Ghost Seer (23 page)

They are right! He is gone, and your work was noted and appreciated
, Enzo cheered.

“Great,” Clare said, wiggling as a tingle slithered down her spine. Had someone associated with the local paper told the Creedys about her? She should have asked, but all she’d wanted was for them to go away.

The doorbell rang, followed by knocking on the metal screen door. Clare tossed the paper in the last open box, waiting for the coffeemaker, then hurried to the front and found a big, scowling man with grizzled gray hair. A moving truck stood at the curb. Yay, they were early!

She turned off the fan and moved it out of the way and against the wall, smiling. “You’re early!”

“Boss said there wasn’t any air-conditioning here.”

“No, I’m sorry.”

He grunted, scanning the living room, the hallway, the part of the kitchen in view. “Organized. Good job.”

“Thank you.”

The mover rolled his shoulders. “What’re the big items?”

“The couch and a bed.”

“Huh. Should get this done fast, then.”

“I hope so.”

He turned and called to two other men. “Let’s rock and roll.”

Clare got out of their way.

Enzo followed the guy, tried to rub his legs and the others. No one paid him any attention.

For once, all went like clockwork, and Clare’s old home was closed up by midmorning, she was the proud owner of her new home by noon, and her great-aunt Sandra’s items were moved in and her new house eminently livable by the end of the business day. Amazing.

 • • • 

She began to be aware of the tiny hairs on the nape of her neck . . . they seemed to mark the passing of time. Now and again during the day she’d found herself scanning for Jack Slade’s ghost, dread ratcheting up her nerves. She rather wanted to see him, get on with this task and get it over with so she could concentrate on
learning
about her new circumstances. To no longer be rushed, not worry that she might do something wrong that would hurt Zach or Enzo, or
her
. Pressure might drive her totally over the bend . . . the edge of madness that she’d never noticed in herself but knew would always be there for the rest of her life.

The deadline to save Jack Slade was in three days . . . until when? Next year? Next century?

Next year would be so much better.

Jack is a tough and determined man
, Enzo said, standing next to her on the sidewalk of her new home.
He is MOSTLY a sane ghost. They can devolve over time.

Doggie Enzo didn’t use words like
devolve
, so it must be the Other. Though her neck was beginning to ache, she kept staring down the street, not wanting to turn her head and look at Enzo.

The apparition of the gunman has been waiting for what you call a ghost seer, a ghost layer. If you fail him this year . . . he might not stay in control. And like the legend he was in his own time, both for good or ill, he could become a legendary problem, rippling and ripping the psychic planes.

Clare thought the older woman who lived across the street and one house up was peeking at her through the curtains. Clare believed she could see the glint of opera glasses. The yards in the neighborhood were large.

She would prefer to think about nosy neighbors, but sighed.

“Ripping the psychic plane,” she murmured, trying not to move her lips. She stretched as if finished with a big job, and pasted on a pleased smile as she turned to her front steps between the bricked columns that marked the opening of her front wall.

Since her back was turned to the woman, she said, “Ripping the psychic plane sounds bad.”

R
IPPING WILL CAUSE ALL
people discomfort, and attract minor psychics who will try to lay the ghost and get eaten instead.

Her breath sucked in, hard and sharp. “That’s an option? Being eaten by a ghost?”

Yes, but you are strong, stronger than even your great-aunt Sandra, so you should be able to handle a simple devolved ghost in time . . . but eating the spirits of others shatters them and the anomaly becomes bigger and more difficult to banish and—

“I get the idea. It’s best to handle Jack Slade here and now.” She opened the gate and went through, not bothering to lock it because though it was the original gate, several yards down the street was the cut for her driveway and that was open.

Yes, the specter of Jack Slade is eager to move on and helpful, but it remains a dangerous ghost. A good spirit for you to attract as your first major test.

“Great,” Clare said. For sure, the sooner this was done, the better. Where was the gunfighter’s phantom? Would she have to leave a trail for him to find her? Go back to her old house? She was
so done
with that place.

But she still wasn’t convinced, deep down, that she wanted to see him again, or that she could do this.

A few minutes later Clare relaxed in her new home. One she could envision living in for the rest of her life. The last truck was gone, the heavy furniture set exactly where she wanted, and the boxes for each room stacked neatly against the walls. As she’d suspected, the items she’d received from Aunt Sandra’s home looked perfect in her new house, especially the furnishings she’d chosen for the living room with the huge multipaned and roundly bowed window.

She stood there, since she disliked the specially made window seat pads the former owners had left. Looking out at the green and grassy front yard, the brick wall and iron gate, pleasure welled through her.

Her gaze was caught by a fluttering—a white and misty pulsing—at the window of the second floor of the Spanish-influenced house across the street.

Hand at her throat, she drew back in horror and spun to stare at Enzo, who lay on one section of the wide butterscotch leather couch her aunt had had in her consulting room . . . much as the live dog had done.

“I shouldn’t be able to see any ghosts in this area . . . in this neighborhood . . . it was built too late for my time period, in the twenties!”

Enzo lifted his head, then loped over to the window, hopped onto the semicircular window seat, and stared out.

Clare found her hands in her hair, tugging, as she muttered. “There are rules, right? I need to understand the darn rules!”

There are always . . . anomalies
, Enzo said.
But you are not experienced enough to handle THAT specter. Maybe in a few years. We should not discuss this, now.
He seemed to shiver, then ran back to the corner of the couch and curled into it.

“Great. Just great. The view from this window is
ruined
for me.” She tromped back to the couch. Yes, she was being a drama queen! Sniffing, she rubbed her arms. She’d turned on the air-conditioning, hadn’t she? Because August continued to be record breaking? Yes, she had, and now she wished she hadn’t.

With a little more control she sank into the couch. She’d hated the wild drama of her parents, and as they continued their out-of-control emoting, she didn’t spend much time with them, and she buttoned down her own tendencies to any great emotional reactions. But look what her gift had driven her to! She was changing and no longer recognizing herself. So she took a couple of those deep breaths that Enzo had coached her in when she’d had her meltdown a few days ago. Her cheeks heated as she thought of the mess she’d been in public.

“Anomalies,” she said quietly to Enzo, repeating that word. Anomalies in accounting never meant anything good—usually hours of work backtracking to a mistake . . . or fraud.

We will not talk of her now.

So the ghost across the way was female. Clare shrugged and thought about making
two
home offices, one for the regular business of her life, and the second for all the wretched books and research and whatever that seeing ghosts would entail. Yes, that was a good idea. Different computer, desk, and setup . . . she wondered what color to paint that office . . . and maybe put it on the first floor instead of the second floor. Her real office would be next to her bedroom.

A couple of minutes passed before a chill no longer skidded along her skin. The contemplation of good, solid,
practical
ideas had helped with that. Another deep breath. She’d get through this, and without drama.

Enzo hopped down from the couch to walk over and sit about a pace away from her. He cocked his head and looked her up and down, his forehead wrinkling.
You have only helped SIMPLE ghosts pass on, spirits without much trauma.
Only one thump of his tail. The darkness of his eyes seemed to swirl.

Clare thought of the Native American. She figured he’d had plenty of trauma, she just hadn’t comprehended it. She swallowed, matching gazes with the dog. “What do you mean?” Her voice went high and her skin goose-bumped. She scrambled futilely for something else to think about, but . . . knowing the rules was important.

His mental voice began to take on that hollow depth she dreaded.

You think your gift demands the little effort you’ve expended so far? That helping souls transition is easy?

“No, no, I don’t think that at all,” she snapped.

A low thrum, not quite a growl, sounded in the phantom dog’s throat.

There is a special process for sending ghosts from this world to where they need to be.

All sorts of alarming ideas in that sentence made her brain hurt.

A process you must learn by doing.

She wet her lips. “A process I haven’t done and that isn’t easy,” she stated.

The dog dipped his muzzle and radiated sternness.

After an uneven breath taken and released, she held up a hand at the spectral Lab. “Let me guess. If I don’t learn to do this right, I’ll . . .” What would be the worst? “Go crazy,” she said.
“Crazier.”

Enzo whimpered.

Clare gulped, then couldn’t fend off the emotional train wreck of the whole hideous week. Just when she’d thought she’d gotten better, accepted strange stuff that she never thought she’d believe in in a million years, the universe whacked her again. She burst into tears.

Flattening out on the couch, she let herself empty of tears, release all her anger and self-pity, sobbing, breath hitching, even letting a few wails out. When she thought of the loss of her great-aunt Sandra, she cried some more. She should have spent more time with her aunt that she’d loved, but Clare had wanted so much to be normal. Now she had regrets.

The door knocker banged, easily heard from where she lay. That had to be Zach. Naturally he’d show up when her face was red and blotchy, her eyes swollen.

Clare jackknifed up and yanked out tissues, took care of mopping up, though she wished she could take the time for a nice cold washcloth. Anyway, Zach was a manly man and probably didn’t care for tears. If she didn’t say anything about her crying jag, he probably wouldn’t.

When she opened the door, he examined her. “You okay?”

“Yes, thank you.”

He nodded.

She stepped back and let him into the entryway, saw him inhale the scent of well-cared-for wood and leather.

“Nice house. Really elegant.”

His eyes were those of a cop, scanning everything, checking for exits, no doubt.

She shut the large door behind him and gestured for him to follow her. “You want something to eat and drink? I have coffee, tea, milk . . . and two sorts of pie.”

He grinned and focused on her. “Pie? What kind of pie?”

“Blueberry with a crumb crust and—”

“Sold on the blueberry,” he said.

“Me, too.” But she walked slowly enough through the opening hall so he could check out the living room on the right and the door to the garage on the left before she turned toward the kitchen.

“Very elegant house. Know it cost you a bundle, looks worth it.”

She cringed as she thought of the price, then straightened the line of her shoulders and lifted her chin. “I have the money,” she said calmly, then glanced back at him and smiled. “I fell in love with the house.”

“Plenty to fall in love with,” he agreed.

Enzo loped up to them, straight through a wall.
Zach is here, Clare!
He wagged his whole body, the Other who used the ghost dog as a mouthpiece gone, leaving pure puppylike joy.

“Yes, Zach is here.” She glanced down at the dog.

He barked.

Zach’s hand clenched the handle of his cane, but he said courteously enough, “Hello, Enzo.”

He is talking to ME! He sees ME!

Clare stepped into the big kitchen with new appliances. “I don’t think Zach sees you, Enzo—”

“I don’t,” Zach said.

“But he hears you.” She waved to the counter where an untouched blueberry pie stood on a platter under a glass dome. She’d bought several pies for the movers, some of whom had been female and all of whom had appreciated the food and drinks.

“There’re some pizzas in the fridge.”

“Pizzas? Plural?”

“Yes. And some good beers and lagers, too.”

“You fed the movers.”

“Yes.” She could afford to be more generous now, to reward good work with more than sincere thanks. “I even gave both sets—the ones who moved me from my house, and the ones who showed up from Chicago with Great-Aunt Sandra’s things—a bonus.”

Zach stopped in front of her and patted her cheek. “Good going, Clare.”

Then his eyes deepened, grew intent; his fingers lingered on her face. She reached up and put her hands around the back of his neck, stroked his nape, and he shivered, his eyes closed. Oh, yes, she’d discovered what he liked.

Slanting her head, she pressed her lips to his, ran her tongue along his lips, nibbled the lower one . . . and listened to his breath come short. He tasted of salt and nuts with a hint of coffee. Licks of hot desire flickered in her, spreading from her core, and she needed to feel all of him. Sliding her hands down his arms, she moved to stroke the sides of his torso, then curved her palms over his hips and guided him back to brace against the kitchen island. Then she pushed against him so she could
feel
him, the tensile strength of his muscles, hard. So, so, sexy.

She just dived in, letting his body cradle hers, appreciating the length of him. Again she took his mouth, found his lips open and realized her eyes had closed at the touch of him.

His tongue rubbed against hers and the taste of
Zach
exploded in her mouth and she went damp.

He held her tight and that felt so good! A person, a solid being, interacting with her. She hadn’t had any but the most superficial of contacts with anyone other than him since the hugs from her co-workers when she’d left her job last week. Far too long, and she shouldn’t, couldn’t become dependent on him, but the man
did
feel good against her, vertically and horizontally.

His hands went to her butt, lifted her a bit and settled her against his arousal. Oh, yes, yes, yes!

Big hands, big erection. All hers, soon, but she had to breathe. She drew back, mind spinning, blood pulsing with yearning.

He grinned, seemed to hold her easily, as she balanced with her hands clamped around his biceps. Those were nice and hard, too. The man had no give in him whatsoever . . . at least not physically; his mind seemed plenty flexible.

“What kind of bed do you have here?” he asked.

She cleared her throat. “The same bed. Great-Aunt Sandra gave me the sleigh bed from one of her guest rooms as a housewarming gift when I bought my own home.”

He tousled her hair, pushed some strands behind her ear. “So I can’t offer to break in a new bed for you.”

“You haven’t seen the master suite. It’s wonderful.” Her voice came out breathy. “On the second floor.” She gave a little cough. “We have this tiny elevator . . .” He scowled.

“. . . and wide stairs with a landing.” She smiled. “Your choice.”

His brows were still down. “Let’s see those stairs, probably an awesome banister, right?” He gestured with his chin at the open door leading to the narrow secondary staircase off the kitchen. “Or we could go up that way.”

She wiggled and he put her down. Keeping her eyes on his, she drew her hand down the center of him to his most interesting muscle, traced it, testing his hardness, his length and breadth and thickness. Eyes going dark, he hissed out a breath, caught her hand in his, leaned back, and demonstrated exactly how he liked her to caress him.

Her breasts felt heavy, knees a little weak, mouth dried as heat spread throughout her body in a pounding throb of need.

Then he shaped her breast, fingers circling her nipple, lightly squeezing until she panted with him, knew her eyes had dilated as his had.

“Come with me.” She took his hand, heading back through the dining room to the hallway, and opened the tiny elevator door. He tugged at her fingers, and she smiled at him. “
My
elevator. I want to ride in
my
elevator in my new house.” Her eyes gleamed. “I want to make out with my lover in
my
elevator in my house on the way to the bedroom.”