Crossroads Shadowland

CROSSROADS SHADOWLAND

By

Keta Diablo

ISBN: 978-1-926965-64-2

SMASHWORDS EDITION

PUBLISHED BY:

Books We Love Publishing Partners (BWLPP)

192 Lakeside Greens Drive

Chestermere, Alberta, T1X 1C2

Canada

Copyright © 2011 by Keta Diablo

Cover art by Michelle Lee Copyright ©
2011

All rights reserved. Without limiting the
rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication
may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system,
or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the
prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above
publisher of this book.

Dedication
: To Laurie Jenkins, friend
and beta reader

Prologue

Lafayette Cemetery's
wrought iron gate stood out like a beacon
under the full moon.

"My dad will beat me till I'm blue and
purple if we get caught."

"Stop worrying, will you,
Charlie? Me and James have been here hundreds of
times at night."

"Why didn't you bring James then and leave
me out of your sick-ass idea?"

"He's grounded, and I wanted you to see the
ghosts' graves."

Charlie drew a deep breath
and pushed his toe against the six-foot gate.
"I think your Ma was smoking weed when she claimed she saw a
spook at the
hotel."

"Was not. What do you know about New Orleans
history anyway?"

"Brent, history is my best
subject, and I don't buy all this bull about dead
soldiers and surgeons haunting Hotel
Provincial."

"Not
just
soldiers and doctors. A woman in
a long white uniform haunts
the halls,
stops the guests and asks them if they need help."

A dog yowled in the
distance and the boys jumped. "Yeah, yeah, I've read
all about it. Others claim the sheets bleed and
another crazy old bat says a
spirit
dragged her from bed and tried to pull her through the
wall."

Brent's head jerked toward him. "You calling
my mom a crazy old bat?"

"Sorry, didn't know that
was your mom." Charlie scanned the cemetery through the bars and
shivered. Something had moved out there among the dark shadows. Or,
had someone floated into his line of vision? "Wasn't
Interview with a Vampire
filmed here?"

"Yeah," Brent said, his
voiced tinged with awe. "After they were done,
James and I came here one night, hoped the crew had stirred
up some vamps."

Charlie shivered. Ghosts
were one thing, vampires another. "I still don't
understand why your mom thinks one of the ghosts
from the hotel is buried here."
Brent
followed his gaze. "Damn, what are you staring at?"

"I coulda sworn something
moved in there." His heart raced. "I'm getting a bad feeling
about going in there."

Brent strutted in a circle,
elbows flapping. "Here chicken little, here
chicken little."

"Oh, shut up. I ain't
scared of no ghosts but I'll be scared shitless when my dad
takes off his belt."

Brent stopped his comic
swagger and faced him. "Okay, listen up. I'll
explain it to you once more. If you still don't believe me, I
dare you to scale
that fence and look at
their graves."

"Shoot," Charlie said.

"After the ghost tried to
grab the woman at the Provincial, Ma made a
list of all the soldiers buried here from the War of 1812 and
the Civil War."

"And?"

"Most are buried in the same section."

"Damn, you're stupid. You
said
most
. That
doesn't prove the one who
grabbed her is
buried here."

Brent shrugged. "Who cares?
We know they haunt the hotel, and some
are
buried here." He gave him a lopsided grin. "You chicken or do I go
in
alone?"

Charlie put his foot on the
bottom rung, picked his way up the gate, and
hoisted himself over the top. A second after his feet hit the
ground he said,
"Come on, let's see their
stupid graves and get out of here."

After traipsing around
colossal monuments and a maze of narrow rows,
Brent shone the flashlight on an upright tombstone as tall as
his thighs. "Hey,
look at this young dude.
Valmont Doucet, born 3 April 1840, died 24 April
1862."

"Civil War," Charlie said reading his
headstone.

"Maybe they hang around
because they died young and can't fucking
believe they're dead."

A twig snapped behind them. "What the hell
was that?"

"Relax, Charlie. Probably a critter looking
for food."

"This place gives me the creeps."

Brent crooned the theme
from
Jaws
and
laughed.

"Very funny, asshole. What
I don't understand is why they haunt the
hotel."

"They died there I think.
Mom said during the Battle of New Orleans, the
Ursuline nuns turned the building into a field
hospital."

"Okay. I see their graves
and I believe your mom." Charlie glanced over
his shoulder. "Can we go now?"

"Hang on. A thought just
struck me." Brent's flashlight beams swept over
the front of the headstone.

"What the hell are you looking for?"

Brent gave the monument a
solid kick with his foot. "Nothing, just
wondered how solid this is."

"Are you nuts?" Charlie
shrieked. "You want bad karma or a ghost on
your ass?"

Brent lifted his leg and
delivered a swift kick to the chalky stone, tipping
it over. "Who does this guy think he is haunting
the nice people of New
Orleans?" He bent
over the fallen tombstone. "Hey, you hear me down there,
douche bag? You're dead, been dead for a hundred
and fifty years or more!"

"Stop it, Brent! You're desecrating his
grave."

Brent hopped onto the top
of the broken stone, danced a jig, and jumped
up and down until breathless. Laughter spewed from his
throat. "You're dead,
dead, dead, and it's
time you fucking accept it! Get out of the hotel, get out of
New Orleans and accept your fate."

Charlie walked forward and
pushed him off the stone. "You're crazy!" He
looked down. "Look what you did, Brent. You destroyed his
headstone. I want
no part of
this."

"Hey, wait up! Where ya going?"

"Away from you."

"You'll never find your way
out." Brent's voice echoed around him and grew
fainter with every step. "I got the flashlight,
buddy."

The wind picked up,
rustling the leaves and dead weeds at Charlie's feet.
The clouds ducked behind the moon and pitched the
cemetery into tar-pitch
black.

From the pits of hell
behind him, Brent screamed. "Charlie, help,
Charlie!"

His knees knocked and his
mouth went dry. No matter how mad he was
at Brent, he couldn't leave him. Maybe he'd tripped on a
grave and twisted his
ankle. Shit, why
hadn't he listened to his gut and told Brent to go to hell?
What
was he doing in this
cemetery?

"Hang on, Brent, I'm coming!"

Charlie picked his way back
through the labyrinth of monuments
toward
Brent. Up ahead, he saw movement and breathed a sigh of
relief.
Served the kid right if he fell
and broke his damn neck. He'd tried to tell him
about bad karma, but his friend apparently didn't believe
him.

Burning bright, the flashlight lay on the
ground, and Brent's still form came into view. "I tried to tell
you—"

The words froze in his
throat. Looming over Brent's body, the shape of a
man came into view. The gold buttons of his gray
jacket gleamed under a ribbon of
moonlight. Saliva filled Charlie's mouth and a sweat broke
out on his forehead.
He peered through the
inky dark, his eyes fixed on the bayonet in the man's
hand. The name fell from his lips on a whisper.
"Valmont Doucet?"

Cyclonic winds hit from all
directions, and the ground swirled at his feet.
He tried to move his numb legs, but like the statues, they'd
turned to marble.

A deep-barreled roar echoed around him.
"You're dead. . . dead.. . dead."

Charlie tumbled through a
white abyss with Brent beside him. His last thought on his descent
into hell: He'd give anything to see
his
dad's belt right now.

Chapter One

Rand entered the townhouse,
tossed his backpack onto the dining room
table and headed for the bathroom. After the grueling exam he
just aced, he needed a shower, a hot, steamy shower. With a sigh of
relief his college days
were behind him
for now, he turned on the faucets and held his hand beneath the
stream of water.

"Ah, perfect," he said moments later.

Stripping off his clothes
and kicking them aside, he stepped into the enclosure and allowed
the pulsating jets to ease the knots and tension from
his body. How his life had changed since Frank
pulled him off the street and
allowed him
to live at the townhouse. A few years ago,
loser
was stamped on
his forehead while he hustled marijuana at a
two-bit bar and parked his
sneakers under
a dingy cot in a one-room dump. He'd still be peddling dope
if
his dad's ex-partner, Frank McGuire,
hadn't intervened and knocked some
sense
into his thick skull. Or maybe he'd be dead.

He shivered, despite the
warm steam clouding the shower door. He'd
seen a lot of death since entering Frank's life; it clung to
the man like ticks on a
dog. Maybe things
would settle down now that Frank had reluctantly agreed
to bring him into the fold of his P.I. business,
had grudgingly accepted he
wasn't going to
pursue a medical career. Perhaps he could come into his own
for the first time in his life; finally feel
comfortable in his own skin.

Rand jumped out of his
bones when the shower door opened. "Jesus,
Frank, you scared me to death."

Frank shucked his clothes,
his slow gaze traveling over him head to toe.
"Move over, I've had a hell of a day."

"Actually, I'm done; why don't I just—"

Frank pulled him back against his chest.
"Don't leave."

Wet skin to wet skin, an
electrical current of instant desire surged
through Rand. His body responded in the usual manner—a
shudder, a hard
cock—to Frank's fingertip
running down the side of his neck.