Darkest Journey (Krewe of Hunters #20)(72)

They were heedless then of the living, except for an occasional shiver as a server moved through one of them.

They were staring at the small raised stage, completely focused on Charlie, as she sang another mournful ballad.

He stayed where he was, standing in the doorway. He noticed one man in particular who had hunkered down right in front of Charlie. The ghost wore a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, a vest and an apron—an apron smeared with blood. He was, Ethan thought, a doctor—the doctor who had acknowledged Charlie before, the ghost she’d talked about.

Ethan’s heart felt heavy in his chest as he looked out over the room. On the one hand, he was sorry for the burden the men carried. On the other, he was touched to see that none of them seemed to be aware whether they were North or South, that they should be enemies. In this room they were just men, injured, ill, and possibly dying soon, aware only that they’d left families behind, loved ones they might never see again.

Charlie finished the song. Applause erupted. The mist faded away.

And with it went the dead who had filled the room only moments before.

Except for one.

The doctor.

Ethan wished that he could keep the living from moving, from talking. They’d already driven the other ghosts away, and he found himself striding forward, wondering if he couldn’t somehow reach the doctor, urge him to stay.

Too late.

The Belles were bowing, and the diners were rising, filing out. He couldn’t reach the doctor quickly enough.

But he could see Charlie.

She smiled and waved to the audience, then walked toward the doctor, her hand outstretched.

The doctor, too, reached out, touched her hand.

And then he was gone, and Charlie was reaching out to nothing more than air.

*

Charlie had to wonder if it was wrong of her to find moments of such deep pleasure and happiness when three people had been murdered, and their killer was still out there somewhere. But she couldn’t help herself.

Ethan was back.

And they were together, just as she’d hoped they would be all those years ago.

It was as if a decade had never separated them. Their connection was something deep and rich, something that had played in their minds throughout the years, something stronger than anything they’d actually shared all those years ago.

Of course, theirs had been a strange relationship back then. They had known one another, but they had been three years apart, a vast gulf at the time, because he’d been legal age, a college man, and she had still been in high school, nowhere near her eighteenth birthday. But after the events in the graveyard, there had been hours spent with the police, a lot of time when they’d waited, alone together, to give another statement to yet another officer or the prosecuting attorney. There had been another bond between them, too. They had both seen the ghost of the Confederate cavalry officer; they both saw the dead and sometimes even communicated with them.

There hadn’t been anything sexual between them—not that she hadn’t tried—and yet it still seemed to her she’d never shared a more intimate relationship with anyone than she’d shared with him that night.

And now...

It was heavenly to lie with him, sleep with him, touch him, tease, laugh. To be naked next to the heat of his body, slip a hand over his flesh and feel him grow instantly aroused as he turned to her. To make love as naturally as if they’d been together forever. There were things he did that shouldn’t have been so erotic, so suggestive. The way he kissed and teased her fingertips with his lips and tongue. The way he placed a kiss behind her ear, then trailed more kisses down her nape...

Then there were the other incredible things he did, things that were so extremely intimate she could hardly think of them without feeling herself flush with heat, so far beyond seductive that she could scarcely breathe as he did them....

And there was just lying there beside him, feeling him breathe, hearing the sound of his heartbeat.

But the murders continually hovered over them, and late that night, as they lay together, cooling and sated, he turned to her.

“You’re pretty close to Jimmy Smith, huh?” he said. There was nothing accusing in his question, no jealousy in his tone. Just curiosity.

“I am. He’s kind of like the brother I never had.”

“Never more than that?” Again, there was no jealousy or accusation in his tone. She had the sense he just felt he needed to know. Ten years had passed. Others had come and gone in their lives. This was almost like a fact-finding mission, but only the future truly mattered.

“No, it was never anything more. We were both only kids, so that drew us together. And he was a member of the Gargoyles, the boys’ organization that was like a brother club to that stupid Cherub thing I was going to join years ago, that I was pledging for that night,” she told him, turning to look into his eyes. “We went to Tulane together, too. Our last year of school, he was one of five roommates I lived with. We all pooled our resources to rent a big old place in the Garden District.” She frowned, suddenly worried about his question. “You don’t think that Jimmy Smith could be involved— Wait! You do. You’re convinced that the film crew had something to do with the murders.”

“I don’t particularly suspect Jimmy. But, yes. You know I’m investigating the film crew.”

“Shelley thinks it’s someone involved with one of the organizations Corley and Hickory were involved with. That’s what she seemed to be saying, anyway.”