Ghost hunter Lisa "Garrie" McGarrity is ready to retire
from the world of the "Dearly Departed" and settle into a
quiet normal life when she is pulled back into the fray by
a half-human bounty hunter named Trevarr, who both
intrigues and annoys her. Before Garrie quite knows what
has happened, she and her crew of ghost hunters have packed
up and are on their way to the famous Winchester Mystery
House in San Jose, California.
While she was still living, Sarah Winchester kept her house
under constant construction in an effort to appease
whatever restless spirits might hold a grudge against her
and her family. The house is a maze of rooms. Sarah
frequently switched bedrooms to confuse the ghosts she was
sure were stalking her.
For all Garrie can tell, Sarah's efforts were all for
nothing. The Winchester house is currently a hotbed for
restless and unhappy ghosts. Garrie needs to find out what
has disturbed the dead and to what end. With the capable
and sexy Trevarr at her side, the job shouldn't be anything
she can't handle. Before the case is finally put to bed,
Garrie comes to the realization she should have trusted her
instincts and opted for early retirement rather than the
more permanent retirement the Winchester House is offering.
A delightful beginning to a new series. Funny and lively
with a memorable cast of characters. The Winchester House
is the perfect backdrop for this engaging tale.
When Lisa McGarrity and her team come across an intruder
in a client's spirit-infested house and he claims to need
their help, they're skeptical. When he tells them of
trouble at the Winchester Mystery House--San Jose's riddle
of a mansion built first to draw ghosts and now a steady
stream of tourists--they're even less inclined to believe.
But when inexplicable, deadly events rock the city to its
core, they're forced to help the mysterious
Trevarr...secrets and all.
Excerpt
Chapter 1
Lisa McGarrity eased into the brand spankin' new patio home
in northern Albuquerque. The ultimate in desert chic,
still unfurnished and unoccupied...her breath nearly echoed.
It also steamed. Albuquerque summer night's heat, and her
breath steamed. Never a good sign. From within the house,
something went plop. There was a gooey quality to that
sound. Not a sound the average person should be familiar
with.
And since when have you ever been average? Never. Not
since Rhonda Rose found her. Not since she'd realized she
had an inside track on things dead and things dying and
things that shouldn't have been there at all. Or that she
had the responsibility to protect not only the living, but
much of the once-living and even the never-living. Once
upon a time, Rhonda Rose had opened the door to her
power...and taken away her innocence, all in one fell
swoop. Once upon a time.
And now..?
"I'm getting out," she said over her shoulder.
There, Lucia Reyes quite sensibly stood just outside the
entry of the fancy new home, her flashlight bouncing off
the high ceiling. In this business, unexpected problems
often came from above, and Lucia had been on Lisa
McGarrity's team long enough to know that lesson well.
Lucia was slender and leggy and gifted with exquisite
angles beneath Hispanic features, a tidy J-Lo ass, and the
generous budget to clothe, adorn, and otherwise showcase
her attributes. She said, "If you're getting out, you're
going in the wrong direction." She tossed back her hair, a
naturally haughty gesture, as she glanced meaningfully at
the doorway.
Lisa--Garrie to her Reckoner team--raised a self-conscious
hand to her own hair. It currently weighed in as dark nut
brown streaked with electric blue, short and spiky. Not
bad, actually, if only those spikes had come from styling
instead of her lamentable habit of clutching her hair.
Inside the house, something else went plop. It sounded
bigger than the first.
Lucia said, "Still the wrong direction for getting out."
"After this." Garrie shot her a quick scowl, extending her
awareness into the empty house along with her flashlight
beam. Penny ante reckoner work--new haunting on new
construction. Didn't mean they could take it for
granted. "Don't tell me you didn't see it coming. This is
the most exciting gig we've had for weeks, and that's just
because we've got our spooky flashlights."
"Well," Lucia murmured, glancing around the spacious
house, "it's got the actual ghostie vibes going on. That's
a big step above knocking water pipes."
"Right. Exactly why I'm getting out." Never mind the
twinge of guilt as she said it, or the familiar, starch
voice of Rhonda Rose reminding her This is what you were
born to do.
But I'm not doing it, Rhonda Rose. I'm not doing it.
Not really.
Lucia was scary-good sometimes. Her tone dry with self-
awareness, she asked, "And what are you going to do, walk
away from yourself?" None of them could exactly walk away
from their unusual skills, Garrie most of all.
"Hey, chicas, c'mon." Drew Ely shadowed the doorway just
behind Lucia, hopelessly geeky in spite of--or perhaps
because of--his attempts to be oh-so-hip. Lank hair of an
indeterminate color, eyes to match, complexion just getting
over the whole becoming a man thing. Of late he'd been
experimenting with the one-day stubble look, and it really
wasn't working for him.
But he was a real wizard at reading the history of any
given space. And he'd just saved Garrie from mustering a
response to Lucia, so points for that. Cautiously, Garrie
moved into the house, making room for Drew to enter with
Quinn Rossiter on his heels.
Garrie, head reckoner: trained by her own personal
invisible friend from childhood to communicate and
influence spirits all of natures. Lucia, their spiritual
empath. Drew, their historian. And Quinn, their memory-
gifted researcher, tall and broad-shouldered, eyes a deep
clear blue, hair a crisp blond that always fell naturally
into whatever style he'd chosen. The three of them were
the support team to Garrie's reckoner muscle, giving her
the information she needed to work fast and clean.
Or not so clean. From out of thin air, a glob of sticky,
stinky ghost poop landed on Garrie's cheek. "Gah," she
said, and swiped it off, flinging it away with the casual
skill of long practice. Since her mid-teens, she'd been
doing this. And with Rhonda Rose at her side, most of it
had been a lot more exciting than...
Ghost poop.
"Someone's mad," Lucia said.
"Please don't tell me you had to use your superpowers to
figure that out." Garrie moved cautiously into the great
room--beamed ceiling far above, corner fireplace way down
there somewhere, arching rounded doorways to bedrooms, open
into the kitchen. If there was ghost poop, there was anger.
"This place is phat," Drew decided, just behind the curve
in cool factor as usual. "I bet you could get a deal on it
after we clear it."
Garrie didn't answer. She had her own perfectly good
condo, smack in the middle of the city's university area.
Everything she could possibly want within walking distance
and plenty of eccentric, benign spirits to keep her
company. "You guys pulling in any clues?"
"The whole angry thing," Lucia offered.
Drew shook his head. "The history is muddled to the max."
Garrie could understand that. "All this new construction
material, pulled in from all over the place." She took a
deep breath, inhaling that peculiar scent of disgruntled
spirits that only she could perceive. "I know you're
here," she said out loud, words to focus the unspoken
communication she broadcast to the house. "Get real,
everyone knows you're here. Quit throwing spitballs and
let's talk."
The straightforward approach. Rarely successful, but
always worth a try. This time it netted her a faint but
definite spiritual glower, as though impotent pieces of
power had mustered righteous offense. No more effective
than being hit with pats of soft spiritual butter. "Ooh,"
she muttered. "Eek."
Quinn moved into the room, circling around and squinting at
the walls--visualizing the structure, running his mind over
all the possible connections, all the possible
influences. "It's not all new," he murmured, touching the
textured wall paint. Stepping close.
Somewhere in the house, a door opened. The reckoners, as
one, turned to look at Garrie. She shrugged. "Just
supposed to be us." She thought this particular batch of
spirits had thrown their drama quota into the ectoplasmic
yuck, so that left something more earthly. But--
"There's way more than one," she realized out loud,
distracted from the noise of the door. She felt it plainly
enough, now that she'd puzzled it out--the weird fractured
pieces, a kaleidoscope of personalities. All of them
annoyed, but none of them truly powerful. Not darkside
entities, just disturbed echoes of those who had once lived
in the flesh. They needed her help as much as the man
who'd hired her.
Down the hall, shadows in shadow...something moved. Yet a
deeper layer of shadow, flashing along the wall.
Quinn said, "I think--" and then stopped short at the
screeching yowl that cut the night.
Drew jumped, whirling, his flashlight painting wild,
bobbing patterns of light across the walls and
archways. "Shee-it!"
"Toucheee," Lucia murmured to Garrie. She could afford to
be complacent. She was the one who always walked away
without a single splot of ghost poop on her person. The
only one.
Garrie slanted her a silent cut the kid a break, and
reached down the hall, pushing out her bubble of
awareness. Nothing.
"Cat," Quinn said, matter-of-fact and preoccupied with his
walls.
And there it was. Loitering at the end of the hall, tail
held high and undulating smugly enough that even Garrie,
the non-cat person, could see its self-satisfaction. "Who
let it in?"
Silence from her team. Loud silence. Until a voice not at
all familiar to any of them said, "I did."
They all startled. Ghosts didn't vocalize. The occasional
whispery noise, the faintest of moans...not deep, strong
voices.
And they didn't appear at the end of the hallway, solid and
tall in the shadows.
The cat ran to the new arrival, wound briefly between his
ankles, and faded away into a corner. Garrie didn't
hesitate--she lifted her flashlight so the beam shone
directly on the man's face.
He can't be for real. Not with a black leather duster over
a shirt with leather panels and cris-crossed lacings, pants
with front panel styling that might have been stylish a
hundred years ago, calf-high boots much scuffed and secured
by a row of outside buckles. But he was also far too solid
to have come with this particular house. And far too
reactive to the flashlight--a pained squint, a futile
effort to fend off the light with one hand.
Of course he had half-finger gloves to complete the
picture. Of course he had thick straight hair past his
shoulders, shorter front strands softening his features
with just the right amount of careless.
"Ay-yi-yi," Lucia murmured.
No kidding. But Garrie wasn't looking for reasons to
linger in a house where the dead hosts had decided to
impress the living with their ghost poop. "This is a
private party."
He didn't seem impressed. "You mind?" he asked, a hint of
an accent in even those two words. He moved his upraised
hand to shield his eyes. "The light?"
"I don't mind a bit," Garrie said, and kept the flashlight
beam where it was. Drew's laugh came muffled and more than
a little nervous. The cat, invisible in the shadows,
yowled in response. It made Garrie's spine tingle.
"Garrie," Lucia said, latching on to Garrie's arm, unspoken
words so familiar that Garrie didn't need to hear them.
Garrie, be nice. Garrie, don't chase the hottie away until
we figure out if he's a good or evil.
Garrie scowled. "You know damned well it never turns out
well when we run into cute games."
Lucia made a face at the truth of this statement, but then
her expression brightened. "There was that goth wannabe
who thought his gran was possessed. That wasn't too bad."
"Gran had Alzheimer's. It was tragic. And what about the
others? The reporter who made us look like idiots in prime
time, the actual idiot who thought he could steal our
skills if he just tried hard enough?" Trying hard enough
had involved surgical instruments from some ancient
collection. No, when they came on all clever like this,
there was always some hidden price.
"No games," the man said, moving closer. Garrie kept him
in her light. "Desperation. I need your help."
"Funny, that's what the guy with the surgical instruments
said." Garrie sidestepped a mid-air appearance of
glop. "In case you hadn't noticed, we're in the middle of
something here." She sent out a silent mental radar sweep,
hunting spiritual pings and listening with half her
attention while the other half considered just how
problematic their leather-clad, cat-toting visitor might
be. She jerked in surprise when one of the pings came back
from the visitor in question.
"Adobe," Quinn said abruptly, as if their work hadn't been
interrupted by the cat, the man, and the
conversation. "The mud. Old mud."
The man cleared his throat. "Hello?" His voice still
sounded tight. "The light?"
Garrie lowered the beam to his neck. She dug into the back
pocket of her jeans and pulled out a careworn business
card, which she flicked down the hallway at his feet. "Bad
timing, mister. You want to talk business, give me a call."
"It's the mud," Quinn said.
"The adobe?" Drew headed instantly for the door, grabbing
the excuse. He hadn't been with them for the whole
incident with the surgical instruments, but he'd heard
plenty enough about it.
Their interloper left the card where it fell. He might
have spoken, had the house not subtly shifted. Garrie felt
it; Lucia felt it. And the man looked over at the empty
kitchen in alarm.
From outside, Drew called, "Yes! It's the mud!"
The house made a noise like someone's last breath. Silent
demands plucked at Garrie's attention. Irritation at being
ignored, promises to up the ante, a crude image or two--
Lucia gasped, fully distracted from their visitor. "Garrie-
-"
"I feel it," Garrie said grimly.
"Containment?" Lucia said, slinging her Burberry tote from
her shoulder, hand ready to plunge inside.
"Size large," Garrie said, holding out her hand without
removing her attention from the kitchen. She switched her
flashlight off and jammed it into the holder on her cargo
belt; she'd need both hands now, and her inner sight was
more important than her physical sight anyway. Lucia
slapped the bag into her hand, flexible and plastic. Easy
zipper. Double layered.
"Is that--" the stranger started, not bringing himself to
finish the sentence.
"Yes, yes, the all-purpose baggie, coated inside with a
secret blend of eleven herbs and spices." And it was,
too. The plastic gleamed with the petroleum jelly base,
and the grit of the ingredients prickled against her
fingertips, from juniper and lilac to garlic and
leak. "Now be quiet. Or better yet, go home. Call me
tomorrow." It wasn't hard, herding minor, fractured
spirits into containment with ethereal breezes...but it
took concentration. Serious concentration.
"I can't," the man said, moving closer. Garrie touched the
stun gun also conveniently hanging at her side and
otherwise didn't take her attention away from the entities
gathering in the kitchen. Invisible, angry
entities. "Tomorrow is too late."
Too bad she had the skepticism of experience. "Go. Away."
Drew ran back inside, stopping so short that he skidded on
the tile. "You coming? You got 'em? 'Cause it's the
adobe plaster, all right. Quinn says if we get 'em and the
mud, we're good 'till he figures out where the mud came
from. Near a wash somewhere, probably. Flash flood--"
"Makes sense," Garrie murmured. She sensed only pieces
because these beings had been scattered across a wide area,
the adobe mud harvesting only a partial presence of each
spirit. "No wonder they're mad."
"Will you just--" the man said before running out of words,
voice hard with what might actually have been desperation
after all.
"Everyone's got a mad on," Lucia said pointedly. "I'm
going outside. What about--?" And she nodded at their
interloper.
"That's his problem," Garrie said. She reached inside
herself, opening the door that held in her own inner
light. Here, little ghosties...
"He could get slimed..."
"I'm right here," the man said. "And I'm on a tight
schedule. A very tight schedule."
"The word very only weakens your meaning," Garrie said,
finding the coalescing spirits as dim spots in her inner
eye, gathering toward the kitchen. "Ask any English
teacher." All that wiring, all those appliances...always
a favorite spot. Here, little ghosties... She lured them
in, knowing better than to try to reason with such
fragmented entities; she let her energy build, spiraling
through her grounding in a Escherian swirl. Once she got
close enough...
Someone grabbed her arm. Not gently, and not quite hard
enough to hurt. From the doorway Lucia yelped in surprise
and belated warning, and a deep voice in her ear said, "A
very, very tight schedule."
She opened her eyes, shocked to see even in the darkness
that his eyes weren't quite right, to see with her
lingering inner vision that his aura wasn't
quite...expected.
And then she realized that he still held her arm, and in
the background she heard Lucia's dismay and Quinn's
dramatic here-we-go groan, and Drew's emphatically spat
curse. She glowered right into his gaze, saw the instant
of surprise there as he read her expression--read it quite
well, in fact, as she lost the leading edge of her temper
and unthinkingly drew down the already spiraling energy to
fling him away, giving him a psychic King Kong shove that
was a stupid waste because it only worked on spiritual
entities except damn if it didn't shove him right back
against the nearest wall hard enough to elicit a grunt.
And then, even more utterly unexpected, radiated back out
from him two-fold, passing right through Garrie and into--
The kitchen.
For an instant there was silence. And then Drew
said, "Shee-it," and Quinn said, "Garrie," and Lucia's
voice went up half an octave as she shouted, "Caray! Run!
Oh crap!" and Garrie felt the spiritual fury raising the
hair at the back of her neck and then down her arms and she
mouthed her own silent curses as she sprinted--
Too late. Far, far too late.
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