Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (2 page)

Mike wasn't looking at her hair though. He was looking at her costume, a skin-tight black leather cat suit that outlined every single curve. His fists clenched and he swallowed hard. He tried to walk towards the house, but his feet wouldn't move.
 

He couldn't bring himself to approach her.

He'd faced enemy fire, ambushes, and IEDs. He'd trained himself to overcome his fears. He'd walked through nightmares and survived.

But he couldn't bring himself to face this girl.

Time to retreat and regroup. He'd continue on his way to Arlington and figure out a different way to make his delivery. Maybe he could hire a courier, or a parcel delivery service.
 

A group of costumed partygoers blocked his way as he turned to walk away. He tried to push his way through what appeared to be a werewolf punk rock band, but had to swerve to avoid the fur-bedecked subwoofers.

"Mike?" The throaty, sexy voice was unmistakable. "Is that you?"

There was no fighting the siren appeal of that voice. He sighed in resignation and turned.

The girl ran down the steps of her house and her smile was as enthralling as her voice. Mike forced himself to smile back as he greeted the girl he'd loved for the past five years.
 

Abby Reed. Singer, songwriter, enchantress.

And his dead friend's fiancée.

C
HAPTER
T
WO

A
BBY
COULDN
'
T
believe it. Mike Stone? In Banshee Creek?
 

But there he was, in the flesh. He looked quite solid and real, dressed in military fatigues with an olive-colored duffle bag and buzz cut. He also looked hesitant, but that was to be expected. Mike was a decorated military officer with many hours of combat under his belt, but he often had a confused look on his face when he was around her, like he'd just suffered a mortar attack.
 

She blamed it on the culture shock. Mike was a straight arrow kind of guy, the Captain America type who drank whole milk and folded his underwear. How he'd managed to befriend Cole, who'd never met a crazy idea he didn't love, was a mystery.
 

But who cared? He was in Banshee Creek. Alive.

She smiled, threw her arms around her friend's neck, and kissed him on the cheek. She was so happy to see him again, she felt her heart would burst.
 

Sometimes people didn't come back. She knew that very well.

She felt him flinch and pull back, and she let go hastily. She shouldn't be so effusive, she told herself. She knew how he was.
 

But she couldn't help but smile as she stepped back and looked at him. Same old Mike, six feet of pure muscle with blond hair cut ridiculously short, a strong jaw, and clear blue eyes. He was the prototypical American good guy, down to the trail of freckles over his nose.

Something inside her ached as she looked at him, and she realized with a pang that she hadn't expected to see him again.
 

She pushed the thought away and focused on his face. There were shadows under his eyes, and he looked tired. No, he looked drained, as if he'd used every last reserve getting here.

But, hey, he got back didn't he?

"Are you crying?" Mike asked, alarmed.

"Am not," she sniffled. Okay, maybe there was a teeny bit of moisture, but, really, it was nothing. "It's the fake eyelashes. They make my eyes water."

He looked intently at her face and frowned. "Why are you wearing so much face paint?"

"It's part of the costume," she explained, striking a pose with legs spread, holding an invisible gun in her hand. "What do you think?"

"Uh." His eyes seemed glued to the plunging neckline of the leather cat suit, which was surprising. As far as she knew, Mike didn't even know she was female.

She waved her invisible gun, grinning. "Eyes up here, Sergeant."
 

He looked up instantly and she fought down a giggle. Was he blushing? He
was
. He also seemed confused. He looked at her hands, her boots, her hair, desperately trying to find a safe place to focus on.
 
The costume, she had to admit, didn't offer many. He finally decided to stare at her hair.
 

"Who are you supposed to be?" he asked in a cautious tone.

"Are you kidding me?" She shook her head in faux despair. "Sometimes I forget that you're culturally illiterate." She struck another pose and winked. "The name is Peel. Mrs. Emma Peel."

He stared at her, uncomprehendingly.

"You know?" She flipped her hair, trying to jog his memory. "From the Avengers?"

Comprehension dawned.

"Oh, I see," he said, brightening. "The Black Widow girl, er, woman."

She widened her eyes in mock horror.

"Not
those
Avengers," she clarified. "The
real
ones."

He looked confused. Poor guy, he desperately needed to expand his horizons. Well, he'd come to the right place. She grabbed his arm and led him to her house. This called for an intervention.

"Don't worry," she said. "I have all the DVDs with bonus commentary. Give me a couple of days and you'll be drinking tea and talking with a British accent."

He laughed, the shadows lifting from his eyes. It was his old laugh, a deep chuckle that made his eyes crinkle, and it made her smile. Sure, they text messaged and Skyped and she'd sent him a bunch of care packages full of paperback mystery novels and those weird health bars he liked, but that clearly wasn't enough. He needed some R&R, and a couple of days in Banshee Creek would help take away the exhausted look on his face.

They reached the porch, and Abby took her keys out of the utility belt and opened the door.

"You can drop off your bag..." Her voice trailed off as Mike pulled on her arm.

He dropped his bag on the floor of the porch.
 

"I can't stay, Abby," he said. The laughter was all gone, and his eyes were steady and serious. "I have to go."

"Go where?" she asked sharply. The Army was Mike's whole life. He had, she well knew, nowhere to go. "You just got here."

"Arlington," he said. "My commanding officer got me a new assignment. I just came to... "

"Arlington, as in Virginia?" she blurted out. This was a surprise. Mike's assignments were usually overseas.
 

"Yep." He nodded, looking less than happy. "Back in the old U.S. of A."

 
"That's great news," she said, meaning every word. Arlington wasn't that far away, a couple of her friends commuted there every day. It was a bit of a hike, but doable. "But it's not exactly a surprise. I bet you finished your tour of duty and met with a couple of bigwigs who instantly offered you a job."

"Well, not instantly," he demurred.

"Yes, instantly," she laughed. "You're the kind of person people hire, Mike. You reek of reliability."

He looked a bit taken aback. "You say that like it's a bad thing."

"Sometimes it is." She looked at his duffle bag and frowned. "And I think today is one of those times. Did you just leave base?" She asked the question, even though she knew the answer. "Like less than twenty-four hours ago?"

He wouldn't meet her eyes. He was suddenly fascinated with her supermarket chrysanthemums.

"You didn't take a break or anything," she continued. "No vacation, no R&R, or whatever you call it."

He started to reply, but she cut him off with a gesture.

"Don't bother lying. You're no good at it, and I know your habits. When I went to Germany to visit Cole, he practically had to drag you to that convention we went to in Munich."
 

He looked offended. "Not everyone's into Star Trek, Abby, especially not in German, and I went to hear you sing. That counts as recreation."

"Barely," she huffed. "Cole said you never went off base and never took a break. Just work, work, work and then more work."

"Nothing wrong with work."

Abby's eyes narrowed suspiciously. Work was like a religion with Mike. "Cole said that the higher-ups had to
force
you to take leave."

He opened his mouth to protest, but she help up a hand.
 

"They did, didn't they?"

"That's none of your—"

She interrupted him. "How long, Mike?"
 

He gave an exasperated sigh, but didn't answer her question. Poor Mike.

"Hear me out," she continued. "After you start your new job you'll rent an anonymous apartment, which you'll fill the with IKEA furniture, Tom Clancy books, and frozen dinners."

Mike looked offended. "There's nothing wrong with frozen dinners. They help manage one's protein intake."
 

"Yeah," she replied, rolling her eyes. "And I'm sure you have an app for that."

He looked at the floor guiltily.

 
"You'll run five miles every day, eat a granola bar for breakfast, then take the Metro to go to work at the Pentagon. You'll have a turkey sandwich for lunch with a bag of baby carrots, then return to your perfectly neat apartment in the afternoon, heat some mac'n'cheese concoction, and settle down to watch old
JAG
episodes."

He chuckled, but it sounded a bit forced. "Well, the mac'n'cheese will be organic, and I'll probably watch
NCIS
reruns instead.
JAG
is too unrealistic."

Abby shook her head,
NCIS
, for pity's sake, she couldn't allow this. She had to save Mike from his self-imposed exile into the land of bland food and blander TV.

Kraft and Mark Harmon wouldn't take away the shadows from his eyes.

"And I'm thinking of getting a ride," he mused. "Maybe a motorcycle."

Her heart skipped a beat.

 
"That can wait," she said firmly. "You can take your leave here. Arlington's not far and I know you Army guys sublet to each other on the military forums. You can set up your new life from here. "

What was it with guys and motorcycles? She'd just spent an entire afternoon cheering up Zach Franco, who'd almost gotten himself killed in a bike accident in South America. He'd survived but his arm and back had been shattered. Luckily, he'd regained the ability to walk, but her lead guitarist would never be able to play the guitar again. The thought of Mike on a motorcycle terrified her, but she kept that to herself.
 

 
"So how long is your leave?" she repeated.

He wouldn't meet her eyes. "Well, I'm always subject to being recalled—"

She glared at him.

"Two weeks," he admitted, finally giving up the fight.

 
"That's perfect," she said, thinking hard. "You can help us out and have, you know, fun while doing it." She glanced at his fatigues, which could, she was pretty sure, pass as a costume. "We're trying to get our Halloween party into the Guinness Book of World Records and we need every warm body we can get."

"That sounds even better than the German Star Trek convention." His eyes shone with amusement. "No, as appealing as your offer sounds, Abby, I really need to go." He glanced at his bag. "I just have to deliver..."

That gave her an idea. She grabbed the green duffle bag and pushed it—dear lord, what did he have in there? Kryptonite?—into the house. He stared at her in shock as she quickly locked the door.

"There," she said. "Now you
have
to stay."

Mike lunged for the key, but she jumped back, avoiding him. She stuck her tongue out at him and put the key in her bra. She didn't question why it was so important to keep Mike in Banshee Creek. She just accepted that, right now, it was the most important thing in the world.

He frowned at her, no longer amused.

"Oh c'mon," he said, again staring fixedly at her hair. "That's not fair."

"All's fair in..." She was going to say "love and war" but thought better of it. "War" didn't sound quite right.
 

And "love?"

Love definitely sounded wrong.
 

C
HAPTER
T
HREE

"I
F
YOU
call me Natasha one more time," Abby's voice was sharp as steel, "I'm going to take one of those arrows and stick it in your you-know-what."

Mike smiled as the guy in the purple mask slinked away. At least he wasn't the only one who thought Abby's clingy leotard was a Black Widow costume.

"I swear," she grumbled, glaring at the retreating figure. "People have no sense of history any more."

They were waiting in line to be admitted to the party. It was early evening and the sky still glowed orange from a belated sunset. The trees were covered with golden leaves and a kid dressed like a Shaolin monk was playing "People are Strange" on his guitar. The creepy mansion he'd seen when he arrived in town loomed in front of them, all mildewed fish scale siding and peeling purple paint. The waterspouts were in the shape of gargoyle heads and each one held a small stone sign inscribed with an arcane symbol.
 

He had to hand it to the party organizers, they knew how to create ambiance. The place was creepy as hell.

"I guess this house is what started the haunted town stories," he said.
 

Abby shook her head. "This? No, not really, the stories predate the town. A Powhatan Princess threw herself off the Banshee Falls when her father killed her lover. That was the first story. Then the Scots-Irish founded the town, and the banshee stories started. When the Civil War came about, the ghost stories multiplied, but the real catalyst was author Ambrose Bierce. He had a summer cottage here, and he wrote a book about all the weirdness he heard about during his vacations."

"A whole book?"

"Yep,
Strange Occurrences at Banshee Creek.
He published it in 1896 and it was enormously popular. It pretty much cemented the town's reputation." She shrugged. "We've been terminally haunted ever since."
 

"Well, this house doesn't help."

"No, it doesn't." She giggled. "Someone came up with the geomagnetic fault explanation in the seventies. That didn't help either."