His Haunting Kiss (His Kiss Series Book 1)

  His Haunting Kiss

  His Kiss Series

  Book One

  Heather Marie Adkins

  His Haunting Kiss: His Kiss Series, Book One

  Copyright © 2014 by Heather Marie Adkins

  Published by CyberWitch Press, LLC

  Louisville, KY

  cyberwitchpress.com

  [email protected]

  First edition, published August 2014

  All rights reserved.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork herein is prohibited.

  Disclaimer: The persons, places, things, and otherwise animate or inanimate objects mentioned in this novel are figments of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to anything or anyone living (or dead) is unintentional. The author humbly begs your pardon. This is fiction, people.

  While I reference real places in Georgia throughout this book, the city of Tory and any establishments therein are fictitious locations.

  Edited by various long-suffering friends, fellow authors, and beta readers

  Cover Art by Tamra Westberry

  Interior book design by CyberWitch Press, LLC

  Author Photograph © 2011 Meagan White|White Photography

  Contact the author at [email protected]

  Sign up for her MAILING LIST to receive updates on new releases!

  For Cheryl —

  Mother. Reader. Lifelong supporter of her errant stepdaughter.

  Chapter One

  “My house is haunted.”

  The matter-of-fact statement tore through my dreams, interrupting a rather vivid PG-13 moment with a certain long-haired, Nordic star famous for playing a comic superhero. I’d been absolutely certain he was about to unbutton my pants and, ahem, hammer, but alas, it was not to be.

  I opened my eyes, flat on my back atop the covers in my dim room. Well, dim it was until my sister deigned to make it otherwise. Following her somewhat out of character statement, I heard the clink of my curtains parting, and then bright sunlight washed over me. I hissed, flipping away from the light like a vampire in the Caribbean.

  “Drama queen.”

  Now that sounded more like my sister. I blinked sleep from my eyes, waiting for the spots in my vision to dissipate. It’d probably been three years since my bedroom had seen sun. I cringed at the dust covering my dresser and full-length mirror, and the piles of clothes — clean and dirty — on the floor. If I thought it was bad, who knew what my perfect, obsessive-compulsive sister was thinking.

  When it didn’t feel like there were hot pokers mating with my eyeballs, I rolled over to squint at my older sibling in a halo of brilliant morning light.

  Madison stood over me, her hands perched on bony hips and her mouth in a thin, straight line. Her pretty, heart-shaped face was framed by a riot of platinum blonde curls and she wore way too much makeup. I silently vowed that the next time she opened her mouth to criticize my black eyeliner, I’d remind her that she had three inches of flesh-toned goop on her face.

  Inner sisterly sniping done, I focused on what she’d said to wake me up.

  “Your house is what?” I croaked, horrified to hear my voice come out like I’d smoked a pack and shot-gunned a fifth of whiskey before going to bed. I turned my wrist over and glanced at my watch. The digital read-out said 7:00; I’d only been asleep three hours. I cleared my throat. “Madison, it’s seven in the morning. How the hell did you get in my apartment?”

  My sister was dressed for housewife-ing in a white, sleeveless dress that hung demurely to her knees, the boat-neck flattering to her petite shoulders. She’d gotten the delicate bone structure from our mom; I was built like a tank, solid and square like our dad. It was good for intimidating men, not so much for wearing scraps of silk and lace and trying to look girly.

  Madison heaved a big sigh, her shoulders fluttering like wings as she gracefully sank into the armchair beside my bed. “Oh, Boston. I’m at my wit’s end.”

  “Do people still use that expression?” I rubbed my eyes but didn’t bother to sit up. If this conversation went well, I’d get my big sister to leave so I could pass out again.

  The job last night had been a tough one, emotionally-speaking, and I really needed some rest before tonight’s gig. I was ninety-nine percent certain the haunting on Albert Street wasn’t a typical, run-of-the-mill spirit. Too many people had been hurt before.

  Madison ignored my jibe at her archaic phrasing, and opened her pale blue eyes to zero in on me. “My house is haunted.”

  “The castle?” I smirked.

  My sister had recently married her high school sweetheart and subsequently moved onto his family’s estate about twenty miles outside of Tory, Georgia, where we grew up. Tory was so small it barely made a dent on a map; hell, we were lucky it even made it on the map. Madison’s husband’s estate was so big and the house so palatial, the entirety of downtown Tory probably didn’t match up. Horeland Estate probably had its own zip code.

  I opened my mouth to say something snarky to that effect, but then caught the extent of worry in Madison’s expression. It took a lot to put my sister on edge, and it took even more to make her seek my help. My family was so repressed we could power steam engines on pure stubbornness.

  “What’s going on?” I asked, finally sitting up.

  Worrying at her lip with her teeth, Madison crossed one long, tanned leg over the other. The yellow torture devices on her feet made me shudder; if I wore spiked heels, I’d end up killing myself on a crack in the sidewalk.

  “There are noises,” she said softly, almost as if she didn’t believe it herself.

  “Old houses make noises,” I said, tucking my long so-chocolate-brown-it-was-almost-black hair behind my ears. Saoirse, the miniscule gray tabby who deigned to share my space, popped noiselessly from the ether, as she was wont to do. She leapt onto the bed and curled up in my lap, purring.

  Madison looked at me askance, lips pursed. “No, not those kinds of noises, Boston. I think I know what noises a house makes when settling.”

  When she tilted her head in irritation like that, I swear she was channeling our mother. Both women had a knack for being condescending. Especially towards me. Thank God for Dad and his solidarity through my developmental years.

  “Sorry.” I attempted to put the appropriate amount of apology in my voice, lest I incur my elder sister’s wrath. “Tell me about the noises.”

  “I hear footsteps and voices. My computer is always on when I know I’ve turned it off because Jacob gets on me for it. Electricity bill, and all. Same with the television, and a particular bedroom door on the third floor that never stays shut.”

  I processed “third floor” and thought, Holy shit, why would a person need three floors? With that many places to hide, it could have been squatters in her house, not ghosts. Not to mention Jacob Horeland had no reason to worry about the electricity bill. His trust fund could have fueled a small regime.

  Madison continued, her eyes so wide I thought she’d lose her eyeballs. “Yesterday, I walked into the kitchen and all of the cabinets were wide open.”

  “You actually enter your kitchen?”

  She threw the blue jeans hanging over the back of the chair at me. I ducked the denim missile, a button managing to catch me on the cheek. I laughed anyway. Saoirse took off in a huff, glaring at us both from the doorway bef
ore promptly bathing herself, as if washing off our human ignorance.

  Sometimes I thought my cat was the leader of an alien race sent to study us, and she found us deeply disappointing.

  “Yes, as a matter of fact,” Madison said coolly. “I cook dinner for Jacob every night.” She couldn’t hold the angry face and then ask something of me, so she carefully twisted her visage into something close to — but not quite — imploring. “Just come walk around the place and tell me what you feel.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in all that ‘mumbo jumbo,’” I quoted her. When I went into the ghost hunting business, my sister had been very outspoken about it; just like she had been outspoken about my first boyfriend, my first car, and every other decision I’d since made in life. Another lovely quality she gets from our mother.

  “I don’t believe in it,” Madison returned uncertainly, twisting her hands in her lap. “But I can’t live in that house a minute longer without something being done.”

  Madison had always been prone to imagination. Not flights of fancy; no, never that. But misinterpreting things. This was a girl who always called 9-1-1 because she heard “a woman screaming for help in the woods,” no matter how often me, my mother, or the dispatcher unlucky enough to answer her call tried to tell her it was a fox.

  Maybe if I made it a quick trip, I could catch some sleep this afternoon. I could call Vespers and push our meeting back an hour or so to give me some recoup time. I’d be exhausted, but I couldn’t just kick my sister out. Not when she was looking at me with such soulful eyes.

  I’d spent my entire life giving in to her demands; what was one more day?

  “Go make me some damn coffee,” I told Madison, not bothering to hide my irritation.

  When my elder sister stood up and left my bedroom, a semi-smug smile on her face, her dress wasn’t even wrinkled.

  I sighed. The things we do for family.

  Chapter Two

  Horeland Estate looked like it had been built to nestle into the hills surrounding it, which wasn’t a stretch considering the family had been one of the first to settle in, and own, vast amounts of land in Tory. It was three stories of pale stone and tall, narrow windows flanked by black shutters beneath sloping eaves. Eight — I counted — craggy gables straight out of a horror film contrasted rather nicely with the green backdrop. To the left, a vast expanse of lawn broken only by statuary and landscaping; to the right, a stone wall that dead-ended at a formidable forest.

  I was again struck by the differences in my sister’s circumstances and mine: studio apartment versus palatial mansion. Horridly single versus happily married. Built like a sailor versus built like a fairy princess. I could live with the first two; it was the last one that irked me.

  The rain had hit us almost the minute we’d jumped to the highway and hadn’t abated since, completely displacing the sunlight my sister had used to wake me up. By the time we pulled into her long, tree-lined driveway, I was on the edge of my seat, minutes from smashing my fists through the windshield Hulk-style and ripping the squeaky wipers from their bases. I’d thought when my sister married a semi-capable man that she would take better care of her car.

  Madison parked on the circle drive right in front of the door, and then sat back in the seat, though she made no move to get out.

  “It looks bigger than in the pictures,” I told her to break the silence.

  Madison nodded. “It’s quite large.”

  After another beat, I remarked, “You need new windshield wipers.”

  She pursed her lips in my general direction, but didn’t comment.

  I was the first to open my door, planting my flat-soled combat boots to the driveway. The misting rain felt cool on my skin as I slammed the door and took the steps to the porch.

  Madison searched her massive key ring for the right key, and I paused behind her. It was quiet out here in the country with only the soft patter of rain and distant call of birds to break the silence. My apartment overlooked a busy street in Tory, so I was privy to all manner of honking, squealing, and bass-jumping 24/7. I could see the appeal of a home like this, situated in a sort of “Eden” in the middle of nowhere. The peace alone would be enough to justify the cost.

  Standing on the porch, I couldn’t feel anything. Horeland Estate felt like a house: nothing to it but bricks, mortar, and wood. I didn’t want to have to tell my sister her imagination had run wild; goodness knows, she’d probably punch me. She wasn’t strong, but she wore a lot of rings.

  “You know, I got lost at least twice a day when we first moved in,” Madison said, sliding a massive bronze key into the lock and turning it with an audible click. She giggled. “I took to carrying my cell so I could have Jacob find me when it happened.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I think the fact you got lost in your own home, more than once, should tell you something.”

  Madison shouldered the door, shrugging as she held it open for me. “It’s been in his family for eons. It was tradition for us to move in after we married.”

  “Where did his parents go?” I came to a standstill on an Oriental rug the size of my apartment, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. There was a weight to the air that warned me we weren’t alone. It pressed on my skin like Georgia humidity. Confining. Heavy.

  Shit. My sister was right. Horeland Estate was haunted.

  “A beach house in Florida,” Madison responded with a pretty sigh, oblivious to the way my shoulders had tensed and my senses had gone on full alert. “Can you imagine?”

  “You act like Florida isn’t just fifty miles away.” I rolled my eyes — feeling like if I did it one more time, they’d freeze that way — and walked further into the room. The atmosphere deepened; I was swimming through tar.

  I’d never been to Madison’s house. Never in the sense that she’d only been married a few months, and I hadn’t had the chance to visit between her honeymoon and my busy work schedule. But the place was exactly as I expected.

  The floors were aged hardwood, nicked and scuffed here and there but in pretty good shape considering the house was well over a hundred-fifty years old. A wide staircase dominated the center of the room, so wide you could drive a truck to the second floor, where a hazy gloom settled over the landing. Above me, an ornate chandelier reflected daylight from the open door. To my right, a formal sitting room barely visible in the darkness. The opposite arch revealed the end of a mahogany dining room table, though little else, considering the drapes were closed.

  When Madison shut the door, blocking out what little daylight there was, goose bumps rose on my arms. Without light, the house transformed from aged Victorian beauty to something dark and insidious. My lower back tingled, the sensation creeping up my spine.

  “Why don’t you let some light into this place?” I asked my sister, heading for the dining room.

  “I do.”

  Her soft statement didn’t register until I was already yanking open the first curtain. The drizzly day filtered in, illuminating a monstrous, ebony sideboard set with empty dishes and a table that would comfortably fit ten. The walls were a subdued dark green, and where they met the ceiling, there was an ornamental cornice of leaf-like shapes. I assumed the beautifully painted portraits hung around the room were previous Horelands.

  The estate was a typical Victorian. I saw houses like this one all the time in my work. The people who built these homes, putting so much time, money, and effort into them, had a hard time letting go.

  “Do the curtains close on their own?” I asked my sister, still clutching the fabric.

  She nodded. “As soon as we leave the room.”

  “Somebody doesn’t want to let light in.” I stared up at the heavy drapes. They were period-correct, eight or nine feet long and weighing fifty or sixty pounds, if not more. For a ghost to manipulate something like that, he or she would have to be strong.

  Madison’s gaze moved over me, her eyes narrowing. “You feel something, don’t you? You’ve got that… on
edge look.”

  I didn’t answer, because frankly, I didn’t want my sister to have a freak out. Whether she believed in my “hoodoo-voodoo” or not, she’d lived with me for twenty years. She’d listened to me talk about sensing ghosts since we were kids, so she could argue all she wanted — but some part of her knew it was real.

  “On the other hand,” she continued, pursing her lips, “it’s almost a constipated look. That’s really not attractive, Boston.”

  I let go of the curtain and headed for the door. “The ghost is your problem now. Good day, sister.”

  “Boston!” Madison hurried after me, her heels click-clacking. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think before I spoke.”

  “Do you ever?” I asked, whirling around to glare at her as I reached the front door. “Or are you at peace with your toxic word vomit?”

  “I’m trying to apologize!” Madison snapped.

  We stared at each other in a silent battle of wills. I was transported to every other time we’d had it out over the past twenty-six years, in various places: the living room at our parents’ house, the lobby of our shared high school, numerous school functions, and the first apartment we tried to share but only lasted a month. Being sisters didn’t mean we got along; it meant we managed not to kill each other and still get together at the holidays.

  Madison broke eye contact first. “Do your thing.”

  Score one for me, I thought with a smug inward grin.

  Mustering the strength, I closed my eyes and sent out what I called my “psychic feelers.” The first thing I tried to do when I encountered a truly haunted house was discover where the source was. All ghosts had a source, and it was generally their point of death within the structure. It was a tear in the veil between our world and theirs that gave them the strength to manifest there, like some kind of powerful cauldron of energy. Sometimes it was easy to find because the death was violent or traumatic, and therefore left behind a lot of residual bad mojo. But a lot of the time it was like finding a needle in a stack of toothpicks.