Authors: Tracy St. John
Taylor stood and began to clean up the remains of our feast. “It’s too cold to fly. I’ll meet you there.”
Patricia gave her a quick peck on the cheek, and then gathered herself to launch into the air. With a superior smirk, both because I felt it and also wanted to take some of that grimness off her face I called, “Don’t be too slow.”
Vampires might be able to fly, but ghosts can materialize anywhere we want in the blink of an eye. Being superior is fun.
Patricia wasn’t going to let me have the last word. “Ha! I remember all those wrong turns you used to take. Aren’t you the one who ‘ported herself into a septic tank instead of the state aquarium?”
Oh yeah. Cancel haughty disdain. The stray thought of septic tanks instead of fish tanks had thrown me off course on my way to see the Titanic exhibit a couple of months ago. That misdirection had caused no end of delight to my supposed friends.
I stuck my tongue out at Patricia as she launched into the air. She was just jealous I’d get to Tristan before her.
* * * *
I materialized at the place I’d dubbed ‘Para Central’. It was actually the former ballroom of the beautiful King George Hotel, which had been southeast Georgia’s premier party spot back when railroad barons were in vogue.
The King George burned down in the Great Fire of ’36, only its ground floor surviving more or less intact. Like most of the charred remains of Old Fulton Falls, it’s buried under the new town, forgotten by most of the living norms. It’s gotten a second life as my sweetie Tristan’s headquarters. He’s done a lot to restore the ground floor; some to its original grandeur, and some of it for functionality.
There are guest rooms for people to use for sleep and other things – wink, wink. When I say ‘other things’, yes, I’m referring to sex. But it’s mostly of the vampire variety, and unless you’re a blood groupie, it’s best I don’t share anymore than that. For vampires, sex and blood-taking go hand in hand, and it’s utterly creepy. ‘Nuff said.
Those guest rooms aren’t fancy, not what you would have seen at the King George in its heyday. To experience the hotel in all its finery, you have to be a ghost. We dead enjoy this grand old hotel as it was, its spirit as solid to us as we are. Buildings, especially well-loved ones, can continue on in the spirit world, and it’s a joy to be able to experience the King George in all its former glory.
The newly rebuilt conference rooms and offices are thoroughly modern. Tristan is forever holding meetings with his staff, my ambitious sweetie constantly brainstorming plans and plotting moves to further his and Fulton Falls’ combined fortunes.
His latest renovation project is the once-grand lobby of the King George. As a ghost, I still see it as it was: the huge gold-and-crystal chandelier, the patterned marble tiled floor, the burgundy and gold wallpaper, and the gleaming white staircase that leads to the floors above. The giant fireplace always crackles with warmth, and fine furnishings allow the dead to lounge in the opulent surroundings. At the desk, a wonderful man named Charles greets everyone, his smile welcoming beneath his waxed mustache.
Work started just a couple of weeks ago to return the real world’s charred and debris-cluttered lobby to its original splendor. Contractors have begun to replace burnt timber, and we dead often hear the eye-watering racket of buzz saws, the head splitting thunder of hammers, the crash of large things tumbling, the roar of the generator that powers their tools. Once in awhile the living world appears in our midst even as we appear to it because of the energy their work generates. We stare at one another across the divide of death, the contractors with startled shock and us with eager curiosity.
Just as the mundane human population knows it shares the world with vampires, shapeshifters, gargoyles, and other paranormal creatures, it knows some of the dead don’t go on to … wherever we’re supposed to be. We just don’t appear to them that often. Ghosts are rarer than Bigfoot sightings.
The King George’s ballroom where I stood has already been restored. Large chandeliers hung over my head. The dance floor was rich parquet wood. There was a bandstand. Two large wooden executive desks sat on its raised stage. Also at odds with the sumptuous space were the three rows of utilitarian desks that marched across the room, covered with computers, paperwork, and telephones. Welcome to Para Central, where about fifty of Fulton Falls’ nonhuman population gathers to work for County Commissioner Tristan Keith.
It was a holiday, so the place was strangely quiet. Only four solid people were in residence right now, gathered around Tristan’s desk on the bandstand. Patricia’s desk was the other one that sat there. To call Patricia Tristan’s right hand would be downplaying her importance to her brother.
And speaking of tall, dark, handsome, and fanged, Tristan himself was among the tiny group. His haircut and clothing still reflects the 1920’s, the last decade he saw as a mortal man. But trust me when I tell you, he is present-day sex-ay. His short hair is as black as the night he inhabits, and his eyes are nearly as dark. He has model-perfect features and will be the cover boy for the first issue of
Night
, a vampire magazine set to launch in the new year. His long, lithe body has just the right amount of lean muscle. The man was built for sin.
During the day while his body lies in a coffin, Tristan is a ghost like me. His skin carries a golden-brown hue, his laugh comes easily, and his smile is warm and un-fanged. At night, however, it’s a different story. Oh, he’s still absolutely gorgeous … to die for, har-de-har-har … and just as elegant and charming as you can imagine. His skin is paper white though, like most vampires. If he relaxes his glamour, you’ll see those dark eyes go red-rimmed and his fangs will appear. And while that’s freaky enough, it’s not these physical changes that fill me with dread. It’s the cold, detached way he looks at others, at the way his hunter’s gaze sizes them up. Vampires are always hungry and even the most civilized has that hint of predator lurking beneath. I love Tristan, but if I was alive, we would not be sweeties, nor would Patricia and I be friends. I just can’t cope with being an item on someone’s menu.
My other boyfriend was here too, though he was a little difficult to spy. He was channeling through a young man named Jason Somerville, and the effect couldn’t be weirder to see.
Jason is in his early twenties, one of those too-cool kids who coasts the sidewalks on a skateboard, says ‘bro’ a lot, and wears the waistband of his pants in the mid-butt region. He’s a bit of a goofball, but he is a smart kid who studies engineering at the local college. He’s got the same gift as Isabella, the ability to consciously allow the dead use his body to communicate with the living. Tristan pays him pretty good to let my second sweetie Dan borrow some flesh time.
Ah yes, Dan Saling. Where do I start with this man?
He’d died young of a heart attack. I call him my Marlboro Man, not because smoking took him out, but because he has that robust masculinity the old cigarette advertisements used to promote. His face has that gorgeous ruggedness that screams All Man. Rough and ready. Muscled from good old-fashioned hard work. You know what I mean. Male, male, male, male, capital MALE.
Heavens, I was getting horny just contemplating him.
As a ghost, only I could see the weird image of him melded to Jason. Seeing that strange double-exposure effect of Dan’s delightful brawn on top of Jason’s slighter boyish frame just about made me cross-eyed. It’s a good thing ghosts don’t get nauseous, because that’s what I wanted to be looking at them.
As I drew closer, I saw the other two members of this grave looking company. They were shifters, Gerald and Eddie.
Talk about your yummy beasts. Not so much Eddie, who’s a werehog. Hogs and humans are not a pretty combination. Panthers and humans, on the other hand…
Gerald is as gorgeous as he is a rarity. Muscled almost to the point of too much bulk, he is sooo easy on the eyes. His braided cornrows reach to his chiseled chest, parted by the black furred triangles of his ears. His green eyes practically glow in his mocha-brown face, and his nose carries a slight suggestion of felineness as do the fangs that peek out over his luscious lips. Subtle black markings accentuate his handsome catman features. He looks like what he is: hired muscle. He’s Patricia’s bodyguard, though I’ve rarely known her to need that kind of protection. Tristan insists, however, and Gerald certainly has no complaints. He has a big case of unrequited infatuation with his vampire mistress, a terrible shame considering she doesn’t care for men in that way. When he smiles, he’s the handsomest male I’ve ever seen.
Gerald wasn’t smiling. His ears were flattened to the side, a sure sign he was worried. He snapped his fingers in front of his best friend Eddie’s face.
Eddie was sitting in Tristan’s chair, an event in and of itself. The werehog is more hired muscle, usually sticking close to my vampire sweetie. His brown hair had been shaved into a mohawk between his pointed piggy ears. Eddie wasn’t pretty to look at; no werehog is. But he wasn’t as ugly as most, his snout more a hint than obvious on his roundish face, and his tusks curled only a little bit over his upper lip. He’s one of the nicest guys I know when he’s not having to play the heavy.
His expression was totally blank, his eyes not seeing the men leaning towards him, not blinking as Gerald snapped those fingers only a couple inches away. Concerned, I quickened my pace as I hurried down the aisle towards them.
Dan noticed my approach and straightened. He was in full possession of Jason’s body, with the young channel in a trance elsewhere in his head. Channels are not aware of what is going on when they give control over to a ghost. I have to give Jason and Isabella credit; I sure wouldn’t trust someone else with my body.
I heard both Dan’s rumbly tones as well as Jason’s lighter tones whisper to Tristan, “Brandilynn’s here.”
Tristan’s worried gaze never left Eddie’s face. “Go ahead and bring her up to speed.”
Dan/Jason descended the bandstand to meet me. Out of habit, Dan attempted to stroke my hair when he reached me. Jason’s hands passed over me, sort of like an errant breeze. With a rueful snort, Dan dropped his arms.
“What’s up? What’s wrong with Eddie?” I asked.
“We think he’s been made a zombie. Lana will be able to tell us once she arrives.”
I gaped. “Holy crap.” Then I realized I didn’t know if this was one of those hard-to-fix situations or simply a hiccup in the usual passage of the universe. From the looks on everyone’s faces, I was betting on the more difficult option.
In other words, same doodie, different day. When you hang out with paras, drama is always on call.
So I admitted, “Okay, I’m not totally up on my knowledge of zombies. It’s like a possession, kind of, right?”
Dan shook his head and lowered his voice. Bad sign. “Not quite. This is going to be hard for you to hear, Brandilynn. I know you like Eddie, as we all do, and the situation is real bad.” He blew out a breath and raked his fingers through Jason’s stiffly gelled ‘do.
“Okay, I’m braced for the news.” Famous last words.
“I’m hoping it’s just some stupid witch’s spell, but it’s not looking good.”
Dan was waffling, something he doesn’t usually do. A cold tendril of real fear wormed into my stomach. But I’ve faced really bad stuff before, including being killed by a sadistic serial killer. Surely I could handle what was coming. So I gently prodded him. “Start from the beginning.”
He nodded. “Eddie’s been mentoring a kid who became a were six months ago. Kind of a big brother deal, you know?”
“Gotcha.” I hated it when kids caught the Zoo Flu, the animal-borne virus that had only two outcomes if caught by a human: life as a shapeshifter or death.
“His car broke down on the east side of the town limits after he dropped the kid off at his house.”
“Not a good spot.” That area of Fulton Falls is badly run down, a haven for drug deals, prostitution, and the like. It was also a ‘thin’ place, which meant the ghost and physical worlds tend to affect each other. The buried Old Fulton Falls in that area is rife with black magic dealings, sorcery, all sorts of bad stuff. As above, so below. It was hard to know which plane damaged the other more.
Dan continued. “Eddie called Gerald to come and pick him up, which he did. Gerald found him like this, standing in the middle of the road.”
“So he brought Eddie here, hoping somebody could help. He was lucky to find you guys, it being Thanksgiving and all.”
Dan/Jason gave me a smile. “You know how Tristan is. He never rests when there’s an election on the horizon. I had nothing else to do, what with all you ladies having your own celebration.”
Aw. He’d missed me. It made me all warm and gooey inside, and I blew him a kiss.
Patricia came in through the ballroom’s glass double doors, finally arriving. Slowpoke vampire. She beelined straight for Tristan, sparing a nod for Dan/Jason as she went by. Now that we were away from the power station, she could no longer see me. She reached Tristan less than a breath later. As Gerald stood helplessly by the blank-eyed Eddie, brother and sister moved to one side to talk quietly.
I asked Dan, “So what will happen if Eddie’s a zombie? I take it that will be hard to fix or everyone wouldn’t look so freaked out.”