Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of Hannah Jayne’s next Sophie Lawson novel, coming soon from Kensington Publishing!
He stood in my doorway looking remarkably comfortable, without the faintest glow of otherworldly aura or the oozing, fetid sores I had come to know on those who returned from the dead.
“Sophie.”
He said my name and my hackles went up; I was all at once intrigued, delighted, and horrified.
I opened my mouth and then closed it again, willing the words that tumbled through my brain to form some coherent, cohesive thought, something great and all encompassing enough to explain what I was feeling.
“I see dead people,” I mumbled.
Without conscious thought my arm snapped back and the door clamped shut. I ran backward into my apartment, falling over the arm of the couch and landing with a thump on the pillows, ending in an inelegant heap on the carpet. My pup ChaCha trotted over to me, sniffed, and walked away. It’s happening, it’s happening, it’s happening ...
I was shaking, the mantra rolling through my head as I curled in on my chest, rocking gently. I knew it was only a matter of time before I developed some sort of mystical powers—red hair and an insatiable appetite for chocolate or anything in a take-out box couldn’t be the only things I inherited from my mother and grandmother, who both had been powerful mystics with the ability to tell the future.
“I’m getting my powers.” I licked my lips, terror and joy bounding through me.
That was it.
This was my power.
“I see dead people.”
I felt the words in my mouth, the exhilaration of finally belonging and finally feeling a connection to my paranormal family chipping away at the terror that sat like an iceberg at the bottom of my gut.
The jiggling of the ancient hardware on my front door brought me crashing back to the reality of a doorknob turning in front of me. I stared at it as it moved horror-movie slow, and my blood pounded in my ears. The person on the other end of the door knocked again. This time it was a quick, warning rap and when he pressed the door open, the air that I had gulped in a greedy, terrified frenzy whooshed out.
“What are you doing here?”
He grinned. “I thought you’d be happier to see me.”
I rolled over onto my back and pushed myself up, my eyes still trained on the man—the apparition?—that stood in my foyer, smile wide, welcoming, and corporeal looking.
“Mr. Sampson?” His name was a breathy whisper that made my bottom lip quiver. “You need me to help you cross over,” I said.
I took a tentative step toward the man whom I had known so well—who had been more like a father than a boss to me for so many years, who had given me my start at the Underworld Detection Agency—whom I had watched being tortured until he finally disappeared, news of his death reaching me months later.
I reached out in front of me, fingers shaking and outstretched, willing myself to touch him, knowing that all I would feel would be a cold burst of nothingness of the displaced molecules that should have been a living, breathing human form.
I stuck my index finger in his right nostril, my thumb brushing his bottom lip.
“Oh, gross!”
“Sophie! What the hell?” he snapped.
My hand recoiled back in near-boogered terror. “Oh my God! Mr. Sampson! You’re alive!”
My heart threw itself against my ribcage and every fiber of my being seemed to expand with joy. I crushed myself against Pete Sampson, feeling his wonderful heart thudding against my chest, relishing the human feeling of his tender, warm skin against my own.
He shrugged me off—gently—and held me at arm’s length. “You look wonderful.”
“You’re alive ... You’re alive.” I mumbled it dumbly again and again until my eyes could focus on the stiff reality under my fingers. I massaged Mr. Sampson’s arms, feeling the ropey muscles flinch underneath his soft flannel shirt, my fingertips working down his forearms until I found his bare skin, his pulse point. I paused, counted.
“You’re not dead at all. You’re really, really alive.”
A smile cut across Sampson’s face—a smile that went up to his milk-chocolate eyes that crinkled at the corners and warmed me from tip to tail. I stiffened, shook his hands off and slapped him across his chest, anger and betrayal walloping me.
“How are you alive? You’re dead. You were dead! I mourned for you! And Alex,” I huffed, a sob choking in my throat, “and Will.” I sniffed, “And I’m the Vessel ...” Tears flooded over my cheeks and dripped from my chin as I hiccupped and quaked. “Will’s my Guardian.”
Sympathy, with just the slightest tinge of amusement, flitted across Mr. Sampson’s face as he took me by the wrist and offered me a stiffly starched hankie. I held it in my hand, my fingers working the burgundy stitching—the letters P and S embroidered elegantly against the white cloth.