Ghouls Rush In Read online

  Also by H.P. Mallory

  The New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Jolie Wilkins Series:

  Fire Burn and Cauldron Bubble

  Toil and Trouble

  Witchful Thinking

  The Witch Is Back

  Something Witchy This Way Comes

  The Dulcie O’Neil Series:

  To Kill a Warlock

  A Tale of Two Goblins

  Great Hexpectations

  Wuthering Frights

  Malice in Wonderland

  For Whom the Spell Tolls

  The Lily Harper Series:

  Better Off Dead

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 H.P. Mallory

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  ISBN-13: 9781477818558

  ISBN-10: 1477818553

  Cover design by Eileen Carey

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013919810

  To Finn

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  It was time for a fresh start.

  All my bags had been packed and I’d been more than ready to go, to quote John Denver.

  And now that I’d escaped Los Angeles, and found myself safely ensconced in New Orleans, I could breathe a little more easily. Yep, with the two thousand miles that now separated me from Jonathon Graves, my recently declared ex-husband, my future never seemed brighter, nor life sweeter.

  It’s funny (well, not in a ha-ha sort of way) but I always thought of divorce as the last resort, as the ultimate failure. Somehow it seemed better, more courageous, more right to continue bearing the tattered and bruised flag of a failing marriage (regardless of how unhappy said marriage was) than to throw in the towel and admit that sometimes you screw up. Sometimes you make decisions you have no business making. Sometimes you desperately yearn to make a wish on a falling star that might rewind your life and allow you to skip whatever drastic decision you made that led to the biggest mistake of your life.

  In choosing to accept Jonathon’s marriage proposal five years ago, I’m convinced I must’ve been possessed by the ghost of June Cleaver, much to the chagrin of my true self. That, or maybe Nurse Ratched had performed a lobotomy on me without my knowledge. Otherwise, I just couldn’t reconcile how I willingly threw my lot in with his. Why? Because our lots never should have been thrown in together. Nope, we were like oil and water, cats and dogs, Lindsay Lohan and a law-abiding existence. Jonathon and I existed at polar ends of the personality spectrum. And in our case, while opposites did attract, the result was impending doom.

  Regardless, at some point, I must have thought I was in love with him even though I’d always been convinced he was never in love with me. But sometimes you get bitten by the lunacy bug. Then you wake up one day to find yourself living an “inauthentic life” (to quote the innumerable self-help books I’d lost myself in for the last five years). And all you can do is ask yourself, in silent, nauseous wonder, how in the hell did I get here? The answer isn’t a fun one, by any stretch of the imagination.

  For the old me, though, the whys and hows of my situation weren’t the important parts. I bought into the whole “when you’ve made your bed, you lie in it” mentality and consequently I’d become a marriage martyr; I’d tried to convince myself that I was truly happy. And even after I could willingly face that my happiness was a sham, I still wasn’t sold on divorce. Instead, I figured my marriage was the same as any other marriage—that holy matrimony was, by nature, crippling.

  All I could feel was intense relief—intense, wonderful, magnificent relief. Whatever my past, whatever exhaustive anger and depression I harbored for so many years, I’d escaped it all now. And that was the beauty of life. No matter how bad things got, no matter how much you hated your predicament, there was always a way out. And luckily for me, I’d found it.

  And now as I stood on Prytania Street, in the middle of the Garden District of New Orleans, I took a deep breath of the humid air, the cloying scent of stale blooms of Cecile Brunner roses wafting over my neighbor’s fence. But all I could really smell was the divine scent of freedom, the scent of the beginning of the rest of my life. This new beginning just happened to be a three-story Greek Revival mansion from the late 1800s that was situated on the middle of Prytania Street, between a rambling, yellow Queen Anne Victorian and a four-story Italianate wonder with black wrought iron railings on all four of its porches.

  I was starting over, finding myself again and thus, in need of a diversion. No, I needed something bigger than a diversion. I needed something that would wholly occupy me, something that would require the full extent of my energy. Getting out of my marriage had been such an emotional drain, I knew that I’d have to throw myself into an overwhelming project, something that would require the full commitment of my brainpower and time. I needed something that would exhaust me so I wouldn’t be left at night with nothing but my wounded, naked thoughts. I required a project that would completely wipe me out and, in so doing, allow me to sleep at night. Having no children to aid in the task was actually a huge blessing. Though I did someday want children, I could only thank my lucky stars that Jonathon’s and my relationship never evolved into the territory of having babies. Nope, I had no ties to Jonathon at all, which was exactly the way I wanted it.

  Given my need for a diversion, renovating a three-story, five-thousand-square-foot mansion was just what the doctor ordered.

  “This one’s gotta be in the worst repair of any I seen in, oh, ten years, maybe,” Hank said, his caterpillar eyebrows reaching for his grimy baseball cap. He frowned at me before turning to study the monument that I called my new home. Hank was old and had one of those faces that had weathered time, but as to how much time, I wasn’t so sure. He could’ve been in his early sixties or his late eighties, for all I knew. Shit, if he were one hundred, I wouldn’t have been too surprised. He sighed and shook his head like he thought I was getting in way too deep. “It’s gonna be one heck of a project,” he continued, his bushy mustache obscuring his entire mouth until it looked like a hamster was clinging to his face while having a seizure. Hank was a mechanic who owned his own repair shop just out of town.

  I nodded. “Yep, that it is,” I answered, a smile seeping into my words. For as much of a “project” that the renovations on my new home would prove to be, I still wasn’t in any way concerned. Nope, that’s because I was far too overcome by the possibilities, which only filled me with unbridled excitement.

  And, yes, I could honestly say I was completely cognizant that I was absolutely getting in over my head. But I didn’t care. I welcomed the challenge because how deep I sunk into the project wasn’t the point. Instead, the point was my freedom and this being the first chapter in the book known as the rest of my life.

  I gazed up at my new home again, feeling the pride I imagined a
new parent feels. Yep, my life was now dominated by a three-story study of peeling paint, broken balustrades, dusty windows, and sagging verandas. It was a sorry sight, but one that filled me with pure anticipation and excitement of a new journey. I was on my way to uncovering a lost pathway, previously obscured by the foliage of “self-doubt.”

  “So you related ta Myra?” Hank asked while eyeing me pointedly, one bushy white eyebrow arched up in curiosity.

  I nodded but then sighed because even though Myra was my great-aunt, I’d never known of her existence. “She was from my mother’s side but, unfortunately, I never got to meet her.”

  Hank nodded. “So how’d ya come ta end up here then?”

  I smiled and then cocked my head to the side as I considered it. “It was pretty coincidental, actually,” I started. “On the same day my divorce was finalized, I also learned that Myra had passed away and left this property to me.”

  “An’ you ain’t never even laid eyes on ’er?” Hank continued grilling me, his expression one that revealed he wasn’t sure if he should believe me or not. Why? I had no clue.

  I shook my head. “Nope.” And the other unfortunate part about the whole Great-Aunt Myra situation was that I had no way of questioning my mother as to the existence of her because my mother had passed away when I was eighteen. I’d never known my father.

  So I was basically left with a huge mystery as to how I’d ended up with this old mansion, but, if anything, our cloudy pasts only connected me to the property more. And now standing here, in front of the house, I just felt as if I belonged here—as if the blood that pumped through my veins was tied to this grand mansion.

  As strange as it sounds, I almost felt as if the house and I were buddies, friends. In my own bizarre imagination, I needed this house as much as it needed me. Just as I would be saving this old, dilapidated home and bringing it back to its former glory, it would also be saving me—by keeping me from focusing on my failed marriage. It would save me from wondering, in my heart of hearts, if I’d made a mistake in leaving Jonathon. As much as I knew the decision to get divorced was the only one that could be made, it didn’t silence that nagging voice in the back of my head that doubted most of my moves, as well as most every decision I made.

  The behemoth undertaking that renovating this nineteenth-century mansion would prove to be wouldn’t allow that frustrating voice to speak. I only hoped that this incredible adventure would allow me to reunite with myself, the person who’d been mute for the last five years. My plan was to center myself and truly discover just who I was, and more importantly, who I wanted to be. Peyton Graves, wife, was dead and gone; but rising from her ashes, complete with her newly reacquired maiden name, was Peyton Clark. And I couldn’t help but think this house was the key to finding myself, since the house represented a past I knew nothing about but a past that was still very much a part of me.

  “You’se divorced?” Hank asked, still spearing me with that beady-eyed expression. I simply nodded. “Ain’t you gotta ’nother fella ta help you?” he continued, shaking his head in what I perceived to be disappointment combined with disapproval.

  “Nope,” I shook my head more fervently than he had. My entire being rebelled at the mere thought of a “fella” in my life. “And that’s exactly the way I want it.”

  He laughed, making the sound of someone who’d smoked unfiltered cigarettes for far too long. “You ain’t gonna be off the market for long, missy,” he said with a wide smile that revealed missing teeth on both sides of his worn-down canines. “Attractive woman like yerself is gonna find herself pretty much in demand.”

  I could feel my cheeks blushing as I dropped my attention to my hands. I suddenly wished I were better at accepting compliments. ’Course, I wasn’t exactly well acquainted with them. In the five years I was married to Jonathon, I could have counted the rare moments he complimented me on one hand.

  “Yep, just gotta stand up straight an’ give ’em a view of that dazzlin’ smile, and them warm brown eyes an’ I reckon any feller’ll be yours.”

  I laughed, even as I realized Hank had a point about me standing up straight. ’Course, when you’re five-foot-ten, and you tower over most people you come into contact with, it almost seems natural to want to hunch over. But Hank was right—I needed to be comfortable with myself even if I sometimes found it difficult. The truth was that I wasn’t even really sure what I wanted the new “me” to look like. Aside from the obvious things that I couldn’t change (well, without surgery anyway) like my bone structure, the color of my eyes, and the shape of my nose, I’d already subjected the easily changed aspects of myself to a complete makeover.

  Yep, as soon as my divorce was legal and I’d received my settlement, I’d promptly attempted to erase everything that reminded me of the married me, the me who’d tried so hard to be everything Jonathon wanted me to be, even at the cost of self-betrayal. As soon as I’d received that glorious announcement that I was no longer connected to Jonathon, I’d thrown out my entire wardrobe. It had been an easy task to accomplish because it wasn’t like my closet was full of fun, flirty pieces. Nope, instead it amounted to an array of blah slacks, knee-length skirts (yawn), blasé silk blouses, and blazers in earth tones, black, white, and the full spectrum of gray.

  Well, not any longer.

  In just the course of a week, I’d managed to replace my wardrobe with myriad miniskirts, hip-hugging jeans, spring dresses, plunging blouses, and bikinis. And Betsey Johnson would have been proud of the bouquet of colors that now bloomed in my closet.

  But my wardrobe hadn’t been the only area that was in need of an overhaul. I’d also hacked off my elbow-length, mousy-brown hair in favor of a chin-length bob. Then I’d bleached it the exact same shade of platinum blond it was in my twenties. Even better, I’d encouraged the makeup artist at the NARS counter to use my face as his own personal canvas. The result? A Peyton that felt much more like the old Peyton, the girl who loved to party like a rock star and looked the part. With my new wardrobe, haircut, and overall ensemble, it was almost like I’d rewound time and returned to the woman I’d been before Jonathon had crossed my path.

  At thirty-one years old, I was finally learning how to be me.

  “Thanks, Hank,” I started, remembering the conversation. “But I’m definitely not looking to date anytime soon.” I took a deep breath as he offered me a confused expression. “I just really need some me time,” I finished.

  “Just don’t let yer life pass ya by,” he answered with another shake of his head that told me he didn’t understand independent women. He turned around and faced the barbarian that was my new (but very much pre-owned) vehicle behind him. It was a 1980 International Scout II with a burnt-orange paint job. It looked like it was right out of the seventies, complete with a rainbow stripe of brown, yellow, and white that ran the length of the entire truck. The Scout reminded me of a giant box on wheels, something between a Ford Explorer and a Hummer—and I do mean the authentic type of Hummer, the army-issue Hummer, not the one you see yuppies driving on the freeway.

  The Scout was worlds away from the black Mercedes SLK Roadster I’d been driving only weeks earlier. But, strangely enough, I didn’t miss the Mercedes for a minute, not even a split second.

  “So she’s all good to go?” I asked Hank, stealing another glance at my new ride while grinning like a teenager just receiving her first set of car keys.

  “Yep, new tires, new brakes, and basically a new engine. She’ll run you good for a long time, Miss Peyton.”

  “Thanks, Hank,” I said, smiling because he refused to call me by just my first name. Instead, he insisted on adding “Miss” to it. “What do I owe you?”

  “I ain’t done the math yet, honey,” he said with a chuckle, running his hand across the hood of the Scout as if he would miss it, or did already. Hank had not only sold me the Scout, but he’d fixed it up as well. And since the Scout was older than I was, and Hank was a mechanic, I figured he and I would be seeing a lot
of each other…

  “So…” I started.

  “So I’ll just call ya when I got it all figured out.” He patted the top of the Scout as if it were a loyal dog, before wedging his hands into his oil-stained coveralls. Then he offered me another gap-toothed smile. “That is, if you gotta phone hooked up somewhere in that museum of yours?”

  I laughed, ignoring the jab because truthfully, I didn’t have a home phone. Not that the house wasn’t set up for phone connectivity, I just figured since I had my cell phone, why bother with a house phone? “Believe it or not, that ‘museum’ even has electricity and running water.”

  “Well, consider me surprised,” he said with another throaty smoker chuckle as he walked over to a Ford truck that was so covered in rust, it appeared brown. I glimpsed traces of white paint peeking through the coppery oxidation. He glanced back at me and shook his head. “Almost as surprised as I am ta find that ol’ biddy Myra actually had her some family.”

  “How well did you know her?” I asked.

  He shook his head and kicked at the ground with a boot that looked as if it had survived World War II, which it very well might have. “Not too good,” he said and shook his head. “She kept ta herself mostly, holed up in that there house. I think I seen her…” He scratched his head. “Ah, maybe three times in the thirty years I been comin’ ta these parts.”

  So Hank wasn’t exactly a good source when it came to finding out more about my lineage. I couldn’t say I was surprised. “Thanks, Hank,” I called out as I waved to him. With a long exhale, I turned to face my new home.

  Two nights later, it was pouring rain.

  The skies erupted into a garish display of yellow lightning as thunderclaps interrupted the otherwise comforting sound of the rain pelting the roof and windows, warning everyone to keep inside. I, for one, dared not upset the god of thunder by even thinking of venturing outside and, instead, sat huddled beneath a heavy wool blanket in front of my electric heater, praying the portable appliance wouldn’t blow another fuse. The sounds of raindrops leaking through the roof and plopping into two iron pots, four iron skillets, and five glasses made a symphony in their own right.