the shop and take a look. You know, kinda get a feel for the place. Maybe something will jog your memory.” “Fine, if it will make you happy. I’m hungry. A bagel sounds pretty good. Isn’t that the place with the great smoked salmon? I could go for that right about now.” They made it to the restaurant without further need for threats. Mike stopped haranguing Mick with ideas about what was going on long enough to eat two overstuffed bagels. When the meal was over they made there way on foot to the antique shop. Another Man’s Treasure was only a block from the deli, around the corner on Seventh Avenue. Its lower floors boasted two large windows displaying several pieces of furniture and other items in a tasteful arrangement. Everything was obviously of the best quality. Ornate dressers were draped with rich fabric and silk covered chairs complimented a velvet chase lounge. It was a rather splendid exhibit of wares. “I wonder who does their windows. This is really a beautiful display.” Mike was peering through the window with his face close to the glass and his hands around his face to block out the light. “Doesn’t look like anyone is in there.” “Well, you wouldn’t expect her to be working on Sunday afternoon, now would you? Let’s get going. I want to get home and read through that file Mrs. Cochran gave me. Nothing here seems to be ringing any bells.” He was thinking of the tingling in his fingers he felt when holding the birthday card Mikhail gave Phalendria. He thought maybe something else in the file would cause a reaction, but he wasn’t about to tell Mike. 63

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“Wait a minute. I think I see someone walking around in there. There’s a door open in the back. Someone just walked past it. Knock on the door and see if you can get their attention” Mick obediently knocked on the door, but no one came. Pretty soon both men had their noses pressed to the showroom window. “We’re going to get arrested at this rate,” Mick commented. “Let’s go.” “No, I tell you I saw someone. Let’s go around to the back. It’s probably a stock room. We can ask whoever is there if Phalendria will be at work tomorrow or how we can reach her.”

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Chapter Seven

Phalendria opened her eyes. For a few minutes she couldn’t remember where she was. The memory of Mikhail and his lovemaking was so strong, she reached out for him. Her hand fell on empty air and came to rest on cold cement. She turned her head and realized she was lying on the floor of the storeroom in the back of Another Man’s Treasure. Shivering she sat up and rubbed her temples with trembling fingers. Her head was throbbing and she felt a terrible aloneness. She looked up and saw the mirror. Memories came flooding back. Oh, my God. What is the matter with me? Am I so desperate for attention that I invent a ghost to make love with? I must be going insane. Shakily she got to her feet and brushed the dust from her skirt. She looked into the mirror and saw only her own familiar face. Thank God, she thought. She went to the cupboard reached up to the top shelf and pulled down a quilted furniture cover. Returning, she extended her arms to throw it over the mirror. Before she could get the cover over it the face and figure of Mikhail Spencer appeared in the glass. “Don’t leave me Phalendria. I need you. Come back to me,” he pleaded, reaching out for her. Phalendria jerked back out of his reach and felt her gut clinch. How she wanted to have that feeling of deep love again. The temptation to return to Mikhail was overwhelming. She remembered the feeling of profound contentment when he held her and the passion of their lovemaking. She wanted to have that so very much. But her rational mind knew her knight couldn’t be a ghost. What she needed was a flesh and blood man. She mustn’t let Mikhail seduce her into the mirror again. She knew in her heart that she could become addicted to this strange relationship. Perhaps she would disappear into that other world forever. How was she to know? She knew she couldn’t let herself succumb to the temptation, but what could she do? 65

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There was Mikhail, the love of her past life, pleading with her to return to him. And she was actually considering it. She would love to feel his lips against hers again. It had felt so right to give herself to him. “I can’t Mikhail. I live in a different world. I can’t live in your world. I’m not sure you even exist.” “What are you saying? Of course I exist. Our love is strong enough to bridge the gap. Come back to me.” “No, no, I can’t. You have to let me go,” Phalendria cried. “This is too bizarre, it’s impossible.” She was near tears now. Her heart was breaking. Where would she find another love like the one she had shared with this ghost from the past? Every nerve in her body called out for his touch. “Come to me Phalendria. Come my darling. We will be together forever, just like I promised you.” “No, I can’t. Please. Don’t ask me. Let me go.” “You know I can’t do that. We are joined, heart and soul. You must come.” Tears filled her eyes and flowed down her face. “I can’t Mikhail. It’s insane. I can’t leave this world and live in a dream. It must end here.” Phalendria ran back to the cupboard and grabbed up the crowbar they used to open crates. Before she could change her mind she ran back to the mirror. “Don’t do this Phalendria.” Mikhail pleaded. “We can be together, don’t do it.” “Goodbye Mikhail. I love you.” She closed her eyes against the image of her lover and swung the crowbar. The sound of glass breaking matched the shattering of her heart. The mirror was ruined. The room was silent. Mikhail was gone. Phalendria threw the metal bar down and made her way to the office and collapsed into a chair. It was over, the one true love of her heart and the best lover she had ever had was gone forever. She put her head down on the desk and sobbed her heart out. She prayed to God that she wouldn’t regret it the rest of her life.

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Chapter Eight

Mick knocked on the back door of AMT as loudly as his knuckles would allow. “Hello, is anybody home? Hello?” There was not sound from inside. No one answered his call. “I think you must have been mistaken or whoever it is doesn’t want to be disturbed.” “Try the door. Maybe it’s unlocked.” Just then they heard a sound like breaking glass. Mick felt like he’d been punched in the stomach. He leaned against the door to keep from falling on his face. “What’s the matter Mick? Are you sick?” Mike asked. He reached out to his friend and took his arm. “Hey, are you faint? Do you need to sit down?” “I think I’m okay now. I suddenly felt like I was going to pass out. What was that sound? Did you hear it?” “Yeah, it sounded like something breaking. Let’s see if we can get in. Maybe it’s a burglar.” “Oh, great, first we’re hunting a ghost and now we’re apprehending burglars. Never a dull moment.” “Stop your whining. You know you love a good mystery and don’t tell me you can’t handle a little old burglar with all that military training you’ve got.” “What makes you think the burglar is old or little? He might be a great big young burglar.” Mick was still laughing when he turned the handle and pushed open the door. “Hello? Anybody here?” Moving into the shadowy interior they both saw the broken mirror at the same time. “Mike, see if you can find a light switch. I think that is the mirror from my dream.” Mike went back to the door and found the switch. He flicked it on and flooded the room with light. 67

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Propped up on a blanket, covered dresser was an ornate gilt mirror. Actually, it was the frame that remained. Most of the glass was scattered over the floor in front of the dresser. “Is that it?” Mike asked. “The mirror from your dream?” “Yes, I think it is. That festooned bow at the top is the same anyway. It sure looks like the one. I wonder what happened here?” Mick bent down and picked up the crowbar from the floor. “It appears that someone deliberately broke it. It looks like a valuable piece. I wonder why anyone would destroy it?” “That’s really none of your business is it? What are you doing snooping around in my storeroom?” Whirling around, Mike found himself looking at a lovely woman with blond hair and luminous brown eyes. “You must be Phalendria Gunn. We’re looking for you actually.” Mick had not turned around. The sound of Phalendria’s voice made the hairs stand up on his neck and his heart leap in his chest. It was her. He knew it, the woman from his dreams. He turned slowly around to look at her. This was the woman he had made love to every night for the past six weeks. He knew every curve of her, every sweet place, every taste and smell of her. “Phalendria?” She looked from Mike, to him and then at the mirror. “Mikhail, is it you? Have I set you free? Are you real?” She started toward him and his arms opened of their own accord to fold her inside. They stood there locked in each other’s arms, oblivious to the gape-mouthed stare of Michael McPhee. “My love, I thought I’d lost you forever. I was afraid. That’s why I broke the mirror.” “I know. It’s alright sweetheart. We have the rest of our lives to sort it out,” Mick said, smoothing her hair and kissing her cheek. “It’s been along time coming, but the separation is over.” “What the hell is going on?” asked Mike. “Somebody fill me in.” “Use your imagination, my friend. I’m busy,” Mick said. 68

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He lowered his head and kissed the lips of the woman he had loved against all odds, across time and space. His heart was in that kiss and Phalendria answered him with equal passion. No more waiting, their time had come at last.

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About the Author

Sassy was raised in Kentucky but has lived up and down the coast, finally settling in Florida in 1983. Her non-fiction articles have been appearing in print locally for about three years. She is thrilled to have her first fiction sale be an erotic contemporary romance with VP.

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ZERO CEMETERY LANE By Logan Blue

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Chapter One

“Speaking a thing’s name, gives one a power over it,” someone said once. Nicole wished she had thought of that first—first when she encountered the lives that lived, died, and then stayed at Zero Cemetery Lane. If she had known their names beforehand… If she had been able to recognize them before they entered her world. But perhaps, dear reader, you need to retrace the events so that you better understand the ramblings here. Before you call me aged and suffering from dementia or delusions. Wait let me explain. It’s true and it happened just this way. Take caution however, if you are in the middle of a real estate transaction, read this before you sign the final papers. “Real Estate is always a good investment Nicole,” Jacqueline Clevenger said as she pulled out pictures of the various properties that met Nicole’s specifications and that were her goals to sell that week. “I’m sure we can come up with a worthy investment for you.” Nicole had known Jaci since she and her family had vacationed in Marrok years ago. The cabin long since gone, the land sold. Nicole looked for a place to return to, to perhaps reconnect with the joys of her youth that Marrok always afforded. They spent the better part of an hour that Tuesday morning in September going through pictures and property descriptions until they finally narrowed the list down to three choices to see that afternoon. As it turned out, Nicole had decided; rather like Goldilocks in the Three Bear’s nursery tale, one was too small, one too large, and one, The Crystal Slipper, was just right. But, that was exactly how it transpired. The medium one, an old sprawling log structure that at one time boasted many infamous lives seemed the best suited for her purposes. An investment in her future as well as, she hoped, a chance at happiness from the past. The final insult to the place seemed the garish yellow color someone had painted the logs, with window trim and door a pristine white. “What’s up with that disgusting color?” Nicole asked. 72

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Jaci laughed as she led her though the tall weeds interspersed with pink hollyhocks that towered over their heads. “The owner felt the dark, natural color of the logs gave the place an evil countenance.” Nicole shrugged, she felt a presence, but she wasn’t about to tell Jaci that. She would more than likely think she had totally lost her marbles. There was this certain chill that wrapped itself around her shoulders. She knew it from previous encounters with the ghosts who could not, would not rest. Shadows from beyond, those who knew named them. The old proverb she’d only recently rediscovered skittered across her mind. “When you walk across the fields with your mind pure and holy, then from all the stones, all growing things, and all animals, the sparks of their souls come out and cling to you, and then they are purified and become a holy fire in you.”

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Chapter Two

It all began simple enough… “What does Marrok mean?” she asked Jaci as they sat having coffee in the Dandy Café, after signing all the final papers for her purchase of The Crystal Slipper. “You sure you want to know?” Jaci said cocking her eyebrow in that quizzical way she had. “Why wouldn’t I?” Nicole countered. The waitress deposited their bagels and cream cheese, refilled their coffee cups and asked if they wanted anything further. They declined and she sashayed away to continue her bantering with the men at the counter. “Well?” Nicole said again. Jaci leaned across the table toward her as though she had some big secret to tell that no one must overhear. “The name means werewolf – well not exactly-- it was the knight from one of the legends, King Arthur Legends, I believe, that the court believed the knight to be a werewolf.” Nicole couldn’t keep her laughter inside. “You mean to tell me, people believe in that old saw?” Jaci shrugged. “If you listen to all the stories that are wrapped in the telling of the things that go bump in the night at The Crystal Slipper, you will be less inclined to think it--how did you put it–an old saw.” While she digested what Jaci was saying, she spread some of the cream cheese on the warm bagel. Did Jaci believe in the hauntings or the tales of werewolves that she had heard as a kid, and thought only that they were—tales? Ghosts she could deal with, werewolves she wasn’t so sure she wanted to tackle. **** What an odd address, Nicole thought, as she approached the sprawling log building. The address hadn’t bothered her before but now, trepidation filled her as she 74

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parked her car in the driveway. Do I really want this place? she thought, wondering if she was prepared to fix the roof that had caved in during the winter’s heavy snowfalls, restore the winter damaged and neglected rooms to get the bed and breakfast of her dreams up and running. She never was one to shy away from work, especially when that work involved a goal she had set for herself. She had dreamed of owning a bed and breakfast so long, there was no way it couldn’t materialize. The lone, velvety Yellow Lady Slipper stood near the front doorway a sentinel against the background of the gray satin poplar tree. Oak brush, apple trees, sedge grass and vines took over the green expanse down to the river. The grounds were all filled with brush and wild grasses, dandelions and blackberry brambles. None of them approached the house. It was as though there was a deterrent in the soil that prevented them, or was it something more? At least the brush would help to hold her up, Nicole thought, if they had moved into where the buildings stood, but they seemed to stand at arms length and breathe the life out of the building itself. What was she crazy? A house, the grounds couldn’t have human thoughts and reasons for their conditions. Still she felt that the vegetation stood back and watched her, The Crystal Slipper, the infamous house die. With part of her roof caved in she looked sad, Nicole thought. She had already given The Crystal Slipper human persona by calling it ‘her’, was that normal? If she went by the definition she had learned in journalism that anything that could carry or harbor something was feminine. “Okay, Crystal you are a lady,” she said aloud as if she was christening her as someone would a ship. The townspeople said it crumbled amid the shrieks from those still trapped – correction, those spirits that were still trapped inside her rooms. That was the paranoid towns people who called Nicole crazy for wanting to own The Slipper filled with history, mystery and things that went bump in the night. But then, the town seemed against any foreigner moving into Marrok, Michigan. They were a tight knit bunch that reminded her of the small minds of other towns where she had the misfortune to reside. Why had they never seemed that way when, as a child, she summered here with her relatives? Well, she wasn’t a joiner anyway so it didn’t matter if they didn’t want her here. There were enough tourists that traipsed through the Upper Peninsula all summer and all winter that she should have more than enough to keep her busy with the bed and breakfast she had planned for The Crystal Slipper. Why The Crystal Slipper, she 75

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wondered. What had possessed the owners to keep the name? History showed she had always been called The Crystal Slipper. Nicole slowly disembarked from her vehicle and stood before the stairway leading to the front door. There was an air of despair, or was it exhaustion, emanating from the house. Thoughts of turrets, parapets, derelict staircases, closets that opened onto closets ran through her mind. Though it had no parapets and only dormers instead of turrets, the place had a magnetic attraction for her. Something drew her in. “Oh, Lady Slipper I need to know your secrets,” she said aloud. Perhaps renaming her to Lady Slipper would be appropriate she thought. But what of the name recognition? Everyone has known it for years and years as The Crystal Slipper. Why mess with a good thing? She looked at the yellow lady slipper wild orchid standing like a guard at the bottom of the stairs against the oak tree again. Poisonous, beautiful but poisonous, she thought. Perhaps that was reason enough not to name her Lady Slipper. The name could wait, for now she needed to explore and plan what would she do first, and where she would start. She had a good feeling about this house, this log mansion, much as she did when she embarked on many of her other adventures. This place is evidence of an age before neat rows of ranch and Cape Cod style houses parked themselves on the rural landscape before the turn onto Cemetery Lane. Nicole glanced around the foyer as she entered. Plaster was pulled back from the ceiling to reveal slats. The thought tripped across her mind that they looked like ribs, starved skeleton ribs. Glass pebbled the floors where vandals had tossed rocks through windows and storms had tossed branches. The branches and rocks had been picked up, but the glass remained. How odd she thought. Why not sweep it all up? Unless there had been more damage after the original, but then where were the rocks and branches from that? The walls were paisley with damp water stains and Nicole assumed the other stains to be dried blood if rumors were correct. She had spent a considerable amount of time in the archives of the local library studying back issues that referred to activity at The Crystal Slipper. The Slipper had seen gunfights, gangland slayings, underground railroads for runaway slaves and a passageway for booze hidden from revenuers. Her history was rich with confrontations between the law and the lawless, from what she heard and read. Along with the women who told her they tried to burn it down and it wouldn’t burn. Nicole chuckled again at that. It’s a wood structure, old and dried out, stick a match to her and she’d go up like so much dry tinder, she was sure. 76

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Is it the excitement of the debauchery, or the echoes from her walls that clutches at my heart and draws me near as if to whisper its long held secrets? Nicole wondered. There were bats in the upstairs and in the attic. The hallways and staircases, as she wandered them, were dedicated to mice and spiders it seemed. The house echoed with desertion. It had a presence this house; it seemed to breathe death and freedom at once. Nicole couldn’t put her finger on all the emotions she was feeling emanating from the very walls and floors of the rooms. She only knew now that there was a woman before her that tried to own the place. Her name someone had told her was Ambrosia. That there were others before and since was also a part of the rumors in the coffee shops and businesses she had visited to set up her accounts when she changed her address and prepared to move to Marrok. Nicole had decided the room that looked basically untouched by all the trauma the house had endured would make a perfect bedroom for her. She walked into the room, the rich velvet drapes where deep, dark green velvet with gold cords, the bedcover was a rich green velvet bedspread that looked as though it was brand new. The air even smelled fresh with a hint of vanilla. She wandered about the room. The window was frosted over with a glaze of dirt and grime, the wooden floor covered only by two beautiful wool rugs. She opened the closet and saw a wardrobe of beautiful period clothing. Velvet, brocade, cotton, the woman who had lived there had exquisite taste in clothing and furnishings she decided. How could the clothes have been preserved so perfectly for so long? How could the room and its décor be preserved? The thought slipped in and out of her mind, but she didn’t dwell on it, not now, not yet, she decided. She pulled the small deacons bench into the bedroom and placed it under the window. As she sat down the bench gave slightly under her weight indicating its hollow interior. She stood quickly, then opened the bench to find a small leather book, gilded gold edges and the word Journal in gold, graced the deep brown cracking leather cover, a red ribbon marked the last page of the calligraphic handwritten pages. Nicole closed the lid on the bench and sat down on the floor, her back resting against the bench to peruse the journal. Inside the cover was Ambrosia Garnet’s name and dedication of the journal to her niece Katie and nephew Dominic and the date graced that parchment page. Nicole marveled at the beauty of the pen that had created the nameplate. Also, there preserved forever in its pages was the yellow Lady Slipper flower. Chills stood the soft hairs on her arms on edge rippling as though an invisible bug 77

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walked hair to hair across them. Or was it her, Madame Ambrosia wanting to read over her shoulder? Nicole felt like a voyeur but still, she felt she must, she was compelled by some invisible force to read the journal. She turned the page into ambrosia’s private world and read.

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Chapter Three

The journal was titled, THE YELLOW LADY SLIPPER, but the yellow was crossed out and inserted in its place was, CRYSTAL LADY SLIPPER. If memory served Nicole correctly, the Lady Slipper wild orchid, though strikingly beautiful, is a poisonous plant. Was that the reason she renamed the place The Crystal Slipper instead of The Yellow Lady Slipper--unless they grew here then, like they do now, abundant, wild, free like her ‘girls’, the women who lived and died here. “Not safe after dark. Oh no, I wouldn’t go there even in the daylight hours.” The journal entry in Ambrosia’s pen began. Nicole felt a nudge close to her on the bench. I heard the comments. They were for my benefit. They always tittered with gossip, these women. It was as though they never had anything else to do. “One night stand.” “Challenge the widow-maker, the slammerkin, go ahead, see what she says,” the one said jabbing a bony elbow at the other and pointing in my direction as though I was blind, deaf and perhaps as stupid as they were. I ignored their rudeness and continued placing things on the grocer’s counter. “Could I have five yards of the green crushed velvet too, please? I believe your wife special ordered it for me from New York.” I said listening to the gasps from the gossipy old women behind me. I don’t care what they think of me. They should sweep their own porch first before they throw dirt at mine. Their husbands, among others, keep the Slipper and my girls in coin and laughter. If they would tend to their husbands, we wouldn’t have to. I glared at the woman known as Dimity Able, my thoughts rambled away with her as the subject. She was by no means diminutive or able, and to me she resembled a fat cow. She could be construed as dim certainly. Oh, it helped to keep your sense of humor. I held back a belly laugh. That would not be lady-like; after all, it appeared I was the only real lady in the place. 79

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Those were the same ladies who loathed me, those ladies who tried to burn my place down. Those ladies who tried to have the sheriff close me down, or tried to stop their men from visiting the Slipper. I saw them all die. I believe their bitterness buried them. Not a one of them knew how to enjoy life, to laugh at its little vicissitudes. But that was then, those many years ago even before Adam tried to rescue me—tried to move me west to a new life. I struggle now to turn even slightly. Ah, but I need to, to look at Prometheus, my love. My black angora cat that lies with his body draped over the arm of the green velvet settee looking for the entire world like a dollop of warm licorice dropped from the sky, plopped and dripping off the edge of the arm. The bulk of his weight sags toward the floor side on the arm of the settee. I wonder how he can balance there. Prometheus has been part of my life almost as long as The Slipper. Together we have been through a lot. I wonder what will happen to him when I am gone. It’s hard on a cat to be acquired by a new owner—what will Prometheus think of that? I feel so weak. It won’t be long now. The disposition of the place then, will be left to those vultures—my niece Katie and nephew Dominic, my soul heirs. Indeed, heirs to my soul. This place is me. It is my soul. It is all. Alas, what is to become of my beautiful Crystal Slipper and my girls who can never leave here? Like Annabelle, sweet little Anna. No one could have guessed that Nathan Johansson had slipped over the edge. He always came to see Annabelle. Think he was sweet on her. No one heard them argue. No one heard her plead and beg for her life. Everyone was wrapped in their own lives, drinking and carrying on. Poor Anna, no one heard. “I didn’t hear Anna. You know I would have come to help you. You know that don’t you, Annabelle?” My voice crackles and doesn’t sound like me in its weakness. I feel Anna’s kiss brush my cheek and a smile tugs at my mouth. Dear sweet Anna, always so forgiving. That Nate and she seemed soul mates. How could he take her life so violently? If the lure of the Gold Rush in Yukon Territory was stronger than his love of her, why couldn’t he just leave her behind? We would have watched over her. Surely, he couldn’t be jealous of some other man wanting what he already didn’t want. But, he didn’t run, he didn’t walk, he merely killed himself. It all seems so senseless now. It wasn’t until morning we found them together. Her bed crimson with her blood. Him dead on the floor in a pool of his own blood, gunshot wound to the head. It took 80

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weeks to clean the room. It took longer for any of the girls to use the room again. None of the old girls would use it. The new ones, the ones that didn’t know the story, the ones from Chicago and New York, they never even heard Annabelle cry. But we did those of us who buried her, the Annabelle full of love, ideals, hopes and dreams. Her crystal bell laughter still echoes in the halls. That Annabelle, we heard that one cry in the wind on those silent nights so long ago. Whatever happened, her ghost still walks the Slipper’s halls. They heard her, the other girls—that is why some left. They couldn’t stand her nightly crying. Then there was Victoria. Raven black hair and porcelain skin that made you think of a delicate china doll. Her steel blue eyes would seem a lie if not for the porcelain skin. Those steel blue eyes that could cut a rival to shreds or freeze a would-be suitor in his tracks. Everything about her was royalty, elegance, prominence, purposeful. I knew that from the beginning. Why was she at the slipper? We asked, she never told. She made no friends. She entertained the business clientele, the stuffed shirts whose corseted wives grew colder as their husbands fortunes increased. Those wives, those men. We don’t know why or how Zander Blake’s wife sought her out for revenge. He came, not as a preacher but as a preacher did that mean his needs were less? He has no needs now, neither does Victoria. Victoria, you ask? They found her in the alley one summer morning. Knifed as she took her morning stroll. Zander Blake, dead the same morning in his own barn. Molly Blake moved away shortly after that incident. Everyone knew why. Nevertheless, Victoria—she came back here to wait, her trapped and anguished soul could not leave. Do I hear you now dear lady? Do you too wait for me to follow? But I digress. Later, when the man in the white wool suit with the striped silk blue shirt and white tie, his fedora cocked rakishly over one eye, later…when he came. How strange he came here looking for Lady Labroid, his boss’ wife—later. Sam, the bartender, recognized the Chicago accent, recognized the name. “Mafia, Chicago Mob,” he said disgust in his eyes and voice. “We’re lucky she was gone,” he said after the stranger left. After the stranger was satisfied that Victoria, or Lady Labroid, had moved on if she was here at all. Did you see him Victoria? Was that your secret? Giving up all that wealth for this? Life must have been dreadful for you there to come to this, to want anything but life with Mr.…or is it Lord Labroid? 81

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Oh, the tragedies we had here and oh, the fun. There were brawls and gunfights to rival the old west—too many to count. Too many nameless, faceless men had their last drink here. Sadly, so too did some of my girls. The West had range wars, we had other wars, not as definable, our needs were different therefore our wars were different. But, the ghosts haunt just the same, those lives cut short before they were used up. Like the time Marissa Hasenpfeffer caught her husband Jon sneaking out of Jewel Cache’s window onto the roof of the woodshed. She went right out after him and knocked him clean off the roof with one punch. The rest of us laughed until we nearly died. She was a powerful woman. I don’t think his back ever healed properly. Good thing the wagon loaded with feedbags was sitting below or sure as I’m lying here, he would have been dead. Oh, it hurts to laugh; I can hardly stop the coughing now. I hear a death rattle in my chest Prometheus, I know that sound. I’ve heard it so many times before. And my pen scratches across the page like the grim reaper’s scythe. This certainly wasn’t the Wild West but there were wild times and—sad times, hard times. Would I trade the life I had? Never, it was never dull. It was never slow. I’m going skidding to the grave all used up, Prometheus wouldn’t you say? Nicole could tell the pen slowed, as the writing became shaky and stretched out. The lines sank down the page instead of marching straight and clean across it like they had been. It became obvious to Nicole that Ambrosia made these final entries on her deathbed. My thoughts rush madly back to me like scurrying squirrels searching for buried nuggets of their winter’s store. Thoughts of Martin, Phillip, and forever Adam. Ah, sweet Adam. If only I had left with you. Even yet, I can feel your hands warm, caressing my feverish body, aching with desire for you. Your kisses still linger on my bosoms. The flitter of your tongue, teasing causing the hard nub of my want to become evident in the deep reaches of my inner being. The dampness of my need spreading between my hungry thighs. But, who would have watched over my girls, those who could never leave? Choices, life hands us so many choices. We need only choose but one, and sometimes, in these moments a tiny regret creeps in. Ah, but it pales eventually. For anyone reading this I feel a need to explain. Ambrosia is nectar of the gods. Not my real name, but a name I chose for myself. My real name if anyone cares was 82

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Mavis Garnet. Who would presume to name their child Mavis, a cruel punishment for a woman to bear? I could not believe I would hear Adam in the throes of passion moaning Mavis, no better Ambrosia, or as he sometimes called me Ruby, because of my flaming hair. In the red throb of heated love, any of them was a better choice than Mavis. Now as I draw my last labored breaths, I have no children to leave my legacy only the children of my aunt. They always did squabble; I cannot imagine how they would run this place together. Katie couldn’t live here. She felt the presence of the ghosts; even when she was younger; after the house was no longer—shall we say—open. She would have nightmares, or at least we told her they were nightmares and not visions. Dominic would poke fun at her when she said she heard voices or saw aberrations. Nevertheless, I knew—I saw and heard them too, but I couldn’t tell poor Katie, or my aunt. They wouldn’t have understood. I hear what they want to do with it instead. Katie, she would use it for a museum, so she says. Dominic wants to subdivide the land and sell it to a developer – a land baron we used to call them, like the carpetbaggers of the south. If the battle wages too long, everyone will lose because this place will crumble from neglect. My girls and I, we are free now. To come and go as we please and even entertain those who’ve also remained. On a quiet night the laughter echoes, from the honky-tonk piano strains of music course through the hills, and the clink of glasses still etches the air across the river to the village below. And, Zero Cemetery Lane comes alive with gaiety, revelry and more. There still are some gunfights – and fistfights, but we exist around them. Why would I ever leave? The last entry in Ambrosia’s journal perplexed Nicole. The date of it, it didn’t make sense. How—unless… 8 January 2001: I heard the shout from here when it all ended—when part of the house’s roof collapsed. My girls have nowhere to go. Who will release their tortured souls? Where will they go? I worry too much, but I rest now, forever. Take care of Prometheus—Please. Strangely, she died years before this entry could have been made in her diary according to the locals. Nicole was perplexed. She had read the old newspaper accounts that Jaci had given her. Prometheus, the cat, was found dead lying on her chest where they had found Ambrosia in bed, a day after she’d apparently died in her sleep. They had 83

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both passed to the other side peacefully as though they had merely fallen asleep one more time. Nicole clutched the diary to her chest and stood to look out the window again. “I am left to stand among the ruins and listen for Annabelle and the rest, a stranger who bought the remains of this ‘Lady Ambrosia and the Crystal Slipper’ legacy,” she said aloud. “I’ll fix the roof.” She carried the diary with her toward the stairs listening for what she wasn’t sure, but she knew then she wanted to hear the tales these walls could tell. And the thought ‘be careful what you wish for,’ seemed to tiptoe through her mind on sharp toes causing a shudder to walk the length of her body. Ambrosia seemed to like the idea of her wishes too because Nicole felt a warm sensation as she left the room. The way one would when a decision is made and they are content with it. Did reading Ambrosia Garnett’s diary stir up the imaginations of these virile young and some not so young men? Or was it more? Did Ambrosia’s girls and perhaps Ambrosia herself continue to operate the brothel from another realm? Those that cared to record those explicit details of their night at the Crystal Slipper and eagerly told of it at the saloon the next day, were diligently recorded by the tape recorder under the bar. It was by that means that I found out that I was not the only one who had.

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Chapter Four

When Aubrey Scholustraski showed up announcing himself as a ghost-buster we nearly laughed him out of the place. That was half of the Slipper’s appeal, the nightly goings on of the oldest profession. Nothing the local authorities could do to shut the Slipper down as it was ghostly intruders and nothing else. The place was searched for secret stairwells, secret entryways, anything that could explain the encounters some of the guests reported. How do you jail a ghost, prostitute or not? The close proximity to the cemetery, the strange address suggesting there was nowhere to go from here. Zero Cemetery Lane was more cause for curiosity seekers, women and those with children were never privy to the girls or Ambrosia’s company. And I enjoyed the laughter and the honky-tonk piano that still echoed down by the river where I had created an outbuilding to sit and listen during those long summer evenings. Few incidents occurred with breaking glass cabinet fronts or doors mysteriously opening and closing. They are all more careful about letting others know they are here, but they roam freely when I’m the only one around. **** Nicole put the diary in her desk drawer and decided to retire for the night. The relentless storm seemed to be subsiding but she needed to shut out the events of the day and try to store up some energy for tomorrow. She couldn’t wait to get started on some of the repairs she felt she could do herself. The day had been busy enough and the discovery of the diary had peeked her curiosity and angst. She wondered about her choice of rooms after reading the diary, but she was too tired to change rooms that night, even if it did seem like a prudent idea. Before she slipped under the covers, she set the alarm for six o’clock. She needed to get an early start on her day. ****

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Loud hammering on the front door awoke Nicole from a deep sleep where she had been dreaming of heroes with tight buns and six-pack abs. The night quickly turned into bizarre images racing through the lower levels of her newly acquired property. As she crested the top of the stairwell the hustle and bustle below greeted her. Ghostly shapes floated across the expanse of entranceway foyer directly beneath the stairs. Black women with small children’s hands in near white fingered death grips clutching their skirts followed each other and another woman. A woman in flowing filmy white duster led the way to a wall in the living room. The shapes disappeared through the wall. She had no time to comprehend that incident before more banging commenced on the outer door. Nicole stood frozen, afraid to breathe, afraid to move. When another woman clad in a red velvet robe slowly made her way to the door where the incessant hammering sounded as if they might knock the door down. Whoever was outside was determined to enter in haste. The woman peered through the curtained side window, and then looked nervously about the room as if to be sure nothing was out of place. The knock came again and a shot rang out in the still night air. She jerked back from the door. “Open this door. Open in the name of the General.” The words blurred in Nicole’s mind. The woman obediently opened the door and several blue uniformed men pushed past her, bayonets held at the ready. They swelled into the foyer like an ooze of lava. As they filled the room with their presence rifles at their sides ready to blow someone away if need be, Nicole silently prayed that that would not be necessary. They tracked mud and debris through the house as they scurried about searching every nook and cranny on the level below. “Nothing sir,” the lieutenant said to the Captain who had detained the woman in the red robe as they searched. Several men charged up the stairs. Nicole shuddered, thinking of what they were going to do to her. But they blew by her as though she wasn’t even there as they searched room after room of the upstairs. The scene was dream-like in that her presence was undetected and she could see through their forms. The shadowy shapes seemed transparent, cloudy, but transparent…she wasn’t sure what she was observing or if she merely thought she was observing and she was still asleep. Apparently satisfied that no one was hiding in the rooms upstairs, they dripped back down the stairs and out of the front door like silent ooze. 86

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The house became deathly quiet and the red robed woman vaporized before Nicole’s eyes. Where had the slaves gone? Could she only assume that they were slaves? She had seen them go through that wall in the living room, but where beyond it? Had there been an exit door at one time, she wondered. There was no way she had courage to explore that thought farther tonight. No, she would try to sleep, she hoped back to those pleasant dreams of heroes and white steeds with charisma and great muscled bodies. Just as she had nearly drifted off to sleep, she felt the edge of the bed give, as if someone had sat down on it. Startled, afraid to open her eyes, she held her breath. “My darling, I must leave to guide this new group across the lines into the wilderness beyond our border.” She heard the voice in her mind more than through her ears. “What…?” her mind questioned back. A hand slid onto her shoulder and slipped the thin strap of her negligee down over her shoulder. She wasn’t frightened but instead instantly aroused. “Adam?” she heard herself question, the name came easily from her lips, and she knew it was him without knowing how she could be so sure. “Don’t be frightened. You are safe here. The Union Army has satisfied themselves that no one hides in your home. Come. Let me hold you. I don’t know when I’ll return. Six days at least, barring trouble,” the words stopped as his mouth covered hers in a desperate kiss, searching, and eager. She felt his urgency rise as it pressed against her thigh. It echoed the need rising in her. How could that be? No, she cautiously opened her eyes. The ghostly figure of a nude male hovered over her. Then his hands pushed her negligee lower off her breast. His lips grazed her hardened nipple. His tongue darted in circles teasing, enticing his breath hot against her tongue-moistened flesh cooled in the night air. This couldn’t be, she thought. But even as she did dampness seeped from her. It had been so long since she had been…no time to think his tongue was tracing the length of her scar on her stomach. “A zipper in case,” the chief surgeon had said. His words echoed as the ghostly intruder’s hot tongue cut a path to her navel. Nicole arched into him, the heated longing he created in the pit of her stomach grew intense. Unable to resist his advances, or her own desire, Nicole ran her fingers through the head of black hair as he made his way down the length of her. His rod was hard and burning pressed against her as he spread her legs with his knee and inserted two gentle fingers. The massaging fingers quickly found her clitoris and the nub stood growing painfully engorged begging, wanting, needing 87

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whatever this aberration could give her. Pleasure pushed sanity and reason out of the way as she opened herself to his every desire. Following her need, his hands cupped her buttocks as he plunged deep into her vagina with such force it exploded her passion. She raked her fingers down the sinewy back. He lunged deeper into her biting down on her neck, increasing her pleasure pain of the moment. The room burst into colors like fireworks and a burning heat she had never experienced before consumed her. Orgasm after orgasm erupted and shook her very being. She feared it threatened her life, yet pleasure, greater than any she had ever experienced, swallowed her. Nicole heard her own voice moan in release while her suitor growled a guttural satisfaction as he sucked her breast and drove his rod deeper than he should have been able to. Drained, drenched in sweat of their passion, Nicole longed for a deep confirming kiss. She wanted to wallow in the feelings this phantom lover had created. Suddenly he was torn from her. Her eyes flashed open to see two soldiers one at each arm of her lover they had him in their grasp. They dragged him from the bedroom. A third scooped up his clothes and threw her a lecherous grin, then leaned over and nipped her hard exposed nipple. She grabbed the covers up to cover her nakedness and he laughed. He followed the others out of the room through the door. Her mind suddenly coherent, snapped onto the image receding from her. A ghost, not real—her mind clung to that thought as he went through the door. How could he have—how could their sex have been real? Yet the drenched sheets, her aching vagina wet with his sex juices trickling down her legs soiling the sheet below. She reached up and felt the bruise on her neck where his teeth… “His teeth!” she said. Nicole scrambled out of bed and flipped the switch of the lamp on the dresser to on. She turned her head to the side and leaned into the large mirror. A big, dark mark appeared where she had felt the bite, two puncture marks red with dots of blood showed in the center of the bruise. A ghost can’t give a hickey—or can he, she wondered. She stretched the spot on her neck looking more closely at the puncture marks–vampire– Marrok, werewolf, the words assaulted her. In the morning she’d go to a physician and see what the doctor made of the mark on her neck, if she wasn’t too embarrassed. Would he think her neurotic if she said a ghost had done this? Perhaps best to leave sleeping dogs, err, ghost lie, she thought. 88

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Quickly, Nicole pulled her robe from the hook behind the bathroom door and wrapped herself into its warmth. Cautiously, she opened the bedroom door and peered up, then down the hallway. Nothing, no one in sight. Not even a mouse. She tiptoed to the stairwell and peered into the darkness below. Her mind reeled with the events of the last few minutes, or hours, suddenly it dawned on her that she had no clue how much time had elapsed since all the bizarre events had begun. Her mind chased thoughts as the events that had transpired slipped in and out like phantoms on the wind, or she had dreamed these things and none of them were true. Which was it? The hickey was real. She had that as evidence if it remained until morning, she would know for sure. Maybe she should have heeded the warnings from the town’s people. “Let sleeping dogs lie,” they had said repeatedly. She couldn’t let the property rot away. It was in surprisingly good shape for its age. If there were ghosts, if what she had experienced had been more than wet dreams, the ghost was certainly welcome back anytime, she thought, running her hand across her tender nipples. A hungry, horny ghost. Why not, she pondered, a smile crept across her face as she savored the memory of her sexual encounter with the sexiest male she had seen lately. Nicole didn’t think she could conger up one that good if she tried. She would have to hunt for a picture of this Adam, she was sure it was Ambrosia’s Adam that had given her the ride of her lifetime. Her idea had been to turn the sprawling building into a bed and breakfast, but what would her guests say if the nightly visits included one or more of the past patrons of the brothel looking for a tryst? What would she call the place without sounding x-rated? The Greatest Little Whore House was already taken. A laugh escaped from her. A small, nervous, anxiety relieving twitter that bounced around the cavernous emptiness of the Crystal Slipper. Nicole stared out of the small paned picture window. Moonlight chased wind blown clouds, created ominous shapes in the slope down to the river that had overgrown with all manner of brambles, oak brush and tag alder. A deer that drank at the edge of the river bolted, startled by a dog-like shape that loped into the clearing, which she realized was a wolf. The drought forced animals from the deep woods in search of water. Did it pull the restless spirits from their other realms too? Nicole felt reality returning. Now, she felt used. In a way, the encounter was better than any fantasy she’d ever had, but what was it about? Who did the soldier think she was? Obviously someone he had made love to before. Was she right? Was that someone Ambrosia? What was the name he called out? Ruby, or did she imagine that? 89

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Nicole stepped into the shower and let a spray of hot water beat against her tender breasts. She scrubbed the smell and feel of her romantic encounter with the diligence of a nun purging an evil stain from her habit. When she returned to the bedroom, she stripped the lust soaked sheets from the bed and remade it with fresh sheets from the linen cabinet. A restless sleep claimed her almost as her head hit the pillow.

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Chapter Five

The sun burned through the worn shades and dazzled patterns danced across the bed when Nicole woke the next morning. She bolted upright wondering what had been dream or real about the thoughts chasing wildly around her mind. She resolved to dig in the dusty files archived in the corner of the basement until she discovered more of the history of this place. A burning desire to know accelerated her activities of the morning until she had carved enough free time to begin her search. She poured a large glass of ice tea, slipped it into a sponge sleeve to absorb the moisture created by the hot, humid late summer weather and headed down to the basement. Determination followed her to the dusty, dank and moldy smell of the small cubical where the files were located. Why they hadn’t been removed prior to the place being put on the market she didn’t know, but now she was glad that they hadn’t been. As long as they were here, her love of history could be fed. Perhaps she would uncover some truth about the fascinating brothel turned stagecoach stop, turned Mafia retreat and who knew what other lives it had ushered through there. Nicole turned on the lamp over the desk and turned the chair toward the files. She pulled the first out and laid it on the desk. The desk lamp flickered and an almost tremor shook the ground as thunder rumbled circling the house. The bright sunshine that had greeted the day had quickly given over to huge towers of cumulous clouds piling up into columns of dark, imposing storm clouds. Nicole’s reaction to stormy weather had always been so what, welcome rain, but as a chill brushed across her shoulders, she felt this storm offered unease instead of relief. The musky smell of something long dead drifted past her nostrils. She coughed and sneezed. Immediately her chest tightened, reminiscent of the asthma attacks she used to endure. “Stress induced,” the doctor who diagnosed it said. That was about the time she first realized her abilities to see and communicate with the other world. Talk about stress. When you’re at the horrible age of thirteen, when nothing fits and your world is 91

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totally bizarre at the very least, then you encounter what makes you feel like the odd man out, the weirdest person in the world, one who could communicate with ghosts. She hadn’t had that kind of stress since she learned to deal with those shadow figures. Why here, why now, she wondered half aloud. Thunder rumbled nearer now, jarring the windows. She could hear the deluge of water that meant her roof repair would need to be pushed back for another more conducive time. A strange feeling as though she was peeking into a place marked ‘private and confidential’ crowded her thoughts. “How dare you presume to encroach on family business,” a woman’s voice challenged. Nicole swung around in her chair prepared to confront whoever it was that had entered the house and the room without her hearing or inviting them. She saw no one, but felt a presence. Someone was there in spirit if not in flesh. She felt a cool draft slide by her. The papers on the desk rustled and slid to the floor as though some unseen hand had deliberately pushed them. Nicole rose slowly from the chair and backed toward the doorway. A loud crack of thunder shook the ground as though to punctuate the woman’s words. Nicole felt an urge to run, she knew in her mind that she could communicate with the woman who guarded the Crystal Slipper files, perhaps reason with her that she only wanted to get to ‘know’ the history of the Slipper not to intrude. After last night’s encounter with Adam she wasn’t sure she had the strength to struggle with another undead soul if the woman challenged her. With the impending storm, the dark, dank basement felt as though it was closing in on her. She scurried up the steps away from the foreboding heaviness of the air in the basement. The acrid, musty dankness clung to her like a bad dream as she closed the basement door. If only the riled ghost would choose to stay in the basement, she could sit out the storm and decide what to do about the files in the basement later. Perhaps if they were removed to another place, a motel room, she could read them without the intrusion of those who would protect them. She had hopes of finding someone who could tell her the intimate details of the Slipper, preferably a live being. She had enough of the shadows that walked the halls of this place for now. With the realization that they were not all friendly she felt an urgency to bring peace to the Slipper however she could. 92

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She needed a friend; she needed someone to confide in. Nicole dialed her friend Flora Zorren’s number. When a flash of light zig-zagged outside and split the huge willow in two laying it open, Nicole jumped. One half of the tree landed in the driveway completely covering it. The other half was still standing, the gash sizzling as rain soaked the heated center of the tree where the lightening had burned a deep scar. Thunder that crashed with the lightening and the tree caused ground around her feet to tremble. The fine hairs on her arms walked with the charged energy in the air surrounding her. She replaced the phone in its cradle. This was no time to be on the phone she decided. A lesser woman would have run and never looked back. The storm strengthened Nicole’s resolve to put the haunted lives of The Crystal Slipper to rest. After the storm subsided she dialed Flora’s number again and listened impatiently at the ringing she knew was only a placebo the telephone company applied to make her think the wait before Flora’s ringing phone was answered. Finally, after what seemed an eternity she heard the welcoming voice of her lifetime friend on the other end of the line. Briefly they chatted about weather and life. Then Nicole asked Flora if she could come to Zero Cemetery Lane to help her with remodeling and repairing the structure for a piece of the pie when the bed and breakfast began bringing in money. “Hero Lane–that sounds a bit presumptuous,” Flora said. “No, Flora, its Zero as in the number zero. Zero Cemetery Lane. The last house no…the only house–just before the cemetery. Don’t know if it’s because of the history of the place…” she laughed nervously, which didn’t sound at all like herself. After the events of the last couple nights she wasn’t sure what was real and what wasn’t–even her own voice may not be real. “Okay, tell me again why I should drop everything and most of all, why would I want to come–and—what work, visit, chip in…? Are you asking me to be your partner?” Flora said sounding as confused as Nicole felt. She wasn’t sure herself, what she wanted from Flora but right now, moral support started to sound real good. “I could use your help. I mean, if you’d care to. The place needs a lot of work and I just figured with your experience,” Nicole rattled on about all the reasons Flora should come to the Crystal Slipper, not the least of which was her experience with Habitat for Humanity. You’d think she could have written the book “Dare to Repair,” instead of Julie Sussman, et al. The book had given Nicole courage to try much she would never have 93

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attempted after being married to Brad. His demoralizing, image-destroying, abuse nearly leached every ounce of self-confidence right out of her. Flora’s voice snapped her out of her deep fog of remembering. “Nicole, Nicole– are you listening? Are you there?” “Yes, yes I’m here. Had a glitch in the phone connection,” she lied. “What were you saying?” A heavy sigh and a moment’s silence that hung in the air, rife with anxiety, followed. “I have the house on Melody Drive to finish. That should take two days tops, then I’ll pack should be able to be in Marrok by…” another sigh filled the space and tugged at Nicole’s heart. Afraid that Flora would say no, or another month or…whatever she needed her here, now. “I should be able to get there by Monday.” Flora said. A great wash of relieve swept over Nicole. “Fantastic, I mean I’ll be expecting you.” Nicole’s heart seemed to leap into her throat forming a lump she had to swallow hard to dislodge. She didn’t want Flora to hear how strung out she was, but the relief she felt was instant and overwhelming. “Thanks so much. You’ll love it here, guaranteed.” As Nicole hung up the phone she heard the sound of gravel spitting from under the tires of someone’s vehicle as they drove down cemetery lane. People visited the cemetery at all hours, but it was never a steady thing with traffic. Occasionally, another funeral brought a convoy of vehicles to bury another in the overcrowded cemetery. Amused, Nicole couldn’t stop her next thought, they’re going to have to start double decking them pretty soon. She chuckled to herself as she peered out the filmy gauze curtains that covered the window in the kitchen to look out on the driveway beyond. A beat up old pick-up that would be grey if the rust hadn’t turned it ruddy red, stopped a few feet from her front porch door. As she watched a bronzed, muscular man, easily six feet tall, extricated himself from the driver’s seat. Cowboy boots, jeans, big silver and turquoise belt buckle, and thin white tank top stretched over the six-pack abs that rippled with his movements made her heart skip a beat. Her gaze followed his torso up to the square jaw, seductive full lips, and a nose that may have been broken a time or two from the angle it sat on his handsome face. When her gaze met his, she felt a charge of electricity that caused her to grab hold of the sink to steady her world. Her breath 94

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became short and ragged. His eyes weren’t black, but deeper ebony than anything she had ever seen. Diablo. The name tore through her mind as though it had been spoken by a being overseeing her world at the moment. His eyes were alive with lights and magnetism she either imagined or…no, her body was reacting to the pull of them; there was no imagining the power of those eyes. He raked a broad hand through his midnight black hair that swung side to side with his stride across the driveway, a few feet to her front porch. He mounted the steps with a jaunty sort of skip. Who? What? Nicole caught her thoughts and threw a quick glance in the glass front of the kitchen cabinets, smoothing her hair and her clothes as she heard his sharp rap, tap, tap on the window of the front door. She cleared her throat as she prepared to open the front door. Cautiously she opened the door only slightly, as she hadn’t gotten the safety chain installed on it yet. “Yes, can I help you?” her voice quivered and she cursed her small town shyness. He flashed her with a smile that warmed her socks--if she had had any on, it certainly would have and she was suddenly embarrassed about her bare feet. “I was hoping I could help you,” he said in a voice that was baritone and soothing. “Excuse me?” she managed to ask in reply. “Forgive me. I should introduce myself. I’m Thorpe, Thorpe Angel of Contractor’s and Landscaper’s Inc.” he said removing his hand from his pocket and stretching it out to her. Nicole didn’t know if she dared let him touch her or not. When his eyes and his voice had such an effect on her, what could his touch do? She inhaled deeply trying to create calm in the pit of her raging anatomy and was intrigued by his smell of musk and spice. It was exactly what she would expect of him. Earthy, yet adventurous. She realized she was staring with her mouth open. Flushing with embarrassment she said, “Sorry, I only recently acquired the place and haven’t really been looking for a contractor.” What a dumb thing to say, she thought. Really, he didn’t say you were looking for a contractor– where was her head? “I mean, I don’t know if I really need to hire anyone just yet.” He ventured a glance over the loose window trim and the porch floorboards askew in various places. “A real Rosy the Riveter, hey?” the broad smile flashed perfect white teeth again. 95

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Arrogant she thought. “Well, no, I just know a little bit about repairing some things and I prefer to do it myself,” she snapped, though she hadn’t planned to have it come out quite as sharply it did. Thorpe stepped back away from the door. “Sorry didn’t mean to ruffle your feather’s none. Well, if you figure out you can’t repair this great yellow elephant yourself, here’s my card,” he said handing her a business card. As he did, his fingers brushed her hand and the touch blazed hot from her hand to her center. Having this man around would be dangerous, very dangerous she thought, taking the card and pretending to read it. The word Diablo, raced through her mind again as though someone was warning her against this man. “No, I’m the one who should apologize. I didn’t mean to snap,” she said keeping her gaze glued to the business card. She felt the card’s heat, warm from his body still emanating from it. The warmth of the card seemed to send his thoughts to her mind. It was as though she could read his thoughts and yet she knew that was impossible, she wasn’t clairvoyant. She might be able to communicate with ghosts – but she couldn’t read people’s minds, could she? “Just a thought, ah, Thorpe,” she said raising her gaze daring to meet his ebony eyes with her own again. “What would it take to restore the original appearance of the logs? I mean this yellow…” she said, waving her hand indicating the length of the building. “You are talking removing the existing paint, not painting over it right?” His baritone voice, clutched at the pit of her stomach with a longing she didn’t dare entertain. “Right, I want the original log–natural, dark wood back.” “That yellow is pretty sad, isn’t it?” he asked without really expecting an answer she could tell. Hand to chin, one arm folded across his chest to prop the other’s elbow he studied the building. “We need to sand the paint off, but I believe there is plenty of log left to do that. Then all we’ll need to do is reseal it from the elements–termites, what have you.” His gaze still studied the house. “You have termites this far north?” she asked. He turned to face her with a smile that lit up her insides and danced fire in his eyes as he chuckled. “Sorry, it’s carpenter ants here, but in my book their damage is the same—the color and the name is different that’s all.” “I see. Could you handle a job like that?” 96

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“I have a sandblaster–we can cover the widows with Styrofoam sheeting–do you want the trim stripped too, or are you okay with the white there?” “I haven’t decided on that yet. You aren’t talking sealing it with some shinny varnish type thing are you? I mean–I want natural. What would a project like that cost?” “No, I was thinking more along the lines of a wood preservative like you would use on a deck. Something that soaks into the wood and restores it in the most natural way so that the beauty of the wood shows through.” She watched him as he studied the building once again, then stepped down from the porch looking at the side. “Can we walk around the exterior so that I can get some idea of size? Do you have the electricity turned on yet? I’ll need that for the sandblaster.” Nicole loved the way he seemed concerned about restoring the natural state to what had been stripped of its beauty with the garish yellow paint. She watched as he ran one broad, calloused hand over the logs. She couldn’t help but feel that hand on her own body caressing, loving, gentle and attentive. When he turned and smiled at her it was as if he knew what she was thinking and she was instantly embarrassed. She stepped back toward the door just as a piece of wood fell from the porch roof, narrowly missing Thorpe. He jumped back at the same time she did, and they collided. He grabbed her to keep her from toppling and pulled her close enough that his breathe brushed her cheek. “Poltergeists,” he said jokingly. He didn’t release her and she let the moment warm her from head to toe before she pulled back, “I, oh, the place needs work, sorry about that.” She was shaking inside. Not from the near miss she was certain, but from his arms around her, near enough to kiss her. A kiss she would have welcomed. “The place is filled with ghosts and things that go bump in the night,” she said her voice shaky as she tried to make it sound lighthearted. Thorpe cast a worried look her way as he knitted his bushy black eyebrows into a line across his otherwise wrinkle free forehead. “You mean the town gossips got you to buy into their story?” “Joke, really,” she said hoping she sounded convincing enough. But, which of them was she really trying to? With the phantom lover from the night before, the slaves running through her house in the wee hours of the morning. Being made love to by a shadow from beyond, an aberration that couldn’t be true, she wasn’t one to tilt at windmills and she never, well almost never, fantasized. This was all too bizarre to tell a 97

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stranger. “Are you from around here?” she asked trying to turn the conversation somewhere she felt comfortable. “Actually no. Came here after graduation to visit my grandmother and just decided to stay on. I like the rural quaintness.” “We used to vacation here during the summers, so I just decided to try to find some of that fun that I had had here in my youth you might say.” Why did she volunteer that information as if he really cared? She felt small and stupid. Why did she always stick her foot in her mouth when she wanted to make a good impression? Why should she want to make a good impression, he was probably married. Just because he didn’t wear a ring didn’t mean he wasn’t married. “Well, you be careful. This place is in need of a good deal of repair. If you’d like me to remove the paint, I have the tools and the equipment to do that. Give me a day or two to clean up the jobs I’ve already got scheduled and I’ll come back out.” “What would something like that cost me?” she repeated her earlier query since he chose to ignore it. Thinking that would at least be a way to get to see him again. She hated to think in clichés but his attraction for her was magnetic. He was exactly what she would look for in a man. If she had a choice and if she were looking, which she wasn’t but… “Let’s see time and equipment,” he stepped away from the porch that surrounded three quarters of the structure and glanced at the far back corners. He walked to the back and looked there and then back up to where she stood waiting. “I could get it done for three, maybe four hundred dollars. The paint is already peeling in spots so that makes it easier to some degree. I’ll need to purchase enough Styrofoam to cover all the windows so that is where some of the expense is that I can’t negotiate.” It was cosmetic. It was something that could wait. But Nicole didn’t feel like waiting when she took out the house loan, she‘d also taken out enough for the repairs and set up a line of credit to be sure she could actually get the bed and breakfast up and running without worrying about going further into debt later on. “When can you start?” she asked feeling an excited butterfly like flutter in her stomach as she committed herself to having him back on her property. “Week after next work for you?” he asked consulting the small pocket calendar he pulled from his back pocket. 98

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She loved a man that was organized – the calendar was a cute idea she never expected from a man, certainly not a rugged mountain man. Okay so he wasn’t a mountain man, he wasn’t a cowboy, he wasn’t a farmer what was he – “Sure, sounds great. I have a friend coming to help with repairs. We may get the roof done by that time so we won’t be tripping over each other.” Though she couldn’t imagine anyone she’d rather trip over than a man with a tool belt hung on a body that boasted lean, toned and dangerous. Thorpe offered her his hand. “I’ll be here at dawn. Hope you aren’t a late sleeper. It’ll be noisy, that I can guarantee.” He said flashing her that engaging smile again. “No problem. I love early mornings.” She said as she shook his hand. When their eyes met again she felt as though he could read her soul. She watched as he strode back to his truck. Neat trim butt, she liked a man with a good ass she decided, and then turned to go back in the house as her face flushed with the thoughts she was entertaining. What was wrong with her, was she that sex starved that she was going dippy over the first male she encountered in Marrok? When she heard the engine of the truck turn off again, she looked out the window to see him crouching down near the left front tire. He raked his hand through his hair as he stood back up and slapped the fender of the truck. It was then that she noticed what had riled him. The tire was as flat as if it had sat there all night and the air slowly seeped out until the weight of the truck turned it to a pancake. Must be a big hole to go down that fast she decided. She started back out to see if she could help him. He pulled a jack from the back of the truck and was undoing the spare tire from underneath by the time she was standing beside the flat tire. “I’m sorry,” she apologized as if it was her fault. “You mean, you slashed my tire while I wasn’t looking?” he said grinning from ear to ear. “It was slashed?” she asked as she stared down at the totally flat tire. “Yup, look here,” he said pointing to a three-inch gash in the wall of the tire. “And as if the gash might not be enough,” he pointed to a spike shoved halfway into the tread of the tire. “I didn’t see anyone out here while we were talking. Could you have driven in from town with it slashed like that?” “No way. Have you had any trouble with a prowler or peeping Tom or anything?” 99

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Nicole’s insides shook with the thought that someone was lurking around her property. Someone who might be vindictive enough to slash someone’s tires. Someone who might have raped her the night before. “I better check my car. It’s in the carriage house–I never thought.” Thorpe followed her to the carriage house, tire iron in hand. Nicole started to push the huge door aside. “Here let me,” he said pushing the door aside like it was a piece of paper. Her car seemed to be fine. They walked around it. No flat tires. “Now that is bizarre,” she said. “Who, why?” “Your guess is as good as mine.” “Should we call the sheriff?” “Naw, doubt that would do any good. Whoever did it is probably long gone.” “You must have some pretty ornery enemies,” Nicole said as they walked back to his truck sitting in the driveway, listing to one side like a wounded soldier. “Wasn’t aware that I had any. This is just too strange for anyone from around here to do this.” They both studied the woods around the Crystal Slipper–so much underbrush and weeded growth inhibited a clear view of the area. “I’d better do something about getting all that overgrowth taken care of so I can at least tell if someone is stalking me.” she said with a nervous laugh. “That sounds like a real good idea. If you like I can bring a brush-cutter back out– it’s a hog, a real work horse, won’t take me long to flatten all that, at least get it away from the house.” Nicole smiled up at him, delighted that he was as warm and caring, as he was charming. Yes she could get to like this man. “Won’t your wife be expecting you for dinner?” she said and then wished she hadn’t. What a blatant means of digging for information. He had to see it as a direct inquisition of the prospects. He held up his left hand and pointed to the ring finger, “No ma’am, no attachments. But I’d accept a dinner invitation to pay me for brushing the place for you.” Nicole wished the ground would open up and swallow her–how could she have… Too late, he was waiting an answer. “I’d be delighted to give you a meal for your help if you’re sure you want to chance another flat tire.” “Better me than you,” he said as he jacked the truck up, preparing to remove the damaged tire. 100

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“I still think we should call the sheriff.” “Go ahead. But if he comes out it could be as early as next week or as late as next month. Law enforcement around here is done by the women’s Sheepshead card club more than the Sheriff.” That didn’t sound too promising. Either Thorpe had an axe to grind with the sheriff or the law was really non-existent here. No matter which way it was she wasn’t happy about it. Nicole decided to wait and feel her way around the town to find out if he was really telling her the truth or just his impression. Thorpe left without further incident saying he’d be back with the brush-cutter. Nicole was left with her thoughts. Was someone really stalking around her property? Were they prepared to do more than just flatten tires and knock pieces of the porch down on visitors? She shuddered and went back into the house. She checked the boarded up side of the house to make sure no one could gain access to the main house through the collapsed roof. She wished Flora was already there. Another night was more than she wanted to spend alone in the crystal slipper. Nicole tried to push the disturbing thoughts out of her mind. A dog. She needed to get a dog. **** Nicole pushed and shoved and lifted until she got the old deacon’s bench on the throw rug and could slide it across the hall to the new bedroom she decided she needed. Perhaps Adam would not revisit if she moved. She was unnerved by the concreteness of his visit. If he was a ghost she shouldn’t have felt his presence so intensely. He made love to her. There was evidence of their sexual arousal and climax on her body and the sheets she had removed that night. What she had assumed was a hickey was just that. No vampire bite as she had envisioned. That part was not a dream, not something a ghost was capable of doing was it? She no longer knew what was or could be real and what was a very vivid dream. However, she would feel safer if she moved to another bedroom. The smaller bedroom across the hall from where she slept that night would do fine. The spare bed wasn’t as comfortable as Ambrosia’s bed, who would have thought the mattress would still be good. It had to be a newer mattress though everything in the room looked untouched, unused, unlived in since—since Ambrosia passed to the other side. Her thoughts scurried around in her head until she was no longer certain what was thought and what was pulled from the atmosphere of the house itself. 101

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Satisfied her room arrangement was complete, Nicole headed back downstairs to begin to prepare a salad for the meal with Thorpe. She had no clue what he might like or dislike, but he looked like a steak and potatoes man to Nicole. She decided he must prefer a healthy diet so the salad as a side dish to the steak and potatoes should be a good choice. Just as he had said, he returned early the next morning to begin brushing out around the Crystal Slipper. Especially the expanse down to the river, so that she could have a peaceful view of the water, as it meandered lazily toward Lake Superior. Nicole finished what she was doing in the kitchen and then meandered out to begin picking up the brush and piling it into the trailer she had once used to haul her possessions from southern Wisconsin to the Upper Peninsula of Michigan. It would be serviceable to transport the cut brush to the county chipper spot for recycling. The grasses and other composted vegetation she piled near her own compost pile she had already begun with kitchen trimmings and coffee grounds. Thorpe pulled the brush hog to a halt beside Nicole. “So, what do you think? Does it need to be pushed back more?” She looked up and around the landscape. “It looks great. It’ll be a beautiful lawn once it’s taken care of. I plan to get a few gardens planted and such.” “It looks like there was once a garden over there a few feet back from the river. They probably even used water from the river to irrigate the garden.” “That could very well be. Can’t wait to plant my own garden next spring.” “Let me know when. I have a tractor. I can come till it over for you, if you like.” Nicole was overwhelmed by his offers of help. If something seems too good to be true, it usually is. The old caveat jumped into her thoughts with big muddy boots reminding her how many times she’d been taken advantage of by being too trusting. “That’s very nice of you to offer, but I’ll have to see how everything goes with this,” she said waving her arm to encompass the Crystal Slipper. “Sure I understand. Well, I’ll finish getting rid of those small stumps. I can pull them out. It’ll make maintenance so much easier later.” Nicole thanked him and wandered back to the house. He said he’d come up when he was done. She saw the curtain move in the living room as though someone had been looking out the window. She took a couple more tentative steps toward the door brushing the thought from her mind. The house was locked. After Thorpe’s tire had been slashed, 102

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she was very leery about leaving the house without locking the door. She couldn’t have kept an eye on the door while picking up brush and the cut vegetation, so she locked it. She was sure she had locked it. It must have been her imagination. Continuing up to the front door, she tried the knob. The door was locked all right. Using her key she let herself in, she scanned the expanse of the foyer and living room. A dank cold shaft of air brushed past her as though she had opened the basement door to the closed file room as she had earlier that day. The smell squeezed her asthmatic chest with its acrid odor. A presence with the odor, she nearly decided against entering any farther and then it disappeared as though it hadn’t been there at all. Apprehension squiggled in her stomach but she ignored it and went to finish fixing dinner for Thorpe. He would be expecting a meal, he deserved that at least for all he had already done. She needed to toss the salad, broil the steaks, microwave the potatoes, she didn’t have time for nonsense and that’s all this was. It had to be. It had no valid reason to be. She inundated her mind with a list of to do’s to erase the feelings of being watched. Thoughts of what the Crystal Slipper might be harboring would just have to wait. What secrets had she disturbed by her presence, those too would wait for another time. The cheerful ambiance of the kitchen helped push the bleak thoughts from her mind, for now. But what of tonight? Tonight after Thorpe was gone. She tried to persuade herself that it was the product of her overactive imagination. Yet, Ambrosia’s diary returned to her thoughts. Maybe it was time to find some way to release Ambrosia’s girls from the house. But how? Perhaps…she toyed with a new idea…Flora has done cleansing ceremonies before. She wouldn’t call her a witch, but Flora had boasted that she was a wiccan. Though Nicole never entertained ideas of joining her in her practice or beliefs—perhaps she needed her skills now.

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Chapter Six

“How do you feel about the gossip in town about the Crystal Slipper?” Nicole asked, trying her best at indifference, hoping Thorpe didn’t hear the slight nervous edge she heard in her own voice. “About the witches or what?” “Witches? Don’t tell me there’s talk of witches too, besides the ghosts I mean.” “Oh, you meant the ghosts. Personally,” he continued after a pause to wash his forkful of steak down with wine. He stopped, looked at her and shrugged before he spoke again. “Some of the locals claim to have seen some of them near the cemetery and,” he hesitated again. “The Slipper.” “Do you believe there are such things?” She blurted out, her nervousness more obvious than the natural curiosity she had hoped to portray. Her voice always betrayed her emotions as she repeated her earlier query. “Have you seen or felt them?” he asked and she knew he answered her question. People did believe, he believed, and she realized for the first time that she may be facing some very uneasy times. “So, you do believe the rumors,” she searched his face, his eyes his body language for a more concrete answer than her suppositions. “I never used to, but I was doing some work over by the cemetery–they needed a few new road ways worked in to some more property they bought for the cemetery and,” he stopped and looked at Nicole, more like he looked through or beyond her, in a way that she couldn’t quiet put her finger on–his eyes glazed over as though he was reenvisioning something–not remembering but seeing something again, and she had seen the look before. It reminded her of people under a hypnotic trance. “Thorpe?” she said trying to bring him back to the present. He was scaring her. Whatever it was he had seen must not have been pleasant. 104

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He jerked his head as though pulling himself free from whatever the vision was. “Did you know the Mafia had used The Crystal Slipper as a get-a-way, a hide-a-way kind of vacation place for years during their Chicago and New York wars?” “You mean it’s not just Ambrosia and her girls, or the slaves that are haunting the Crystal Slipper?” The shock registered on Thorpe’s face. “So, you do know then. You have seen them.” Nicole wasn’t sure how much she wanted to tell Thorpe at this point. She just nodded and began removing the dinner dishes from the table. Thorpe helped her rinse and put them in the dishwasher. As his hand brushed hers, the electricity that she had felt in his earlier touch charged through her again. He was close enough that he breathed against her neck. When she turned, he pulled her into his arms. She didn’t resist as he pulled her close and tilted her chin up with his left hand. Their gazes met and she knew, she knew instantly, that there was something about this man that she needed to taste, to explore, to be with. Love at first sight is another cliché she used to laugh at but what else could it be. She was consumed by her need to be with him, to be wrapped in his embrace to feel him with her, in her, around her. He touched her lips gently with his own, his tongue outlining, moistened her lips and her desire. Then he covered her mouth with his. She didn’t, and couldn’t, resist. His kiss was long, consuming, ravenous. Sliding his hand beneath her hair, she felt his hand on her neck, then on her back, slowly sliding to her ass cheeks. Both hands now held her ass and pushed her into his swelling cock. Her nipples rubbed against her bra as he moved his chest against her. Her nipples became hard pebbles of desire. The dampness that was creeping into her panties told her she would not resist his advances no matter how far they went. He slid his arms around her waist and guided her toward the living room. Her hands began unbuttoning his shirt as they moved in mated unison toward the sofa. “Wait,” she heard her own feverish whisper. “Let’s go upstairs.” He swept her up and carried her toward the stairs, his mouth still devouring hers. His tongue darted between her teeth and searched the moist cavity of her mouth. Suddenly, a dank cold draft engulfed them as something pushed by them. She heard footsteps on the stairs and opened her eyes to see the grey shadow of a woman racing up the stairs as if her life depended on it. A gasp escaped from Nicole, she 105

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stiffened and pulled back against the railing as another grey shape charged up the stairs after the woman. Thorpe stood motionless, “What? What is it?” he asked. “Didn‘t you feel it, didn’t you see them?” she whispered. She put her fingers to her lips motioning him to be quiet. Nicole watched as a door slammed upstairs, then the second grey shadow pulled a gun and shot at the doorknob. Nicole screamed and the man turned toward the intrusion into the scene. It was a man. Not the man she encountered the night before, a different man. Evil, his persona screamed. Mafia, her thoughts shouted in her head. His clothes straight from a nineteen twenties movie told her what she needed to know. He fired his pistol at her. She heard the shot ring out and Thorpe grabbed her arm and pulled her into him. The shot chipped and splintered the banister where it grazed it. The bullet was real even if the aberration wasn’t. Thorpe pushed her before him as they raced down the stairs and toward the front door. Another shot shattered the glass in the front door and they detoured to the side. “The walk-in pantry,” Nicole said breathless, fear strangling her insides. Once safely inside she tried to quit shaking as she huddled in Thorpe’s arms. “Did you see them?” she whispered. “No, but I watched the terror wash over your face and I knew something bad was happening.” “The gunshots—did you hear them?” “I saw the results of them. I never heard them. What kind of evil stalks this house? How do you combat something you can’t see? Something that could possibly kill you, but you are powerless to defend against?” Nicole wasn’t sure all her experience dealing with ghosts had taught her anything even close to what she needed to know to deal with this situation. As if from a dream or some divine intervention, she knew exactly what to do. She bent down and pulled the wool rug back to expose a trapdoor in the floor of the pantry. A silver handle provided a lift ring. Her gaze met Thorpe’s. Did they dare attempt an escape through this seemingly synchronistic portal? Was it an escape or more danger? She didn’t trust any avenue that seemed to promise an out, but could offer worse consequences. Yet, what choice did they have? 106

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Thorp immediately caught the handle and lifted the lid. He examined the stairs, then his gaze darted wildly around the pantry exploring, searching, “Flashlight, matches, or candles, anything to light our way?” he asked. The dimness of the pantry, lit only by a small single pane window above the door, barely let enough light in to really see the interior of the pantry; she hadn’t gotten the light replaced yet. She didn’t need it. She could see what she needed with the door wide open during the daylight hours. Nicole knew only what she had put on the shelves. She did have kitchen matches, but they weren’t in the pantry. Footfalls echoed in the hallway outside the door. Nicole held her breath, reaching out to Thorpe her finger to her lips motioning silence. She put a hand to her ear and then pointed to the door, signaling him to listen. Thorpe shook his head. Obviously he didn’t hear what Nicole did. Why not? She wondered. If she heard the ghosts footsteps why didn’t he? Was he one of them? Was he pretending to be real? Nicole’s heart nearly stopped as the fear gripped her. If he didn’t hear the shots, if he didn’t see the other ghosts, why was he so quick to think they needed to get away? Suddenly, she realized she was an unwitting pawn in a game that had been played out years ago. Now she knew why she was instantly attracted to the outlaw Thorpe. The old newspaper clippings that were part of Ambrosia’s stash, she thought when she found them in the deacon’s bench they were just put there by the last owner. Evidently the bench was a repository for all the lives that traipsed through the Crystal Slipper. She had filled her mind with the articles about the groundskeeper of the Mafia vacation retreat. The dark, mysterious, handsome man in the picture was someone she thought she would love to have invade her life. The final entry, the final news clipping paper clipped to the Mafia reference where he was mentioned etched into her brain… Thorpe interrupted her thoughts. As he caught the handle and lifted the lid again back out of their way. He examined the stairs again. “Okay, down,” he said prodding her toward the opening. He pulled off his belt and hooked it to the rug and followed her down the stairs, pulling the rug over the trapdoor as he lowered it. With no flashlight available, they felt along the wall as they descended the steps to the next level. “Any idea where this goes?” he whispered. “When Jaci was showing me the house we just came down far enough to see a tunnel leading back to the left,” she whispered back. Her mind raced. The clipping shot through her mind as she paged through them. The groundskeeper and the mistress of gunman, George Stephonappolis found dead in “The Family” wine cellar. The 107

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capitalization of the family meant Mafia, she knew. She needed to escape from Thorpe. She didn’t belong in this era or this scene. When would she wake up? It’s all a bad dream. It had to be. She silently prayed to whoever was in charge of the undead to rescue her from where she didn’t belong. “Looks like we have no choice but to try to find a way out by following it. Here, take hold of my belt loops and stay tight behind me,” he said as he took a position ahead of her. He reached out and felt for the wall and began a slow, steady trek down the tunnel. At first Nicole hung on, afraid not to, but when they reached the wine cellar, she had enough. She slipped against the wall and hurried back the way they had come. Obviously Thorpe never even realized she was gone as he kept creeping forward. “Victoria,” she heard a man’s voice shout from the direction of the stairs. She scrunched lower and scurried like a rat toward the only exit she knew, the stairs. But what if George or one of his henchmen had begun the trek down to the wine cellar and happened upon her? “Victoria,” a shout came at her from the other direction. A candle glow showed her a man the one who had previously been chasing the other woman, the man with the gun. “Victoria. You can’t run away from me. I’ll find you. You’ll watch while I castrate your lover and then I’ll put a bullet in that lovely brain of yours, you whore.” Nicole pushed against the wall, a small alcove with a half wall showed in the candlelight and she quickly slipped into it, crouching, praying he wouldn’t see her. The candlelight cast grotesque shadows against the wall above her. Hatch marks like someone had scratched marks counting numbered days showed and then the light faded down the tunnel corridor toward where she had left Thorpe. “Vic-tor-eee-a, I’m coming for you princess,” the voice called in an evil growl so horrific, it made Nicole shudder. As fast as she could make her way in the heavy darkness, darkness that seemed so thick it had a life of its own, fearing she’d be swallowed up by it, she raced one nervous step after the other. She crouched into her steps. She was overwhelmed by the feeling that she needed to race ahead of time, before all this began to somewhere safe. It felt like the darkness could swallow anyone in its wake; swallow them to another universe, another time zone. She stumbled into the steps and nearly cursed out loud. The board hit her shin and the pain shot up her leg. Did it hurt to die, she suddenly wondered. Or is it as they 108

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said about childbirth? Do you forget the horrible pain once it’s over, or was that a lie? Would she ever know the answer to either question? Cautiously she crawled up the stairs on all fours. Had someone really slashed Thorpe’s tires? Had she been living in a ghostly dream where reality was suspended and everything would return to normal when she exited the rabbit hole the way she had come in? It all made perfect sense now. Why Thorpe never saw or acknowledged the other ghosts, his time wasn’t there yet. He would die in that wine cellar, as would Victoria. In the distance she heard screams, evil laughter and then shots. One more scream and then nothing. Nicole froze in the silence that followed. Fear knotted her stomach and marched long finger-nailed scratches up the chalkboard of her spine. The stairs seemed longer than she remembered, or was it that her exhaustion was so complete she merely thought they were? Fear gripped her. She strained to listen for footsteps from the returning hitman. She snaked her way upward, hardly able to breath in the terror-filled stairwell. The realization of the oppressive weight of years and years of fear that one manhunt or another had evoked in those who sought refuge in the labyrinth of tunnels beneath the gaiety of the parties among the living. Would she be forever trapped in the legacy that was The Crystal Slipper? Why didn’t she think to ask Jaci what had happened to the previous owner’s, the one’s that didn’t die in the Slipper’s rooms, or on her grounds? Would the brush between the Slipper and the river and all, remain untouched after she got out of this nightmare? Would she ever get out of this nightmare or…

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Chapter Seven

It All Began Simple Enough… Monday when Flora pulled into the driveway of The Crystal Slipper she was amused by the chaos that greeted her. The lawn needed mowing, or at least the brush trimmed back from the door. She gazed at the roof sagging where it had caved in because of the snow load. She got out of her SUV as she gently tooted the horn to let Nicole know she had arrived. Since she couldn’t reach Nicole by phone she assumed she couldn’t get phone service hooked up yet and her cell phone wouldn’t get a signal because of the bluffs that surrounded Marrok–what a unique name for a town. No one came to the door so she went up on the porch and knocked. The windows were too grungy to see in–she wiped at a smudge but the grunge was on the inside, funny Nicole never at least washed the window on the door. Flora knew she couldn’t tolerate dirty windows. She began to wonder where she was. Stepping back she walked around the wraparound porch. The place had charm, real country charm, she thought, but that ugly yellow paint had to go. A good sandblaster could do the trick. Next she spotted the brush that had grown over the expanse down to the river. “That’ll have to be cleaned up immediately,” she said to the rabbit that scurried from her approach. She thought she felt someone behind her and turned to see Adonis in the flesh. No wonder Nicole didn’t answer the door–she was probably preoccupied. Flora flashed a smile and extended her hand. “Flora Zorren,” she said looking into the deepest ebony black eyes she had ever encountered. Immediately, she felt a tug in her center. This is one hot man she thought. “Thorpe Angel,” he said his ebony gaze locking with hers, electricity arcing from his hand when she touched it…. Or so it seemed. **** When Ambrosia Garnett Bed and Breakfast opened two years later under new management, certain guests said they could feel the shift of weight on their beds, as 110

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though someone entered and sat on the edge late at night. Teasing fingers and lips would start and if the guests were amicable, or seemed at least remotely aroused, much more would transpire through the course of the late night. The Crystal Slipper name was still etched in the town’s mind and the cemetery grew. But the address there stayed the same, where there was nowhere to go and Zero Cemetery Lane’s notoriety increased.

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About the Author

Logan Blue is new to the erotica romance venue, though she is not new to romance. Writing fiction, non-fiction and poetry she has published mystery, adventure, romantic suspense, and young adult novels under another name. She lives in Northern Wisconsin where her roots are deep and strong, and the winters are perfect for romantic evenings by the fireplace.

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