Magick Rising (11 page)

most noticed, though, was his austere posture. Even if he hadn’t had solid

shoulders under that long-sleeved, striped shirt—and he did—the set of his

spine and chin would have taken up the slack.

Okay, so the man had presence. He was also trespassing. That didn’t

stop him from striding nearer, though not quite out of the shadows of the

verandah’s gingerbread trim, and demanding, “Who are you? Are . . . are

you some kind of ghost?”

At which point I burst out laughing. Oh, the irony.

Not only had I just been thinking
he
was a ghost, but I doubt I could

look less ghostly if I tried. I’d pulled my usually, mostly blonde hair back into

a short ponytail. In preparation for whatever dust the empty house might

harbor, I’d worn loose-fit jeans with a T-shirt and old kicks. Plus, I had a

Bluetooth earpiece looped over one ear.

The dark-haired stranger with the angry eyes didn’t smile. “May I ask

what you find so amusing?”

Not the first time I’ve been asked that question, might I add. “You

don’t want to know,” I assured him, continuing up the overgrown walkway

to the house. House staging challenge one? Curb appeal.

The historic city of Galveston lies on an island just off the coast of

Texas. That translates to sandy soil not ideal for duplicating an English

Garden. But the absentee owners hoped to draw the interest of potential

buyers during our upcoming Christmas celebration, Dickens on the Strand.

You know the shtick—strolling carolers; roasted chestnuts, wassail, and

nogs; and half-price entrance fees for anyone willing to wear 19th-century

British dress in 21st-century Texas heat. Since they’d hired me as a stager, it

was my job to find a historically sound compromise.

The real Victorian Galveston had once been a prosperous port

town—the biggest city in the state—as well as a beach resort. Now? It’s a

beach resort. But we do love our history.

Apparently it’s easy to love things that were ripped away in their prime.

Up close, the trespasser’s appearance seemed incongruous. He wore a

vest, sagging open over that long-sleeved, striped shirt, which he’d rolled up

to the elbows. But his slacks hung, creaseless, heavy with dry, sandy mud.

He also needed a shave.

God, I hoped he wasn’t squatting here.

Still, I offered my hand and not just to say hello. “My name’s Penny

Hamilton. I’ve been hired to stage Sorrow’s End for resale. How about

you?”

He looked at me and then my hand. Then he looked back at me. Holy

moly. Had I been right the first time?
Was
he a ghost?

At last, his fingers closed around mine, firm and
real
. In that moment of

connection, I could almost taste his aura. Determination . . . and despair.

Such despair that I had to let go of his hand. I curled mine into a fist

rather than insulting him by shaking the despair off of it into the salty

breeze.

But at least he didn’t seem to be a ghost. If anything, he was the one

who was haunted.

“Mr. Richard Pemberley at your service, Miss Hamilton,” he said. My

hand felt oddly lonely from the absence of his. “And my purpose here is to

warn you.”

“To warn me . . . ?”

“Sorrow’s End,” he announced solemnly, “is haunted.”

“No!” I widened my eyes and mouth dramatically. “
Really
?”

He narrowed his. “Are you being sarcastic?”

Well . . . yes. And I shouldn’t. Not everyone’s mind immediately goes

to ghosts, even if both of ours had.

“Sorry, Richard. But . . . yeah. Sorrow’s End has had the reputation as

being haunted since forever. Too many of the houses with those”—I

nodded toward the diamond-shaped plaque by the front door, indicating

that the building had survived the famous 1900 Storm—”have ghosts.

Figuring out just what kind of haunting is an unofficial part of my job.”

Pemberley’s bristly jaw hardened. “You’re an occultist.” Like
that’s
not a

loaded word.

“I prefer ‘gifted.’”

“If you venture into this house, you’re a fool.”

“What can I say?” I grinned my most obnoxious, devil-may-care grin.

“What’s life without taking chances?”

Pemberley stared at me. No measurable sense of humor on this one, for

sure.

“Was there anything else?” I asked. “Any tips about what kind of

ghosts are hanging around here? Are they pirate ghosts? Storm victims?

Mob-related?” Seriously. My town has one
fascinating
history. Its first

European resident shipwrecked here and called the island “Malhado.”

Misfortune in Spanish.

Richard Pemberley leaned close in that dominating-you-with-

my-physical-presence way some guys have. “They are
dangerous
ghosts, Miss

Hamilton.”

Most ghosts are not dangerous, being incorporeal and all. This man,

completely corporeal, suddenly felt like real danger.

“Well thank you for the warning.” I refused to give ground but reached

into my pocket as if for the key to the place, fingering my pepper spray

instead. “But it’s my concern, not yours.”

He glared at me a moment longer, clearly frustrated that I hadn’t

jumped when he said boo. Then he shook his head, turned, and stalked

away.

Across the overgrown lawn, mind you. Not toward the street. And I

could tell this was one of those chance meetings that was going to linger

with me the rest of the day, only partly because of how odd it had been.

“He’s gone,” I said then. “You can talk now.”

“OMG!” exclaimed my best friend Dawn—she spoke the

letters—through the Bluetooth earpiece I’d worn the whole time.

Experience had taught me to arrange at least a virtual backup before walking

up to a strange man
or
ghost at a deserted house.

I’d called her as soon as I saw him there. I’d just asked her to hold all

comments. Experience had taught me that was wise, too.

“‘Gay, married, or dead?!’” She barked out a laugh. “So just how sexy

was
this guy? Old and distinguished? Young and hot? He had a great voice,

but kind of ageless, you know? And what’s with all that doom-and-gloom,

‘beware of ghosts, bewaaare!’ routine? Not big on the specifics. Still,

‘dangerous,’
that
doesn’t sound good. Though I guess he wouldn’t lurk here

just to tell you this was a happy-time-ghost-fun house, right? Do you think

he knows something we don’t?
Is
the place dangerous? I can call Teddy to

head down there if it feels dangerous to you. I mean, he’s at work right now,

which means he’s on the water, but what’s the good of having a boyfriend if

you can’t beach him for emergencies? Assuming this is—”

“I don’t think it’s an emergency.” Normally, it’s rude to interrupt. With

Dawn, it’s a survival skill. I unlocked the heavy front door. “For what it’s

worth, I feel safer locked in here than I did out there with him.”

And she was off. “Well that’s good. That you’ve got locks and all. And

for what it’s worth, he sounded awfully well-spoken for a bad guy. Although

I guess Ted Bundy was a senator’s aide, right? Not that this Pemberley guy is

a serial killer. Probably. You don’t think he’s a serial killer, do you? I guess he

could
be. Was he white? Most serial killers are white males in their . . .”

I tuned her out, relocking the door behind me and turning slowly to

take in my surroundings.

I hadn’t lied. Sorrow’s End—what a name for a house, huh?—was so

famously haunted that it’s a drive-by standard for some local ghost tours.

That’s part of why I got the job. I’m officially a stager, but unofficially, I

work with more energies than just the home’s
feng shui
. Still, I’d never seen or

felt anything near this particular house.

Standing in the dusty front hall, I didn’t see or feel or hear anything

now.

And I mean
anything
.

If the place didn’t have so many great period touches, from the

wainscoting to the crown molding to the wall sconces, I wouldn’t believe it

was a hundred-plus years old at all. “This place might as well be a new

build,” I murmured in the middle of Dawn’s profiling of male versus female

violence. “It feels so . . . empty.”

Empty of emotion. Empty of history. A blank canvas.

“That’s good, right?” Dawn asked.

“Probably.” Except for being unusual. But someone else might have

already done a kick-ass exorcism here, gotten rid of any ghosts. “Look, I’ve

got to take notes. You’ll be by your phone in case I need to call?”

“Is there a time when I’m not? Besides, that’s what best friends are for!

It’s not like you aren’t always there for me. Remember that time when—”

“Love-you-bye!” I interrupted before disconnecting.

The silence of the house washed over me like a gentle, Gulf wave. Nice.

I used my headset with a recording app on my phone to take notes

during my initial walk-through. I took pictures and mentioned the curb

appeal and the jewel tones. I brainstormed how to bring the kitchen current

while preserving its vintage appearance and whether the height of the steps

in the tall, narrow stairway would be up to code. And on a regular basis I

stopped and just . . .
felt
things. As in, with my hands.

A banister here.

A windowsill there.

Some people don’t think they have spirit sight or even consider

themselves psychic. They were usually wrong about that. Everyone receives

the signals; some of us are just better trained at noticing them. Still, even the

biggest skeptic on the planet has probably been in an old place and suddenly

felt
it . . . also hands-free. A scent of furniture polish from the wood

paneling. A slant of light through a stained-glass window. Add

imagination—aka an open mind—and mix.

Even with my imagination, I didn’t feel a
thing
. No flickers of someone

else’s experience or memories. No residual contentment or disturbance.

Nada.

Considering the house’s reputation and how weirdly today’s visit had

started, that began to bother me. I took notes on the bedrooms. I admired a

high, porthole shaped window on the landing just outside the attic. But my

nerves were on edge when I reached the attic space itself, large with tall,

gabled windows, open enough to be used as a bedroom suite—

The door shut hard behind me.

Worse, without me touching it, the lock snicked into place.

“Uh oh,” I murmured, pocketing my phone to free my hands.

I barely had time to notice something traced onto the floor.

Then, like a tidal wave drawn back, back, back from an empty shore,

the energy of Sorrow’s End crashed over me.

THE ROOM SHRIEKED from every close corner, a stadium-sized roar of

shouts, cries, despair. I bent to cover my ears and almost fell when a heavy

thud, then another, slammed against the walls and buckled the floor. It

sounded like a giant, beating against and sure to get in what now felt like a

tiny dollhouse.

Stumbling, I tried to pivot toward the blocked doorway—but where

was it? Sudden darkness blacked out the windows, blinding and disorienting

me. A swarm of sharp edges bit at me, a scattering of pain, and I shielded my

ducked head with my arms.

I realized I could die up here. Alone . . . ish.

I forced my steps, sluggish as if through high water, in what I prayed

was the right direction. Increasingly desperate. Increasingly lost—

A solid hand grabbed my arm. “Come with me!” shouted a familiar,

male voice. “Now!” Its depth and solidity grounded me as surely as the

larger body sheltered me from the maelstrom.

A hand, a touch in the darkness. It meant everything. It meant life.

Instinct had me ducking into and against the tall protection, against this

fellow human. Somehow, my rescuer guided us both out of the attic,

slamming the door behind us, onto the landing just beyond.

The quiet, normal, everyday landing.

As I squinted open my tight-shut eyes, not leaning away from my

protection, I saw sunlight streaming peacefully through that porthole

shaped window. Then I looked up, straining my neck to catch sight of my

rescuer without actually moving away from him, and recognized the Richard

Pemberley I’d met on the porch, now even more thoroughly mussed. His

dark hair stood out with no discernible part. Something had gashed his

striped shirt red in several places, and one of his unshaven cheekbones bled

from a deep slash, as if the swarm of bitey things had actually been flying

knives or . . . glass?

Still pressed against him—sensing the shuddering fear that he masked

so wonderfully, sensing his impatience at having to save me—I peripherally

noticed my own arms. They bled from various slashes as well.

I began to tremble in aftershock and stepped clear of him.

Pemberley’s posture was, if possible, taller and stiffer than ever with his