Shades of Midnight Read online

  Shades of Midnight

  by

  Linda Winstead Jones

  writing as

  Linda Fallon

  New York Times Bestselling Author

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  Copyright © 2003, 2012 by Linda Winstead Jones. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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  Thank You.

  For Ron

  Chapter 1

  1885

  Lucien Thorpe took long strides up the walkway toward the address to which he’d been summoned, the bag containing a change of clothes grasped in his right hand, the heavier case containing his equipment in the left. He took in the house before him, a clean and charming two-story cottage gleaming in the moonlight, a downstairs window glowing with welcome, the door painted a red so bright and cheery he could discern the color even in the dim light. Fallen autumn leaves of red and orange had drifted across the walkway and danced out of his way as he strode purposefully forward. The home before him didn’t look at all like a haunted house—but then, they rarely did.

  Crisp October air washed over Lucien, making him wish he’d worn his overcoat. He’d walked out and left it sitting… somewhere. Either in his rented room in a Wilmington, North Carolina boarding house or at his most recent assignment in Virginia. He couldn’t remember exactly where he’d seen it last, hadn’t even thought of the coat until the chill touched him. This was Georgia, after all, the Deep South. He hadn’t expected to need an overcoat.

  Truth was, he admitted to himself, he’d simply forgotten. The details of the last haunting had been playing through his mind as he’d packed for this trip, and it had been more important that he remember each piece of equipment he might need than to worry about something so inconsequential as a coat. The nonessential details of life frequently slipped his mind. There were so many more important details to think about, in the average day. Discoveries just waiting to be made, a breakthrough just out of his reach. Every now and then, though, he did forget something important.

  When Lucien reached the small front porch, he placed the lighter of his two bags at his feet and lifted his hand to knock. Before he could do so, the red door swung sharply inward. Several lamps burned behind the woman who’d opened the door, making it impossible to see her face. And still, his heart skipped a beat.

  “You’re late,” she said crisply.

  He knew that voice so well that his insides tightened and fluttered as he lowered his hand.

  Before he had a chance to explain, she continued without mercy, “But then again, I should have expected you to be late. Tardiness is one of your bad habits, Lucien, perhaps the most egregious of them all.”

  “I missed my train,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” she responded dryly.

  “But I caught the next one.”

  Eve took a deep, calming breath and glanced over his shoulder. Discovering that he was alone, she said, “You walked from the train station?”

  “Yes.”

  A noise that sounded suspiciously like a disgusted grunt drifted his way, then Eve sighed and said, “I suppose I should invite you in.”

  “That would be nice, since I’ve come a long way in answer to your telegram.” She stepped back, and he entered the well-lit entryway. Once he was inside, the door firmly shut behind him, he took a good look at the lovely Miss Eve Abernathy.

  There was nothing pretentious or polished about Eve. She was not the kind of woman who walked into a room and elicited wide-eyed admiration or ostentatious ogling. But her quiet beauty had always affected him, from the first moment he’d laid eyes on her at the Graham haunting, four years ago. Her tightly restrained hair was the color of honey. She possessed gentle curves beneath her conservative clothing, and a nicely bowed mouth that was sometimes wicked and sometimes unbearably sweet. And her eyes—she had the greenest eyes in the world, he imagined. A man could get lost in eyes like those.

  Even when Eve was unhappy, as she was at this moment, she remained dignified and graceful. And no amount of puckering could make her mouth unattractive.

  Lucien frowned as he looked down at her. One of Eve’s more admirable traits was her honesty. So why had she invited him here under false pretenses? It wasn’t like her to lie.

  “Why did you sign your telegram Evelyn Joyce?”

  She pursed her mouth ever tighter, undoubtedly thinking she struck a terrifying pose. He found her more intriguing than fearsome. Eve was, if nothing else, kissable.

  “That is my name, Lucien, minus the surname. I assumed that if you knew I was the one who’d summoned you, you’d refuse.”

  “Why would you assume such a thing?”

  “Because I imagine you value your life,” she said darkly.

  Well, she did have reason to be angry, but he’d never think himself in physical danger. Not from Eve, and not after all this time.

  Now was not the time or place to have this conversation. After an initial short, one-sided exchange, they’d been avoiding the subject—and one another—for the past two years. They could surely put it off a while longer. If he had his way, they’d postpone the unpleasant discussion indefinitely. “You have a ghost,” he said. Down to business.

  “Two of them,” she answered, turning her back on him and leading the way into the parlor.

  Lucien carried his bags there and carefully deposited them by the doorway. The parlor was much like Eve. Neat. Pretty. Clean and welcoming. Unostentatious, but inviting. It was the kind of parlor a man could comfortably live in. His own rented room was clean and serviceable and suited him well, but didn’t have the amenities Eve had added here. Lace doilies. Decorative figurines. A warm throw for cool evenings. The room even smelled of her, subtly. Lavender, and tea with sugar, and ink. He shook that observation off as unnecessary and possibly dangerous.

  Business he could handle. Business was so much more manageable and interesting than his pathetic personal life.

  Over the past several years, Eve had documented several authentic hauntings in articles she’d written for journals and newspapers, and even a well-received book, making herself a part of the close-knit community in which Lucien worked and lived. She wrote articles that were informative without being lurid, that satisfied the public’s thirst for knowledge of the spiritual world without offending those who worked in the community.

  Lucien Thorpe was one of the premier spirit releasers working in the United States. He and Eve had worked together before, many times. They had once worked together quite well. Not in the past two years, though.

&nb
sp; Eve looked briefly at the clock on the mantel. “Viola and Alistair Stamper died in this house nearly thirty years ago. The anniversary of the incident will arrive on Saturday.”

  Halloween. Five days. Perhaps long enough. Perhaps not. “How did they die?”

  Again, Eve glanced at the clock. “From what I have been able to gather, Viola Stamper was seeing another man. Alistair discovered her infidelity. He killed her and then himself.”

  Lucien was not surprised. Most ghosts he guided to the other side had died violently. Many did not even know they were dead. He’d never had to reason with the spirit of a person who’d died peacefully in their own bed. “Where did you obtain your information?”

  Eve lifted her chin defiantly. “I’ve interviewed several of the town residents who were alive at that time. We’re fortunate that only thirty years have passed. Some of Viola’s friends are still living, and are quite willing to talk about her.”

  “And Alistair’s friends?”

  Eve’s lips thinned. Her eyes hardened. Yes, she could be an unforgiving woman. “From what I have found, he had none.” Again, she glanced at the clock.

  “Why are you constantly checking the time?” Lucien asked testily. “Are you expecting someone?”

  Eve laid her eyes on him and smiled. It was not a happy smile. “I’m expecting Viola and Alistair. Every night, at ten-fifteen, they make their first appearance.”

  It was almost ten-fifteen. “Do they knock about? Move objects? Slam doors?”

  Eve looked quite satisfied with herself. “Oh, Viola and Alistair do much more than that.”

  She tilted her head, lifted her eyes, and a half second later Lucien heard a muted thump. A moment passed and then there was another ominous thud, a scrape of something solid across the floor above. The rattlings of unhappy ghosts were quite common, in Lucien’s experience, so he was not surprised.

  Then he heard a voice—a woman’s soft voice—drifting down the stairs. He couldn’t make out the words, but yes… That was definitely a woman’s voice. The voice was oddly clear, unbroken by time and space.

  He glared at Eve. His heart began to beat harder than it should. “Is this some kind of joke?”

  She shook her head. “No joke.”

  “This isn’t your idea of… retaliation?”

  Eve remained outwardly calm. “Why on earth would I waste my time on retaliation? You’re not that important to me, Lucien.”

  A new excitement grew within him. His heart raced and his fingers twitched. “And you can hear them, too?”

  “Of course I can hear them.”

  “They’re auditory?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  Lucien often heard soft, distorted mutterings others did not, and sometimes the ghosts who spoke to him communicated in a way few understood—but only rarely did a spirit actually make its voice heard so that anyone and everyone could hear.

  The female mutterings were followed by a long, low moan, and then another, and then another. Lucien kept his eyes on the ceiling, as did Eve. He held his breath. Voices, ghostly voices, mingled with groans and the occasional thud and, finally, a low cry.

  “He’s killing her,” Lucien said as he stepped from the parlor and to the foot of the stairs. “My God, you can actually hear him killing her.”

  “No, Lucien…” Eve began, following him as he stepped onto the stairway. “He’s not…”

  A loud scream split the night, and Lucien took the stairs two at a time. Eve was directly behind him. “Which way?” he asked as he reached the top of the stairs.

  “Left,” she said. “The door at the end of the hallway. But, Lucien…”

  He ran down the short hallway and threw open the door. Unmuffled by walls and space, the sounds continued. The bed creaked and moved gently. White sheets, rising and falling as if actual bodies were concealed there, drifted and danced. Lucien needed no added illumination to see the ghosts. Shapeless and hazy as they were, the spirits had a light all their own, a faint, pure glow of energy glimmering from beneath the white sheet that covered them.

  A murmur of indistinct voices drifted from the bed. There was a verbal exchange between a man and a woman, followed by a faint trill of laughter. The woman moaned again and the sheet moved slowly. As if tossed by an impatient hand, the sheet fluttered up and down and off the bed, leaving the ghosts uncovered. Even though they were not fully formed, Lucien could see that they were intertwined. And the way they moved…

  Lucien closed the door and turned about, almost running into Eve. He caught himself just before his body and hers collided. “No,” he said, feeling the hot blush rise to his cheeks. “He’s definitely not killing her.”

  “Yet,” Eve said calmly, and then she turned and led the way down the stairs.

  *

  Eve had not expected the sight of Lucien to touch her this way. In fact, she’d been hardening her heart for days, telling herself again and again that she would not be affected at all by his presence.

  Most of what she experienced when she looked at him was pure anger, in spite of her plan to remain calm and unaffected. A little anger was only natural, she reasoned. After all, the man had left her waiting at the altar, two years ago.

  He had tried desperately to explain away the infraction, saying that he had merely been late. Three days late. But some things could not be easily explained away. Some grievances should not be forgiven.

  She led the way back into the parlor, where she took the chair by the window. Not the couch, where he might sit beside her, not the more comfortable wing chair close to the couch. Here by the window she was isolated. Distant. This was as close to Lucien as she cared to be.

  “They become more distinct as the anniversary of their deaths approaches,” she said, keeping her voice businesslike and cool. “I didn’t see or hear them at all, when I moved into the house in late July. Over time, I became aware of their presence, and in the past month they’ve been impossible to ignore. I’m not sure how distinct they might become, since apparently no one has lived in the house for very long, in the past thirty years. A few people tried to lease the house, but none stayed more than a few weeks.”

  “Who owns the place?” Lucien asked as he sat in the wing chair, stretching his long legs before him.

  Eve stared at him. “I do.”

  He raised his rakish eyebrows in obvious surprise. Good Lord, he needed a haircut. His dark hair touched his collar, curling there just slightly. The man had to be reminded to do the most simple things. He was so addle-brained she was surprised he remembered to dress himself in the morning.

  “This is your house?”

  “It was quite a bargain,” she said, smiling slightly. “And the location is perfect. My Aunt Constance lives in Savannah, which is a short train ride from Plummerville.” Close enough for the occasional visit, not so close that her twittering cousins would be constantly underfoot. “And I do love this house. It’s quaint and warm, not too large for one person and not too small. As soon as Viola and Alistair are gone, it’ll be perfect.” Viola and Alistair and him, she thought to herself. Lucien Thorpe was as annoying as any ghost. “I thought that perhaps they’d be easier to lead to the other side as they become more distinct, much like the Roxbury spirits.”

  “Perhaps. They appear to be replaying that last night of their lives. Do you think we will be able to communicate with them?” Lucien’s blue eyes positively sparkled. Nothing else excited him like the prospect of speaking to a ghost or two.

  “I don’t know,” she said softly. “I’ve tried, but they seem to be unaware of my presence. That’s why I sent for you, Lucien.” Maddening as he was, he did have a gift.

  “If they can explain to us what happened that night, what led up to the murder, perhaps that will bring an end to the cycle.”

  “We know what happened,” Eve said testily.

  “Then why are they still here?”

  Above their heads all had been quiet for a few moments, but Viola and Alistair began again
, as they always did. Viola moaned, and the bed thumped onto the floor. Eve squirmed in her chair, just a bit.

  “How long does this go on?” Lucien asked, glancing warily up to the ceiling.

  “Another hour and a half, or so.”

  “Oh.” That utterance revealed his distress. “What happens then?”

  She had been documenting the phenomenon for weeks. “There’s a period of silence, and then they come downstairs.” Unable to remain still, she rose from her chair and walked to the doorway. It was a relief to turn her back to Lucien, to not have to look at him and maintain a calm demeanor. “Viola dies here, at the foot of the stairs. Crying.” Eve shuddered. “Screaming. I have not seen or heard Alistair’s death, but I understand his body was found with hers.”

  Lucien came up behind her and glanced over her shoulder, even though there was nothing to see, yet. She could feel him there, as if he agitated the air around him. “So he… they… ahem… for more than an hour and a half, and then he kills her?”

  “Yes,” Eve whispered. She didn’t turn to look at Lucien, but she knew he was blushing. How could a man so tall, so strong, and so damnably handsome blush so easily? He always had, for as long as she’d known him. Dealing with the living had always been difficult for Lucien. He could be a well-spoken scholar one moment, and stumble over the simplest words the next. “They make passionate, noisy, earth-shattering love for well over an hour, and then he chases her down the stairs and thrusts a knife into her back.”

  She turned to see that Lucien had gone beet red. Good. She didn’t want him to be comfortable when she could not. Upstairs, Viola laughed. A moment later she moaned, then cried aloud.

  At one time, Eve had believed that Lucien was the man who would show her what it was like to moan and cry and laugh in the dark. Unfortunately, he loved his ghosts more than he’d ever loved her.

  “Tea?” she didn’t wait for an answer, but turned and headed for the kitchen. “We have a while to wait before the murder takes place.”

  “Tea would be lovely,” Lucien said. She heard him open one of the two cases he’d carried in and he began to remove his equipment.