The Tidings - [Ghost Huntress 0.5 - A Christmas Novella] (12 page)

Christian and Jayne set up at the nearby table, with him polishing up his Ouija board as Jayne sets out the planchette—the wooden pointer used on the board.

I rub my head trying to ease the throbbing of my psychic headache that always follows one of my vision trips. Or maybe it’s in anticipation of what’s to come this evening.

The doorbell rings.

Mrs. Flanders excuses herself.

Oliver follows her.

Patrick glances over at me and smiles weakly. He knows something that I can’t sense.

But I don’t need to, because everything’s revealed when two guys bumble into the living room with a video camera and sound equipment.

“Thanks for coming so quickly,” Oliver says. “We definitely want to get this on film. It’ll be great for the sizzle reel we’re going to pitch to the network.”

Taylor’s bright smile clicks into place. “We’re going to be on television?”

“No way,” Jess says.

Oliver twists his mustache. “Actually, I’ve had an idea, based on Christian’s experiences here in the UK, to feature him on a new show. It’s all in the development stage right now, but this is the ideal event to film and see how everything looks.”

My spirit sinks and I feel myself slouch into the sofa. “So, we’re just props here?”

Oliver places his hand on my shoulder. “No, no, Kendall. Do what you need to do during the investigation. I just want the camera crew to focus on Christian and what he’s seeing, feeling, and experiencing.”

Once peek over at him and I know what he’s feeling. He’s gazing into a small mirror that Jayne’s holding, checking his face and hair and dabbing a bit of pancake makeup on his cheeks.

“He’s putting on makeup?” I say incredulously.

Celia plops down on the couch next to me. “What’s going on here?”

“The Christian Campbell show, it looks like.”

“So, Mr. Bates?” Taylor asks. “What are we supposed to do?”

“Be natural, Taylor. Just do what you always do on an investigation.”

She looks over at me and shrugs. I lift my hands in defeat. It’s clear that we ghost huntresses aren’t needed here.

“Where shall I be?” Mrs. Flanders asks.

“I think it would be perfect if everyone gathers around the table,” Christian directs. “Mrs. Flanders to my right. Jayne to my left. And the rest of you…” He trails off and syncs his eyes with mine. A slight sneer lifts the corner of his mouth. “Well, the rest of you can just fill in the spaces and not fanny about.”

Celia sucks in. “Fanny about? What does that even mean?” She glares and then lowers her voice. “I don’t think I like this jerk.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I say.

Patrick comes over and offers his hand to me. “Might as well join the dog and pony show,” he says with a laugh.

Everyone’s in place at the table, Taylor’s filming for our own purposes, but Niles and Jamie, the film crew, are set up and it’s literally…. “Action!”

Christian begins using the Ouija board with Mrs. Flanders and Jayne assisting in using the planchette. It begins sliding across the slick surface passing over letters and numbers, circling back, and bringing the pointer around in circles.

In the full spotlight, Christian closes his eyes and speaks out in a booming voice. “Who is here with us tonight? Show yourself to us. Use this divination tool to come forth.”

I knee Patrick under the table and he loops his fingers through mine.

This is complete crap
, I say to him.

It’s all for show.

“Come forth and show yourself. Who are you? Who has been terrorizing this house, this woman, her daughter?” Christian chants in a monotone.

The camera crew moves in to show Christian’s hands on the planchette as it travels aggressively on the table.

D.

O.

J.

O.

“Dojo,” Christian repeats. “So, it is you.”

“Who is Dojo?” Jayne asks, peeping over her glasses.

Christian turns to her. “Never address a demon by name.”

She shakes her head, her blond ponytail swaying. “But you just—”

Christian tosses his head back. “I am familiar with this one. He is known to me.”

Oliver steps in near Christian. “Tell us what you’re experiencing, Christian.”

The young Scot closes his eyes again and lolls his head from left to right. Then he speaks again. “I have known you, Dojo, for years. You are the spirit that has haunted and terrorized me since I was a little boy.”

I reach out with my psychic senses to see what, if anything is present or near to us. My abilities aren’t picking up a thing. I don’t know if that’s because there’s nothing here and Christian’s just a big tool bag, or if this Dojo person is focused on his demonic task.

Christian’s eyes fly open and he screams out. He grabs the Ouija board and lifts it over his head, shaking it fiercely. Mrs. Flanders covers her head in protection and Jayne dives under the table. I watch as Christian falls back into the chair and starts flailing about.

“You can’t have me. You never have. I-I-I…” Christian slams the board to the table and then flops back into the chair, like he’s passed out.

I stifle the desire to laugh, as does Celia. Instead, we watch the floor show.

Then Christian rises, and in a voice that’s nothing like his thick Scottish brogue, he says, “I am Dojo. You have called me and I have come.”

“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Flanders says on the verge of tears. “Are you the one who has been causing trouble here?”

“I am,” Christian says deeply. “I am Dojo. You summoned me. Now, what do you want?”

Oliver looks at our host. “He’s doing what we call channeling, Mrs. Flanders. He’s allowed this spirit to overtake him and speak through him so we can communicate.”

She blinks hard and looks around the table. “Oh, well, then.”

“I am Dojo. You have crossed me. You have empowered me. I shall never leave you. Just as I have ruled over this boy since his birth. His power comes from me. Dojo.”

No one in the room moves. Not even the sound guy trying to stretch the boom mike in. From what I’m picking up, my friends don’t know whether Christian is the real thing or if he’s just crazy out of his mind.

I think it may be a recipe that includes both ingredients.

Purchase Ghost Huntress: The Journey
.

Excerpt from POSER

C
HAPTER
O
NE

“Chai! Come on, Squirt. We’ve got to get going, the car’s waiting,” Claire-Ann shouts up the stairs of our massive penthouse loft that overlooks South Beach and the Atlantic Ocean.

I cringe and keep brushing the knot out of my dark brown hair. Hair that’s way too long for its own good. Claire-Ann won’t dare let me cut it; no way, no how.

“Why does she always call you ‘Squirt?’” my best friend, Katy Kingston, asks from my bed. She’s sprawled out painting her nails with my Club Monaco Nail Lacquer Duo of Froth and Wave. I picked it up at the photo shoot yesterday afternoon for Fendi Casa Designs, a local Miami Beach furniture designer. I was lying on this sand-colored satin couch with my hand draped over my face. To hide my slightly crooked schnoz, no doubt.

I reach for my bottle of Tommy Girl and spritz a stream on my neck and chest. To hell with that crap about spray, delay, and walk away crap. If I pay good money for perfume, it’s going
on
me. It’s this thing I have for smells. Or rather, my fear that
I’ll
smell. Shower time prior to an evening out is a ritual in itself for me. Deodorant soap like Lever, Dial, or Irish Spring, followed by a luffaing with Avon Brown Sugar body scrub. Then there’s the whole lather, rinse, repeat, condition with the Biolage Energizing Shampoo and Detangling Solution Conditioner I buy religiously. Once I’m out of the shower, it’s time for clear gel stick deodorant, followed by a good blast of Secret spray, a generous spread of Avon’s African shea butter lotion and Aveda foot relief. I also overdo it on the facial moisturization so as to not have to resort to face lifts when I’m in my late forties (like my mother.) First, a layer of Clinique’s Skin Texture lotion, followed by their Moisture Surge and a good dabbling around with the Daily Eye Benefits. Am I the walking poster child for Sephora or what?

But back to Katy’s question instead of cataloging the products spread out before me. “Claire-Ann calls me ‘Squirt’ in reference to my conception.”

“Huh?”

“Frozen Pop. Sperm donor. Get it. Squirt.”

“Ohhhh, that’s right! I keep forgetting that. Shit, Chai, don’t you ever wonder who the guy was?”

I shrug as I reach for my lipstick. It’s always been Claire-Ann and me... no one else. “You can’t miss what you’ve never had, you know? I mean, I know he was a student in New York back in the late 80s and was supposedly becoming a doctor. That’s all I really need to know.”

Maybe that’s why I have this internal itch to go into the medical profession myself. Seems like the Frozen Pop passed on his learning genes. God knows, I certainly didn’t get my academic achievement from high school drop-out, Claire-Ann.

Katy blows on her wet nails and leans back on my bed. “See, if it were me, I’d have to, like, call the Sperm Bank of New York and find out who the swimmers belonged to. What my roots and heritage are.”

“Roots and heritage? Are you Alex Hailey? You should be in drama club instead of me,” I say with a laugh. “It’s pretty simple. Claire-Ann had reached a point in her life where she wanted off the drugs and wanted a baby. She bought a test tube and
voila
, Instant Chai.”

“You’re so blasé about it.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? It’s not like I can change it.”

“It’s just so...weird, Chai.”

“It’s never been an issue, honestly.”

Katy tosses her short, bobbed blonde hair around. “I couldn’t go through life not knowing who my dad is.”

I drop the silver lipstick case onto the table. “That’s ‘cause your dad is one of the richest men in Miami.”

This time it’s Katy’s turn to shrug. Kathryn Irene Kingston lives the perfect life, ensconced in her Star Island mansion (next door to JaRule—actually, he’s just renting, but still...), her mom works for the Miami Beach Tourism Bureau and her rich father lavishes them with expensive gifts galore. Not that I want that, but her mom cooks a mean pot roast, helps Katy with her homework, and encourages her to go to college instead of pushing her toward the cutthroat world of fashion modeling.

“Chai, are you ready?” Claire-Ann shouts again. Only this time, I hear her coming up the stairs.

“I’m almost done.”

“Wear the Jimmy Choo gold sandals I bought you last week. They’ll make your legs look a mile long. You need to be taller.”

Right, because models have to be a certain weight and height. Heaven forbid that my five-eight isn’t considered Glamazon enough. I’m sure that’s my father’s fault.

Claire-Ann enters my bedroom decked out in hip BCBG fashion (that’s probably too young-looking for her, but she wears it well) and her makeup draw perfectly on her too-too tightly pulled face. Damn Dr. Sheldon for the last face lift that makes her appear slightly Asian.

“Hey, Katy. You going with us, honey?” Claire-Ann asks.

“Not tonight. I have a date with Rick Sommers.”

“On a Thursday night?” I ask, like it’s some big deal for anyone in our clique to go out on a school night. God knows Claire-Ann drags me out enough when I should be doing homework.

“It’s a study date,” Katy says, beaming. She’s been digging Rick for a time now. Good for her making some headway with him.

I sigh. Katy gets to do real high school things, like study and go on dates—with one of the hottest hunks in school—and go to bed at a decent hour. Me, I’m up all night, in the gym first thing in the morning, and then I hit the ground running with school, photo shoots, and just being Claire-Ann’s daughter, which is a full-time job in itself. It’s amazing I can keep up this pace she’s got me on without major medication. Besides, the guys at school who’ve shown interest in me only pay attention to me because of my quasi-celebrity status. High school boys are so stupid. I can’t wait to get to college.

“Rick’s the guy Chai says you’ve got the hots for?” Claire-Ann prods.

“Mom!” She hates when I address her that way.

She hands me a glass of champagne. “Well, that’s what you told me. Remember to use a condom, Katy.”

Katy rolls her eyes and laughs. She thinks Claire-Ann is the coolest and that I’m totally lucky to have a mom like her. Me, I want a real mom, not a girlfriend.

Claire-Ann waggles the crystal flute at me. “Here, have some before we leave. This is a big night.”

Big indeed. It’s Betty Ford Night at Privé, a hot club attached to Opium Garden down below Fifth Street that allows eighteen plus in on week nights. I tamp down my disgust at poking fun of the long ago-former first lady’s penchant for alcohol. Hell, I don’t even get carded there, or anywhere for that matter. Age has never been an issue for me. I look older than my years and when I’m with Claire-Ann, no one questions.

At Privé, you can usually spot a good portion of the Miami Dolphins’ defensive core puffing away on cigars and pounding back expensive cocktails, as well as various Heat players and Marlins hitters, not to mention the hottest people in the hip-hop music scene. Miami Beach is da bomb, da place. And Privé is a see-and-be-seen sort of establishment. No cutoff jeans and tourist shirts there.

Tonight, Claire-Ann is in search of producers to pitch her new reality TV show idea, as well as a photographer who’ll make me his protégée. Both ideas are like looking for the proverbial needle in the haystack. I just want to take a long, hot bath and read the latest David Baldacci novel Katy brought me.

“I don’t want champagne,” I say, picking up the convo with my mom. Champagne again. Always champagne with Claire-Ann. The stuff gives me a headache. Unlike other people my age who would be super-psyched at being supplied booze by their parents. To me it’s no big deal when it’s handed to you. Where’s the challenge? How is that rebelling?