Hallow Be the Haunt (Krewe of Hunters #22.5)(4)

He kissed her again and then maneuvered her to the side to lift her hair and kiss the back of her neck. Then lower and lower and lower, until his mouth brushed the small of her back. He turned her again, his kiss, his touch so intimate that she stifled a cry as she reached down, drawing him back up. Their mouths met with urgency and hunger, hot and very wet. She twisted in his arms, her mouth free again, and delivered kisses all over his skin. Marveling at the tautness of it, at the sleek muscles he’d built up in order to be the best possible agent in the field… And because that was Jake.

Physical.

Wonderful.

She teased him until he let out a hoarse cry, then their lips connected again as he moved over her. And then into her.

And she was in awe that he was right. Everything was perfect.

Each time they made love.

His flesh became as slick as her own. A feeling built inside her, one that she wished would last forever. And yet urgent, so urgent. Building like the storms that sweep over Southern skies. As potent, as tempestuous.

Moving… Reaching… Arching… Writhing…

And then stars to match those outside seemed to swim before her eyes.

Jake, breathing at her side, his heart beating like the drums on Bourbon Street…

“Hmm. Think we should have waited until we were married?” he laughed.

She hit him with a pillow.

“It would have been one hell of a wait,” she told him.

He laid back with a contemplative look. “Married, though. I like it.”

And, snuggling against him, she agreed.

They were home—or, at least, the place that would always be home in Ashley’s heart. It was a good feeling. A safe one.

So they made love again. And then once again.

And with the extreme intimacy between them, which had only grown over time, they slept.

But maybe it was that—being home. Home. Here. Donegal, where the dead had first entered her dreams.

Because as Ashley slept, she began to dream again.




She wasn’t at the plantation. She was an hour away, in the heart of New Orleans. Walking down Bourbon Street.

She seldom headed to Bourbon Street, the commercial heart of the French Quarter. She usually had friends playing Uptown, or in the Garden District, on St. Charles or Magazine Street. She had nothing against the bars and strip clubs and all else that existed in the Quarter. In fact, she particularly loved Lafitte’s Blacksmith Shop, now a bar. A touch of history from the time when pirates had ruled the city—and helped to save it and the country from the massive power of Great Britain. But even so, she rarely visited.

And still, she walked.

Maybe she was headed down from Canal toward Esplanade, perhaps on her way to Lafitte’s. She could see partiers in the street. Some wide-eyed, some slightly staggering, having been, perhaps, just a wee bit over-served. She could hear the music coming from a dozen bars, each vying to have the loudest, best, most enticing entertainment. Hawkers vended beer and spirits on the sidewalks in front of a few of the establishments, and scantily clad women stood at dark doorways, enticing many to enter their dens of desire and…dance.

A young woman suddenly appeared before her.

“Please,” she whispered.

The girl had to be in her early twenties. She had long, golden hair and enormous brown eyes. A pretty face, with round cheeks and a generous mouth. She seemed incredibly distressed and Ashley stopped walking. She looked around for one of the mounted policemen who patrolled the Quarter, but she didn’t see anyone who resembled law enforcement or security.

“Can I help you? Do you need a ride? Are you lost?” Ashley asked worriedly.

The girl shook her head. Giant tears appeared in her eyes.

“Please, please, help me,” she said. She reached out, as if she would touch Ashley’s face, as if she was desperate for human contact.

“I’m happy to help you. But what’s wrong? I can’t help if I don’t understand the problem.”

“You must… You must… You see me here… Please…”

From somewhere, a chorus from a “Journey” song became loud. The sounds of the revelers on the street suddenly seemed like a cacophony.

And then the young woman gasped. “They’re coming!”

“They? Who?” Ashley turned to see what had so distressed the girl.

There was darkness. Like a flock of ravens, or a massive ball of dark mist. Or storm clouds making their way down the street.

“Please,” Ashley heard the whisper and turned back.

But the young woman was gone.

What in God’s name?

Ashley turned again. The mist was coming. She felt it as it came closer. It did look like a whir of raven-dark wind, or the sky when a bad storm threatens. And it moved, sweeping down the street. And in it, she sensed…

Danger. Malignance.

Evil.

She wanted to turn and run. It was coming closer and closer.

Coming for her.

Then she heard something, something different from the music of Bourbon Street, from the laughter of the ever-so-slightly inebriated, the hawkers, the vendors, the chatter, the neon…

It was a sharp sound.

And she woke with a start.

It was Jake’s cell phone. He’d answered it, sitting up on the bed.

She knew he was speaking with Jackson Crow, field supervisor for his special division within the bureau.