Shades of Midnight

Shades of Midnight

by

Linda Winstead Jones

writing as

Linda Fallon

New York Times Bestselling Author

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Copyright © 2003, 2012 by Linda Winstead Jones. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

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Thank You.

For Ron

Chapter 1

1885

Lucien Thorpe took long strides up the walkway toward the address to which he'd been summoned, the bag containing a change of clothes grasped in his right hand, the heavier case containing his equipment in the left. He took in the house before him, a clean and charming two-story cottage gleaming in the moonlight, a downstairs window glowing with welcome, the door painted a red so bright and cheery he could discern the color even in the dim light. Fallen autumn leaves of red and orange had drifted across the walkway and danced out of his way as he strode purposefully forward. The home before him didn't look at all like a haunted house—but then, they rarely did.

Crisp October air washed over Lucien, making him wish he'd worn his overcoat. He'd walked out and left it sitting... somewhere. Either in his rented room in a Wilmington, North Carolina boarding house or at his most recent assignment in Virginia. He couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen it last, hadn't even thought of the coat until the chill touched him. This was Georgia, after all, the Deep South. He hadn't expected to need an overcoat.

Truth was, he admitted to himself, he'd simply forgotten. The details of the last haunting had been playing through his mind as he'd packed for this trip, and it had been more important that he remember each piece of equipment he might need than to worry about something so inconsequential as a coat. The nonessential details of life frequently slipped his mind. There were so many more important details to think about, in the average day. Discoveries just waiting to be made, a breakthrough just out of his reach. Every now and then, though, he
did
forget something important.

When Lucien reached the small front porch, he placed the lighter of his two bags at his feet and lifted his hand to knock. Before he could do so, the red door swung sharply inward. Several lamps burned behind the woman who'd opened the door, making it impossible to see her face. And still, his heart skipped a beat.

"You're late," she said crisply.

He knew that voice so well that his insides tightened and fluttered as he lowered his hand.

Before he had a chance to explain, she continued without mercy, "But then again, I should have expected you to be late. Tardiness is one of your bad habits, Lucien, perhaps the most egregious of them all."

"I missed my train," he said.

"Of course you did," she responded dryly.

"But I caught the next one."

Eve took a deep, calming breath and glanced over his shoulder. Discovering that he was alone, she said, "You walked from the train station?"

"Yes."

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a disgusted grunt drifted his way, then Eve sighed and said, "I suppose I should invite you in."

"That would be nice, since I've come a long way in answer to your telegram." She stepped back, and he entered the well-lit entryway. Once he was inside, the door firmly shut behind him, he took a good look at the lovely Miss Eve Abernathy.

There was nothing pretentious or polished about Eve. She was not the kind of woman who walked into a room and elicited wide-eyed admiration or ostentatious ogling. But her quiet beauty had always affected him, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her at the Graham haunting, four years ago. Her tightly restrained hair was the color of honey. She possessed gentle curves beneath her conservative clothing, and a nicely bowed mouth that was sometimes wicked and sometimes unbearably sweet. And her eyes—she had the greenest eyes in the world, he imagined. A man could get lost in eyes like those.