The Ghost Hunter (3 page)

People were often surprised, perhaps sensing his power or overwhelmed by his looks. And he knew he was handsome, but found no pride in the fact. After all, it had nothing to do with him, but with genes and God. He tried to present an underwhelming façade by wearing a slate gray, long sleeve mock turtleneck and typical jeans, his slightly long hair pulled back. But it never helped. Patiently he waited as her gaze traveled down his body to the tips of his black boots, then jumped up to his eyes, eyes that he knew matched the slate gray of his shirt.

He quirked a brow, amused by her stunned reaction, bemused by his own reaction to her. What the hell was it about this woman? He’d been on this earth for centuries. Surely he’d seen women more attractive, although he couldn’t seem to remember any at the moment.

“Well?” he demanded gruffly.

“Yes,” she finally replied. “I’m Ashley Hunter.”

“Right then, can we have a chat?” He pulled out a chair for her, a gentlemanly action, but he had a feeling she saw through his ruse.

She hesitated a moment. Then he saw it, the typical response. Curiosity overtaking common sense. With little argument, she settled on the chair. Of course her easy acceptance might have had something to do with his powers as well, but bloody hell, the woman needed to learn to be more leery.
 

He sat next to her, not across, but right beside her where they wouldn’t easily be overheard. Close enough that her heat called to him, and her scent… hell her scent could make a lesser man fall to his knees and beg. The softness of powder layered over her natural feminine scent, and topped with a warm vanilla that made him want to tear that overly large pullover from her chest and lick her skin.

“Yer the new owner of the Pub?” he asked.

“Hmm?” She blinked up at him, her gaze cloudy with confusion.

A soft green gaze, like moss, yet with the brown of the forest and just barely visible, a peek of blue sky. He needed to get a hold of himself, but it wasn’t easy knowing she was as attracted to him as he was her. He could see that in the way her cheeks flushed and her pupils dilated. It happened often with mortal women, but usually it didn’t bother him. Now, hell, his skin felt hot, uneasy, tight.

He cleared his throat, attempting to focus. “I asked if yer the new owner of
The White Horse Pub
.”

She nodded, the confusion clearing slightly. “Yes, yes I am.”

“I’m interested in buying.”

“Buying my house?” Her dark brows drew together, that small crease appearing between her eyes, and slowly she nodded. “Right.”

She didn’t seem convinced. Perhaps she needed a little help in making up her mind. He laid his hand atop of hers. The contact sent electricity up his arm, his heart skipping a beat. Startled, he almost drew back. He tried to ignore the feeling, tried to ignore the baby softness of her skin… that heat, her pulse thumping beneath his fingertips…

“Good, I’m glad we have an understanding.” He pulled his hand away, but the tingling remained, as if she’d burnt him with her touch.
 

“Wait,” she demanded.
 

He paused and quirked a brow, turning the full force of his gaze on her.

She was confused again, he could see her mind working behind those hazel eyes, attempting to understand what had just happened between them. Well good luck, because he hadn’t a clue and it pissed him off royally.

“No, no, wait.” She focused on the tabletop as if trying to gather her muddled thoughts from the dented surface. “No, I don’t want to sell.” She stumbled to her feet, shaking her head for extra emphasis.

Annoyance swept through him, sharp and bitter. He wasn’t exactly sure what angered him more, his reaction to her, or her refusal to cooperate. Damn it all, if he could get her to agree, if she’d only return to the United States then he could concentrate on more important matters. “Ms. Hunter, I can offer ye quite a bit of money for the place.”

She shook her head again, scurrying around the table. Yet distance didn’t make him feel any better. If anything, the closer to the door she got, the worse he felt…off balance, odd, cold. She had to leave. He must find a new Seer. She wouldn’t do at all.

“It’s not for sale,” she muttered.

He reached out, latching onto her wrist before she escaped. She glanced over her shoulder with bewildered eyes. He felt her pulse there, on the sensitive part of her wrist, a quick, erratic beat that thrummed through his own body.

The sensation did odd things to him, made him hunger for her in a way he’d never experienced. Yes, the sooner Ashley Hunter left the better for everyone. “I want that house, Ms. Hunter.”

Her gaze narrowed, her anger almost palpable. She jerked away and stumbled back, confusion and annoyance working across her beautiful face. “Too bad.”

Without another word, she weaved her way around the small table and bolted toward the exit. At the door, curiosity got the better of her, as he knew it would. She paused, then glanced back.

But Cristian had already disappeared.

Aunt Clare’s bed smelled like the sweetness of baby powder and muskiness of death. How ironic. Ashley rolled to her side, the springs in the mattress popping. On the small bedside table her travel alarm clock glared three a.m., producing an eerie red glow that did little to dispel the shadows lurking in her room. So much for getting a good night’s sleep.

Her mind felt too fuzzy to rest, like someone had left the radio on a station that produced only static. She closed her eyes and decided to count sheep. She pictured the fluffy, dingy animals she’d seen littering the hills on the drive to the house.

“One,” she whispered, watching as a sheep jumped a crumbling stone fence. “Two.” But the next lamb just stood there, chewing slowly and looking at her as if to say “
you get off your ass and jump the damn wall.
”

Wonderful, her imaginary sheep were on strike.

She couldn’t blame her mind for straying, not really. Who wanted to think about sheep when she could think about the man from the tea shop? Had he been a ghost? Or possibly some figment of her imagination? He seemed too gorgeous to be real. That, combined with the fact that he’d somehow disappeared so quickly and she couldn’t help but wonder if he was something otherworldly. Had she been sitting in the corner of the tea room talking to no one? But he’d felt so real, smelled so real. And those silver eyes… she shivered merely thinking about them.
 

Ashley rolled onto her stomach, not used to such silence, such isolation, so much time to
think
. Her tiny apartment pulsed with city life. It was comforting, that noise, those people and their constant movement.

But silence was too familiar, too painful. She felt a teenager once again stuck in that hospital, in that little room with nothing to stare at but white walls. She pushed the intrusive thoughts from her mind. Fuck her mother and fuck the mental hospital that had kept her prisoner for a good year.
 

The sound of giggling invaded her mind, bouncing around the walls of her skull like a jackhammer on cement. She groaned, and folded the pillow over her head. The mattress sagged.

Silence fell and she stiffened, holding her breath, waiting. No sound, no movement.

Had the child actually left? Please God, let her be gone!

Giggles erupted again.

“Fanfreakingtastic.” She tossed the pillow aside, giving up.

The child sat at the end of the bed with her legs tucked under her pink dress, a wide smile on her round face. “You shouldn’t say such wretched words.”

“And you should go to hell, or wherever it is spirits like you belong.”

She frowned and Ashley felt a twinge of remorse. She was just a child, after all. In a blink, the girl disappeared. She fell back against her pillow and closed her eyes. More guilt to add to the increasing lump.

A sudden sharp sting ripped across her lower leg. “Awww!”

She jumped from bed and flipped on the lamp. Empty, the room was empty. It didn’t make Ashley feel any better; she knew they could be hiding anywhere, like cockroaches. She jerked up the right leg of her sweat pants. A thin red scratch marked her pale calf.
 

She dropped her pant leg and paced impatiently across the room. The child was a powerful brat, that was for sure. Never had a ghost gotten physical with her. How the hell did a child spirit have so much energy?
 

“I hate you,” the girl’s soft voice whispered through the room.

A cold shiver raised the fine hairs on Ashley’s body. She spun around.

The child wasn’t there.
 

Anger flared through her body, churned in her belly. She wrapped her arms tightly around her waist. Without thought or planning, she tore open the door and burst into the cool hall. Something warm to drink might help. If that didn’t work, there was always an exorcism. Hell, what would really help is if she’d taken that man’s offer and hightailed it out of this town. She’d never be able to sleep now with that tiny stalker roaming the room.

But she was just one ghost. One she could handle. She was only a child, for God’s sake. And, according to Mom, she was a figment of her imagination. Then again, Mom had never been slashed across the leg by a figment.

Floor boards squeaked under her slippered feet, the only sound in the immense mansion. For some reason the noise made her feel better, grounded and in the moment. She made it halfway down the stairs before the soft murmur of voices reached her ears. Ashley paused, confusion freezing her in place. Had she imagined the noise? No, there it was again, the soft familiar murmur of conversation.

Her heart slammed wildly against her chest. Hadn’t Tabby from the B&B basically said her pub was the local teenage hangout? Had the brats actually broken into her house? Or was something more nefarious at bay?

Frantic, she searched the dark corridor for a weapon…anything. On the floor in the hall was an umbrella stand with two nasty, weatherworn umbrellas. She grabbed one, her fingers clenching tightly around the plastic handle like it was a baseball bat. Slowly, she made her way toward the back of the house. Damn, but she should have had a telephone installed first thing.

A dull lamp glowed from the kitchen, spattering the hall floor with a patch of light. Ashley slipped into the shadows, her shoulder blades pressed to the cold, plastered wall. She swore she’d turned the lamp off before going to bed.

Deep male laughter shook the room. Not boy’s laughter.
Men
. One? Two? Three? She couldn’t tell how many. She stopped in her tracks, her damp hands regripping the umbrella handle. What the hell was she doing? She should be calling the police, not pretending to be some Wonder Woman wannabe.

Her mind and emotions reeling, she took a step back right into an icy, winter storm. It surrounded her, whispering through her veins and crystallizing her blood until her breath came out in a fog.
 

“Why are you so frightened?” the little girl asked, sweeping in front of her.

Slowly Ashley’s body heat returned to normal. But her stomach was still in turmoil, lurching and knotting and threatening to revolt. She had to close her eyes for a moment to get her bearings. For some reason, it always made her uneasy when she moved through a ghost, as if she’d just stuck her hand inside their rotting body cavity.

“Well?” the child asked.

“I’m not talking to you,” Ashley hissed between clenched teeth.

The little girl crossed her arms over that pink smock. “You just did.” With that said, she smirked and floated into the kitchen.

“What nasty business are you up to, Poppet?” a man asked.

Shocked, Ashley froze. There were others. And if those others could see the child ghost…

“Teasing the lady,” the girl replied.

Ashley sank back against the wall, too stunned to move, too stunned to do much of anything. Apparently, they could see and talk to the child which meant…they were ghosts as well. Ashley’s grasp relaxed, the umbrella slipping from her fingers. Coming to her senses, she grabbed at the handle right before it hit the floor.

“Ah, the new owner?”

“She’s in the hall, listening to us,” the child added.

Freaking great! Ashley hunkered down low, resisting the urge to curse the brat for turning her in.

“Now, luv,” another man said. “We tolds ye, ‘uman’s might catch a flash of us, but they can’t see us all the time and they certainly can’t talk wit us.”

“She can,” her child-like voice became harsh, annoyed. When the child became angry, she lashed out…at Ashley.

The room fell silent. She could practically hear their ghostly minds working. Indecision held her captive. She didn’t know if she should race back upstairs and try to hide or stomp in there and prove them wrong.

“Oy,” a woman finally said. “Let Maggie be. Just looking fer a wee bit of mischief, she is.”

“I’m not! I can talk to her and she talks to me.”

Ashley scrambled upright. If they believed Maggie, would they ever leave her in peace? Images of sleepless nights flashed through her mind and she knew what she needed to do.

She settled the umbrella on the floor and stepped into the kitchen. Her ghostly squatters immediately fell silent, turning to face her. But Ashley focused on the 1970s, olive green refrigerator humming in the corner of the room. She’d pretend she was merely there for a midnight snack.

“See, I told you she could see and hear us,” Maggie said, plopping onto a stool.

Around a rectangular walnut table sat two men smoking pipes and playing cards. A woman wearing a long, black gown with a white apron stood to the side, leaning against the wall and frowning. Four? Four ghosts! Sweat dotted her back, clinging to her tank top.

“Don’t look like ‘he sees us,” the woman said.

Ashley pulled open the refrigerator door, the blast of cold welcome, and took out the bottle of milk she’d purchased on the way home. From the corner of her eye she could see them watching her. Always watching.

“Maybe she just sees and hears me?” The child slipped from her stool and swept in front of Ashley, her ghostly body half inside the refrigerator. “Look at me!” she demanded.

Ashley slammed the door shut right in her ghostly face. Without a glance back, she clenched the cold, damp bottle to her chest and started toward the table, knowing the hardest part was to come. What choice did she have? They’d never leave her in peace if they knew she could hear them. Swallowing the lump of resistance stuck in her throat, she lowered herself to a chair, right on the lap of the man wearing a black vest. She fell through the gust of cold air and landed on the chair with a thud. A chill tiptoed over her skin.

“Bloody rude, is what that is,” the man said and floated away.

A manic bubble of laughter pressed against her lips. Instead of giving into her insane desire to laugh, she lifted the bottle of milk and drank. Cold and thick, the cream made her gag.

“Doesn’t ‘ave very good manners, either,” the woman added. “Use a mug, ye savage.”

Ashley took it all in stride, ignoring her harsh words, for she’d heard worse.
 

“So what’s she like?” the other man asked, his lips moving around his pipe. He wore a brown vest over a beige shirt, an antique looking outfit. Slowly, he stroked his short beard, all the while watching her in a way that made her uneasy.

Ashley’s grip tightened. God, it was hard not to respond. Not to throw her milk bottle against the wall and scream for them all to get the hell out of her home.

“She’s mean. And she’s ugly. And I hate her.” Maggie rushed at her. It took all of Ashley’s power not to brace herself. A cold rush of air swept through her very soul, crystallizing her blood. She felt the child’s anger— bitter, freezing, consuming. Ashley fell back against the spindles of the chair and stared hard at the wall. She would not cry out.

“What the…” she said, feigning shock by blinking her eyes wide. And her high school English teacher said she couldn’t act.
 

The woman floated toward the child. “See, Maggie, ‘he doesn’t see ye.” She brushed the child’s hair from her face, almost a motherly gesture, but Ashley knew better. They didn’t have real feelings. They didn’t care about anyone but themselves. On trembling legs she stood and replaced the milk in the refrigerator.

 
Almost done. Just walk casually out the door and leave them to whatever it was they were doing.

“She’s a ‘andsome lass, I’ll give her that.”

Ashley wasn’t sure if she should be disgusted or pleased.

“Ye’d think a boar in a gown was a looker,” the woman snapped.

Apparently disgusted. Ashley rolled her eyes and continued into the hall, but she could feel someone following her, the cold air that penetrated deep inside her bones would never go away no matter how many sweaters she wore. The coldness followed. Always finding her no matter where she hid.

“What do ye think she’ll do?” a man asked.

“Don’t rightly know. Try to turn it into a Pub again, is my bet.”

“Bow before your magistrate!” A hollow voice echoed around her.

A split second later a man appeared in the middle of the hall, a sword in hand. In his short puffy pants and puffy jacket, he looked like a circus performer and part of her wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness of it all, until she realized she would have to walk through him to get to her bedroom.

She closed her eyes as the burst of cold air hit her skin, pierced her flesh and crystallized her bones. Ignoring the convulsion of her muscles, she continued on, not pausing until she made it to her room. She could make it, but her knees were practically buckling from exhaustion.

“How dare you, peasant!” the ghost cried out from behind her.

She pushed through the door, slamming it behind her. She couldn’t do this; she couldn’t live here with that many ghosts…watching her, always watching her, never leaving her in peace.

No. She shook her head, determined to regain control. No. They had no power over her. She needed answers. She wasn’t leaving until she uncovered the truth. Ashley stumbled toward her bed. Exhausted, she crawled onto the mattress and pulled the duvet over her body, covering her head.