“Are you serious, Somer? The idea of oppressive heat, snakes, and alligators gets you excited?”

“No, Devin, but the history does.” Somersby Ingler met her best friend’s gaze with an I-shall-not-be-moved look. “It’s a perfect topic for my research article on the legends and lore of America’s southern plantations.” She scrolled through the various documentaries on plantations via YouTube. “It’s horribly sad the way some of them have been neglected. Perhaps my work will help bring some of these old beauties into the limelight.”

Her roommate stared at her, clearly not convinced. “Castles in England, yes. Ancient ruins in Greece—that I could understand. Why stomp around the Louisiana bayou looking for your stories?” he asked. “Besides, it’s been forever since we’ve visited your people from across the pond.”

“My people?” she asked with a smile, closing her laptop. She picked up the teacup her mother had given her from her collection when Somer had moved to America seven years ago. With a doctorate in parapsychology from Edinburgh University in her homeland of Scotland, she’d already visited a good number of legendary places in the UK and surrounding countries. America had always been one of her dreams. “Listen, this is something I’ve had on my…what did Jack Nicholson call it?” She searched her mind for the correct phrase. “Oh, yes, my bucket list.”

Devin appeared completely unimpressed. “You realize they have snakes down there?”

She and Devin had met while on a simultaneous research trip to England’s house on Fifty Berkley Square. Somer, Devin, and his partner at the time, Bruce, had chatted and compared notes on their various findings of haunted places in England. A year later, as Somer prepared to move across the pond, Devin had contacted her, devastated that he and Bruce had split. She invited him to get a fresh start and move to America with her. To her surprise, he’d agreed. Since then, they’d shared a small house in the quiet, less commercialized part of Salem, Massachusetts.

“I’m only going to be gone a few weeks. Besides, I remembered to take my snake spray,” she offered with a cheeky grin.

“You’re sure you don’t need me to tag along?” Devin asked, with a dejected pout.

“One of us has to keep food on the table,” she answered. “This grant will take care of the trip, but I’m going to be cutting corners.”

“Maybe you could learn to catch gators?” He offered a wicked smile. “I’ve heard they taste just like chicken.”

The doorbell rang. “There’s my ride to the airport.” She stuffed her laptop in her carry-on, grabbed her favorite afghan on a whim, and shoved it in the bag. “You be good while I’m gone. No wild shenanigans, young man.” She pointed at him.

He blew out a resigned sigh. “Come here and give me a hug, you brat.” He squeezed her. “I’m going to miss you like crazy.”

“I’ll Skype when I get settled, okay?” The doorbell rang again. “I’ve got to run. You’ll be okay, then?” She hated seeing that look of abandonment on his face.

“Sure,” he released her. “Go on. Just leave me stranded here with all those tourists wanting to see if witches are really green.”

“Be nice to them, Dev. They pay your bills.” She blew him a kiss as she closed the door.

He grabbed the air as though to catch it and smiled.

***

Somer sat on one of two double beds in her room at the Hotel Monteleone, nestled in the French Quarter of New Orleans. Her ledger pad, books, and data from the previous paranormal investigations lay scattered across the bed. She’d been met with steady rain on her virgin trek to New Orleans. Not something unusual on the Gulf, but it had lingered off and on for days, pinning her inside and preventing her from wandering the historic streets.

She leaned over to switch on the bedside lamp, hoping to dispel some of the dimness of the dismal rainy afternoon. The light flickered as she went back to her work. Looking up, she was mildly startled to be staring at her reflection in the ornate, gold mirror hanging over the writing desk. A chill washed over her. She held her own gaze as though trying to read her thoughts. Mirrors had always intrigued her. Such vain contraptions, to her way of thinking—and yet there were those who believed them to be portals to the spirit side. Hence, they were once covered at the time of death, preventing one’s spirit from being trapped forever between this world and the next. Somer believed that mirrors showed the true reflection of a person’s soul.

At once her vision blurred, a hazy mist floating over reality. In her mind, she saw a man and woman partially hidden by a giant oak tree. Uncertain of the intrusion or to the reasons why, she kept her distance and, while their faces were undiscernible, she felt the sexual tension between the two.

Then, as quickly as it had appeared, the vision was gone.

A bold flash of lightning rattled the windows and, as though once more aware of her surroundings, she blinked a few times, shaking herself mentally from her self-imposed trance. She made a note, curious at the intensity of this particular vision, and then picked up the used hardback she’d found online that featured her current interest—Evermore Plantation. The book listed the numerous paranormal agencies that had investigated Evermore. Most recorded similar findings, but with little detail. In the bibliography she noted the organization called PROOF. She recognized it as being the agency she’d once had the good fortune to work with in Salem as they filmed a documentary on the historical town. She had no idea they had an agency in New Orleans, but she made a note in her journal and jotted down the phone number.

The lights flickered again. This time, however, the hair on Somer’s arms and the back of her neck stood on end. She scanned the room, prepared to find a visitor in her midst as was the case most times when her body sensed a presence.

As though sensing her restlessness, a shaft of sunlight broke through the smoky-gray clouds. As though she’d been given a get-out-of-jail-free card, she decided what she needed was a brisk walk and a visit to the Café du Monde to sample their famous beignets.

Dressed in her favorite jeans, T-shirt, and hoodie she put on her comfortable boots, grabbed her cellphone and backpack, and headed out the door. She paused, glancing back at her laptop and research strewn across the bed. Taking precaution, she grabbed the laptop and placed it in the small hotel safe inside the closet. Making sure to leave the desk light on in case she returned after dark, she stepped into the hall and closed the door.

Hearing a sound, she glanced over to see a small boy about to enter a room down the hall. He looked up at her and she smiled as the boy’s image disappeared. She stared at the spot, debating whether to pursue the apparition. In her experience, ghosts rarely appeared unless trying to get a message across to someone.

She made a mental note to check the history of the hotel. There was a good chance the little boy would still be there when she got back later.

An hour later, after combing the streets and ducking into a few of the unique shops, she treated herself to chicory coffee and powdery-sweet beignets at Café du Monde, and then decide to cut across St. Ann street to the cathedral. Coming around the corner was a street procession led by a newlywed bride and groom, each with an umbrella. Their guests followed behind, celebrating with waving handkerchiefs, and after them a small second line jazz band kept the parade pace with its lively music.

Somer stepped up to the sidewalk to allow the parade to pass. She was fascinated by the old tradition, having studied them a bit before her arrival. It was her understanding that most were reserved for guests only, while others, on occasion, invited onlookers to join in the revelry.

The rainclouds had dissipated, leaving the early November sky a brilliant blue. She moved to the music, holding up her coffee cup in a private toast to the newlyweds as she danced a little jig on their behalf. Her elbow bumped against something solid and she turned in time to see a wall of red plaid shirt behind her even as she watched her precious coffee cup spin in the air and splatter its contents at her feet. She gazed at the caramel-colored fatality, watching its perfect sweet blend of cream and coffee lost to the dirty pavement.

Embarrassed, dejected, and more than slightly annoyed, she searched for the culprit of her deceased coffee. She found him walking sideways, his face glued to his phone, apparently oblivious to those around him as he tried to videotape the procession. Okay, so maybe this guy was worth a second look—it didn’t mean she wasn’t pissed about her coffee. Not even so much as an “excuse me, lady.” Yanks. Even cute ones with broad shoulders and denim jeans, it seemed, could use a lesson in manners. “Hey!” she shouted. “They say excuse me where I come from.”

Her shout, at least, garnered his brief attention. He peered around his cell phone. “Hey, sorry,” he hollered back over the cheery, musical jazz band. He grinned and pointed to his phone. “I got you dancing on the wedding video.”

Bloody hell. And dimples to boot. Somer sighed. Why did he have to have dimples? The grin on his exquisitely handsome face all but made his amber eyes sparkle. “No worries,” she called back. Idiot. The least you could do is buy me a fresh cup.

He tipped his head, as though debating the possibility. Then, glancing over his shoulder, he pointed at his phone. “Gotta go,” he mouthed and disappeared into the crowd of spectators that had lined up along the route.

Shaking her head, she backtracked to Café du Monde to get another cup. This time, she’d pop for the travel mug, improving her chances of saving it from future accidents. She caught herself searching for that red plaid shirt as she stood in line for coffee.

“You seem like you’re looking for somebody.”

Somer glanced at an old woman seated on a bench next to the café. She had a pink umbrella to keep off the sun, matching the pink calico dress she wore. A white cane rested against her leg. Somer wasn’t certain if the old woman was speaking to her, or to anyone who’d listen.

She stared straight ahead, her heavy, black-rimmed sunglasses perched on her brown, weathered face.

“Excuse me? Were you speaking to someone?” Somer often wasn’t aware of her Scottish burr. Seven years in the States had tempered it a bit. She stepped out of line to address the old woman.

Surprise showed in her aged expression, as though she hadn’t been aware of Somer’s presence. The old woman turned her face and looked straight at her. “Storm’s a-coming.”

Somer’s flesh prickled with awareness. She searched the sunny skies above. “It seems perfectly clear to me,” she offered.

“She knows.” The woman nodded, and with that picked up her cane and toddled slowly down the sidewalk. Only then did Somer realize that the old woman was blind. She watched with curiosity as the woman blended into the crowd.

***

Nash stumbled over his boots as he tried to keep up with the parade. One of his construction crew had decided that, since the team was going to be near New Orleans, he’d pop the question to his long-time fiancée and, in his words, “get-er-done.” Due to the short notice, Nash had been chosen as official photographer with the bride and groom leading a second line and a crew of ragtag peers dressed in various levels of what construction guys dub as “formal wear.”

He dodged a couple with a baby stroller and this time remembered his manners. “Excuse me.” It was more than he’d given the lovely young woman a few moments ago, and guilt assuaged him, making him wonder what his mom would say at his lack of manners. Texas mothers took pride in teaching their sons proper manners, and his mom was no different. He could still feel the thump of her hand on the back of his head when he acted up. Damn, he hoped the reception hall was nearby—he needed a drink. A block more of ducking and dodging spectators and he spied the restaurant. Nash had rented out the upper room for the small wedding party as a gift to the bride and groom, and as a show of appreciation to his crew for all the work they’d done on the plantation he’d recently bought. He felt guilty that it came with a catch, giving the newlyweds Sunday night to celebrate, but back to work and on a schedule already behind from glitches in his restoration game plan. The second line band he’d hired for the night continued playing as they led the wedding party through the restaurant and up the stairs to the reception room. The French doors along two walls of the room were propped open to allow in the fresh though sultry air, and to welcome guests to stand on the balcony and look over the cobbled streets of the Quarter.

“This is great, Nash. Thank you, man.” Mickey, head of his brick and stucco crew, handed him a frothy craft beer. Nash tapped his bottle to his good friend. They’d met while in college at the University of Texas. He’d joined him as Nash had begun to create a team specializing in restoration of historical buildings. Mickey’s new wife, Texas-born and raised, was a brown-eyed spitfire who adored Mickey like no other. She sidled up next to her husband, demanding a long, passionate kiss that finally caused Nash to look away.

“I understand we have you to thank for this beautiful reception.” She held her hand out, flashing the half-carat diamond on her finger.

When he went to take her hand, she surprised him by pulling him into a big hug and firmly planting her glossy pink lips to his.

“You’re the best,” she squealed.

Nash smiled, nodded, and looked at the equally surprised groom.

“Hey, you’re not getting the same from me, bro.”

Nash laughed and grabbed the man, kissing him soundly on the cheek. “You two go on—they’re about to announce the first dance.” He watched them walk away arm-in-arm, smiling to himself as he saw Mickey’s hand slip a bit to catch a little cheek action through the silky wedding dress with a flouncy short hem his bride wore. “In order to see my fancy wedding boots,” she’d told Nash earlier.

He hadn’t found his Ms. Right yet, or she hadn’t found him—however the hell it worked these days. He’d spent the greater share of his life working on two degrees and another five years creating a name for himself in historical design and restoration. A few dates—mostly one night—in the last three years, but nothing to inspire him to settle down. Hell, maybe he never would.

“A toast to my boss and good friend, Nash Walker—founder of tonight’s feast.”

Mickey held up his beer and the rest of the room followed suit.

Nash pointed at Mickey and raised his bottle. He was a great guy, a good friend, and Cissy—God love her wild-mustang ways—was bound to make Mickey a happy man.

He hated weddings.

Ducking out to the balcony, he sucked in the night air. He pulled out one of the bistro chairs at a table used for outdoor dining. The music had started up inside. He rolled up his sleeves, realizing he’d eventually need to retrieve the jacket he’d lent to one of the guys in the wedding party at the last minute. The lamplights below flickered and came on. Several people strolled by on the sidewalk below, out for a walk on the quiet Sunday evening. He closed his eyes, welcoming a bit of a breeze on his face.

“Hey, you bloody arse! Let go of my bag!”

Nash flew to his feet and peered over the railing. Below, a young woman was engaged in a tug-of-war with her backpack and a young man, his face hidden by the hood of his jacket. Nash searched for a way he could help—short of tossing a chair down at the man—and spotted a fire escape. Praying it was in working order, he climbed over the railing and stepped on the bottom rung.

Nothing moved.

Blowing out a decisive breath, he bounced a little and the ladder slowly lowered with a grinding sound of rusted metal. Nash grimaced at the sound and, getting as close as he could to the ground, dropped to the sidewalk just as the thief took off with the backpack.

“You shit,” the woman screamed.

He came up behind her and she whirled on him, her blue eyes electrified with anger. A brief flicker of recognition sped through her gaze. “You?”

He recognized her then, from earlier in the day. “You? Lost coffee?” He shook his head. “Which way?”

She pointed.

He ran…and ran, until he thought his lungs might give out. In the end, it was a horse and carriage waiting at the curb that saved Nash. The boy, in a dead run, spooked the animal, causing the steed to rear up on his hind legs, snorting and giving a whinny in true ‘Black Beauty’ style. The boy halted, stepping away from the beast, then tripped and fell flat on his butt.

Nash wanted to kiss the horse. He reached the boy and snatched him up by the collar before he could sprint away. He couldn’t have been over twelve. “Damn, son, you ought to put those sprinting skills to better use.” He fought to catch his breath. “Why’d you take the bag?”

The young man, clearly not happy with the inquisition, snarled back, “What’s it to you? You a cop?”

“Nope, but I’m fairly certain we could find one,” Nash answered. He held out his free hand. “Give me the bag.”

The young man scowled, looked away, and then heaved the bag at Nash’s face. He took off into the night. “Thanks,” he called after the boy. “Gutsy little—”

“Asshole,” came the boy’s response from afar.

Nash shook his head. Okay, so no big brother moment happening tonight. “Back at you,” he called out. Amazed by the kid’s audacity, he shook his head in disgust and then turned around and walked right into the pretty, petite woman with vivid blue eyes.

“Did you catch the bloody bastard?” she said, and then noticed her backpack dangling from his hand. “It never ceases to amaze me,” she muttered, snatching her bag from him. “Thank you,” she said as she walked over beneath a street lamp and searched through it. She pulled out her wallet as he walked up to her.

Nash raised his palm. “No need for that. I’m just happy I could help out.”

She looked up as though surprised to see him. He was glad his breathing had returned to normal, but his pulse definitely sped up again as she searched his face.

“I would say we’re even, then. I had one sip of coffee before it wound up as… what do you yanks call it?”

Yanks?

“Oh, yes. Road kill.”

Nash narrowed his gaze. Interesting accent—somewhere between east coast and Scotland, he guessed. “I’m not sure that spilled coffee actually qualifies as ‘road kill’. He used his fingers for emphasis. “At least, not where I come from.” He was intrigued by her accent, fascinated by her mouth. Probably the glow of the lamplight. That mouth was a ten on his scale of kissable mouths.

“Well, then, I’ll just say thank you.”

“Nash. Nash Walker.” He held out his hand. She eyed him tentatively and gave his hand a quick and dirty shake. “Thank you.” She spun on her heel and hailed a cab coming down the street.

“Didn’t catch your name,” he called to her.

“Didn’t give it to you,” she responded.

Nash grinned as he watched the cab speed off. He might just be in love.