Total pages in book: 92
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 89572 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 448(@200wpm)___ 358(@250wpm)___ 299(@300wpm)
Fuck, yes. But I keep my mouth shut and my feet moving along the sidewalk.
She falls into step beside me, still clutching her notebook.
“Sooo.” She draws out the word, clearly mocking me. “I guess if my channel gets bigger, I’ll have to hire you as a bodyguard or something.”
I’d do it for free.
“You should hire a handler,” I say. “To keep you out of trouble.”
Instead of kicking the back of my knee, she laughs. “What trouble? Eating my weight in muffins at the Applewood Inn?”
A smile threatens, but I frown, killing it before she notices.
“Anyway, I don’t have time for coffee dates. I have a curse to investigate. Does the name Elenor Vance mean anything to you?”
She never gives up. “No. You know, there are real Hollow mysteries you could investigate while you’re here.”
She stops walking. Ah, I captured her attention.
“Such as?” She arches an eyebrow.
“Well.” I jerk my thumb toward Main Street. “Stop by the Cosmic Path and have Lady Zara do a Tarot reading for you.”
“Tarot cards?” she asks in a bored tone. “Really?”
“It’s not the cards. It’s the shop. Lots of people have reported seeing glowing orbs when they take pictures during their readings.” I jerk my chin toward her bag. “You’ve got that fancy camera, you’ll probably catch something big there.”
“Orbs? Seriously?” She places her hand on her hip and tilts her head, a teacher about to scold the class clown. “Those are almost always the result of something mundane, like dust on the lens, moisture, insects, or a flare from the camera’s flash. I don’t investigate spirits interested in parlor tricks. My viewers expect better from me.”
“Which is why I said you and your fancy camera,” I gesture to her bag again, “would probably do a better job investigating the orbs than anyone else ever has.”
Her scowl deepens, which only makes me like her more. Emery isn’t a woman who’s tricked by empty compliments.
“I’ll tuck that one in my back pocket for later,” she says in a disinterested tone meant to placate me and continues walking.
“All right.” I search my memory for any other ghost stories people have made up over the years. “Well, there’s another one that’s more unique.”
Her brow furrows. “What’s that?”
“The haunting of the suicidal horse.”
She stops dead on the sidewalk and turns to face me, disbelief written over her pretty face. “You went from orbs to a suicidal horse? That’s what you consider a ‘safer’ story?”
Compared to the Rider, yes.
“Yes.” I point down Main Street. “If you go past the firehouse, there’s an old farm with a huge white oak tree in front. Some people claim the land is haunted by the horse who crashed into that tree.” I swivel my body to face the opposite end of Main Street and point. “Happened in the early 1900s. The horse was hitched to a buggy outside the Main Street Theater. Someone spooked him and he bolted, dragging the buggy all the way to the farm, where he crashed headfirst into the tree and died.”
“That’s…that’s horrible,” she gasps.
“It was.” I nod in agreement. “But through the years, people have said they hear hooves galloping through the apple orchards at night.”
Her eyes widen. “Could that be the horse we heard in the cemetery last night?”
Damn. I should’ve known she’d tie them together. “No.”
She flips through the pages in her notebook. “I’ve never heard about this runaway horse ghost.”
I jerk my thumb toward the library. “Baxter can probably find you the stories about it.”
She shakes her head as if dismissing the idea. “I’m not here to investigate a ghost horse.”
Her voice slips under my skin, and for a second I can’t decide which hums louder—the curse in my tattoos or the pull in my chest. She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, the movement simple and innocent. But all I can think about is the way she looked last night when she battled me as I carried her out of the cemetery, mouth set in a stubborn line, cheeks flushed from adrenaline.
The Rider doesn’t usually stir in daylight. But I swear I can hear the faint ring of iron-shod hooves under the surface. The sound teases the edge of my hearing. A memory? Or a warning?
I shift closer to her without meaning to, enough that my arm brushes hers. She goes still but doesn’t step away.
This is dangerous for both of us.
We stop in front of Chocolate Enchantments. I nod toward my shop a few doors down. “I have to open up.”
“Do you ever take a day off?”
“Even if I’m not inking, there’s always work to be done.” The last thing I need is time alone with my thoughts. “This is our busiest time of year.”
“Oh, right.” Her lips curl into a smirk. “Gotta nab those tourist dollars while you can.”
“Gotta pay the bills somehow,” I counter. She doesn’t need to know I’d rather starve than live off the Sterling family fortune.