Kiss & Hell (31 page)

Her heart clenched into a tight fist even in the bone-numbing cold of North Dakota. “Find him.”

“Yep.”

“Maybe he was outside when it happened and he wandered off.” One could hope. Delaney knew it was futile, but she offered the words of comfort anyway. She was all about realism for the most part, and facing the truth—well, except when it came to Clyde’s theory that she wasn’t living her life to the fullest because she was afraid of rejection—but now just wasn’t the time for harsh realisms.

His lips thinned in apparent disagreement, the rustle of his hair against the collar of his thrift store down coat clear. “Hypotenuse was an indoor cat. He wouldn’t know how to survive if he got out of this anyway—especially when it’s this cold out. If I even opened the door to suggest that he indulge in outdoor sport, he gave me the look and headed straight for the comfort of my bed.”

Shit. She blew warmth into her cupped hands. “I’m sorry, Clyde. Believe me, I understand how you feel.” And she did. She loved her furbabies, probably more than what some would term normal. But she loved them, and when they shipped off to the other side, it still hurt.

“I know you do.”

She tugged at his sleeve with a gentle yank. “C’mon. Let’s go see the neighbor and then go back to the hotel. I bet there’s a 7-Eleven on the way. I’ll buy you a banana Slurpee. My treat. Whaddya say?”

Clyde’s smile was vague when he finally focused on her again. “Now I know you feel bad if you’re willing to spend your hard-earned money for all that sugar just for me. You wear sympathetic and sensitive well, ghost lady.” He took her hand and led her out of what used to be his basement.

Once outside, the cold air filled her lungs, almost stealing her breath away. It was buttfuck cold in North Dakota, yet the sweet, unsullied air cleansed her mind, leaving behind the scene of Clyde’s death added to that calm. She slid behind the wheel of their rented car while a distracted Clyde handed her the keys and took the passenger side.

After checking in with Kellen to ensure he was still safe, Delaney drove the half mile or so to Clyde’s neighbor’s in thoughtful silence. Not having found anything in that mess he’d once called home left her desolate for him. If they didn’t figure this out soon, his pass from Hell would expire. They’d come for him when he didn’t show up with her death on his hands.

Bad shit would go down.

She refused to let any more bad shit happen to him.

Pulling to a stop in his neighbor’s long driveway, she was grateful for some scattered landscaping lights. It wasn’t just buttfuck cold here—it was buttfuck dark, too. Turning to Clyde, still brood ingly silent, she said, “You stay here. Don’t move. Don’t even think about getting out of this car. If someone saw you, they’d shit a whole chicken coop. Got that?”

His laughter caught her off guard. It was filled with bitter regret. “They probably wouldn’t know me if they saw me. Like I said, I didn’t make an effort much.”

The hand that reached out to comfort him had a will of its own, curling around his shoulder with sympathy. “I know, but we can’t take a chance. You stay here—I’ll be right back.”

“What’re you going to say to them?”

Delaney shoved open the door of the rental car, looking over her shoulder at him. “It’ll go like this. Heeeey, I’m Delaney Markham—Clyde Atwell’s spirit guide. You know, the guy who splattered himself all over parts near and far here in your fine state of North Dakota? I need your help . . .”

Clyde didn’t crack the smile she’d hoped to elicit from him.

Delaney popped her lips. “Okay, totally inappropriate. Sorry—again. I don’t know what I’ll say, but don’t sweat it. I’ll figure it out as I go along.” Hopping out of the car, she made her way with cautious steps to the double white doors of an updated farmhouse. There was only one light on inside, and peeking through the sidelight, she saw it came from the kitchen.

What was she going to say? “I’m Clyde’s medium. Got any thoughts on his ghost showing up at my store in New York?”

Clearly, that’d never work. She was almost beginning to feel a simpatico with Melinda Gordon and all those stupid tears she shed week after week. Right now, she wanted to cry, too—and it was in helplessness and frustration.

Flexing her fingers, she jabbed the doorbell and waited.

The door cracked, revealing one light brown eyeball with long eyelashes. It looked like it belonged to a woman. “Yes?”

Delaney heard the fear in that one accented word. Who could blame the poor woman? Not only was it buttfuck cold and dark here in North Dakota—it was damned lonely. When someone rang your doorbell out here, it had to be, like, an epic event. “Hi, um . . . I’m Delaney Markham—from New York, and I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions?”

“The mister and missus, they not home. I am the housekeeper. Ju come back next week.” Her accent was thick and slurred, thicker than Mrs. Ramirez’s, and a far cry from Marcella’s occasional slips.

Damn, damn, damn it all to Hell and back. Next week was too late. They were here now. “Do you work here?”

Her next reply was hesitant. “Yes, but I no alone!”

Delaney’s eyes pled with the one eyeball in the crack of the doorway. “No, it’s okay. I understand you’re afraid to talk to me, all showing up at this late hour. Look, I really need your help, and I’m only here for a short time. I’m a friend of Clyde Atwell’s. You know the guy who lives—er, lived down the road?”

Her one eye filled with sympathy. “Ack! Yes. Is bad what happen to him.”

“Yes. It was bad, but we’ve been out of touch for a while, and when I dropped by, you know, unexpectedly, well . . . his house—it’s gone.” Tears weren’t hard to summon; they formed in the corners of her eyes for Clyde’s loss.

Instantly the eye went cloudy with concern. “Oh, I sorrrry. His house—it explode. Was very, very bad.”

“Do you know what happened?”

Her tongue clucked, a sound almost deafening in the still of the night. “Boom! Big boom. I was cleaning the bathrooms and I hear. Was so bad.”

Bad. Yeah. She got that. Delaney sniffed, hoping she could contain this sudden need to bawl buckets of tears. Whether it was lack of sleep or the fact that she was more than likely going to be staring at some cold, gray headstone with Clyde’s name on it sooner than she expected, she didn’t know. With a gulp, she asked, “Was there a funeral? Somewhere I can pay my respects?”

The door popped open a bit wider, revealing a petite woman dressed in a patchwork robe and blue, fuzzy slippers. She made the sign of the cross over her chest. “Oh, no. No funeral. He’s no dead. Is a miracle. Thank Jesus.”

Delaney’s breathing stopped. “Wha-what?”

Her light brown eyes blinked. “He’s no dead. He’s in hospital.”

Delaney had to grip the door frame to keep herself upright. Clyde wasn’t dead. He’d survived that mess back there? It would be nothing short of a miracle if he’d lived through that. That couldn’t be right. How could he have been wandering around in Hell for all that time, able to do all the things demons are supposed to do, if he was still alive? If he wasn’t dead, what the fuck was he?

But hope, desperate, yearning hope, made her force her tongue to perform and ask, “Wait, he’s not dead? Clyde Atwell isn’t dead? Are you sure?”

The woman’s head, securely wrapped in a white towel, nodded. “I sure. Very sure. I’m sorry for you to come to see him like this.”

“Where is he? I mean, if he’s in the hospital, what hospital? I—I’d like to . . . visit. Yes, I’d like to visit him.”

“I don’t know nothing. I jus’ know he’s not dead. The mister and missus, they have his cat.
Madre de dios,
what a mess he was. His hair burned, but he’s okay. He was so hungry. The mister, he say to take the cat and feed him.”

Sweet mother. Relief so sharp it was like a knife cutting through her soul made her gasp. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. I told you, I sure.”

Delaney’s head spun with a thousand questions, all of which she had to ask with care because this woman didn’t speak English very well. “Have you heard anything about Clyde’s condition?” Because it damned sure couldn’t be good after an explosion like that.

“I don’ know nothing, I told you. Now I go.” She waved a hand in the direction of the rental car with a shiver. “Is cold. I tell the mister you come, okay?”

“Okay,” she barely muttered, hardly noticing the closing of the door.

Her mouth was hanging open. She knew it because gusts of chilling air swirled around in it, but she almost couldn’t move. Her feet were icicles—unwilling to take the signal from her brain that movement to the car, where heat was wafting from a vent, was critical to warming them up.

Delaney’s hands held fast to the front of her coat.

Clyde was alive.

She couldn’t think that word enough.

Alive.

Living.

So not dead.

Yippee and skippee.

In a millisecond, the feet that had been unwilling to uproot themselves became all motion. She practically stumbled to the car, latching on to the door handle and flinging it open with a grin.

The car light over Clyde’s head beamed. With life.

Life.

Like alive life.

“I take it from the grin on your face my neighbor’s an upstanding guy?”

“I think you have to drive. Because I can’t.”

“Reason being?”

She threw the keys at him. “I can’t. I’m shaking. When I tell you what I just found out, I don’t know if you’ll be able to drive either. We may have to call the paramedics. Maybe we should just stay put while I tell you.”

“I’ll drive, and you’re not making sense, Delaney.”

“None of this makes any sense, Clyde.” Slamming the door, she went around to the passenger side of the car. “Drive. Hurry, before I have apoplexy. We need to get back to the hotel.”

Clyde slipped past her, the look of concern on his face clear under the starry night. He got in the driver-side door, turning the key in the ignition. “Speak, Delaney. You’re freaking me out now.”

She shook her head in astonished disbelief. “Well, it’s good news, if that helps.”

“What would help is if you’d stop looking like you just saw a ghost because on you, that just doesn’t look right. You see them all the time. What happened?”

“Hypotenuse is alive. He’s at your neighbor’s farmhouse with the people who own it.”

Finally, Clyde smiled in a sad sort of fond way. “I’m glad. I don’t know if I could’ve forgiven myself for offing H. He was a good cat. So that’s what’s freaking you?”

“That’s not all.”

His nod was all-knowing. “I should’ve known. So what happened? Please tell me no one else was hurt . . .”

There was just no other way to say it. “You’re alive.”

Clyde didn’t miss a beat. Not a single swerve of the wheel. Rock steady as always. The only hint he might be as shocked as she was came in the way of the roll of his tongue in his cheek. “Repeat?”

“You’re alive, Clyde. You’re alive. Omigod! You’re alive!” she shouted, her voice rising with each word she managed to sputter, not caring that her joy about this news had come out of its closet in all its festive, revealing glory. Laughter spilled from her throat, tears wet her eyes. It didn’t make any sense at all that he was here in the car with her, yet his body was in some hospital. But Clyde was still breathing. Somewhere. She was fully aware she was teetering on the brink of emotional overload, but she didn’t care. Clyde, according to the neighbor’s maid, was
alive
. What a fucking spectacular word.

“So a thought?” he offered in quiet tones.

Delaney slapped a hand over her mouth, searching for calm reason. “What?” she managed.

“If I’m now only sort of dead, does this mean I can really do myself in if I run us off the road and straight into a tree?”

Glancing his way, Delaney saw he fought to retain the control he was so practiced at. After a long shudder of breath, she replied, “I’m sorry. I should have driven, but you’re always so rational, I figured it was better if you did. Just stay calm and listen to what I just found out. Keep your eyes on the road, because even if you’re only semidead, I think, anyway, I’m not, and I don’t want to be. We have shit to do.” She filled him in with as much composure as she could muster about what the maid had told her, giving as many of the details as she’d garnered from their language-hindered conversation while Clyde kept the car at a steady pace, his facial expression never once even flinching.

“Say something to me, demon.”

“You no longer have the right to call me demon, ghost lady.”

True that. He’d have to be dead to be a demon. And Clyde wasn’t dead. He wasn’t deceased or dearly departed either. No sir ree, Bob. “You’re right. So say something to me, not so dead Clyde.” Excitement that was hard to tamp down rose once more.

“This would be one of the times when I’m supposed to display passion, right?”

Her fingers gripped the sleeve of his jacket when he pulled into the hotel’s driveway. “Yes, Clyde. Passion would be good. Better if it didn’t have to be on command, but still good. You’re alive, Clyde. I don’t know where. I don’t know how in the fuck you survived that, but there it is, and if you don’t at least give me a hell to the yeah, I’m going to explode.”

“Hell to the yeah,” he said, dry as a bone.

“Oh, come
on
, half-dead guy! This is
huge
. Monumental—ginormous—tremendous. Work with me, would ya?”

His hands tightened on the steering wheel, his face unreadable under the glow of the hotel’s sign. “I’m still absorbing.”

Delaney couldn’t contain herself anymore. She grinned, giddy with excitement. “Okay, you process, I’ll get a happy on. Don’t you see? It explains everything! Jesus. That’s why we can’t find an obituary for you, Clyde—because you’re not dead! You’re alive—in a hospital somewhere. What I want to know is why there was no police report—arson, something. This had to be big news out here in Nowhereville. Why it wasn’t reported in at least the local papers is beyond me. But that’s neither here nor there right now.” Delaney paused, taking another stilted breath as realization washed over her again. “Omigod—this is—is—amazing, and crazy, and amazing.” How in the fuck did this happen? How had Clyde been able to pull off being out of his body for this long? But it also gave her hope. If Clyde was in a hospital somewhere, he was alive.