Delaney’s lips pursed. What the hell was going on? Her dogs were as sensitive as she was to a bad spirit. How could they mourn his loss?
She grabbed the muzzle on her anxiety-laden pooch, turning the dog to face her. “Sweetums? What about horns and scales don’t you get? He’s a bad spirit. Now knock it off and all of you settle down.” Dog number three turned her wet, brown nose up at Delaney, returning to the task at hand, which was apparently to dig to China through the blanket until they all found out where Clyde had gone.
That should be reason enough to give her pause as she climbed into bed, soothed by the sound of Kellen’s presence in her bathroom.
But she just wasn’t ready to go there.
For now he was gone.
Gone was good.
As her eyes drifted closed, from the end of her bed a shimmer of multicolored light interrupted her fall into oblivion.
Was it asking too much that a medium get some shut-eye? If this kept up, she wouldn’t be able to help people cross the street, let alone cross over into their own eternal utopia.
Hunkering down under the covers, she muttered, “Not now, Charlie. Everything’s fine. Promise. Go find some movie grip to toy with because this medium is ass fried.”
His smile lifted his mustache—a smile that was less like a comfort and more like a lethal promise of mayhem to come. The craggy lines of his face revealed a much harder man than was the reality of the total softy he really was. In death, he was as raw biker sexy as he’d been in his prime in the seventies. “Death Wish,” he said, his lips moving out of sync with his voice. Sometimes, when a spirit like Charlie came along, it was like watching an old Japanese movie translated to English—their lips moved long before the words came out.
She knew this was his way of offering his supernatural, albeit sometimes destructive, help, and it left her touched. Delaney yawned and flashed him a sleepy smile. “Nuh-uh, Mr. Bronson. I know you’d like to whip out an AK-47 and trash all moving matter, but I don’t need that kind of help. No Death Wish tactics tonight. It’ll all be fine. The bad guy’s gone now, and that means I don’t need Rambo-like help.” She was prepared for that smile to turn to disapproval at the mere mention of another infamous movie and an even more popular actor. “And don’t frown at me. You didn’t corner the market on vigilante-like revenge. Think of it as passing the movie star action-adventure torch to Sylvester, and get over yourself. But thanks for thinking of me. You’re a real peach.” Her smile was warm when she winked.
His nod was short, his hand rising in a succinct wave before he vanished, leaving her feeling all warm and smooshy.
How many people could say Charles Bronson had just dropped by to offer up his own brand of justice in her defense?
Sometimes, there was small compensation for the fact that she’d probably never have real live sex again unless it was via a battery-operated love tool.
Really small.
three
“Darlink?”
Delaney wiped the back of her hand over the corner of her mouth, searching for stray drool. Her hair clung to her eyelashes and her right arm was sore from being pressed beneath her chest. Waking up to her friend’s light Spanish accent, and the scent of her sophisticated perfume, might have made her smile if the night before hadn’t been so craptacular. “Marcella?”
A husky chuckle drifted to her ears. Husky and sensual and totally Marcella. “Not so in the flesh,” she confirmed.
Delaney struggled to open her eyes, reaching for whatever dog was in her immediate vicinity so they could snuggle. She came up dogless. Kellen must have taken them out for her. “Where are the dogs and what time is it?”
“Your cranky brother has the creatures and it’s time to get up.”
She felt Marcella’s weight shift on the end of the bed. She could picture her striking demon friend from behind her closed eyelids. Darkly voluptuous, olive skinned, green eyed, probably dressed in a curve-hugging black dress with a pair of matching heels, draped casually at the foot of her bed. Yet she kept her eyes closed. “I had a spectacularly shitty night last night, and you’d know all about that if you’d answered my nine hundred voice-mail messages. But my forecast is much brighter this morning. I’m all out of immediate danger right now—so be a good girlfriend and go catch up on your reality TV or something. Wife Swap was on this week. You don’t want to miss that. Hook up with me in a couple of hours, ’kay?”
“No can do, chica.”