a
solid kick with his foot. "Nothing, just wondered how solid this is."
"Are you nuts?" Charlie
shrieked. "You want bad karma or a ghost on your ass?"
Brent lifted his leg and
delivered a swift kick to the chalky stone, tipping it over. "Who does this guy think he is haunting
the nice people of New Orleans?" He bent
over the fallen tombstone. "Hey, you hear me down there, douche bag? You're dead, been dead for a hundred
and fifty years or more!"
"Stop it, Brent! You're desecrating his
grave."
Brent hopped onto the top
of the broken stone, danced a jig, and jumped up and down until breathless. Laughter spewed from his
throat. "You're dead, dead, dead, and it's
time you fucking accept it! Get out of the hotel, get out of New Orleans and accept your fate."
Charlie walked forward and
pushed him off the stone. "You're crazy!" He looked down. "Look what you did, Brent. You destroyed his
headstone. I want no part of
this."
"Hey, wait up! Where ya going?"
"Away from you."
"You'll never find your way
out." Brent's voice echoed around him and grew fainter with every step. "I got the flashlight,
buddy."
The wind picked up,
rustling the leaves and dead weeds at Charlie's feet. The clouds ducked behind the moon and pitched the
cemetery into tar-pitch black.
From the pits of hell
behind him, Brent screamed. "Charlie, help, Charlie!"
His knees knocked and his
mouth went dry. No matter how mad he was at Brent, he couldn't leave him. Maybe he'd tripped on a
grave and twisted his ankle. Shit, why
hadn't he listened to his gut and told Brent to go to hell?
What was he doing in this
cemetery?
"Hang on, Brent, I'm coming!"
Charlie picked his way back
through the labyrinth of monuments toward
Brent. Up ahead, he saw movement and breathed a sigh of
relief. Served the kid right if he fell
and broke his damn neck. He'd tried to tell him about bad karma, but his friend apparently didn't believe
him.
Burning bright, the flashlight lay on the
ground, and Brent's still form came into view. "I tried to tell
you—"
The words froze in his
throat. Looming over Brent's body, the shape of a man came into view. The gold buttons of his gray
jacket gleamed under a ribbon of moonlight. Saliva filled Charlie's mouth and a sweat broke
out on his forehead. He peered through the
inky dark, his eyes fixed on the bayonet in the man's hand. The name fell from his lips on a whisper.
"Valmont Doucet?"
Cyclonic winds hit from all
directions, and the ground swirled at his feet. He tried to move his numb legs, but like the statues, they'd
turned to marble.
A deep-barreled roar echoed around him.
"You're dead. . . dead.. . dead."
Charlie tumbled through a
white abyss with Brent beside him. His last thought on his descent
into hell: He'd give anything to see his
dad's belt right now.
Chapter One
Rand entered the townhouse,
tossed his backpack onto the dining room table and headed for the bathroom. After the grueling exam he
just aced, he needed a shower, a hot, steamy shower. With a sigh of
relief his college days were behind him
for now, he turned on the faucets and held his hand beneath the
stream of water.
"Ah, perfect," he said moments later.
Stripping off his clothes
and kicking them aside, he stepped into the enclosure and allowed
the pulsating jets to ease the knots and tension from his body. How his life had changed since Frank
pulled him off the street and allowed him
to live at the townhouse. A few years ago, loser was stamped on his forehead while he hustled marijuana at a
two-bit bar and parked his sneakers under
a dingy cot in a one-room dump. He'd still be peddling dope
if his dad's ex-partner, Frank McGuire,
hadn't intervened and knocked some sense
into his thick skull. Or maybe he'd be dead.
He shivered, despite the
warm steam clouding the shower door. He'd seen a lot of death since entering Frank's life; it clung to
the man like ticks on a dog. Maybe things
would settle down now that Frank had reluctantly agreed to bring him into
solid kick with his foot. "Nothing, just wondered how solid this is."
"Are you nuts?" Charlie
shrieked. "You want bad karma or a ghost on your ass?"
Brent lifted his leg and
delivered a swift kick to the chalky stone, tipping it over. "Who does this guy think he is haunting
the nice people of New Orleans?" He bent
over the fallen tombstone. "Hey, you hear me down there, douche bag? You're dead, been dead for a hundred
and fifty years or more!"
"Stop it, Brent! You're desecrating his
grave."
Brent hopped onto the top
of the broken stone, danced a jig, and jumped up and down until breathless. Laughter spewed from his
throat. "You're dead, dead, dead, and it's
time you fucking accept it! Get out of the hotel, get out of New Orleans and accept your fate."
Charlie walked forward and
pushed him off the stone. "You're crazy!" He looked down. "Look what you did, Brent. You destroyed his
headstone. I want no part of
this."
"Hey, wait up! Where ya going?"
"Away from you."
"You'll never find your way
out." Brent's voice echoed around him and grew fainter with every step. "I got the flashlight,
buddy."
The wind picked up,
rustling the leaves and dead weeds at Charlie's feet. The clouds ducked behind the moon and pitched the
cemetery into tar-pitch black.
From the pits of hell
behind him, Brent screamed. "Charlie, help, Charlie!"
His knees knocked and his
mouth went dry. No matter how mad he was at Brent, he couldn't leave him. Maybe he'd tripped on a
grave and twisted his ankle. Shit, why
hadn't he listened to his gut and told Brent to go to hell?
What was he doing in this
cemetery?
"Hang on, Brent, I'm coming!"
Charlie picked his way back
through the labyrinth of monuments toward
Brent. Up ahead, he saw movement and breathed a sigh of
relief. Served the kid right if he fell
and broke his damn neck. He'd tried to tell him about bad karma, but his friend apparently didn't believe
him.
Burning bright, the flashlight lay on the
ground, and Brent's still form came into view. "I tried to tell
you—"
The words froze in his
throat. Looming over Brent's body, the shape of a man came into view. The gold buttons of his gray
jacket gleamed under a ribbon of moonlight. Saliva filled Charlie's mouth and a sweat broke
out on his forehead. He peered through the
inky dark, his eyes fixed on the bayonet in the man's hand. The name fell from his lips on a whisper.
"Valmont Doucet?"
Cyclonic winds hit from all
directions, and the ground swirled at his feet. He tried to move his numb legs, but like the statues, they'd
turned to marble.
A deep-barreled roar echoed around him.
"You're dead. . . dead.. . dead."
Charlie tumbled through a
white abyss with Brent beside him. His last thought on his descent
into hell: He'd give anything to see his
dad's belt right now.
Chapter One
Rand entered the townhouse,
tossed his backpack onto the dining room table and headed for the bathroom. After the grueling exam he
just aced, he needed a shower, a hot, steamy shower. With a sigh of
relief his college days were behind him
for now, he turned on the faucets and held his hand beneath the
stream of water.
"Ah, perfect," he said moments later.
Stripping off his clothes
and kicking them aside, he stepped into the enclosure and allowed
the pulsating jets to ease the knots and tension from his body. How his life had changed since Frank
pulled him off the street and allowed him
to live at the townhouse. A few years ago, loser was stamped on his forehead while he hustled marijuana at a
two-bit bar and parked his sneakers under
a dingy cot in a one-room dump. He'd still be peddling dope
if his dad's ex-partner, Frank McGuire,
hadn't intervened and knocked some sense
into his thick skull. Or maybe he'd be dead.
He shivered, despite the
warm steam clouding the shower door. He'd seen a lot of death since entering Frank's life; it clung to
the man like ticks on a dog. Maybe things
would settle down now that Frank had reluctantly agreed to bring him into
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