Chapter Eighteen—Guinevere

Clinging to the spire with one hand, I struggled to keep from falling. An unholy wind whipped around me, my own hair blinding me from the action below, and I heard Lancelot screaming my name. I twisted desperately but could do nothing except hang on. Eventually I would fall, but I would not die, would I? Surely the temporary pain would be worth it. But what if I was too weak from the fall to help Arthur? What if I lay there an easy meal for Thalia or Sun? As I pondered what to do and struggled to keep from crashing to the ground, Nimue’s voice broke through the fading brick wall I had erected in my mind.

Come to me, Guinevere. I need you! We must do this together!

I thought no more. With my eyes to the now-darkening sky, I fell quickly. The fall broke a few bones, and the pain at the back of my head was excruciating. I didn’t have to put my hand back there to know I was bleeding. But as I suspected, neither the pain nor the bleeding lasted long. As I waited for the healing to occur, I struggled to get up and watched in horror as Thalia ran for Nimue.

“No!” I screamed as Thalia changed course in mid-run and rushed toward Arthur, who was bloody and breathing heavily. He lifted his bloody sword, but Thalia raised her hands to her chest to protect her heart from being pierced by Excalibur. Spinning away from him, she screamed in anger. For the first time, I saw true sorrow on her face. Her face became the picture of beauty again, and I prayed that Arthur’s resolve did not waver.

“I just wanted to love you, Arthur. To be your queen. Together we could bring back the glory of Camelot.” Tears streamed down her face, and I saw his arm falter. He was listening to her!

“Please, Arthur. We can reign together. You abandoned the city, but I only want to protect it. Please, listen to me and end this bloodshed. Arthur, King of Camelot, I yield to you.” She bowed her head and her knee, and Arthur froze. Oh no! He believed her. It was her magic!

Nimue’s voice rang in my ears: Now, Guinevere! Help me!

We grabbed Thalia’s arms and pinned them behind her. So confident was she, she never sensed us coming. Nimue spoke in her ancient language, and I watched as Thalia’s glamor wavered and vanished. The creature we held was nothing at all like the Sleeping Queen we’d seen. Her beauty vanished, and an old woman with gray hair and clawlike fingernails appeared.

“Arthur! Now!” I yelled at him, and he snapped out of his daydream. The sword pierced Thalia, and she began to convulse as we released her. Arthur stood over her shuddering body, then drove the blade in and pierced her through and through. Thalia’s body began to smoke, and as Arthur removed Excalibur, she burst into flames.

Thalia was destroyed. In a matter of seconds, there was nothing left of the Sleeping Queen. I watched the last wisp of smoke disappear and couldn’t understand why I felt such sadness. She had been horrible, that was certain, but wasn’t I also horrible? As if she read my mind again, and perhaps she did, Nimue took my hand. She squeezed it briefly but said nothing. I did not ask for forgiveness from her. I did not deserve it.

The four of us, tired and bloody, walked back to the stone circle. The place appeared as it always had, as it had for centuries upon centuries. The grass was soft and green, and the stones were gray, marked with runes left behind by some long-ago forgotten civilization. There was no trace of the heated battle that had occurred near here just moments ago. It was as if it had never happened. But it had, and the four of us had survived.

Nimue had completely recovered. Her flesh appeared pink and living, her teeth white and perfect, her hair long and shiny, just as it had been when we were all young. Even Sun’s blood had vanished from her green gown.

Then, we heard the trumpets sound—the trumpets of Camelot. These were the trumpets that welcomed the king, the true king, the Pendragon. With tears in his eyes, Arthur turned to the sound, and I knew the truth. He had to stay here. He had to return to Camelot, for this was where he belonged. He always belonged here. How he had lost his way, I would never know. Neither would he, I suspected. We paused next to the shimmering portal, the four of us together again if only for a few brief moments.

“Come with me, Guin. Come home.”

I rushed to him and caught him in my arms. I smiled against the tears I felt rising within me. “I cannot, Arthur. Not as I am. But you must go. It is your destiny, Once and Future King.”

“There is no Arthur without Guinevere,” he said desperately.

Tell him what he wants to hear, my queen. Tell him what you know, what you feel, Nimue’s voice whispered in my head, and I obeyed. “I will return to you, Arthur. One day, I will return, but not yet.”

The trumpets sounded again, calling Arthur home. He kissed me, and I kissed him back. “What about Excalibur?” he asked. “It calls you still.” He held the sword out to me, and I touched it with my fingers. The blade tingled on my skin.

“It will claim me one day, my king, but not today. There are things left undone.” How those words shook me to the core. I knew the meaning of them but dared not speak another word. I could not.

“I will stay with the king,” Lancelot said resolutely. “He may need me in the days ahead. We do not know what we face here, what new enemies may have risen up against Camelot in your absence.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder and the two hugged, the unspoken rift between them finally healed.

Nimue said, “I will return with you, Guinevere. I have someone to see.”

I looked at her curiously but only for a second or two. Arthur grinned now, despite his sadness. “And when he is well, send him home, Nimue. All of you, please. Come home,” he said, sounding like Arthur Pendragon once again.

I bowed my head to him, and before I could think another thing or say another word, I stepped through the portal.

How long would it be until I returned? I didn’t truly know. Perhaps a lifetime. But my inner self knew the truth.

I would return to Camelot again soon. And when I did, there would be no turning back.

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From the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

A smile crept across my face when I turned back to look at the pale faces watching me from behind the lace curtains of the girls’ dormitory. I didn’t feel sorry for any of them—all of those girls hated me. They thought they were my betters because they were orphans and I was merely the accidental result of my wealthy mother’s indiscretion. I couldn’t understand why they felt that way. As I told Marie Bettencourt, at least my parents were alive and wealthy. Hers were dead and in the cold, cold ground. “Worm food now, I suppose.” Her big dark eyes had swollen with tears, her ugly, fat face contorting as she cried. Mrs. Bedford scolded me for my remarks, but even that did not worry me.

I had a tool much more effective than Mrs. Bedford’s threats of letters to the attorney who distributed my allowance or a day without a meal. Mr. Bedford would defend me—for a price. I would have to kiss his thin, dry lips and pretend that he did not peek at my décolletage a little too long. Once he even squeezed my bosom ever so quickly with his rough hands but then pretended it had been an accident. Mr. Bedford never had the courage to lift up my skirt or ask me for a “discreet favor,” as my previous chaperone had called it, but I enjoyed making him stare. It had been great fun for a month or two until I saw how easily he could be manipulated.

And now my rescuer had come at last, a man, Louis Beaumont, who claimed to be my mother’s brother. I had never met Olivia, my mother. Not that I could remember, anyway, and I assumed I never would.

Louis Beaumont towered above most men, as tall as an otherworldly prince. He had beautiful blond hair that I wanted to plunge my hands into. It looked like the down of a baby duckling. He had fair skin—so light it almost glowed—with pleasant features, even brows, thick lashes, a manly mouth. It was a shame he was so near a kin because I would have had no objections to whispering “Embrasse-moi” in his ear. Although I very much doubted Uncle Louis would have indulged my fantasy. How I loved to kiss, and to kiss one so beautiful! That would be heavenly. I had never kissed a handsome man before—I kissed the ice boy once and a farmhand, but neither of them had been handsome or good at kissing.

For three days we traveled in the coach, my uncle explaining what he wanted and how I would benefit if I followed his instructions. According to my uncle, Cousin Calpurnia needed me, or rather, needed a companion for the season. The heiress would come out this year, and a certain level of decorum was expected, including traveling with a suitable companion. “Who would be more suitable than her own cousin?” he asked me with the curl of a smile on his regal face. “Now, dearest Isla,” he said, “I am counting on you to be a respectable girl. Leave all that happened before behind in Birmingham—no talking of the Bedfords or anyone else from that life. All will be well now.” He patted my hand gently. “We must find Calpurnia a suitable husband, one that will give her the life she’s accustomed to and deserves.”

Yes, indeed. Now that this Calpurnia needed a proper companion, I had been summoned. I’d never even heard of Miss Calpurnia Cottonwood until now. Where had Uncle Louis been when I ran sobbing in a crumpled dress after falling prey to the lecherous hands of General Harper, my first guardian? Where had he been when I endured the shame and pain of my stolen maidenhead? Where? Was I not Beaumont stock and worthy of rescue? Apparently not. I decided then and there to hate my cousin, no matter how rich she was. Still, I smiled, spreading the skirt of my purple dress neatly around me on the seat. “Yes, Uncle Louis.”

“And who knows, ma petite Cherie, perhaps we can find you a good match too. Perhaps a military man or a wealthy merchant. Would you like that?” I gave him another smile and nod before I pretended to be distracted by something out the window. My fate would be in my own hands, that much I knew. Never would I marry. I would make my own future. Calpurnia must be a pitiful, ridiculous kind of girl if she needed my help to land a “suitable” husband with all her affluence.

About the Ultimate Seven Sisters Collection

When historian Carrie Jo Jardine accepted her dream job as chief historian at Seven Sisters in Mobile, Alabama, she had no idea what she would encounter. The moldering old plantation housed more than a few boxes of antebellum artifacts and forgotten oil paintings. Secrets lived there—and they demanded to be set free.

This contains the entire supernatural suspense series.

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From The Ghosts of Idlewood

I arrived at Idlewood at seven o’clock thinking I’d have plenty of time to mark the doors with taped signs before the various contractors arrived. There was no electricity, so I wasn’t sure what the workmen would actually accomplish today. I’d dressed down this morning in worn blue jeans and a long-sleeved t-shirt. It just felt like that kind of day. The house smelled stale, and it was cool but not freezing. We’d enjoyed a mild February this year, but like they say, “If you don’t like the weather in Mobile, just wait a few minutes.”

I really hated February. It was “the month of love,” and this year I wasn’t feeling much like celebrating. I’d given Chip the heave-ho for good right after Christmas, and our friendship hadn’t survived the breakup. I hated that because I really did like him as a person, even if he could be narrow-minded about spiritual subjects. I hadn’t been seeing anyone, but I was almost ready to get back into the dating game. Almost.

I changed out the batteries in my camera before beginning to document the house. Carrie Jo liked having before, during and after shots of every room.

According to the planning sheet Carrie Jo and I developed last month, all the stage one doors were marked. On her jobs, CJ orchestrated everything: what rooms got painted first, where the computers would go, which room we would store supplies in, that sort of thing. I also put no-entry signs on rooms that weren’t safe or were off-limits to curious workers. The home was mostly empty, but there were some pricy mantelpieces and other components that would fetch a fair price if you knew where to unload stolen items such as high-end antiques. Surprisingly, many people did.

I’d start the pictures on the top floor and work my way down. I peeked out the front door quickly to see if CJ was here. No sign of her yet, which wasn’t like her at all. She was usually the early bird. I smiled, feeling good that Carrie Jo trusted me enough to give me the keys to this grand old place. There were three floors, although the attic space wasn’t a real priority for our project. The windows would be changed, the floors and roof inspected, but not a lot of cosmetic changes were planned for up there beyond that. We’d prepare it for future storage of seasonal decorations and miscellaneous supplies. Seemed a waste to me. I liked the attic; it was roomy, like an amazing loft apartment. But it was no surprise I was drawn to it—when I was a kid, I practically lived in my tree house.

I stuffed my cell phone in my pocket and jogged up the wide staircase in the foyer. I could hear birds chirping upstairs; they probably flew in through a broken window. There were quite a few of them from the sound of it. Since I hadn’t labeled any doors upstairs or in the attic, I hadn’t had the opportunity to explore much up there. It felt strangely exhilarating to do so all by myself. The first flight of stairs appeared safe, but I took my time on the next two. Water damage wasn’t always easy to spot, and I had no desire to fall through a weak floor. When I reached the top of the stairs to the attic, I turned the knob and was surprised to find it locked.

“What?” I twisted it again and leaned against the door this time, but it wouldn’t move. I didn’t see a keyhole, so that meant it wasn’t locked after all. I supposed it was merely stuck, the wood probably swollen from moisture. “Rats,” I said. I set my jaw and tried one last time. The third time must have been the charm because it opened freely, as if it hadn’t given me a world of problems before. I nearly fell as it gave way, laughing at myself as I regained my balance quickly. I reached for my camera and flipped it to the video setting. I panned the room to record the contents. There were quite a few old trunks, boxes and even the obligatory dressmaker’s dummy. It was a nerd girl historian’s dream come true.

Like an amateur documentarian, I spoke to the camera: “Maiden voyage into the attic at Idlewood. Today is February 4th. This is Rachel Kowalski recording.”

Rachel Kowalski recording, something whispered back. My back straightened, and the fine hairs on my arms lifted as if to alert me to the presence of someone or something unseen.

I froze and said, “Hello?” I was happy to hear my voice and my voice alone echo back to me.

Hello?

About The Ghosts of Idlewood

When a team of historians takes on the task of restoring the Idlewood plantation to its former glory, they discover there’s more to the moldering old home than meets the eye. The long-dead Ferguson children don’t seem to know they’re dead. A mysterious clock, a devilish fog and the Shadow Man add to the supernatural tension that begins to build in the house. Lead historian Carrie Jo Stuart and her assistant Rachel must use their special abilities to get to the bottom of the many mysteries that the house holds.

Detra Ann and Henri get a reality check, of the supernatural kind, and Deidre Jardine finally comes face to face with the past.

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From The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road

“Sierra to base.”

Sara’s well-manicured nails wrapped around the black walkie-talkie. “This is base. Go ahead, Sierra.”

“Five minutes. No sign of the client. K2 is even Steven. Temp is 58F.”

“Great. Check back in five. Radio silence, please.”

“All right.”

She tapped the antenna of the walkie-talkie to her chin. “I hope she remembers to take pictures. Did she take her camera?” she asked Midas. It was the first time she’d spoken to him this afternoon.

“Yes, but it wouldn’t hurt to have a backup. You have yours?”

Sara cocked an eyebrow at him. “Are you kidding? I’m no rookie.” She cast a stinging look of disdain in my direction and strolled back to her car in her stylish brown boots and began searching her back seat, presumably for her camera.

“Am I missing something?” I couldn’t help but ask. The uncomfortable feeling kept rising. I’d had enough weirdness for one day.

Nobody answered me. Midas glared after Sara, but it was Peter who broke the silence.

“Cassidy, have you always been interested in the supernatural? Seems like we all have our own stories to tell. All of us have either seen something or lost someone. They say the loss of a loved one in a tragic way makes you more sensitive to the spirit world. I think that might be true.”

“You’re an ass, Pete. You’re joking about her sister? She doesn’t know she’s lost her.” I could see Midas’ muscles ripple under his shirt. He wore a navy blue sweater, the thin, fitted kind that had three buttons at the top.

“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I swear to you I’m not a heartless beast.”

“How could you not know?” Sara scolded him. “She told us about her the other night.”

“I had my headphones on half the time, cueing up video and photographs. Shoot. I’m really sorry, Cassie.”

That was the last straw. I was about to tell him how I really felt about his “joke.” I took a deep breath and said, “My name is Cassidy, and...”

The walkie-talkie squawked, and I heard Sierra’s voice, “Hey! Y’all need to get in here, now!”

Immediately everyone began running toward the narrow pathway. Midas snatched the walkie. “Sierra! What’s up?”

“Someone’s out here—stalking us.”

“Can you see who it is? Is it Ranger?”

“Definitely not! Footsteps are too fast for someone so sick.” Her whisper sent a shiver down my spine. “I’m taking pictures...should we keep pushing in toward the house?”

“Yes, keep going. We’re double-timing your way. Stay on the path, Sierra. Don’t get lost. Follow your GPS. It should lead you right to it.”

“Okay.”

“Midas! Let’s flank whoever this is!” Pete said, his anger rising.

Midas looked at me as if to say, “Are you going to be all right?”

Sara said, “Go and help Sierra. Cassidy and I will follow.”

Immediately Midas took off to the left and Peter to the right. They flanked the narrow road and scurried through the woods to see if they could detect the intruder.

Sara handed me her audio recorder. “Hold this! I’m grabbing some photos. We’re going to run, Cassidy. I hope you can keep up.”

“Sure, I used to run marathons.” I didn’t want to seem like a wimp. Now didn’t seem like the time to tell her that I hadn’t trained in over six months. “But why are we running? Are they in danger, do you think? Maybe it’s just a homeless person.”

“The element of surprise! Hit record and come on! Get your ass in gear, girl!”

I pressed the record button, gritted my teeth and took off after her. We ran down the leaf-littered path; the afternoon sunlight was casting lean shadows in a few spots now. We’d be out of sun soon. Then we’d be running through the woods in the dark. Was it supposed to be this cold out here?

I wish I held the temperature thingy instead, but I didn’t.

“You feel that, Cassidy? The cold?” She bounded over a log in front of me, and I followed her. “Not unusual for the woods, but this is more than that,” she said breathlessly. “I think it might mean we’ve got supernatural activity out here.”

“You think?” I asked sincerely.

She paused her running. Her pretty cheeks were pink and healthy-looking. She’d worn her long hair in a ponytail today, and she wore blue jeans that fit her perfectly.

“Yeah, I do. I think it’s time you get your feet wet, rookie. Use the audio recorder. Ask a few questions.”

“Um, what? What kind of questions?”

“Ask a question like, ‘Are there any spirits around me that want to talk?’”

I repeated what she said. I spun around slowly and looked around the forest, but there wasn’t a sound. Not even bird sounds or a squirrel rattling through the leaves. And it didn’t just sound dead; it felt dead.

About The Ghosts of Kali Oka Road

The paranormal investigators at Gulf Coast Paranormal thought they knew what they were doing. Midas, Sierra, Sara, Josh and Peter had over twenty combined years of experience investigating supernatural activity on the Gulf Coast. But when they meet Cassidy, a young artist with a strange gift, they realize there’s more to learn. And time is running out for Cassidy.

When Gulf Coast Paranormal begins investigating the ghosts of Kali Oka Road, they find an entity far scarier than a few ghosts. Add in the deserted Oak Grove Plantation, and you have a recipe for a night of terror.

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From The Tale of Nefret

Clapping my hands three times, I smiled, amused at the half-dozen pairs of dark eyes that watched me entranced with every word and movement I made. “And then she crept up to the rock door and clapped her hands again...” Clap, clap, clap. The children squealed with delight as I weaved my story. This was one of their favorites, The Story of Mahara, about an adventurous queen who constantly fought magical creatures to win back her clan’s stolen treasures.

“Mahara crouched down as low as she could.” I demonstrated, squatting as low as I could in the tent. “She knew that the serpent could only see her if she stood up tall, for he had very poor eyesight. If she was going to steal back the jewel, she would have to crawl her way into the den, just as the serpent opened the door. She was terrified, but the words of her mother rang in her ears: ‘Please, Mahara! Bring back our treasures and restore our honor!’”

I crawled around, pretending to be Mahara. The children giggled. “Now Mahara had to be very quiet. The bones of a hundred warriors lay in the serpent’s cave. One wrong move and that old snake would see her and...catch her!” I grabbed at a nearby child, who screamed in surprise. Before I could finish my tale, Pah entered our tent, a look of disgust on her face.

“What is this? Must our tent now become a playground? Out! All of you, out! Today is a special day, and we have to get ready.”

The children complained loudly, “We want to hear Nefret’s story! Can’t we stay a little longer?”

Pah shook her head, and her long, straight hair shimmered. “Out! Now!” she scolded the spokesman for the group.

“Run along. There will be time for stories later,” I promised them.

As the heavy curtain fell behind them, I gave Pah an unhappy look. She simply shook her head. “You shouldn’t make promises that you may not be able to keep, Nefret. You do not know what the future holds.”

“Why must you treat them so? They are only children!” I set about dressing for the day. Today we were to dress simply with an aba—a sleeveless coat and trousers. I chose green as my color, and Pah wore blue. I cinched the aba at the waist with a thick leather belt. I wore my hair in a long braid. My fingers trembled as I cinched it with a small bit of cloth.

“Well, if nothing else, you’ll be queen of the children, Nefret.”

About The Tale of Nefret

Twin daughters of an ancient Bedouin king struggle under the weight of an ominous prophecy that threatens to divide them forever. Royal sibling rivalry explodes as the young women realize that they must fight for their future and for the love of Alexio, the man they both love. The Tale of Nefret chronicles their lives as they travel in two different directions. One sister becomes the leader of the Meshwesh while the other travels to Egypt as an unwilling gift to Pharaoh.

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From Wife of the Left Hand

Okay, so it was official. I had lost my mind. I turned off the television and got up from the settee. I couldn’t explain any of it, and who would believe me? Too many weird things had happened today—ever since I arrived at Sugar Hill.

Just walk away, Avery. Walk away. That had always been good advice, Vertie’s advice, actually.

And I did.

I took a long hot bath, slid into some comfortable pinstriped pajamas, pulled my hair into a messy bun and climbed into my king-sized bed.

All was well. Until about midnight.

A shocking noise had me sitting up straight in the bed. It was the loudest, deepest clock I had ever heard, and it took forever for the bells to ring twelve times. After the last ring, I flopped back on my bed and pulled the covers over my head. Would I be able to go back to sleep now?

To my surprise, the clock struck once more. What kind of clock struck thirteen? Immediately my room got cold, the kind of cold that would ice you down to your bones. Wrapping the down comforter around me, I turned on the lamp beside me and huddled in the bed, waiting...for something...

I sat waiting, wishing I were brave enough and warm enough to go relight a fire in my fireplace. It was so cold I could see my breath now. Thank God I hadn’t slept nude tonight. Jonah had hated when I wore pajamas to bed. Screw him! I willed myself to stop thinking about him. That was all in the past now. He’d made his choice, and I had made mine.

Then I heard the sound for the first time. It was soft at first, like a kitten crying pitifully. Was there a lost cat here? That would be totally possible in this big old house. As the mewing sound drew closer, I could hear much more clearly it was not a kitten but a child. A little girl crying as if her heart were broken. Sliding my feet in my fuzzy white slippers and wrapping the blanket around me tightly, I awkwardly tiptoed to the door to listen. Must be one of the housekeepers’ children. Probably cold and lost. I imagined if you wanted to, you could get lost here and never be found. Now her crying mixed with whispers as if she were saying something; she was pleading as if her life depended on it. My heart broke at the sound, but I couldn’t bring myself to open the door and actually take a look. Not yet. I scrambled for my iPhone and jogged back to the door to record the sounds. How else would anyone believe me? Too many unbelievable things had happened today. With my phone in one hand, the edge of my blanket in my teeth to keep it in place and my free hand on the doorknob, I readied myself to open the door. I had to see who—or what—was crying in the hallway. I tried to turn the icy cold silver-toned knob, but it wouldn’t budge. It was as if someone had locked me in. Who would do such a thing? Surely not Dinah or Edith or one of the other staff?

About Wife of the Left Hand

Avery Dufresne had the perfect life: a rock star boyfriend, a high-profile career in the anchor chair on a national news program. Until a serious threat brings her perfect world to a shattering stop. When Avery emerges from the darkness she finds she has a new ability—a supernatural one. Avery returns to Belle Fontaine, Alabama, to claim an inheritance: an old plantation called Sugar Hill. Little does she know that the danger has just begun.

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From The Belles of Desire, Mississippi

The black and white photo had crumpled, brittle edges, but the faces were clear. Four girls looked back at me, three with smiles and one with a faraway look as if she were seeing past the moment—as if she could see me. I shivered at the silliness of that thought.

“Can you guess which one is me?” She smiled like the Cheshire cat, and I stared at her and then at the photo. Picking out Harper was easy. You could tell the girls were related, but none of them looked exactly alike. Unwilling to wait for my answer, she said, “That’s me, on the end.”

I smiled at her. “You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Oh, you’re such a liar, Jerica Poole, but thank you.” Thank goodness she didn’t call me Jeopardy again. But I wasn’t lying. Of course, she looked much older than this photo, but it was Harper nonetheless. She had a wide forehead and neat eyebrows that had a natural arch to them. In the photo, she wore a Peter Pan blouse, and her soft blond hair was bobbed and curled.

“And which sister is which?”

“Now, this pouty thing with the bee-stung lips is my sister Addison. She’s the only one of us who had brown eyes. She looked a lot like my father’s family. Addison was a sickly girl but sweet.” Addison had a cleft chin to go along with those full lips. She was certainly a pretty girl. “This ball of sunshine was my youngest sister, Loxley. Momma always braided her hair into two braids. She used to see ghosts all the time, right up until the day she moved away and married that boy from Mobile. Why can’t I think of his name?”

“What?” I laughed at that. “Loxley must have had an imaginary friend or two, I gather?”

“No, they weren’t imaginary friends; she saw ghosts just like you and I see cats or dogs. And this girl here, the one beside me, that’s my sister Jeopardy. She disappeared in 1942.” I was mesmerized by the girl with the wild blond hair. She looked so out of place, like a girl from another time had stepped into the frame. She wore a white sundress and had vulnerable-looking bare arms and that sad, faraway look in her eyes.

“She looks so tiny. She was the oldest, right?”

“Yeah, she was the oldest, but I was the tallest. I was the Ugly Duckling of the Belle family, taller than even Momma when I got older. Jeopardy was always a petite thing, with a wild streak a mile wide. Oh, how I wanted to be like Jeopardy.” Harper clutched the photo in her hand and closed her eyes as if she were remembering some half-forgotten moment. I didn’t want to interrupt her, but I was captivated by the photograph.

“Hardly an Ugly Duckling, Harper. And I’m taller than you. Tell me about your sisters. You said Jeopardy disappeared?”

“They are all gone now. I am the last Belle.” She opened her eyes and tucked the crocheted blanket around her legs. “Chilly this morning. I wanted to see you, Jerica, because I am going to die soon, and I’m afraid I have failed to bring my sister home. I made a promise a long time ago. I promised Jeopardy I would bring her home, but I couldn’t. I need your help. Please tell me you’ll help me. I can’t die knowing she’ll never make it home.”

Alarmed at her confession, I put my hand on her wrist to comfort her. “Hey, you aren’t going to die on my watch. Let me call your doctor. If you feel off in any kind of way, we need to get him here.”

“Don’t do that. I need you to believe me. I can’t explain how I know it, but I do—I am going to die soon, and I need your help. I can’t find Jeopardy, and she’s been gone so long. She can’t rest until we find her. Please help me.” For the first time in all the years I’d known her, Harper Hayes cried. I was so surprised that I couldn’t imagine refusing her. I couldn’t say no to her after she’d been so good to Marisol and me. She’d been there for me when I needed her most. I would have to return the favor.

“I’ll help you, Harper, but we have to call Dr. Odom. I’ll help you if you allow me to call him.”

She wiped her tears away and nodded in agreement. “That sounds like a fair trade. Hand me my handkerchief, please.”

I walked to her bedside table and retrieved one of the embroidered handkerchiefs from her neat stack. Handing it to her, I couldn’t help but hug her even though I suspected she didn’t enjoy hugs too much.

“I want you to have this picture, Jerica. I don’t want you to forget Jeopardy Belle, not like everyone else has. Even me—I forgot her for a while. I tried to find her, but then I got so busy with my own life. Find her, Jerica. Find her and bring her home.”

“I can’t accept this picture, Harper. These are your sisters, not mine.”

“No, I want you to have it. Just remember your promise. I’m going to hold you to it now, Jeopardy.”

I didn’t correct her but squeezed her hand and slipped the picture into my pocket before I walked out to call Dr. Odom. The whole thing was weird, but I couldn’t refuse Harper. She’d been there for me, and how hard could it be to find her sister?

She disappeared in 1942...

About The Belles of Desire, Mississippi

Jerica Poole had no idea how quickly life could change until hers is ripped apart at the seams. After a messy divorce and the tragic death of her daughter, she jumps at the chance to fulfill the last wish of her friend, Harper Belle Hayes. The troubled nurse makes the journey to Harper’s hometown of Desire, Mississippi, and immediately finds herself swept up in a 75-year-old mystery: what happened to Jeopardy Belle? When she begins exploring the Belles’ old homestead, Summerleigh, she discovers that some of the former tenants live on in ghostly form and would love nothing more than to add Jerica to their numbers. Small-town drama and a rich southern background add to the tension of this riveting, ghost-filled murder mystery.

More from M. L. Bullock

From The Mermaid’s Gift

Dauphin Island had more than its share of weirdness—a fact illustrated by tomorrow’s Mullet Toss—but it was home to me. It wasn’t as popular as nearby Sand Island or Frenchman Bay, and we islanders clung to our small-town identity like it was a badge of honor. Almost unanimously, islanders refused to succumb to the pressure of beach developers and big-city politicians who occasionally visited our pristine stretches of sand with dollar signs in their eyes. No matter how they sweet-talked the town elders, they left unsatisfied time and time again, with the exception of a lone tower of condominiums that stood awkwardly in the center of the island. As someone said recently at our monthly town meeting, “We don’t need all that hoopla.” That seemed to be the general sense of things, and although I valued what they were trying to preserve, I didn’t always agree with my fellow business owners and residents. Still, I was just Nike Augustine, the girl with a weird name and a love for french fries but most notably the granddaughter of the late Jack Augustine, respected one-time mayor of Dauphin Island. What did I know? I was too young to appreciate the importance of protecting our sheltered island. Or so I had been told. So island folk such as myself made the bulk of our money during spring break and the Deep Sea Fishing Rodeo in July. It was enough to make a girl nuts.

But despite this prime example of narrow-mindedness, I fit in here. Along with all the oddities like the island clock that never worked properly, the abandoned lighthouse that everyone believed was haunted and the fake purple shark that hung outside my grandfather’s souvenir shop. I reminded myself of that when the overwhelming desire to wander overtook me, as it threatened to do today and had done most days recently. I had even begun to dream of diving into the ocean and swimming as far down as I could. Pretty crazy since I feared the water, or more specifically what swam hidden in the darkness. Another Nike eccentricity. Only my grandfather understood my reluctance, but he was no longer here to tell me I wasn’t crazy. My fear of water separated me from my friends, who practically lived in or on the waters of the Gulf of Mexico or the Mobile Bay most of the year.

Meandering down the aisles of the souvenir shop, I stopped occasionally to turn a glass dolphin and rearrange a few baskets of dusty shells. I halfheartedly slapped the shelves with my dust rag and glanced at the clock again and again until finally the shark-tooth-tipped hands hit five o’clock. With a bored sigh, I walked to the door, turned the sign to Closed and flicked off the neon sign that glowed: “Shipwreck Souvenirs.” I’d keep longer hours when spring break began, but for now it was 9 to 5.

I walked to the storeroom to retrieve the straw broom. I had to pay homage to tradition and make a quick pass over the chipped floor. I’d had barely any traffic today, just a few landlubbers hoping to avoid the spring breakers; as many early birds had discovered, the cold Gulf waters weren’t warm enough to frolic in yet. Probably fewer than a dozen people had darkened my door today, and only half of those had the courtesy to buy something. With another sigh, I remembered the annoying child who had rubbed his sticky hands all over the inflatables before announcing to the world that he had to pee. I thanked my Lucky Stars that I didn’t have kids. But then again, I would need a boyfriend or husband for that, right?

Oh, yeah. I get to clean the toilets, too.

I wondered what the little miscreant had left behind for me in the tiny bathroom. No sense in griping about it. It was me or no one. I wouldn’t be hiring any help anytime soon. I grabbed the broom and turned to take care of the task at hand when I heard a suspicious sound that made me pause.

Someone was near the back door, rattling through the garbage cans. I could hear the metal lid banging on the ground. Might be a cat or dog, but it might also be Dauphin Island’s latest homeless resident. We had a few, but this lost soul tugged at my heartstrings. I had never seen a woman without a place to live. So far she had refused to tell me her name or speak to me at all. Perhaps she was hard of hearing too? Whatever the case, it sounded as if she weren’t above digging through my trash cans. Which meant even more work for me. “Hey,” I called through the door, hoping to stop her before she destroyed it.

I had remembered her today as I was eating my lunch. I saved her half of my club sandwich. I had hoped I could tempt her to talk to me, but as if she knew what I had planned, she’d made herself scarce. Until now.

I slung the door open, and the blinds crashed into the mauve-painted wall. Nobody was there, but a torn bag of trash lay on the ground. I yelled in the direction of the cans, “Hey! You don’t have to tear up the garbage! I have food for you. Are you hungry?”

I might as well have been talking to the dolphins that splashed offshore. Nobody answered me. “I know you’re there! I just heard you in my trash. Come out, lady. I won’t hurt you.” Still nobody answered. I heard a sound like a low growl coming from the side of my store.

What the heck was that?

Immediately I felt my adrenaline surge. Danger stalked close. I ran to the back wall of my shop and flattened myself against the rough wood. I heard the growl again. Was that a possum? Gator? Rabies-crazed homeless lady? I knew I shouldn’t have started binge-watching The Walking Dead this week. There was absolutely nothing wrong with my imagination. My mind reeled with the possibilities. After a few seconds I quietly reasoned with myself. I didn’t have time for this. Time to face the beast—whatever it might be.

About The Mermaid’s Gift

Nike Augustine isn’t your average girl next door. She’s a spunky siren but, thanks to a memory loss, doesn’t know it—yet. By day, she runs a souvenir shop on Dauphin Island off the coast of Alabama, but a chance encounter opens her eyes to the supernatural creatures that call the island home, including a mermaid, a fallen goddess and a host of other beings. When an old enemy appears and attempts to breach the Sirens Gate, Nike and her friends must take to the water to prevent the resurrection of a long-dead relative...but the cost might be too high.

To make matters worse, Nike has to choose between longtime crush, Officer Cruise Castille and Ramara, a handsome supernaturate who has proven he’s willing to lose everything—including his powers—for the woman he loves.