Sword Play

Woodbury, Minnesota

Sword Play
© 2006 by Linda Joy Singleton.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Flux, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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. Cover models used for illustrative purposes only and may not endorse or represent the book’s subject.

First e-book edition © 2010

E-book ISBN: 9780738716930

Cover design and illustration by Lisa Novak

Editing by Rhiannon Ross

Flux is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

Flux does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

Flux

Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

2143 Wooddale Drive

Woodbury, MN 55125

www.fluxnow.com

Manufactured in the United States of America

To PF Garrett Loethe

A fellow series book enthusiast, smooth dancer,
and treasured friend.

Also, thanks to my instructor Paul at the
Sacramento Fencing Club, who patiently
answered my questions and taught me
the basics of fencing.

Waking up to find a cute guy sitting on your bed might be a dream come true for some girls.

But not me.

Especially when the guy was dead—and some people think I killed him.

Normally ghosts didn’t scare me. Coming from a long line of psychics, I’d been weaned on Ghosts, Spirits, and Angels 101. I’d had visions of the future and long chatty conversations with my spirit guide. But this was different. This was Kip.

Seeing him so alive and real—six months after his death—was beyond freaky. Terror sliced through me like a sharp blade.

“Go away!” I shouted, then ducked underneath my pillow, my eyes shut tightly and my heart pounding furiously.

Please let this be a bad dream. Yeah, that must be it. I was having a nightmare or maybe a reaction to the pain medication. I remembered falling asleep, relieved to be out of the hospital and back in my own familiar quilted bed. After surviving a deadly road accident, it was logical that I’d dream about car crashes—including the tragedy that would always haunt me. But that was all in the past. I mean, this could
not
be happening. No way was Kip Hurst in my room.

But when I peeked out, there he was, decked out in his #17 football jersey (which was odd since he’d died in a formal prom tux). Energy flickered around him, making his face seem unnaturally pale while his legs were so transparent that when he stood it looked like he was floating over my bed. A football appeared in his hand and he spun it on his fingertip, grinning at me in that arrogant way I always detested.

“Go away!” I tried again.

With a tilt of his head, he regarded me with wry curiosity.

“Get out of here!”

He tossed the ball so high it disappeared in my dark ceiling.

I stared up, waiting for the football—and my own sanity—to return. Long moments stretched on in eerie silence, then the ball slowly sailed into his hand. Only his energy flickered and his hand wasn’t there. The football balanced on its pointy end in empty air. I pinched myself, just to check if I was in fact dreaming. Definitely not a dream.

Kip’s hand may have vanished and his legs were see-through, but his grin flashed with a cocky attitude. Clearly he was
not
going away.

Gathering my blankets around me, I scooted upright in bed and faced this ghost from my past. Kip had been a star football player with major league expectations and a gorgeous homecoming king. At my old school, Arcadia High, where sports ruled and had more funding than any other department, Kip was truly royalty.

I wasn’t one of Kip’s fans. It just seemed to me that jocks were overrated. I mean, what was so great about pummeling players on a field? I hadn’t even known Kip, except by reputation … until The Vision.

Then why was he here so many months later?

Unless he blamed me …

I swallowed hard, then forced out the question I knew I had to ask. “What do you want?”

I barely made out his shadowy hand pointing directly at me.

“Me?” I clawed my blankets. “But it wasn’t my fault … I tried to warn you.”

He moved his mouth, only nothing came out.

“I don’t know what you’re trying to say, but you don’t belong here. You died six months ago. You have to let go and move on.”

He gave a firm shake of his head, and that’s when I realized he wasn’t a ghost. Not in the sense of someone who has died but is stuck on earth due to fear or confusion. He had
already
moved on to the other side. His essence glowed with the warm energy of a spirit. He had come a long way because he’d chosen to visit. But why visit me—the girl who predicted his death, but failed to prevent it?

“What can I do for you?” I spoke softly. “Pass on a message to someone?”

He shook his head.

“Then why are you here?”

He tucked the football under one arm and moved closer in a sweeping glide. No longer did he bulldoze through life, taking up more than his share of space and swaggering with an overblown pride. As a dead guy, he was almost human.

When he opened his mouth, I concentrated on all my senses, especially the sixth one, to listen.

“Sah … beeen.”

I shivered at the eerie sound of my own name. “I’m listening. What do you want?”

“Help,” he whispered.

“You need help?”

“Not … me.”

“But that’s what you just asked.”

He shook his head.

“I don’t understand.” I bit my lip, confused. “I can’t help you unless you tell me more. I don’t know why you’re here … what you want from me.”

Again, he shook his head. His lips pursed and I sensed frustration.

“Help … her.”

“Who?”

If he answered, I was unable to hear him. Energy flicked like a short-circuited bulb, then there was a crackling sound. Silence and empty darkness. The only light in my room came from my wall where a clown-face night-light glowed.

Kip was gone, yet the whisper of his last words lingered, echoing in my mind, “Help her, help her … ”

But I had no idea who “her” was …