Must Love Ghosts (Banshee Creek Book 1) (7 page)

Crazy old biddies? Sabotage? Caine was raising doubts about someone else's mental health? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

"They're not crazy, Caine," Abby said. "They are just uncomfortable with all the paranormal stuff."

"And they make their discomfort felt, don't they," Caine spat. "Stupid muggles don't know they're sitting on a gold mine." He scowled fiercely. "Well, they'll find out soon enough."

Mike tensed.
Muggles
? He wasn't much of a reader, but he knew what that word meant, and he found it a bit offensive. Rational human beings who weren't taken in by spooky stories and questionable tales weren't muggles, were they? Perfectly reasonable concerns about safety and security didn't turn one into a mundane antagonist, did they?

Apparently, in Banshee Creek it did.

"Are you guys going out the back?" Caine asked.

Mike nodded.

"Good idea," Caine replied, heading for the stairs. "I'm going to clear the main floor."

"Wait," Mike called out. "You wouldn't happen to have a knife on you, would you? Or maybe scissors."

He felt a sharp pain on his shin. Abby, who'd just jabbed her pointy boot into his leg, was glaring at him.

"No," Caine said, frowning. "Why do you ask?"

"No reason," Abby said quickly.

Caine looked at them strangely then shrugged. "Well, make sure the Zombie Liberation Army made it out. I told them to go, but they just acted dumb and ignored me."

"They're probably just in character," Abby replied reasonably.

"Yeah, right," Caine grumbled, as he stalked down the stairs. "They'll method act themselves all the way to a hefty fine if they don't get out of this house soon."
 

Mike turned to Abby, trying not to laugh. "C'mon. Let's round up the shambling undead and get out of here."
 

He followed her down the hallway towards the back staircase. "Why did you kick me?" he asked, once Caine was out of earshot. "I was just trying—"

"Caine's the biggest gossip in town," Abby interrupted, a slight blush tinting her cheeks. "If he finds out that we were making out in the attic, it will be all over town in a nanosecond."

"Oh." He didn't know what to say to that.
 

"And the ties don't hurt at all," she said, smiling in a conciliatory manner.
 

Well that was a relief.

 
"I guess you've done this before," she continued, her smile turning mischievous,

The question startled him. "Um," he paused, trying to think of an accurate yet non-incriminatory response. "Not for
recreational
purposes."

That made her laugh. Her chortling made the jacket shift around her shoulders, uncovering her cleavage. He cleared his throat and tried to come up with a distraction.

"Is the town really mounting an anti-paranormal campaign?" he asked.

"Nah." She crouched to avoid a fake spider web. "That's just Caine being paranoid. The Historical Restoration Committee has a lot of rules and regulations, but the rules don't say anything about ghosts. They do have a lot to say about moldings and light fixtures and stuff like that. That's the reason the buildings are in such great shape." She gave an exasperated sigh. "It's also the reason why it took twenty-four weeks to get the paint colors approved for my house."

He had to concur. The town, in spite of the lingering economic malaise, did look nice. The buildings were well kept and the architectural styles were coherent. There was something to be said for rules and regulations. They kept things looking neat and organized.
 

"They were the ones who saved this house," Abby continued, sidestepping a sitting skeleton outfitted in pirate regalia. "A couple of developers wanted to buy it and tear it down, but the Historical Preservation regulations didn't allow it. The buyers held several town meetings, trying to get the regulation struck down, but the Committee stood firm."

He nodded. These Historical Preservation Committee folks sounded like his kind of people.

 
"So, yeah," Abby went on. "The Committee is a big deal in this town. They do a lot of good."

Mike agreed wholeheartedly. Rules were good. In fact, they were the only thing standing between us and chaos. The Historical Preservation Committee was definitely on the right track.

"Too bad everyone hates them," Abby concluded, finally reaching the back staircase.

That took him aback. "Everyone?" he asked plaintively.

Abby nodded. "With the passion of a thousand burning suns."
 

A group of raggedy youths in gray makeup wandered up and down the stairs. A young girl with a plastic axe stuck in her head looked up and saw them.

"Braaaaaaains," she moaned as she shuffled towards them.

Abby didn't flinch.

"Can it, Nora," she said firmly. "Brains is what you're going to need to get out of the fine Fire & Rescue will impose if you don't get out of here now."

The group moaned in a distinctly un-zombie-like fashion and Zombie Nora grimaced.

"Oh man," she wailed. "Not another fine. I'm still paying the one I got for that graveyard display on my yard."

Mike flinched. He guessed that the yard display fine was from the Historical Preservation Committee. Zombie Nora must be one of the "thousand burning suns" people. He watched as the group trudged down the stairs, muttering restlessly.

"It's
my
yard, isn't it?" Mike heard Nora argue. "If I want to hang shrunken heads from
my
cherry blossom tree, then that's
my
business, isn't it?"

A guy in a bloody shirt agreed. Someone suggested creating a Zombie Libertarian Party. The suggestion was greeted with hearty cheers.

Mike sighed and followed Abby as she shepherded the undead parade out of the house. She was right in her element, joking and laughing with the zombie horde, but he felt acutely out of place. They seemed to be trading Dawn of the Dead quotes and he wasn't a horror movie fan. The Buffy clone's words still rang in his ears: "Be my rebound, Riley."
 

Was the attic interlude with Abby only that? A rebound fling? That was a very real possibility. Was it enough? He saw something on the floor and bent down to pick it up. It was a severed arm, with realistically rendered blood and bone. Someone had spent a lot of time getting the fingernails right.
 

He stared at the ersatz appendage, confused. He didn't know exactly how he'd ended up here, in Banshee Creek, rounding up a pack of rogue zombies and falling in love with a folk-musician-slash-British-spy. But he knew one thing.

He didn't belong here.

And, yet, part of him wanted to.
 

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

"W
ELL
,
AREN
'
T
you
the lucky girl."
 

Abby frowned and turned toward her friend, Cassie, who was sporting a...Margaret Mead costume? Did the famed scientist have blue-tinged hair? She peered at the nametag, which said "anthropologist, ethnologist and all-around badass."
 

Yep, only Cassie would come up with a
Punk
Margaret Mead costume.

Cassie glanced meaningfully at Abby's military wardrobe and Abby gave a resigned sigh. Her messy hair and half-open cat suit left little to the imagination, and she was sure that news about her—how did Mike put it?—
recreational
activities would get around.

 
Cassie smiled at her broadly, but Abby did not return the favor. She saw little to smile about. She was stuck outside shivering in the cold October air, surrounded by a segmented Horta and other costumed partygoers who were all waiting for Fire & Rescue to let them go home. She was frozen stiff, tipsy and sexually frustrated.
 

And, she had to admit, the Horta acid fumes were a lot less attractive up close.

"Do you know why they're keeping us here?" she asked. "And for how long?"

 
"Pressure tactics," her friend replied, her shrug making the stuffed gorilla on her shoulder bounce dramatically. "The Fire Chief wants to make this as painful as possible to make sure that we don't do it again. It will probably be another couple of minutes."

Great. Banshee Creek Fire & Rescue occupied its own little rift of time and space where a "couple of minutes" could mean "right now" or
 
"within the next couple of hours." Could this night get any worse?

At least Mike's jacket hid her bound hands. She was spared that final humiliation.

"Here." Cassie put a pair of small, foil-wrapped packets in the front pocket of Mike's jacket. "In case you need them. I know you probably don't have any around. And remember to use zinc cream for the wrist abrasions. It works really well."

Okay, so maybe the jacket didn't hide that much.

Cassie patted her on the back and walked away before Abby could respond.

Which was actually a good thing. What could Abby say? "Don't worry. Mike's a wiz with the plastic ties and they don't hurt a bit"? Or, maybe, "Thanks, this not-having-sex-in-two-years thing means I'm a little light on the birth control front"?

She shivered inside Mike's jacket and the cold night air had nothing to do with it. Those three thoughts—plastic ties, birth control, and Mike—were a combustible combination. She couldn't stop thinking about the plastic ties, the attic...and the kiss.

But Mike didn't seem as affected as she was. He was right next to her, but was busy arguing with Caine about the biker's upcoming expedition.
 

"They saw it last year, up near the mountains," Caine was saying. "It fit the description perfectly—red eyes, huge wings, enormous size."

"And it came all the way from West Virginia?" Mike asked, his skepticism clear. "Why would it do that?"

 
"They all come," Caine said, arms spread as if encompassing all paranormal creatures. "It's the geomagnetic thingamajig. It attracts them."

Mike looked doubtful, and Abby sympathized with him. Some of Caine's theories were a little hard to stomach. But the monster-hunting trip would be a lot of fun. So what harm could it do?

But Mike placed an arm around her back, his fingers caressing the sensitive skin of her nape. She tensed and all rational thought fled. She stood there, immobile as a now familiar warmth spread through her body.
 

A shrill screech shattered her lustful reverie. The crowd quieted, then, when they were sure there was no follow-up call, they broke out into cheers.

"An owl." Mike smiled. "That's it. Your monster is probably an owl."
 

He said this in a firm, clear tone, much like a doctor telling a hypochondriac patient that his life-threatening attack of appendicitis is just gas.
 

Abby winced at his answer. She knew her friends were, well, a couple of jalapeños short of a nacho supreme platter, but Mike didn't have to be so brusque. He could try to humor them a little.

But her friends, she had to admit, weren't her primary concern.
 
She peered through the crowd, looking for one of the firemen. Surely, they'd give the all clear soon.

"Are you crazy?" Caine's voice boomed out defiantly. "An owl that turns into a seven-foot-tall winged creature with glowing red eyes?"
 

"Sure." Mike disregarded the biker's zeal and looked up at the moonlit sky. "Check the weather on the day of the sightings. I bet it was foggy. A full moon, a bit of fog, and a pair of reflective headlamps can be a deadly combination." He nodded, satisfied. "Under the right conditions, an owl could look ten feet wide."

"And seven feet tall?" Caine countered belligerently.
 

Mike looked up at the sky. He seemed lost in thought, but the light touch of his hand on her neck let Abby know that the owls weren't the only thing on his mind.

"That one's harder," he mulled, frowning at the innocent constellations. "It could be carrying something. Or it could have been entangled in something, maybe a blanket or a clothesline."

His thumb stroked her skin, sending an electric surge through her body. She bit her lip, struggling to control herself.

"A clothesline?" Caine scoffed.

"It's just a theory," Mike said. "But it's a good one."

Caine opened his mouth to disagree, but they were interrupted by a tall firefighter, who had a wide smirk and some paperwork for Caine to sign. Abby almost sighed with relief.
 

"A fine?" Caine exclaimed, looking at the papers. "We're getting fined
again
?"

She nudged Mike, who was still looking up at the sky, muttering numbers under his breath. The crowd was dispersing and she wanted to go home before Caine and his buddies decided to test his owl theory by tarring and feathering him and throwing him off a bridge.

Stranger things had happened in Banshee Creek...and many of them involved Caine.

"Sorry to interrupt your fascinating discussion about paranormal ornithology," she hissed into Mike's ear. "But it's time to go home."

He smiled, a mischievous twinkle in his eye. "A bit impatient, are we?"

She fought the urge to kick him, hard. The man was torturing her on purpose.

"I have things to do, you know," she replied, digging her shoulder into his side and pushing him forward. "People to see."

"If that's the case," he drawled, clearly trying not to laugh. "I guess I can catch up with Caine later."

A couple of people waved at them as they walked down Main Street. Mike returned the greetings politely but Abby only smiled and nodded. She couldn't wave back with her hands tied behind her back.

They passed the Banshee Creek Bakery, which was still open and Abby watched as several partygoers picked up snacks and hot chocolate. She'd skipped dinner—the Emma Peel costume wasn't exactly carb-friendly—and any other night she'd be standing in line for a bag of apple cider donuts. But she couldn't visit the bakery right now, after all—she gave Mike a sidelong glance—there were other pleasures to be had tonight.