After Moonrise: Possessed / Haunted. Gena Showalter
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“Well, I give a shit now!” Lauren shouted, surprising both of them. She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. “Sorry. I’m not usually such a bitch.”
He chuckled. “Yeah, well, I’m usually such a bastard.”
The air around them shimmered, and then, in the middle of Raef’s living room, Aubrey manifested, saying, “No wonder you don’t bring women home.”
This time her emotions were muted. Her sparkle wasn’t totally gone, but it had definitely dimmed. Still, she smiled at him, and as she did Raef felt a flutter of pleasure wash against his skin as, once again, he picked up her emotions. She’s pleased to see me, Raef realized. That’s what I’m feeling.
“He didn’t say he didn’t bring women home.” Lauren broke into his internal dialogue. She shook her head at her twin, speaking to her in a totally normal, if tired, voice. “He said he didn’t bring clients home. I’ve been telling you for years, if you’re gonna eavesdrop, get it right.”
“Touché,” Aubrey said, grinning at her sister.
Raef frowned at both women. “It’s not just about me not bringing clients here. I also don’t bring work home. Period.”
“You mean this cool old house is a no-ghost zone?” Aubrey said impishly.
Raef didn’t say anything because he was feeling her playful sense of humor, and that feeling had his voice lodged somewhere in his gut.
“I have to sit down,” Lauren said, glancing at him and then the wide leather couch. “Do you mind?”
“Yeah, I mean, no. Hell, I mean, yes, you may sit,” Raef stuttered like an idiot.
Aubrey giggled, obviously getting some of her sparkle back.
“You’re freaking him out,” Lauren said as she sat heavily. “And you’re exhausting me.”
Aubrey’s sparkled dimmed. “Sorry, sis,” she said. She didn’t move to sit beside her sister, whose face was back in her hands, but Raef watched her lift a semitransparent hand toward her, like she wanted to touch her. He felt her sadness then, and realized he hated it and had a ridiculous urge to do something, anything, to erase her sadness and bring back her joy—her joy he could feel.
And that was just fucking not normal.
“Okay, that’s enough,” he said gruffly. Both women, alive and dead, turned their pretty faces to him. “I need to know what the hell is going on here.” He pointed at the ghost. “Were you murdered or not?” Raef watched the twins exchange a look.
Lauren spoke first. “Tell him. He’ll see, and it’ll make the explanation easier.”
“It’ll hurt,” Aubrey said.
“I know. Just do it fast and get it over with. I’ll see you again soon,” Lauren said.
Aubrey nodded and then faced him. She met his gaze for a long time—long enough for Raef to be struck by her beauty. Yeah, she looked a whole lot like her twin, that figured. But she was softer, curvier, shorter—and her hair was longer. Just then it was lifting around her in response to a nonexistent wind.
“I know you can help us. I believe in you, Kent.”
He knew she was telling the truth. He could feel her belief. It was warm and strong and very, very disconcerting—which left him utterly unprepared for her next words, and the flood of agony that followed them.
“My body was murdered by a man who has trapped my soul and the souls of a lot of other people. He’s feeding off our pain. His name is—” Aubrey’s words were sliced off as her ghost was ripped in half and Lauren shrieked with her twin in agony—an agony Raef felt all too well, an agony so great that it had his vision narrowing and his heart racing. The torn pieces of Aubrey’s ghost were burned away like morning mist before sunlight and she was gone. Again.
Raef realized he had staggered to the couch and was clutching the back of it to keep himself upright. He raised a shaking hand and wiped sweat from his brow. The sound of a body dropping to the floor had him struggling to refocus in time to see that Lauren had slumped, unconscious, from the couch.
“Shit!” Raef hurried to her, carefully lifting her back on the couch, laying her down and checking for a pulse. “Strong and steady,” he muttered. “Good—good. Hey, come on. Wake up. You’re fine. Everything’s fine,” he said, more for himself than for her.
Lauren’s eyelids fluttered and then opened. He started to breathe a long, relieved sigh, but then he realized how vacant those blue-gray eyes looked. Not only was the light not on, but nofuckingbody was home.
And that scared the shit out of him, so much so that he automatically fell back into what he knew best about dealing with while scared. His voice deepened, hardened, and MSgt Raef barked at her like the Special Forces NCOIC he’d once been. “Lauren! Get your ass back here on the fucking double! You haven’t been given permission to go any damn where!”
Lauren blinked, shook her head as if she’d just come in from the rain, and then her eyes animated and she focused on his face. “Raef.”
Even though the name wasn’t a question, he nodded. “You’re back. Good.”
“Feel bad, though,” she said weakly.
He grunted and nodded. “Bet you do. Your soul’s attached to Aubrey’s, isn’t it?”
“Yes. Always.” The two words were whispers.
“All right. Well, that explains a lot about this cluster fuck.” He stood.
“Are you leaving?”
“Sadly, no. You’re in my house, remember?”
Lauren looked around, as if she hadn’t remembered until then. “Oh, yeah, that’s right. You don’t bring clients here.”
“I don’t brew strong tea with honey for them, either. Which is what I’m going to do for you. Sit. Don’t move. Don’t faint. And don’t fucking disappear on me again.”
“Yes, sir,” she said with what he already understood was uncharacteristic meekness.
He stopped halfway to the kitchen. “And for Christ’s sake, don’t call me sir. I was an NCO. I used to work for a living, unlike a fucking officer.”
He didn’t need to be psychic to feel Lauren’s confusion all the way from the living room. “Civilians …” he grumbled as he clattered through his orderly cupboards and flipped on the electric kettle, tossing a bag of English breakfast tea, a dollop of local honey, a squeeze of fresh lemon and a healthy slosh of single-malt Scotch into each of the large mugs.
When he brought the brewed and spiked tea to the living room he was relieved to see that Lauren was sitting up and studying the art on his fireplace mantel. She turned and raised a brow at him. “Erté?”
“Yep,” he said, handing her the mug of tea. She took the couch and he sat in a leather chair across from it.
“Your wife likes Erté?”
“Not married. Anymore. And no, she did not. I like Erté.”
“Erté was gay.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that.”
She raised a brow at him. “You were military, weren’t you?”
“Air force—OSI, that’s Office of Special Investigations to civilians. Ten years—been out for almost five now,” he said, sipped his tea and then added, “FYI—most military men don’t give a shit whether the guy beside him is gay. They care more that the guy will stay beside him and cover his back. You shouldn’t stereotype, Miss Wilcox, since you don’t appreciate it when people assume you’re just some stuck-up rich bitch who