Excerpt:
But he wasn't going to go there, because
he was a man of science. Scientific research, years of study,
lab work, and hands-on fieldwork. It didn't matter if he was
a medium and talked to ghosts and spirits, or that he'd been
that way for as long as he could remember. Gut instinct was
not logical, and therefore must not be adhered to. Only science
and helping lost souls cross over to the other side mattered.
He leaned toward the door to slip the key
in the lock, lost his balance when the bags shifted against
his side, and landed against the door. It swung open as he
stumbled through it and landed on his face amid plastic sheeting
and sawdust.
He sneezed. Sneezed again. Pushed himself
up on his knees, disengaging his arms from the luggage straps
as he went, and sneezed three times in succession.
"Terrific," he muttered, reaching
into his back pocket for a handkerchief.
The door creaked behind him, and he turned
in time to see it shut. Then he heard the distinct sound of
the lock engaging.
His heart leapt to his throat. He pushed
to his feet and grabbed the brand new brass doorknob. It wouldn't
turn.
"Okay. Okay." He took a deep breath,
nearly choked on the dust he'd upset when he stood, and slowly
let it out, trying not to cough. "You can stop it right
now. I'm not going to play your little games. You're not going
to scare me away." Displaced spirits could be such pains
in the ass sometimes. He slowly glanced over his shoulder,
turned and tried to scan the darkness of surrounding room.
Light. He needed light. His eyes had yet
to adjust to the room that was pitch black except for the
faintest hint of glow coming through the grimy front window
next to the door.
He almost laughed at his foolishness-or maybe
it was nerves-but he bit his tongue. He didn't need light.
Ghost hunters work in the dark, you dolt. Yeah, but why was
this place giving him a major case of the creeps?
The air temperature suddenly dropped by at
least twenty degrees. The hairs on his neck stood at attention.
That's why, he thought, as he dove for his
bag that held his Geiger counter.
While he rummaged through the dark, trying
to locate his electromagnetic equipment, a brush of cool fingers
flitted over his cheek. He froze.
"Who are you?" he asked in the
strongest voice he could muster.
The invisible hand fluttered over his jaw,
along his throat. He had visions of every horror movie he'd
ever seen. The bony hand of death reaching into his chest
to grab his beating heart.
Damn it, not now, he silently commanded his
imagination.
"Who are you, and why are you here?"
he said again, and then shook his head at himself, a silent
chastisement. If he'd taken more time to investigate the history
of the place before rushing to the scene, he probably wouldn't
have had to ask such stupid questions.
A throaty, feminine laugh filled the room,
crackling the charged air around him.
Goose bumps raced down his sides. That invisible
hand settled on his chest, over his heart.
He'd never felt a physical touch from a PSI
being before. It was new, exciting, and terrifying. No wonder
those construction workers had run off.
Damn, he wished he had an assistant to back
him up so he'd know that this was real and not his overactive
imagination at work. He'd look into hiring one as soon as
he got back to New York.
The air temperature dropped some more, and
he fought the urge to tremble.
A deeply Creole accented voice murmured right
next to his ear, "Welcome home, lover." |
