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“And…I think I’ve talked your ear off about the dress,” I added, setting the pot of chicken soup on the table. I added rolls and butter, and for dessert—a blackberry pie made with fresh berries.
“No, no! I want to hear,” he said, shaking his head. But I knew better. I sauntered over to him and he turned his chair so that I could straddle his legs. “Tell me more about your dress.Really.I’ll listen.” He wrapped his arms around my waist.
I wrapped my arms around his shoulders, all too aware of the proximity of his cock to my nether regions. Andthatmade me hyperaware of every move he made. Even after nearly two years, Killian could still make me hungry for him in a way no one ever had. I felt safe around him, safer than I ever had with anybody, even my parents. There was something about shifter men that promised protection and safety.
I leaned down and kissed him, my lips lingering on his. He tasted of cinnamon and apples, and his wolf rose every time we were together, leaving me feeling like we were on the edge of the wild, on the doorstep of danger. It was heady and exciting and it made me want him that much more.
“Forget it. Too late. We’re done on that subject. How did work go today?” I returned to my chair and we began to eat dinner. As Killian started in about his day, I turned off thoughts about my dress, and brought my focus back to the present.
* * *
After dinner, I sat down to watch my favorite cooking show when the figure of a woman dressed in a 1920s dress appeared in front of me. It was my great-aunt Esmara. The ladies of my family came back to watch over later generations of women. We called them “the Ladies” because they were like a gang of spirits, living the thug life, enjoying their afterlives together.
“Hey, Esmara, what’s up?”
Well, first, I’m wondering why you brought another spirit home with you. Especially one whom we don’t even know.She crossed her arms, looking both perplexed and annoyed.I have enough to deal with, without taking in every foundling ghost you run across.
I clicked the remote, turning off the TV. “Whatareyou talking about?”
I’m talking about the woman up in your closet. She refuses to come out of it. She says you shoved her in there and she can’t come out unless you take the dress out. What on earth does she mean by that?
Frowning, I stood. “I have no clue, but I’m headed up there now. Come on, you can introduce us.” Over the past months, the more I learned about my emerging powers of dealing with the dead, the more I was able to talk to spirits. But that didn’t mean I sought them out.
I trotted upstairs, opening my bedroom door. I expected to feel something out of sorts, but everything felt normal. “Where did you say she is?”
In your closet.
I yanked open the door. Sure enough, there, standing next to my wedding dress, was a woman who was dressed in exactly the same dress. She didn’t look surprised to see me. I stood there for a moment, staring at her, wondering what the hell to say. Finally, I opted to treat her like I would any other stranger hiding in my closet. Only I’d be nicer.
“Um, hello. Who are you?” Well, I was alotnicer. If it had been a corporeal woman—or even somebody dead but obviously problematic—I would have lit into her like white on rice.
She turned to look at me.You can see me?
“Yeah, I can. I’m witchblood and I work with the dead. I’m assuming you’re dead, and not bilocating?” There was always the chance she was asleep and out of body, though the fact that she was wearing a copy of my dress kind of put a crimp on that idea. Usually, someone bilocating wore what they were wearing in-body.
With an over-exaggerated sigh, the woman hung her head.Yes, I’m dead.
I paused, waiting, but she didn’t say anything else. Her lack of response was starting to irritate me. “Usually, it’s considered polite to introduce yourself when you’re haunting someone’s house. Why don’t we give this another go? I’m January Jaxson. I own this house. And you are…?”
A spark of annoyance flared in her look, but she gave me a shrug.My name’s Janet. Janet Kendrick. And for the record, I didn’tchooseto haunt your house. I’m attached to this damned thing.She pointed to the dress.I can’t help it—it goes somewhere,Igo somewhere.
Comprehending what she had said, I groaned. “You mean I bought a haunted wedding dress? Just my luck. Cripes. All right, tell me your story. How do we get you unstuck from my new dress?”
But that, apparently, was the wrong thing to say. She glared at me, then vanished. But I could still feel her around.
“Come back here! We need to finish talking!” I looked around, frowning. “Okay, what the hell is going on, Esmara? Where did she go?”
Esmara snorted.She’s still here. She cloaked herself. She’s marked with a proximity curse.
“What’s that?” I had heard of a number of types of spells, but that term hadn’t crossed my path yet.
She’s bound to an object—she can’t go far from its proximity. And in this case, that object is your wedding dress. How and why she’s bound to it, I don’t know. But I’m positive that’s why she showed up in your house.
“I wonder that I didn’t notice her when I was on the way home. She had to be in the car with me, but I never even sensed her presence. I guess I was too excited.” I wondered if the consultant knew the gown was haunted. For such a beautiful vintage piece, it had been priced low. But that seemed ridiculous—nobody would try to pawn off a haunted wedding dress, would they?
For what it’s worth,Esmara said,I don’t think she’s dangerous. Pissed off? Yes. Dangerous? I doubt it.
“What’s she want, though? Who tied her to the dress? I don’t want to cope with yet another curse.” I felt like someone was playing an April fool’s prank on me. Except it wasn’t April.
