Ghost Killer

PRAISE FOR ROBIN D. OWENS

Winner of the RITA® Award for Best Paranormal Romance by the Romance Writers of America

“[Robin D. Owens] provides a wonderful, gripping mix of passion, exotic futuristic
settings, and edgy suspense.”

—Jayne Castle,
New York Times
bestselling author of
The Hot Zone

“Will have readers on the edge of their seats . . . Another terrific tale from the
brilliant mind of Robin D. Owens. Don’t miss it.”

—
Romance Reviews Today

“[This] emotionally rich tale blends paranormal abilities, family dynamics, and politics;
adds a serious dash of violence; and dusts it all with humor and whimsy.”

—Library Journal

“Maintaining the world-building for science fiction and character-driven plot for
romance is near impossible. Owens does it brilliantly.”

—
The
Romance Readers Connection

“Dazzling . . . Robin D. Owens paints a world filled with characters who sweep readers
into an unforgettable adventure with every delicious word, every breath, every beat
of their hearts. Brava!”

—Deb Stover, award-winning author of
Always

“A taut mixture of suspense and action . . . that leaves you stunned.”

—
Smexy Books

“A delight . . . Hits all my joy buttons.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“[Owens’s] creativity shines.”

—
Darque Reviews

“I keep telling myself that [Robin D. Owens] just can’t get much better, but with
every book she amazes and surprises me!”

—The Best Reviews

Titles by Robin D. Owens

HEARTMATE

HEART THIEF

HEART DUEL

HEART CHOICE

HEART QUEST

HEART DANCE

HEART FATE

HEART CHANGE

HEART JOURNEY

HEART SEARCH

HEART SECRET

HEART FORTUNE

HEART FIRE

GHOST SEER

GHOST LAYER

GHOST KILLER

Anthologies

WHAT DREAMS MAY COME

(with Sherrilyn Kenyon and Rebecca York)

HEARTS AND SWORDS

THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

Published by the Penguin Group

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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

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A Penguin Random House Company

GHOST KILLER

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2015 by Robin D. Owens.

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For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

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375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

eBook ISBN: 978-1-101-63733-3

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / February 2015

Cover art by Tony Mauro.

Cover design by George Long.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the
product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance
to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is
entirely coincidental.

To all my readers who followed me to Denver and the Old West, thank you!
And to new readers, welcome and may you enjoy all the worlds you visit in books!

One for sorrow,

Two for luck;

Three for a wedding,

Four for death;

Five for silver,

Six for gold;

Seven for a secret,

Not to be told;

Eight for heaven,

Nine for [hell];

And ten for the devil’s own sell [self].

The autumn winds blow bleak and chill,

The sighing, quivering aspen waves

Above the summit of the hill.

Above the unrecorded graves,

Where halt, abandoned burros feed,

And coyotes call—and this is Creede.

—CY WARMAN, “A QUIET DAY IN CREEDE,”
FRONTIER STORIES
, 1898

DANGER COMES
, ENZO
howled, running through the bedroom door. Not the doorway, the door. Even a ghost
Labrador should not have all the hair on his body standing out.

Clare Cermak’s heartbeat kicked fast and she shuddered in the bed of her lover. She
pulled the sheet high, even though the room was—had been—warm and sunny this morning.

Enzo leapt for the bed and landed on her, in her, sending the coldness of his being
into her legs. His dark doggy eyes showed fear. Before she could say anything, those
“eyes” began to morph into bottomless black mist with jagged white streaks . . . signifying
that the Other spirit who took over her happy companion would be speaking to her.
Enzo was her spirit guide; she hadn’t quite figured out what the Other was, but when
he/it came, she felt like an expendable pawn in an unknown chess game.

You are not, quite, expendable
, the Other “said.” The words reverberated in her head, but more, seemed to knock
heavy molecules of air together in soundless explosions through the room. Zach, facedown
beside her, began to stir and she wasn’t sure whether she wanted him to hear what
the Other said or not. This was the first time she’d been to his apartment, the first
night she’d spent. She cherished the togetherness that the Other could splinter.

Judgmental eyes fixed upon her.
Not, quite, expendable,
the Other repeated.
Your work has been . . . adequate . . . for your first two projects, since you accepted
your gift.

Clare had heard her psychic ability to help ghosts pass on to the hereafter called
a gift, but she considered it a curse.

We have paid you well for your gift,
the Other, still standing face-to-face with her, said.

Yes, she’d inherited millions, and for each major ghost she’d aided, had received
income. But she’d also lost her previous life as an accountant, which she’d loved.

You are ungrateful.
The Other’s skin of his muzzle pulled back and showed the teeth bigger than what she
saw, supernatural teeth.

Beside her, Zach groaned and rolled over, pushed away his dark hair from his forehead
and opened blue green eyes. The Other stepped to put a paw square on his chest and
Zach grunted.

It is well you are together, Clare Cermak and Zach Slade
, the Other said dispassionately.
One of you might survive, should you walk into this danger.

A rapping came on the door between Zach’s former-housekeeper’s apartment and the rest
of the mansion. The Other and Enzo vanished and Zach sat up, put his warm, muscular,
and
solid
, arm around Clare. He looked down at her. “I heard the Other. You
will
survive.”

Clare realized she trembled. Mostly with cold, she assured herself.

“What did the bastard say?”

She shook her head in denial of the fear spearing through her, swallowed so she found
more spit in her dry mouth to speak. “Danger comes.”

Zach grunted, rolled off the bed and pulled on some sweat pants, yelled to the person
still pounding on the door, “Just a damn— Just a minute!”

“Probably Mrs. Flinton,” Clare said, speaking of his landlady, the very wealthy owner
of the mansion. She’d offered the apartment to Zach the first day he’d been in Denver
and interviewed with Rickman Security and Investigations.

Clare dragged on her bra, turned yesterday’s panties inside out for now and put them
on, slipped into her sundress. She had no clothes here.

Zach had already snagged his cane and left the bedroom. He’d gone to the door in the
little hallway just outside and perpendicular to the bedroom. Clare heard him open
the door slightly. “Mrs. Flinton?”

“I’m so sorry to disturb you. So, sorry,” her voice quavered. Usually the woman exuded
vim and vigor.

“Sorry to disturb me? That’s a first,” Zach teased. “Come on in. I think you need
to talk to Clare, right?” he said in a casual tone that amazed Clare. She still had
trouble breathing steadily. But he’d been a deputy sheriff and was used to adrenaline
dumps. That didn’t happen often when you were a certified public accountant at a nice,
safe job for a prestigious, maybe stodgy, firm.

“Yes. There’s trouble.” A drawn-in breath. “An evil ghost.”

The last three words stopped Clare in her tracks, to take a breath. She’d only been
a ghost seer for seventeen days and didn’t have the experience to handle an evil ghost.

But Mrs. Flinton continued to talk in a whisper. “I have tea and pastries in the breakfast
room, if you wish to join me.”

Clare didn’t want to pretend this discussion would be pleasant over tea and pastries.
She stomped her fear into the carpet as she joined Zach and Mrs. Flinton in the hallway.

He slanted a look at Clare, stepped back, then opened the door wide for his landlady.
For the first time since Clare had met her, Mrs. Flinton actually looked and acted
elderly, face sagging with worry, mouth quivering.

“The tea
—
” Mrs. Flinton protested.

“I have food. I’m a P.I. and I discuss cases in my apartment. We can talk in the living
room.” He turned and stalked the few steps to where the short hall opened into the
main living space.

He sounded more accepting of his change of career from a deputy sheriff in Montana
to a P.I. in Denver, due to a gunshot wound, than he had when Clare had first met
him.

His living room was a manly room for speaking of danger, as opposed to the parlor,
which was decorated in cheerful yellow chintz with filmy white curtains.

The woman pushed a roller walker into the room, leaning on it. She crossed to one
of the big brown leather chairs, leaving the sofa and the other chair on this side
of the room for Zach and Clare.

Clare felt too nervy to sit. “I’ll put coffee on, why don’t I?” She crossed to the
small pullman kitchen that was separated from the living room by a half wall that
was a counter with stools in the main space.

Mrs. Flinton, who’d unaccustomedly slumped, perked up, her pink-lipsticked mouth smiling.
“Coffee!”

Clare angled back to her. “Are you supposed to have coffee?”

“I would love some.” Mrs. Flinton tried a wobbly smile.

Since the older woman evaded the question, she probably wasn’t supposed to have coffee.
But Clare needed it and thought Zach did, too. She sent Mrs. Flinton a stern look
over the counter. “You’ll be having herbal tea.”

Mrs. Flinton pouted, then sighed. “I suppose you’re right. Though what I really need
is a martini.”

Zach chuckled as he lounged on the couch. “Not going to have that, either.”

“Bloody Mary?” Mrs. Flinton raised penciled-on brows.

“Nope. No alcohol here.”

Sniffing, Mrs. Flinton said, “You are wrong. We stocked your liquor cabinet, and I
know my housekeeper has given you wine from my cellar with your meals.” Another sniff.
“Wine my doctor says I can’t have.”

The return of her upbeat personality and the dripping of the coffee as it filled the
pot soothed Clare enough for her to slide into the living room with a pleasant expression
and sit next to Zach.

Mrs. Flinton’s face crumpled when she saw Clare and tears began to roll down her cheeks.
There was nothing for it; Clare rose and moved over to perch on the arm of the woman’s
chair, patted her on the shoulder. “Maybe you’d better tell us what’s wrong, Mrs.
Flinton.”

“Please call me Barbara, especially since I’ll be imposing on you so much.” She whisked
out a lace-edged hanky and dabbed her eyes and her cheeks.

Zach said, “Just tell us, Barbara.”

Straightening to ramrod stiff, not looking at Clare, Barbara said, “Yes, I suppose
I must. It’s about another ghost seer.”

Clare drew in a small breath. Maybe she’d have help in dealing with this evil ghost.
Any help would be great. “Another ghost seer?”

Mrs. Flinton continued, “Yes, I have a little bit of several psychic gifts, but Caden
has just one, like you, and we’re thinking it must be ghost seeing.” Her fingers crushed
the handkerchief until the delicate linen disappeared into her fist.

Clare’s gaze met Zach’s. He nodded, as if confirming he was in this with her. As he
always had been. She was lucky.

“Caden?” she asked, her voice a little higher than usual. “And who is ‘we’?”

“We are me, his great grandmother, and my daughter, Caden’s grandmother, who believe
in psychic gifts, but not his parents.”

“Parents,” said Zach neutrally.

“Caden is seven.” A quivery sigh followed by a rush of words. “It seems his gift is
coming too fast and too soon.”

Clare recalled when her own gift descended—freezing in the hottest summer of Denver,
the weird going-insane feeling, and, yes, people who didn’t think she saw ghosts,
including herself. Terrible stress. “Oh my God,” Clare breathed. Despite any danger,
she could not refuse to help.

“Yes, dear.” Mrs. Flinton cleared her throat. She sniffed wetly, raised big, blue
eyes to Clare. “Even though in our family we don’t have the effects that seem to apply
to yours—the lethal coldness and threat of insanity, it’s not good. There’s a powerful
and bad ghost out there, and he’s young.”

Clare flinched. The tea kettle shrieked. Avoiding Zach’s gaze, she went behind the
counter to the stove on the far wall and turned off the burner. She fussed with the
loose leaf tea of twigs and blossoms in a little basket. Grabbed a half minute to
lean discreetly against the fridge.

“Pour your coffees first, dear,” Mrs. Flinton instructed. “Otherwise the water will
be too hot for the herbs and ruin their efficacy.”

Waiting until her hands were steady, Clare poured mugs of coffee for Zach and herself.
Just the smell of rich, dark caffeine strengthened her. He always took black, and
she added a little sugar from the bowl on the counter, and real cream from the fridge
to hers. With her chin high, she took a mug to him.

He looked at her straight, all acceptance of life-threatening trouble, and as if judging
whether she could also face that up front. She firmed her lips and dipped her head.
As much as she’d bobbed and ducked in the past, trying to evade her gift, now was
not the time to drag her feet.

The bottom line was that an endangered child wouldn’t let her ignore her power to
move ghosts on. Hopefully she had enough mojo-whatever to kick an evil one out of
this world.

Giving them all time to think about what should be said next, what plans had to be
made, Clare put her own mug on a magazine on the coffee table, went back for Mrs.
Flinton’s tea, then handed the delicate china cup to her.

“Thank you, dear,” Mrs. Flinton said, and cradled the cup in both hands as if cherishing
the warmth.

Clare sat next to Zach and even leaned against him a little. He was much nicer than
the fridge, and knew about trouble and danger. Leaning against him, accepting his
expertise, didn’t automatically mean she was dependent on him.

Putting down his mug, he took the lead, as she’d expected.

“Trouble,” Zach prompted.

Mrs. Flinton’s hand holding the teacup shook and she put it down. “Yes. I know Caden’s
in trouble and my granddaughter and her husband
don’t
believe that. They are good, solid—”

“Unimaginative—” Zach said.

“Rational—” Clare began herself.

“Yes. Both of those.” Mrs. Flinton blinked rapidly as if to keep more tears from falling.
Her eyes appeared even bluer and she whispered, “I’ve heard . . . that an evil ghost
is very dangerous, even to the living.” She stared into the distance, turning so pale
that her carefully blended makeup stood out on her face.

Clare shivered. Zach slid his arm from the sofa behind her to wrap around her shoulders.

Since Mrs. Flinton already knew about Enzo, Clare called him. “Enzo?”

The ghost Labrador simply appeared, sitting between Mrs. Flinton and Clare, angled
to watch them both.

Oh, no!
Enzo whimpered.
This is bad. This is
VERY bad.
He shuddered, straightened, and turned his eyes on Clare.
But we will do it! I will help. I . . . I am SURE we can kill the bad ghost!

Her formerly staunch phantom dog didn’t sound sure.

“Yeah,” Zach said.
He
didn’t sound too alarmed and rubbed Clare’s shoulder.

Clare
was
alarmed. Enzo had spoken of evil ghosts before. She knew she wasn’t experienced enough
to fight one.

Mrs. Flinton began to hiccup in distress. Clare stood and walked around the coffee
table to pick up her teacup and hand it back to her. “Drink it down, Mrs. Flinton,”
Clare said. Luckily her voice didn’t betray her inner qualms.

Nodding, Mrs. Flinton sipped, then gestured to the elegant Hermès bag attached to
her walker. “Please retrieve my phone. I have something I want you to view.”

The cell in a sparkly lavender case was easy to find.

“I recorded a call from Caden on SeeAndTalk. Please take the phone over to Zach so
you can both watch.”