Ghost Walk (32 page)

She
gave him a playful swat.  “You really are a scoundrel.”

“That
I am.”  He slung an arm around her shoulders.  “And so are you, at heart.  Now,
do you really want to pretend we’re some dreary
normal
folks?  Hand over
our scads of riches to people who had no part in winning them?”  He arched a
brow.  “Or do you want to take our loot, set sail for Jamaica, and spend our
days looking for mermaids and solving crimes?”

A
huge grin spread across Grace’s face.  Just as he knew she would, his uptight
Sunday school teacher of a bride threw her lot in with the odd-ducks and scoundrels
of the world.  The lass would never be normal, thank the Good Lord.

“Fuck
it.”  She said happily and his heart filled with joy.  “Let’s be pirates!”

I’ve
been on ghost walks all over the US.  New Orleans, San Francisco, Arlington,
Cape May…  It seems like every city I visit has some “haunted” tour that
promises to tell you all kinds of scary tales and I always end up buying a
ticket.  Few live up to the spine-tingling hype, but I would always recommend
visitors give these kinds of tours a try.  Even the bad ones usually have
something fun about them.

This
book was inspired by a particularly unmemorable ghost walk I took in Williamsburg
Virginia.  My mom and I were there one summer and bought tickets for a
nighttime tour.  Our guide tried hard, but the tour was not particularly scary
and the temperature was about 100 degrees, so no one had much fun.  As I stood
there, watching fireflies dance like fairies and waiting for it to end, I got
the idea for this story.

The
fictional town of Harrisonburg is directly based on Williamsburg, which is a
fully restored Colonial town.  There are indeed shops that show you how paper,
wheels, and guns were made, which is actually more interesting than Jamie would
have you believe.  I found the wig maker’s shop especially fascinating.  (As a
side note, a great many people in the eighteenth century wore wigs.  By the
1790s, younger, more fashionable men were going without them, though, and Jamie
is thankfully a fashionable guy.)  Williamsburg also has houses to tour, lovely
museums, a hedge maze behind the governor’s mansion, an armory full of muskets
on display, and, on July 4
^th
, a spectacular fireworks show.  Although
this book might suggest otherwise at times, I truly have nothing but positive
things to say about the place.

For
various reasons, I took creative license with some of the historical details used
in this story.  I never intended for it to be a textbook.  It is not a
completely accurate account of the social mores, technological capabilities,
and/or vocabulary used by post-Revolutionary Americans.  If you’re interested
in the reality of the 1700s, though, Williamsburg is definitely a place you’ll
want to visit.

To
my knowledge, there have never been any serial killings on Williamsburg’s picturesque
cobblestone streets.  The murders in this book are entirely a work of fiction. 
America’s first documented serial killer was actually H.H. Holmes in 1893
Chicago.  He built a hotel that was really a house of horrors and killed his unsuspecting
guests in sadistic ways.  (I briefly mention Holmes in
Not Another Vampire
book, for those interested.  And if you’d like more detailed information about
him, I recommend reading
The Devil in the White City:
Murder, Magic, and Madness at the Fair
that Changed America
by Erik Larson.)  Holmes came just a
few years after Jack the Ripper terrorized Whitechapel in England.  That said,
I am of the opinion that there were almost certainly serial killers before the
late nineteenth century.  Urbanization just made their grisly work simpler,
with strangers living in close proximity, and the growing media made it easier
to document.

In
response men like Jack the Ripper and H.H. Holmes, the early twentieth century
saw police forces become more professionalized.  In fact, I would argue that modern
forensic investigation owes something to those early sensationalized murders. 
The public wanted something done to stop madmen and the police responded by
developing new techniques for solving crimes.  For instance, Jack the Ripper
was the first case to have a criminal profile drawn up and, by 1901, England had
developed a system for classifying fingerprints.  It’s sad to think how many old
crimes will remain unsolved forever because they did not have the technology we
have today.  But, on the other hand, it is partly because of those crimes that
there was a push to develop more scientific investigations.

In
case you’re wondering, Luminal can indeed detect very old blood.  When sprayed
at Lizzie Borden’s house, for instance, the floor joists below the murder scene
still glow over a hundred years after her parents were killed.  Also, it is
possible to use an infrared lens to photograph blood spatter that’s been
painted over.  As far as I know, no Revolutionary era crime scenes have ever
been Luminaled or UV photographed, but I’m taking an educated guess that it
would work.

DNA
testing has been performed on blood evidence from historic cases like Jack the
Ripper and even the Lincoln assassination, usually with mixed results.  DNA degrades
over time.  In this book, it is likewise assumed that old DNA evidence would be
of little investigative value for Grace, but that there would still be traces
of blood soaked into things like wood and fabric.  Lifting fingerprints with
Mothwort would not be possible in real life, though, as the herb is entirely a
product of my imagination.  For the record, so is troll powder, regardless of
what the Riveras might believe.

I
took a Crime Scene Investigation course in college.  (I took a lot of eclectic courses
in college, including classes on tennis, horror films, Baroque art, and the “philosophies
of animals.”  It’s part of my nature to be skipping from subject to subject
depending on what interests me and how many credits I needed that semester.)  I
would have to say that the idea of making Grace a crime scene technician comes
straight from that class.  I think it would be a fascinating job, but also incredibly
difficult to come face-to-face with the worst humanity has to offer every day. 
Like Grace, I’m not sure I could handle it.

On
the other hand, I have no background at all with pirating, yet I feel like I’d
be awesome at it.  In my head, it’s all
Pirates of the Caribbean
and
Errol Flynn  I did very little research into that profession other than Netflixing
DVDs, because --let’s be honest-- I doubt Jamie knows a lot about his job,
either.  He’s not Blackbeard.  He’s just a guy who liked to steal gold and
scandalize all the nice girls in town.  Both of us are far more interested in
the romance of legend than the scurvy-filled reality of Colonial seafaring.  If
anyone asked him what it was
really
like, he’d just lie about it anyway. 
Jamie is a guy who enjoys a good tale better than dull “reality.”  It’s one of
the things I like best about the scoundrel.

Jamie
and Grace’s relationship took very little effort to write.  They understood
each other, right from the beginning.  Nearly every scene of this book has the
two of them interacting, because they seemed to always want to be together.  The
plot of this book took far longer to figure out.  (Trust me, it isn’t easy to
draft love scenes where one partner isn’t corporeal.)  In the end, it came
together as I envisioned it, but it took some work to get there.  …Well,
I
had to work at it.  Jamie and Grace were honestly more interested in bickering
than in figuring out the logistics of time travel.  So feel free to blame any
sketchy quantum mechanics on them.

If
you have any questions about ghost tours, Luminal, or the philosophy of
chimpanzees, drop me a line me at
[email protected]
. 
We love to hear from you!

Here is a sneak peek
of another Cassandra Gannon book
Once Upon a Caveman
!

Prologue

Her
hair is a beautiful, amazing mass of midnight black.

Rhawn
lifts his hand to touch the fire lit curls, amazed that she allows it.  Amazed
at how soft it feels.  The incredible, miraculous stands fall around both them,
as she leans forward.  No one has a hair color like hers.  It’s like something
from a story of the gods.  She is so perfect that he cannot breathe.  All his
life he has dreamed of her, in bits and pieces, but this time it’s like she’s
really in his arms.

Like
she’s
real.

She
isn’t, of course.

This
woman doesn’t actually exist.  She can’t.  No woman would ever be with him. 
Especially not a woman like this.  But inside this dream, he can pretend she’s
actually in his arms, welcoming him.  She’s straddling his body as he reclines
on the pelts, the warm perfection of her curves sliding against him.  Rhawn has
no clue what he’s done to lure her here, but --stupid as he is-- he’s not
stupid enough to question it.

Once
a cycle he has a dream of her, always on this day.  It is the highlight of his
life.  And the dream this cycle is better than he’d ever imagined.

Her
eyes are brilliant green, filled with mischief.  His lungs cannot get enough
air when she looks at him and smiles.  No one ever looks at him like that.

Why
is she never repulsed?

His
hands are calloused on her skin.  They’re too big and too rough to touch
someone so delicate, but he can’t gentle his hold.  Rhawn is the largest man in
the Clan.  Tempering his strength is difficult and this woman is driving him
past all control.  She always has.  The shine of her hair and the light of her
smile.  This is the clearest he’s ever seen her and he is overwhelmed with
emotions.  The woman means
everything
to him.

Imaginary
or not, she is his mate.

He’s
trying to remove the foreign clothing that his mind has created for her. 
Obviously, they’re a sign of his masochistic leanings, because he has never has
idea how to get her out of the damn things.  This covering is made of some
waterfall of scarlet fabric that’s so much finer than anything the Clan could
create.  The material is nearly as soft as her skin and reveals more than it
covers.  It’s making him crazy.

She’s
making him crazy.

“You’re
always in a hurry when we get this far.”  She says with a laugh.  “Luckily I
always am, too.”

Rhawn
shifts himself into a sitting position.  His fingers catch hold of her left
hand, shackling it behind her back.  Her wrist is small enough that he could
break it between his fingers, but she doesn’t seem to be afraid.  She has never
been.  Instead she gives a teasing smile as he tugs her onto his lap, enjoying
his growl of frustration.

She
truly is sent by the gods to torment him.

Whatever
the flimsy red garment is made of, the thin straps rip easily enough under his
free hand.  He tears it from her body, his breath shuddering out at the sight
of her naked flesh.  All she’s wearing now is some nearly transparent scrap
covering the junction of her thighs.  The acres of pale skin contrast with the
dark color of her hair and it pushes his arousal to new heights.

Finally.

Rhawn’s
head dips to run his tongue over the dusky pink tips of her perfect breast. 
Finally, he can touch all of her.  It’s been so long since he could have her in
his arms.

“Oh
God… you’re
soooooo
good at this, caveman.”

He
appreciates the praise.  Keeping her still, he switches to her other breast and
repeats the whole process with new techniques.  He’s always been a man who
strives for perfection in his work.  He’ll do something once and then do it
even better the next time and the next, until he’s satisfied it’s right.  And
it’s never
fully
right.  There are always new
variables to test.  When Rhawn gets an idea, he wants to experiment.

The
Clan views his repetition of the same tasks as evidence of his stupidity.  To
them, he is nothing but a big, dumb oaf who never learns from mistakes.

The
woman doesn’t seem to agree.

Her
head goes back with a moan as his teeth graze the underside of her breast,
offering him more.  Her fingers curl into his golden hair, holding his head in
place.  She doesn’t need to worry.  He isn’t trying to escape.  He wants to
taste all of her.  Rhawn tugs her closer, his hand still holding her wrist,
determined to memorize every inch of her, so he can relive this moment in the
long cycle ahead.  Her nipples tighten into hard points, even as the rest of
her softens.

He
gives a low growl of desire and she grins at him.

“You
really are a caveman, aren’t ya?”

Rhawn
understands her strange language.  He’s dreamed in the tongue since he was a
boy.  He has no idea what all her words
mean
exactly, but he knows
that when she calls him “caveman” she is teasing him.  No one else ever dares
such a thing.  Just her.  It always melts his heart.  His mouth curves and he
nips her shoulder in small punishment.

She
laughs again.  “Alright.  Alright.  Hey, what is the politically correct term
for your living arrangements, anyway?”  She arches a playful brow and glances
around.  Her cheeks are rosy from passion and the frigid air.  “How about,
‘modernity challenged’?  For real, you never heard of houses with doors and
windows and maybe central heat?”

No,
he hasn’t.

He’s
never even heard of a “house,” although he works hard to understand her
language.  The woman fascinates him.  Baffles him.  He tries to learn all he
can, because he wants to know her.  He wants
her
to know
him
. 
It’s a difficult task.  Usually, the dreams are fragments.  The scent of her
hair.  The feel of her touch.  The sound of her voice.

One
year, he was very sick from a
boga
bite when she
arrived.  He’d dreamed of her lying beside him, humming quiet songs and begging
him not to leave her all alone in the world.  He fought through the poison,
because she asked him to.  Because he could not stand to disappoint her.

Because,
even if she is just an image in his head, she is the only thing he has ever
loved.

There
is not even a word for “love” in the Clan’s tongue, but Rhawn knows the feeling
straight down to his soul.

Her
lips suddenly find his and it startles him.  Rhawn’s whole body jerks at the
unknown feel of her mouth against him.  His head pulls back in surprise.  “What
are you doing?”

“Kissing
you.  I keep wanting to do that, but we never seem to have time.”

“Kiss-sing?

Her
head tilts.  “You don’t know how to kiss?”

“No.” 
But he suddenly wants it.  Rhawn’s biggest weakness has always been his curiosity. 
Even when he knows it will lead to his downfall, he questions and seeks.  He
wants to experience everything for himself.  “Show me.”

She
obediently leans forward with a smile.  “Don’t worry.  It won’t hurt a bit.”

Her
mouth is close to his, their breath mingling.  Rhawn’s mind goes blank with
helpless lust.  He doesn’t understand what this “kissing” is meant to do, but
he wants more of it.  Her lips brush against his again.  Soft.  Warm.  Moist.

Oh
gods…

The
“kiss” rushes through his system like an inferno and he cannot think.

He
doesn’t want to close his eyes.  It’s so rare that someone holds his gaze
without recoiling and he doesn’t want to look away from her, but he can’t help
it.  His lashes flutter down and he surrenders to the unknown.  She sucks
gently on his lower lip, seeking entrance and he’s hypnotized.  This cannot
have anything to do with mating.  The necessary parts are not involved.

Except
they
are
.

The
jolt of the “kiss” slams into his blood and Rhawn has to bite back a hiss. 
Something untamed rises within him.  A wild desperation.  She is everything
he’s ever searched for.  Rhawn has always questioned when he should obey. 
Looking for something not even he can fully explain.  This moment makes the
frustration and derision and setbacks he’s faced
completely
worth the struggle.  Her mouth opens against his and he knows he’s discovered
magic.

She
tastes like all the pure, clean things in the world.  Her tongue touches his
and his skull nearly blows apart with need.  Rhawn still can’t breathe for
wanting her.  Acting on instinct, he massages her tongue with his own and she
gives a moan.  He wants more.  He will never get enough.  She is the only good
part of him.

“You
catch on fast.”  She teases, coming up for air.  “You like kissing, huh?”

“Again.” 
Rhawn gets out and drags her mouth back to his.

The
“kiss” turns hotter.  More insistent.  Rhawn knows that none of this is real
and he doesn’t care.  He can’t lose her.

His
hand comes up to caress her breast and her nipple beads tight, enjoying his
touch.  She smiles and his heart turns over in his chest.  No one smiles at
him.  No one but her.

“I
missed you.”  She says.  “I never know when you’re going to show up and I start
to think you’re gone for good.  Then you’re finally here again and I’m so happy
you’re back.”

“You
always appear on the same day.”  He is surprised she hasn’t noticed that.  The
woman is usually so bright and observant he worries he that will bore her with
his stupidity.

“Nope,
sometimes I dream of you in September, sometimes in February, and sometimes in
May.”

Rhawn
has no idea what she was talking about.  “On Fangard, I always dream of you.” 
He insists.  The holy day always ushers her into his mind.  It is why he
continues to believe in the gods, even when he questions everything else.  This
woman’s presence is proof of their divinity.

“I
have no fucking clue what Fangard means.”  She says as if he’s the one talking
in riddles.  “But, whatever.”

Then,
she’s “kissing” him again and he forgets everything except the feel of her. 
She’ll be gone any second.  Given his luck, it’s inevitable.  He might believe
in them, but the gods have never listened to his prayers before, so there’s no
reason to think they’ll begin now.  While he has this small window of
opportunity, he has to make the most of it.

Determined
now, Rhawn flips her around, so he can pin her beneath him.  Black curls
cascade over the think pelts.  They fall against his hands, as he plants his
palms on either side of her head.  He wants to drown in that perfect hair.  It
is so beautiful. 
She
is so beautiful.  His instincts are
screaming at him.  To take her, now.  Hard and fast.  His hands catch hold of
her wrists, pinning them above her head.

The
men of the Clan have never cared for wooing women.  They just Choose the one
they want and she submits.  Why should it be different now that he’s found a
female of his own?  And she
is
his.  He knows
that.  Desperate thoughts fill his head.  He will somehow convince her to stay
with him and fight any other man who seeks to steal her away.  Except, when he
traps her delicate body, her gaze flies to his in surprise.

…And
he hesitates.

The
beginnings of caution stir in her eyes.  For the first time, she’s paying
attention to the differences in their sizes.  She has a strong spirit.  He’s
always known that and he admires it.  Nothing scares her.  The woman’s sudden
awareness of her vulnerability doesn’t make Rhawn feel powerful.  It makes him
feel… wrong.

Like
he is on the edge of betrayal.  Like he should stop.

But,
why is she upset in the first place?  She is not unwilling.  Far from it.

His
mind races for some explanation, trying to reason it out.  She is his mate.  He
is big, but he will use his strength to
defend
her, not hurt
her.  Doesn’t she see that?  Injuring this girl is the last thing he wants.

“Vando.” 
He says quietly.

The
woman doesn’t understand.  She tugs against his hands, wanting her wrists
freed.  Rhawn’s grip tightens for a beat, trying to figure out how to proceed.  She
is not going to follow the rules of mating and meekly acquiesce to his
demands.  It is astonishing.  As far as he knows, nothing like this has ever
happened before.  He flounders for an explanation.  What is he supposed to do?

“Stop.” 
She says, twisting her hands to get free.  “Please.”