Spell of Summoning (3 page)

The headache—her constant companion—returned, a thunderstorm sweeping her skull. “I had an appointment with a potential client.” Except Holden didn’t have interest rates or termite reports on his mind. “Guess I forgot to tell you.” She forced a laugh. “But, uh, I need a favor.” She’d had her share of freaks take a shine to her, but Holden seemed different. He’d put his hands on her.

“Sure, boss. What is it?”

“Run an unofficial background check on Holden Clark. Anything you can find.” She read Jessa the home address he’d given during their initial phone conversation.

“I’ll do it right now.”

“Besides that, though, we still have to, um…” Rebecca couldn’t recall the conversation she and Jessa and her personal assistant Derek Walker had before she left to meet Holden. It was that headache’s fault, the one squatting full time at the back of her skull. The one making her so lightheaded she’d almost passed out into the arms of a lunatic.

“The Havers Street house? I’m on it,” Jessa said. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you looked awful. Take the rest of the week off. Drink a lot of water and sleep in. Whatever. I can handle the office. It’s not like we’re swamped right now.”

No. Rebecca was closing her office in Auburn, North Carolina in twenty-three days and moving to the much-larger, much-juicier market in Raleigh.

Rebecca would always have a soft spot in her heart for Onslow County, the city of Auburn in particular. She’d been told from the moment she got her real estate license that if she wanted to be successful, she’d have to move to Wilmington. Or Greenville. Or Charlotte. Or Raleigh. But this was her home.

Yes, the city was rough around the edges and had more strip clubs, er,
gentlemen’s clubs
, per capita than most towns, but Rebecca had become the unofficial champion of Auburn. She’d built her million-dollar business from scratch right here despite all the warnings and dire predictions. She’d been born here. Her father still lived here. It was her home, and she wanted to see great things happen for the town.

That’s why she’d stayed this long.

Now all she had left were two properties to get into escrow. Havers Street and Lane Street.

Mr. Clark’s house would have been a cherry on top, a good-bye gift to herself. He owned an adorable farmhouse in the rural town of Richlands. Unencumbered. Three bedrooms. Two stories. Ten acres of land. She could sell it for above market value blindfolded. Hell, she could handle that sale in her sleep.

But Jessa was way off. Rebecca didn’t need a vacation. She needed work to do. She couldn’t sit around for days lost in thoughts of demons, vibrating storerooms, or tall, blue-eyed necromancers. She needed projects, jobs, and to-do lists coming out of her ears.

“What about Lane Street? It has to be staged for the open house.” Rebecca’s assistant Derek handled all the interior design, but she supervised.

“Derek is doing it now. I told him to prep them for a Saturday-Sunday blitz.”

That’s right. She’d forgotten. “What about the offer on the Havers property? Have you—”

“Look, honey.” Jessa sighed into the phone. “Take a break. We’ve got it covered.”

She hadn’t taken a vacation in ten years. She didn’t even know what that would look like. She’d worked through birthdays, weddings, hurricanes, and even a weekend away with Brian back when they were still dating. Before he’d left her.

“But—”

“You need it.”

She’d never had a break. She started to panic. “Jessa—”

Rebecca’s phone chimed, signaling another incoming call. She checked caller ID. “I’ll talk to you later, Jessa. Derek’s on the other line.” She switched over. “Hello?”

“How’s your headache?” he greeted. “Jessa said you were ill. Are you okay?”

“I’m taking a personal day.” God, that was hard to say. Even harder to follow through on.

Silence. “A what?”

She changed lanes and blew through a yellow light. “I’m dealing with some personal stuff.”

“You’ve never taken a personal day. Are you sure you’re feeling all right? Can I bring you chicken soup or something?”

“How did it go with Kent and Laurie?” Becca asked. Derek was supposed to be removing ugly furniture and swapping in tasteful, framed landscapes and throw pillows from Becca’s storage unit.

“Fine. The house is almost ready. I convinced them to move out about half of their stuff and repaint the dining room.”

“Good. But what I really need you to do is pick up my dry cleaning today by five. K?”

Derek had dreams of being a big-shot Realtor with an office of his own, but he’d failed the real estate licensing exam. Twice. He still acted like an agent, though, and sometimes she had to remind him he was her assistant, not her partner.

“I was planning on driving by the Havers Street house,” he said, “with the new disclosure forms.”

“Jessa can do that. I need you to do this errand for me. Or I won’t have a dress to wear Saturday night.” To the annual Chamber of Commerce casino night fundraiser. In past years she’d sponsored a table and donated her services in the silent auction. One year she and her entire office staff had dressed as cowboys and saloon girls, right down to their matching leather boots and spurs. This year, though, with so little time left in Auburn she was attending as a guest and nothing more.

“Oh. Okay. Um, are you sure you’re all right? What happened after I left?”

“Migraines,” Rebecca said as if it were no big deal. “Take care.” She hung up before he could ask any more questions.

Becca pulled into her latest apartment complex on Gum Branch Road with its heart-stopping view of the filthy gas station next door. It wasn’t the kind of place she’d imagined she’d live at this point in her life. Her real home was one of those big old Colonials by the river, but it had become unlivable about three months ago. She’d swallowed her pride and sold it for less than the listing price. Something she’d never admit to anyone.

As she fumbled with her purse and keys on the way up an exterior stairwell, a familiar piece-of-crap Jeep parked right on her bumper. Holden hopped out and dashed up the stairs, Buster ambling after.

This guy didn’t quit. It wasn’t enough that he’d lured her away with a BS story about selling his house and taken an hour out of her day to explore his theories on demonology? Now he was following her home?

She needed time to process what had happened and, or
if
, it fit in with everything else going on. If she didn’t get rid of him, she’d be too distracted by those baby-blue eyes and the way his jeans hung perfectly on him, like he was a living, breathing store display, to focus. Was it wrong to get goose bumps over a man like him? Too bad such an outwardly normal guy talked to dead people and believed in magic.

Time for him to go.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Clark, but I’m taking some
me
time. Call my office tomorrow.”

He reached the landing as Becca forced the key in the lock.

“I want to talk to you.”

Unbelievable. Did he not understand? “I’ve never met a man so eager to
talk
in my life.”

Uncertainty crept into his expression, and he moved down a step. “If you want me to leave, fine. I can’t force you to accept my help.”

She’d almost passed out today. Rebecca had never felt so out of control of her own body. Before he fled and she never got the chance to know for sure, she asked, “What happened back there? What did you do to that place?”

“The demon reacted to Cole’s spells.”

Buster climbed the final step and, with a mighty leap, jumped on her so hard she slammed against the railing. She gasped, shielding her stomach with both arms. On his second bounce, his claw snagged on her cardigan and tore a thread loose.

“Sorry, he’s not usually a jumper.” Holden pulled his leggy behemoth off her.

Buster barked in outrage, his claws scrabbling on the landing.

“Yeah, well, can you keep him off me? Please?” She examined the damage to her sweater. Yep, ruined. God, what a day.

“You don’t like dogs?” Holden could not disguise his distaste. Not even a little.

“I’m not good with animals.” Despite a childhood spent yearning for a pet to love and care for, she’d never been around one long enough to feel comfortable.

“He senses the demon,” Holden said, tying Buster’s leash to the railing. “Some animals are sensitive to spirits and magic.”

“Right.” Of course. It couldn’t be because the dog was an ill-trained monster.

“Buster. Sit.” The dog stretched out on his belly and laid his chin on his paws. Not exactly a sit, but close.

She smiled a little, but not even Buster’s antics could distract her from the memory of the chaos in Cole’s storeroom. Or the icky feeling in her belly when those cardboard boxes had leapt off the shelves by themselves.

Becca turned her back on the dog. “Cole’s spells?” she repeated. “That’s ridiculous. Magic doesn’t exist.” The pat declaration just slipped out and lay there between them like the lie it was. Memories crept in. The chairs. The picture frames. The lights. The weird noises at night.

“Of course it does. It’s all around us.” Holden inhaled, leaning one hip against the railing. “My Grams died when I was nine. She fell asleep in her armchair with her knitting in her lap and never woke up. But she’s not gone. She’s with me right now. In fact—” He made a face, “—she won’t stop pestering me about helping you.”

Was he serious?

Not so much as a twinkle of humor shone in his eyes.

“You talk to your dead grandmother?”

She couldn’t imagine a life spent seeing and hearing the spirits of the dead. Or how it would change a person. Her grandparents were gone. So was Jayden, a sweet Realtor who’d worked in her office before his diagnosis. Seeing them again,
talking
to them, sent shivers up and down her arms. Though she missed each of them, the dead should stay dead.

It had taken a lot for Holden to admit his freakish gift. And a man who communicated with ghosts was probably difficult to surprise. But she’d give it a shot.

“Things have happened,” Becca confessed. Things she’d tried to explain to her dad, but it had only encouraged him to hire every palm-reading cuckoo in the yellow pages. In alphabetical order. “Other people can see them, too. That’s how I know it’s not a brain tumor.”

“What kinds of things?”

She opened her mouth to elaborate when a car pulled up and blocked Holden’s Jeep. Who could possibly be here to see her now? Her home had never been so popular.

A middle-aged man in a fiery red-and-orange Hawaiian shirt stepped out, waving. “Miss Powell?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Becca had a sinking suspicion she was about to meet psychic number four. She unlocked the door but lingered on the landing and smiled her very professional—and very fake—smile at the man. “Good afternoon! Can I help you with anything?”

He nearly tripped himself to reach around Holden and shake her hand. They exchanged business cards. His was bright purple with a hexagram in one corner and his name in old-fashioned italics across the middle. Becca took a leap and guessed this guy wasn’t a repairman or employed by the rental office.

“I’m good. I’m good.” His eyes lit up with a nearly manic enthusiasm. “I’m Damian Arasmus.”

Irritation and exhaustion overwhelmed her good manners. “Of course you are.”

“Your father asked me to come by.”

“Mmm.” All pretense of interest evaporated. Maybe Jessa was right. She needed sleep, not more psychics. “He shouldn’t have.” Becca opened her door. “I’m very busy. If you gentlemen will excuse me…”

Holden stepped forward like he owned the place. “What do you do, Mr. Arasmus?” he asked.

Becca’s eyebrows shot skyward. What in the world was he doing? She glanced at Buster for reinforcement and sent him an “Is this guy for real?” look. He whined at her and thumped his tail once.

Damian perked up, perhaps sensing Holden was now his best bet at getting in the door. “I’m a spiritualist, sir.”

“What does that mean?” Holden pressed.

“Ever see
Ghost Hunters
?”

“No.”

She had, and she was losing confidence by the second.

“I determine if hauntings are authentic, and then I guide the spirits on to their proper afterlife.” He passed Holden one of his cards. “A list of services and prices are on the back.”

“I see.”

Becca propped both hands on her hips, but Holden ignored her. Again. 

“Let’s do it. Can we start now?” He double-checked Buster’s leash, and then gestured for Damian to enter the apartment.
Her
apartment.

Okay. Limit reached and surpassed. She blocked their way in her formerly perfect little blue skirt and cardigan. “Excuse me?” She leveled a very pissed-off look at Holden. He had no right inviting people into her apartment. Or following her home. Or luring her to a parking lot to tell her, oh by the way, she had a demon in her, or on her, or whatever it was. Who did he think he was?

Unfazed, he eased nearer and whispered in her ear, “What if he knows more than we do?”

That morning Becca had her entire life in order. Work was buzzing. Her apartment was clean and organized. The only weak point was this “haunting,” but she was confident that after her move to Raleigh things would settle down. Now, she was meeting magicians in comic book stores and letting strange psychics into her home.

But lights don’t turn themselves on and off.

“Five minutes,” she growled, staring daggers at Holden. “Come on in, Mr. Arasmus, was it?” She opened the door wider. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“No, thank you, ma’am.” From his back pocket, he produced a pen and a folded square of paper. “Can I look around for a few minutes?”

Becca shot Holden another look. Let him snoop around her house? “Why not.”

Damian slipped down the narrow hallway to her bedroom.

The apartment was a postage stamp. A living room and kitchen with a dining nook up front. One bedroom. One bathroom. That was it. The only furniture was discount superstore pieces. Her real furniture, the things she loved and had chosen with great care, was in storage, waiting to be moved at the end of the month.