Ghost Killer

Book 3: The Ghost Seer Novel

by Robin D. Owens

Genres: Horror; Paranormal Romance; Supernatural suspense

Synopsis

From the bestselling author of the Celta novels and the Ghost Seer novels...

Something wicked this way comes…
 When her aunt died, level-headed accountant Clare Cermak inherited a fortune—as well as a phantom dog and the power to help ghosts move on. Her new gift led her to Zach Slade, a sexy private investigator with a unique psychic gift of his own, and the man who’s slowly opening her heart. But as they work toward building a future together, a sinister threat emerges.

An evil ghost is ravaging Creede, Colorado, threatening to devour the spirit of an innocent boy. Inexperienced in facing such a powerful ghost—and knowing her spirit, too, could be ripped away—Clare still can't refuse to help. With Zach’s support she uncovers the ghost’s identity, and the ancestral weapon required to slay it. But does Clare dare to use that weapon before the ghost destroys the man she loves—and her own spirit?

Release date: February 3, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

CONTENTS

COUNTING CROWS RHYME

 

ONE

DANGER COMES, ENZO howled, running through the bedroom door. Not the doorway, the door. Even a ghost Labrador should not have all the hair on his body standing out.

Clare Cermak’s heartbeat kicked fast and she shuddered in the bed of her lover. She pulled the sheet high, even though the room was—had been—warm and sunny this morning.

Enzo leapt for the bed and landed on her, in her, sending the coldness of his being into her legs. His dark doggy eyes showed fear. Before she could say anything, those “eyes” began to morph into bottomless black mist with jagged white streaks . . . signifying that the Other spirit who took over her happy companion would be speaking to her. Enzo was her spirit guide; she hadn’t quite figured out what the Other was, but when he/it came, she felt like an expendable pawn in an unknown chess game.

You are not, quite, expendable, the Other “said.” The words reverberated in her head, but more, seemed to knock heavy molecules of air together in soundless explosions through the room. Zach, facedown beside her, began to stir and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to hear what the Other said or not. This was the first time she’d been to his apartment, the first night she’d spent. She cherished the togetherness that the Other could splinter.

Judgmental eyes fixed upon her. Not, quite, expendable, the Other repeated. Your work has been . . . adequate . . . for your first two projects, since you accepted your gift.

Clare had heard her psychic ability to help ghosts pass on to the hereafter called a gift, but she considered it a curse.

We have paid you well for your gift, the Other, still standing face-to-face with her, said.

Yes, she’d inherited millions, and for each major ghost she’d aided, had received income. But she’d also lost her previous life as an accountant, which she’d loved.

You are ungrateful. The Other’s skin of his muzzle pulled back and showed the teeth bigger than what she saw, supernatural teeth.

Beside her, Zach groaned and rolled over, pushed away his dark hair from his forehead and opened blue green eyes. The Other stepped to put a paw square on his chest and Zach grunted.

It is well you are together, Clare Cermak and Zach Slade, the Other said dispassionately. One of you might survive, should you walk into this danger.

A rapping came on the door between Zach’s former-housekeeper’s apartment and the rest of the mansion. The Other and Enzo vanished and Zach sat up, put his warm, muscular, and solid, arm around Clare. He looked down at her. “I heard the Other. You will survive.”

Clare realized she trembled. Mostly with cold, she assured herself.

“What did the bastard say?”

She shook her head in denial of the fear spearing through her, swallowed so she found more spit in her dry mouth to speak. “Danger comes.”

Zach grunted, rolled off the bed and pulled on some sweat pants, yelled to the person still pounding on the door, “Just a damn— Just a minute!”

“Probably Mrs. Flinton,” Clare said, speaking of his landlady, the very wealthy owner of the mansion. She’d offered the apartment to Zach the first day he’d been in Denver and interviewed with Rickman Security and Investigations.

Clare dragged on her bra, turned yesterday’s panties inside out for now and put them on, slipped into her sundress. She had no clothes here.

Zach had already snagged his cane and left the bedroom. He’d gone to the door in the little hallway just outside and perpendicular to the bedroom. Clare heard him open the door slightly. “Mrs. Flinton?”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. So, sorry,” her voice quavered. Usually the woman exuded vim and vigor.

“Sorry to disturb me? That’s a first,” Zach teased. “Come on in. I think you need to talk to Clare, right?” he said in a casual tone that amazed Clare. She still had trouble breathing steadily. But he’d been a deputy sheriff and was used to adrenaline dumps. That didn’t happen often when you were a certified public accountant at a nice, safe job for a prestigious, maybe stodgy, firm.

“Yes. There’s trouble.” A drawn-in breath. “An evil ghost.”

The last three words stopped Clare in her tracks, to take a breath. She’d only been a ghost seer for seventeen days and didn’t have the experience to handle an evil ghost.

But Mrs. Flinton continued to talk in a whisper. “I have tea and pastries in the breakfast room, if you wish to join me.”

Clare didn’t want to pretend this discussion would be pleasant over tea and pastries. She stomped her fear into the carpet as she joined Zach and Mrs. Flinton in the hallway.

He slanted a look at Clare, stepped back, then opened the door wide for his landlady. For the first time since Clare had met her, Mrs. Flinton actually looked and acted elderly, face sagging with worry, mouth quivering.

“The tea—” Mrs. Flinton protested.

“I have food. I’m a P.I. and I discuss cases in my apartment. We can talk in the living room.” He turned and stalked the few steps to where the short hall opened into the main living space.

He sounded more accepting of his change of career from a deputy sheriff in Montana to a P.I. in Denver, due to a gunshot wound, than he had when Clare had first met him.

His living room was a manly room for speaking of danger, as opposed to the parlor, which was decorated in cheerful yellow chintz with filmy white curtains.

The woman pushed a roller walker into the room, leaning on it. She crossed to one of the big brown leather chairs, leaving the sofa and the other chair on this side of the room for Zach and Clare.

Clare felt too nervy to sit. “I’ll put coffee on, why don’t I?” She crossed to the small pullman kitchen that was separated from the living room by a half wall that was a counter with stools in the main space.

Mrs. Flinton, who’d unaccustomedly slumped, perked up, her pink-lipsticked mouth smiling. “Coffee!”

Clare angled back to her. “Are you supposed to have coffee?”

“I would love some.” Mrs. Flinton tried a wobbly smile.

Since the older woman evaded the question, she probably wasn’t supposed to have coffee. But Clare needed it and thought Zach did, too. She sent Mrs. Flinton a stern look over the counter. “You’ll be having herbal tea.”

Mrs. Flinton pouted, then sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Though what I really need is a martini.”

Zach chuckled as he lounged on the couch. “Not going to have that, either.”

“Bloody Mary?” Mrs. Flinton raised penciled-on brows.

“Nope. No alcohol here.”

Sniffing, Mrs. Flinton said, “You are wrong. We stocked your liquor cabinet, and I know my housekeeper has given you wine from my cellar with your meals.” Another sniff. “Wine my doctor says I can’t have.”

The return of her upbeat personality and the dripping of the coffee as it filled the pot soothed Clare enough for her to slide into the living room with a pleasant expression and sit next to Zach.

Mrs. Flinton’s face crumpled when she saw Clare and tears began to roll down her cheeks. There was nothing for it; Clare rose and moved over to perch on the arm of the woman’s chair, patted her on the shoulder. “Maybe you’d better tell us what’s wrong, Mrs. Flinton.”

“Please call me Barbara, especially since I’ll be imposing on you so much.” She whisked out a lace-edged hanky and dabbed her eyes and her cheeks.

Zach said, “Just tell us, Barbara.”

Straightening to ramrod stiff, not looking at Clare, Barbara said, “Yes, I suppose I must. It’s about another ghost seer.”

Clare drew in a small breath. Maybe she’d have help in dealing with this evil ghost. Any help would be great. “Another ghost seer?”

Mrs. Flinton continued, “Yes, I have a little bit of several psychic gifts, but Caden has just one, like you, and we’re thinking it must be ghost seeing.” Her fingers crushed the handkerchief until the delicate linen disappeared into her fist.

Clare’s gaze met Zach’s. He nodded, as if confirming he was in this with her. As he always had been. She was lucky.

“Caden?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual. “And who is ‘we’?”

“We are me, his great grandmother, and my daughter, Caden’s grandmother, who believe in psychic gifts, but not his parents.”

“Parents,” said Zach neutrally.

“Caden is seven.” A quivery sigh followed by a rush of words. “It seems his gift is coming too fast and too soon.”

Clare recalled when her own gift descended—freezing in the hottest summer of Denver, the weird going-insane feeling, and, yes, people who didn’t think she saw ghosts, including herself. Terrible stress. “Oh my God,” Clare breathed. Despite any danger, she could not refuse to help.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Flinton cleared her throat. She sniffed wetly, raised big, blue eyes to Clare. “Even though in our family we don’t have the effects that seem to apply to yours—the lethal coldness and threat of insanity, it’s not good. There’s a powerful and bad ghost out there, and he’s young.”

Clare flinched. The tea kettle shrieked. Avoiding Zach’s gaze, she went behind the counter to the stove on the far wall and turned off the burner. She fussed with the loose leaf tea of twigs and blossoms in a little basket. Grabbed a half minute to lean discreetly against the fridge.

“Pour your coffees first, dear,” Mrs. Flinton instructed. “Otherwise the water will be too hot for the herbs and ruin their efficacy.”

Waiting until her hands were steady, Clare poured mugs of coffee for Zach and herself. Just the smell of rich, dark caffeine strengthened her. He always took black, and she added a little sugar from the bowl on the counter, and real cream from the fridge to hers. With her chin high, she took a mug to him.

He looked at her straight, all acceptance of life-threatening trouble, and as if judging whether she could also face that up front. She firmed her lips and dipped her head. As much as she’d bobbed and ducked in the past, trying to evade her gift, now was not the time to drag her feet.

The bottom line was that an endangered child wouldn’t let her ignore her power to move ghosts on. Hopefully she had enough mojo-whatever to kick an evil one out of this world.

Giving them all time to think about what should be said next, what plans had to be made, Clare put her own mug on a magazine on the coffee table, went back for Mrs. Flinton’s tea, then handed the delicate china cup to her.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Flinton said, and cradled the cup in both hands as if cherishing the warmth.

Clare sat next to Zach and even leaned against him a little. He was much nicer than the fridge, and knew about trouble and danger. Leaning against him, accepting his expertise, didn’t automatically mean she was dependent on him.

Putting down his mug, he took the lead, as she’d expected.

“Trouble,” Zach prompted.

Mrs. Flinton’s hand holding the teacup shook and she put it down. “Yes. I know Caden’s in trouble and my granddaughter and her husband don’t believe that. They are good, solid—”

“Unimaginative—” Zach said.

“Rational—” Clare began herself.

“Yes. Both of those.” Mrs. Flinton blinked rapidly as if to keep more tears from falling. Her eyes appeared even bluer and she whispered, “I’ve heard . . . that an evil ghost is very dangerous, even to the living.” She stared into the distance, turning so pale that her carefully blended makeup stood out on her face.

Clare shivered. Zach slid his arm from the sofa behind her to wrap around her shoulders.

Since Mrs. Flinton already knew about Enzo, Clare called him. “Enzo?”

The ghost Labrador simply appeared, sitting between Mrs. Flinton and Clare, angled to watch them both.

Oh, no! Enzo whimpered. This is bad. This is VERY bad. He shuddered, straightened, and turned his eyes on Clare. But we will do it! I will help. I . . . I am SURE we can kill the bad ghost!

Her formerly staunch phantom dog didn’t sound sure.

“Yeah,” Zach said. He didn’t sound too alarmed and rubbed Clare’s shoulder.

Clare was alarmed. Enzo had spoken of evil ghosts before. She knew she wasn’t experienced enough to fight one.

Mrs. Flinton began to hiccup in distress. Clare stood and walked around the coffee table to pick up her teacup and hand it back to her. “Drink it down, Mrs. Flinton,” Clare said. Luckily her voice didn’t betray her inner qualms.

Nodding, Mrs. Flinton sipped, then gestured to the elegant Hermès bag attached to her walker. “Please retrieve my phone. I have something I want you to view.”

The cell in a sparkly lavender case was easy to find.

“I recorded a call from Caden on SeeAndTalk. Please take the phone over to Zach so you can both watch.”

Clare did, sitting thigh-to-thigh with Zach. She thumbed on the app and held it so they could both see.

“Hi, Great-Gram,” a blond-haired boy with Mrs. Flinton’s eyes whispered.

“Hello, Caden,” Mrs. Flinton’s voice came.

The boy glanced around. “I gotta be fast.” His expression tightened, pinching his features. “They don’t believe me, Gram! I tell them, and tell them, but they won’t believe. They say I’m making it up.” He gulped. “I’m not, Gram.”

“What’s wrong, Caden?”

“There’s a ghost here in town. A real bad one. I think it was lurking or . . . you know that scary place where East Willow and West Willow Creeks meet? Near the bottom of the dirt Bachelor Loop road? The place where Mrs. Treedy killed her husband and herself last month—”

“How do you know about that, Caden?”

“I know I wasn’t s’posed to hear, but all the kids did. That scary spot isn’t sitting there no more. I think it mighta been a crazy ghost and got stirred up.” He shivered. “I went there and now it’s like a nasty old oily spot and feels like dirt and gravel in the wind.” He began hyperventilating.

“Calm down, Caden, and tell me.”

“I’m sorry, Gram. There’s a ghost! A big, bad ghost and it’s out to get me!”

“Get you how?”

The thin boy shuddered. “Suck my soul out of my body and eat it.”

A harsh breath from Mrs. Flinton. “Caden, love?”

His lower lip thrust out, his brows came down. “I can too see ghosts. I told you. And you said you believed me!”

“I said that, and I meant it,” the woman assured.

“Well, I do see ghosts, though usually not old, old ones like this one. And I don’t see this one as much as feel it, and it feels really awful. As if it has teeth, crunch, crunch, crunch, and wants to eat me. My bones, crunch, crunch, crunch. And my, my inside spirit or . . . the rest of me.”

Clare jerked. Zach’s arm came around her and Enzo trotted over and laid chill on her feet.

“All right, Caden—” Mrs. Flinton began to soothe.

“Gram!”

“Shh, Caden,” Mrs. Flinton said. “Listen to me. Are you listening?”

The boy bobbed his head.

“You can’t live in fear. And the best way to stop doing that is to live moment to moment. Just concentrate on getting as much joy out of every minute you can. Do you understand me?”

“Don’t worry about the future?”

“That’s only making you more afraid, so don’t do that now. I’ll be sending you help. I promise.”

That is good advice, Enzo sent to Clare mentally. We must remember it.

Yes, it fit in with Enzo’s character well, and Mrs. Flinton’s, not so much with Clare’s. But with all the situations she’d been experiencing in her new career, she should consider it a motto to strive for.

“Caden?” called a young woman’s voice on the recording.

“Gram, Mommy and Daddy don’t believe me.” Tears began to trickle down his face. “It comes most at night. I’m afraid to sleep. Help me, Gram.”

“Caden, where are you and what are you doing?” called the younger woman.

The screen went black. Clare glanced up to see Mrs. Flinton’s shoulders hunched and shaking as she wept into her handkerchief. Her muffled voice came. “It’s hard to enjoy every moment when you fear, but I do fear. I did my best so Caden wouldn’t.” She uncurled, dabbed at her nose. “He trusts me, I must take care of him.”

Zach cleared his throat. “When did Caden’s call come in?”

Mrs. Flinton wiped her eyes and blew her nose and her spine straightened to ramrod. “This morning. I checked with my granddaughter, Caden’s fine and at school.” Her breath rasped in and out. “I knew I could count on you, Zach, and on Clare”—Mrs. Flinton sent her a look of appeal—“to help me. So I waited for you. As long as I could. I have a favor to ask you—” Mrs. Flinton began in a shaky voice.

The door from the mansion opened and Tony Rickman, Zach’s boss at Rickman Security and Investigations, walked in carrying a large tray holding covered dishes. Clare smelled bacon and eggs.

“I’ll take care of this, Godmama Barbara,” Mr. Rickman said, striding the few paces to the coffee table and lowering the tray. He then turned to Zach and Clare. “I have a case for you both.”

TWO

“WHEN I CALLED you, Tony, I didn’t mean for you to interrupt your workday and come over,” Mrs. Flinton said with starch in her tone.

Mr. Rickman went to her and kissed her cheek. “I’m here to take charge—take care of my godmama.” His mouth flattened. “And young Caden. We don’t know all the particulars,” the man stated flatly. “This case could include a physical threat as well as . . . ah . . . non-physical. As your other cases have, Clare.”

She nodded but wasn’t reassured. Her insides continued to tremble with the thought of facing an evil spirit.

Zach raised his brows at Clare, his expression calm. She’d always been wishy-washy about “consulting” for Rickman Security and Investigations and using her psychic gift. Was a little wary of Tony Rickman, too. Bad enough that The Powers That Be, the universe, whatever, dropped cases of ghosts that needed to move on in her lap, let alone another, human source. She also didn’t want her name to get out as a medium. The more people who knew she could communicate with ghosts, the less a secret it was.

“Do we accept this case?” Zach asked.

Clare shrugged then said, “You don’t have to pay us—me—Mrs. Flinton. You saved my life . . . or at least my sanity.”

“I agree,” Zach said.

“You work for me, you get paid,” Mr. Rickman said. “And you will both work for me on this.”

Zach leaned down to whisper to Clare, “He’s a control freak.”

Thinking back to the few things she’d read in her great-aunt Sandra’s journals—the previous holder of the “gift”—Clare said, “I’m not sure there will be a physical element to this . . . or . . . whether regular people are in danger.” She rubbed Enzo’s back with her foot.

Enzo thumped his tail. Bad ghosts CAN hurt people! Especially people who can see them, like you and Caden. It will try to get your spirit and eat you first.

An image from him brushed against her mind—that she didn’t think he meant her to see—of some screaming clawed being ripping the spirit from her body, and, yes, eating her with dozens of razor-like teeth.

She shuddered, swallowed hard, then swigged some coffee to wet her mouth that had gone dry. “So bad ghosts can hurt people,” Clare repeated aloud. “But that doesn’t mean there’s a human villain, does it, a physical threat?”

Enzo sat up. Ghosts can influence people.

“Ghosts can influence people,” Zach repeated. So he heard Enzo.

“We need you to go to Creede, Colorado, today,” Mr. Rickman said, taking control of the conversation again.

“That’s where Caden is?” Clare asked.

“Yes,” both Mrs. Flinton and Mr. Rickman said in unison.

Mrs. Flinton sniffled.

Mr. Rickman pulled out a big, square handkerchief from his trousers pocket and handed it to her, shot a glance at Clare and Zach. “Eat,” he ordered.

Zach leaned over and took off the silver domes. Sure enough, thick bacon, soft scrambled cheesy eggs, and buttered English muffins sat on two plates. Zach lifted one and shoveled the eggs in his mouth.

That was a man of action for you, ready to fuel up at a moment’s notice while her throat was still dry and closed from fear. Clare savored her coffee.

Tony Rickman arranged his big body in the chair near them.

Mrs. Flinton said, “I called my granddaughter and asked if Caden could spend some time with me, get him out of the town, and was politely told to keep my nose out of their business.” She sighed and didn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “They have serious ideas about how to raise their son, and it doesn’t include any ‘fancies or fantasies’ I might ‘put in his head,’” Mrs. Flinton stated calmly, though her hand trembled a little bit as she drank her tea.

Beside Clare, Zach stiffened. He had a marine general for a father who probably held the same beliefs. Those Clare herself had recently cherished until she’d been violently shown that psychic powers, and ghosts, existed.

“Godmama Barbara’s right.” Tony Rickman stared at Clare and Zach. “The LuCettes won’t send Caden here to be influenced by her without supervision.” Now Mr. Rickman gave a wintry smile. “And they won’t send Caden to me because they don’t want him around a military man, and they distrust my wife Desiree, thinking she’s a flake.”

Clare rather thought that, too.

“If I go down there, I’ll only alienate them . . . more,” Mrs. Flinton said. The older woman’s mouth pursed, showing fine lines. “They wouldn’t welcome me.” Her lips pressed together and she shook her head as she gazed at Clare. “My own psychic power is not strong enough to help.”

Tony Rickman grunted, “Good.”

Placing her teacup on a side table, Mrs. Flinton said, “Caden is right.” She sighed. “His parents won’t believe him. Will only think he’s having nightmares, which is how they explain his gift. I do believe him about a threatening ghost. Do you?”

“Yes,” Clare and Zach said at the same time.

Yes! Enzo hopped to his feet, paced and circled the room, tail thwapping the air, sending a chilly draft through the room. Mrs. Flinton and Clare watched him, Zach ate, and Tony Rickman crossed his arms over his chest and studiously avoided looking at the spectral Labrador.

Enzo came back and sat near Clare’s feet, but mostly in the coffee table, looked sorrowfully at the food, then back at her. This is dangerous, Clare. Every spirit the bad ghost eats makes it bigger and eviler. I don’t want it to eat a boy. We must protect him.

“I don’t want it to eat a boy, either,” Clare said.

Zach crunched down his bacon. “We won’t let that happen,” he said with complete assurance.

Clare didn’t know how they could prevent it, didn’t know enough, but Zach was used to acting fast, thinking on his feet, and solving problems. She sent a thought to Enzo. I don’t know how to MAKE an evil ghost move on. Do you?

His color cycled from substantial grays to nearly translucent. Maybe. He looked up at her earnestly. We will try and we will do it!

She blew a breath out, glanced around the room. Zach was totally on her side, she knew that, and he might be able to come up with scenarios that would work if—when—she shared what she knew. Her shoulders had tensed when she realized she didn’t think she could do this without him.

Keeping her tones light, she asked, “Mrs. Flinton, can you give me any tips for sending a ghost on?”

The older lady shook her head. “I’m sorry, I can’t. I see ghosts, of course, and communicate with them occasionally if they please, but I can’t help them transition to their next life.”

Clare nodded. She hadn’t thought so. Her gaze swung to Mr. Rickman, who looked sterner than ever. His jaw flexed and his gaze drilled into hers. “Terminate it with extreme prejudice,” he said.

Even she knew that meant “kill.”

“I’ve never done that,” she said.

He jerked a nod, but from his attitude he expected her to learn how to do so.

They locked stares until Mrs. Flinton said, “Creede is a four-and-a-half-hour drive. If you leave now, you could reach it mid-afternoon, well before dark.” Her chin set. “That’s important. I want Caden protected, and they won’t let me take him, and they won’t come visit me as a family. My granddaughter and grandson-in-law have a motel in town, and they live on the premises. This is a busy time of year for them.”

“Major hunting season’s coming up,” Zach said.

“Yes. And Michael also has a business for processing game. They make a good bit of money this time of year.”

“And not so much during the winter,” Clare said. “When the tourists are mostly gone.”

“No. Many businesses close during the winter. But Michael and Jessica are stubborn about self-sufficiency, among other things.”

“Self-sufficiency is important. Even for those who have family money or trust funds,” Clare said.

“They love their life,” Mrs. Flinton said.

Lucky them.

“And that’s important.” Mrs. Flinton managed a slight smile. “Loving your live and living each minute.”

Rickman stretched his big body and stood and Zach rose a millisecond after his boss, still holding his coffee mug. “We’ll get right on this,” Zach said.

Clare got to her feet, too. “I need to go home and pack.”

Mrs. Flinton pressed her hands together. “How long do you think it will take for you to . . . move this thing on?”

Destroy it, Enzo said.

“Destroy it,” Clare muttered, tensing all over again. “I don’t know. You know I have very limited experience.”

“This ghost is probably subtly affecting the whole town, Clare, influencing people to more violence. More sensitive folks will have nightmares and hear . . . experience . . . things. Awful,” Mrs. Flinton said.

Mr. Rickman rolled his hand. “Give me a shot at how long this will take, Clare.”

“It shouldn’t take more than”—she looked at Enzo—“two weeks.”

The dog’s forehead wrinkled but he didn’t contradict her.

Clearing his throat, and looking out the front window, Mr. Rickman said, “There’s a big tourist event, car show—Cruisin’ the Canyon—Friday through Sunday in Creede.” He rolled a shoulder. “I have a classic car, thought about attending. Gonna be a lot of tourists in the town this weekend . . . t