Shades of Midnight: The Shades Trilogy, #1

By Linda Winstead Winstead Jones

Winner of the 2004 RITA for Paranormal Romance!  

The only man she would ever love was more fascinated by the dead than he would ever be with her. 

Eve Abernathy calls on Lucien Thorpe to assist in ridding her house of the ghosts who haunt it, the amorous ghosts who replay their violent deaths night after night. She tells herself, time and again, that she would never ask for Lucien's help if there was any other option. After all, she has not forgiven him for leaving her waiting at the altar, two years earlier.  

Lucien still loves Eve, still wants her, but she refuses to listen to reason. He didn't forget her, he simply got engrossed in his work and let a day slip by, and it appears that she will never forgive or forget. Always different, always the odd man out, he knows Eve is the only woman for him.  

As Lucien and Eve work together to send two earthbound spirits to the other side, they rediscover love. They also uncover a murder mystery that threatens not only their happiness, but their very lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sorin Rising
• Release date: Oct 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781467536066

Linda Winstead Winstead Jones

The first clue Linda had that she might like to write for a living came when she took a community education class in creative writing at the local high school. Taking classes was her hobby at the time, and creative writing came between yoga and French, or maybe between cake decorating and Chinese cooking. It was her first experience of meeting and working with other writers. She had always loved to read, and soon found that she loved writing. For years writing was just a hobby, one she sometimes attacked with a vengeance and then set aside for months at a time. When the time came to give completing a book a serious try, she was ready. Guardian Angel, a Western historical romance, was written at her kitchen table. Not long after she mailed it to a publisher, she discovered the local RWA chapter, Heart of Dixie, and joined. She knew right away that these were her people, and she hasn't wandered far since. Apparently unable to say no, she has served as conference chairman, president, luncheon chairman, and vice president. Easily bored, she soon deviated from historical romance into time travel, fairy-tale romance, and romantic suspense. When she's not writing, Linda can be found at hockey games (where she's a season ticket holder for the local team), a meeting of writers (a necessity and a joy that she will never give up), or doing the family thing with an ever-growing and wonderful family.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1885

---

Lucien Thorpe took long strides up the walkway toward the address to which he'd been summoned, the bag containing a change of clothes grasped in his right hand, the heavier case containing his equipment in the left. He took in the house before him, a clean and charming two-story cottage gleaming in the moonlight, a downstairs window glowing with welcome, the door painted a red so bright and cheery he could discern the color even in the dim light. Fallen autumn leaves of red and orange had drifted across the walkway and danced out of his way as he strode purposefully forward. The home before him didn't look at all like a haunted house—but then, they rarely did.

Crisp October air washed over Lucien, making him wish he'd worn his overcoat. He'd walked out and left it sitting... somewhere. Either in his rented room in a Wilmington, North Carolina boarding house or at his most recent assignment in Virginia. He couldn't remember exactly where he'd seen it last, hadn't even thought of the coat until the chill touched him. This was Georgia, after all, the Deep South. He hadn't expected to need an overcoat.

Truth was, he admitted to himself, he'd simply forgotten. The details of the last haunting had been playing through his mind as he'd packed for this trip, and it had been more important that he remember each piece of equipment he might need than to worry about something so inconsequential as a coat. The nonessential details of life frequently slipped his mind. There were so many more important details to think about, in the average day. Discoveries just waiting to be made, a breakthrough just out of his reach. Every now and then, though, he did forget something important.

When Lucien reached the small front porch, he placed the lighter of his two bags at his feet and lifted his hand to knock. Before he could do so, the red door swung sharply inward. Several lamps burned behind the woman who'd opened the door, making it impossible to see her face. And still, his heart skipped a beat.

You're late, she said crisply.

He knew that voice so well that his insides tightened and fluttered as he lowered his hand.

Before he had a chance to explain, she continued without mercy, But then again, I should have expected you to be late. Tardiness is one of your bad habits, Lucien, perhaps the most egregious of them all.

I missed my train, he said.

Of course you did, she responded dryly.

But I caught the next one.

Eve took a deep, calming breath and glanced over his shoulder. Discovering that he was alone, she said, You walked from the train station?

Yes.

A noise that sounded suspiciously like a disgusted grunt drifted his way, then Eve sighed and said, I suppose I should invite you in.

That would be nice, since I've come a long way in answer to your telegram. She stepped back, and he entered the well-lit entryway. Once he was inside, the door firmly shut behind him, he took a good look at the lovely Miss Eve Abernathy.

There was nothing pretentious or polished about Eve. She was not the kind of woman who walked into a room and elicited wide-eyed admiration or ostentatious ogling. But her quiet beauty had always affected him, from the first moment he'd laid eyes on her at the Graham haunting, four years ago. Her tightly restrained hair was the color of honey. She possessed gentle curves beneath her conservative clothing, and a nicely bowed mouth that was sometimes wicked and sometimes unbearably sweet. And her eyes—she had the greenest eyes in the world, he imagined. A man could get lost in eyes like those.

Even when Eve was unhappy, as she was at this moment, she remained dignified and graceful. And no amount of puckering could make her mouth unattractive.

Lucien frowned as he looked down at her. One of Eve's more admirable traits was her honesty. So why had she invited him here under false pretenses? It wasn’t like her to lie.

Why did you sign your telegram Evelyn Joyce?

She pursed her mouth ever tighter, undoubtedly thinking she struck a terrifying pose. He found her more intriguing than fearsome. Eve was, if nothing else, kissable.

"That is my name, Lucien, minus the surname. I assumed that if you knew I was the one who’d summoned you, you'd refuse."

Why would you assume such a thing?

Because I imagine you value your life, she said darkly.

Well, she did have reason to be angry, but he'd never think himself in physical danger. Not from Eve, and not after all this time.

Now was not the time or place to have this conversation. After an initial short, one-sided exchange, they'd been avoiding the subject—and one another—for the past two years. They could surely put it off a while longer. If he had his way, they'd postpone the unpleasant discussion indefinitely. You have a ghost, he said. Down to business.

Two of them, she answered, turning her back on him and leading the way into the parlor.

Lucien carried his bags there and carefully deposited them by the doorway. The parlor was much like Eve. Neat. Pretty. Clean and welcoming. Unostentatious, but inviting. It was the kind of parlor a man could comfortably live in. His own rented room was clean and serviceable and suited him well, but didn't have the amenities Eve had added here. Lace doilies. Decorative figurines. A warm throw for cool evenings. The room even smelled of her, subtly. Lavender, and tea with sugar, and ink. He shook that observation off as unnecessary and possibly dangerous.

Business he could handle. Business was so much more manageable and interesting than his pathetic personal life.

Over the past several years, Eve had documented several authentic hauntings in articles she'd written for journals and newspapers, and even a well-received book, making herself a part of the close-knit community in which Lucien worked and lived. She wrote articles that were informative without being lurid, that satisfied the public's thirst for knowledge of the spiritual world without offending those who worked in the community.

Lucien Thorpe was one of the premier spirit releasers working in the United States. He and Eve had worked together before, many times. They had once worked together quite well. Not in the past two years, though.

Eve looked briefly at the clock on the mantel. Viola and Alistair Stamper died in this house nearly thirty years ago. The anniversary of the incident will arrive on Saturday.

Halloween. Five days. Perhaps long enough. Perhaps not. How did they die?

Again, Eve glanced at the clock. From what I have been able to gather, Viola Stamper was seeing another man. Alistair discovered her infidelity. He killed her and then himself.

Lucien was not surprised. Most ghosts he guided to the other side had died violently. Many did not even know they were dead. He'd never had to reason with the spirit of a person who'd died peacefully in their own bed. Where did you obtain your information?

Eve lifted her chin defiantly. I've interviewed several of the town residents who were alive at that time. We're fortunate that only thirty years have passed. Some of Viola's friends are still living, and are quite willing to talk about her.

And Alistair's friends?

Eve's lips thinned. Her eyes hardened. Yes, she could be an unforgiving woman. From what I have found, he had none. Again, she glanced at the clock.

Why are you constantly checking the time? Lucien asked testily. Are you expecting someone?

Eve laid her eyes on him and smiled. It was not a happy smile. I'm expecting Viola and Alistair. Every night, at ten-fifteen, they make their first appearance.

It was almost ten-fifteen. Do they knock about? Move objects? Slam doors?

Eve looked quite satisfied with herself. Oh, Viola and Alistair do much more than that.

She tilted her head, lifted her eyes, and a half second later Lucien heard a muted thump. A moment passed and then there was another ominous thud, a scrape of something solid across the floor above. The rattlings of unhappy ghosts were quite common, in Lucien's experience, so he was not surprised.

Then he heard a voice—a woman's soft voice—drifting down the stairs. He couldn't make out the words, but yes... That was definitely a woman's voice. The voice was oddly clear, unbroken by time and space.

He glared at Eve. His heart began to beat harder than it should. Is this some kind of joke?

She shook her head. No joke.

This isn't your idea of... retaliation?

Eve remained outwardly calm. Why on earth would I waste my time on retaliation? You're not that important to me, Lucien.

A new excitement grew within him. His heart raced and his fingers twitched. And you can hear them, too?

Of course I can hear them.

They're auditory?

I'm afraid so.

Lucien often heard soft, distorted mutterings others did not, and sometimes the ghosts who spoke to him communicated in a way few understood—but only rarely did a spirit actually make its voice heard so that anyone and everyone could hear.

The female mutterings were followed by a long, low moan, and then another, and then another. Lucien kept his eyes on the ceiling, as did Eve. He held his breath. Voices, ghostly voices, mingled with groans and the occasional thud and, finally, a low cry.

He's killing her, Lucien said as he stepped from the parlor and to the foot of the stairs. My God, you can actually hear him killing her.

No, Lucien... Eve began, following him as he stepped onto the stairway. He's not...

A loud scream split the night, and Lucien took the stairs two at a time. Eve was directly behind him. Which way? he asked as he reached the top of the stairs.

Left, she said. The door at the end of the hallway. But, Lucien...

He ran down the short hallway and threw open the door. Unmuffled by walls and space, the sounds continued. The bed creaked and moved gently. White sheets, rising and falling as if actual bodies were concealed there, drifted and danced. Lucien needed no added illumination to see the ghosts. Shapeless and hazy as they were, the spirits had a light all their own, a faint, pure glow of energy glimmering from beneath the white sheet that covered them.

A murmur of indistinct voices drifted from the bed. There was a verbal exchange between a man and a woman, followed by a faint trill of laughter. The woman moaned again and the sheet moved slowly. As if tossed by an impatient hand, the sheet fluttered up and down and off the bed, leaving the ghosts uncovered. Even though they were not fully formed, Lucien could see that they were intertwined. And the way they moved...

Lucien closed the door and turned about, almost running into Eve. He caught himself just before his body and hers collided. No, he said, feeling the hot blush rise to his cheeks. He's definitely not killing her.

Yet, Eve said calmly, and then she turned and led the way down the stairs.

Eve had not expected the sight of Lucien to touch her this way. In fact, she'd been hardening her heart for days, telling herself again and again that she would not be affected at all by his presence.

Most of what she experienced when she looked at him was pure anger, in spite of her plan to remain calm and unaffected. A little anger was only natural, she reasoned. After all, the man had left her waiting at the altar, two years ago.

He had tried desperately to explain away the infraction, saying that he had merely been late. Three days late. But some things could not be easily explained away. Some grievances should not be forgiven.

She led the way back into the parlor, where she took the chair by the window. Not the couch, where he might sit beside her, not the more comfortable wing chair close to the couch. Here by the window she was isolated. Distant. This was as close to Lucien as she cared to be.

They become more distinct as the anniversary of their deaths approaches, she said, keeping her voice businesslike and cool. I didn't see or hear them at all, when I moved into the house in late July. Over time, I became aware of their presence, and in the past month they've been impossible to ignore. I'm not sure how distinct they might become, since apparently no one has lived in the house for very long, in the past thirty years. A few people tried to lease the house, but none stayed more than a few weeks.

Who owns the place? Lucien asked as he sat in the wing chair, stretching his long legs before him.

Eve stared at him. I do.

He raised his rakish eyebrows in obvious surprise. Good Lord, he needed a haircut. His dark hair touched his collar, curling there just slightly. The man had to be reminded to do the most simple things. He was so addle-brained she was surprised he remembered to dress himself in the morning.

This is your house?

It was quite a bargain, she said, smiling slightly. And the location is perfect. My Aunt Constance lives in Savannah, which is a short train ride from Plummerville. Close enough for the occasional visit, not so close that her twittering cousins would be constantly underfoot. And I do love this house. It's quaint and warm, not too large for one person and not too small. As soon as Viola and Alistair are gone, it'll be perfect. Viola and Alistair and him, she thought to herself. Lucien Thorpe was as annoying as any ghost. I thought that perhaps they'd be easier to lead to the other side as they become more distinct, much like the Roxbury spirits.

Perhaps. They appear to be replaying that last night of their lives. Do you think we will be able to communicate with them? Lucien's blue eyes positively sparkled. Nothing else excited him like the prospect of speaking to a ghost or two.

I don't know, she said softly. I've tried, but they seem to be unaware of my presence. That's why I sent for you, Lucien. Maddening as he was, he did have a gift.

If they can explain to us what happened that night, what led up to the murder, perhaps that will bring an end to the cycle.

We know what happened, Eve said testily.

Then why are they still here?

Above their heads all had been quiet for a few moments, but Viola and Alistair began again, as they always did. Viola moaned, and the bed thumped onto the floor. Eve squirmed in her chair, just a bit.

How long does this go on? Lucien asked, glancing warily up to the ceiling.

Another hour and a half, or so.

Oh. That utterance revealed his distress. What happens then?

She had been documenting the phenomenon for weeks. There's a period of silence, and then they come downstairs. Unable to remain still, she rose from her chair and walked to the doorway. It was a relief to turn her back to Lucien, to not have to look at him and maintain a calm demeanor. Viola dies here, at the foot of the stairs. Crying. Eve shuddered. Screaming. I have not seen or heard Alistair's death, but I understand his body was found with hers.

Lucien came up behind her and glanced over her shoulder, even though there was nothing to see, yet. She could feel him there, as if he agitated the air around him. "So he... they... ahem... for more than an hour and a half, and then he kills her?"

Yes, Eve whispered. She didn't turn to look at Lucien, but she knew he was blushing. How could a man so tall, so strong, and so damnably handsome blush so easily? He always had, for as long as she'd known him. Dealing with the living had always been difficult for Lucien. He could be a well-spoken scholar one moment, and stumble over the simplest words the next. They make passionate, noisy, earth-shattering love for well over an hour, and then he chases her down the stairs and thrusts a knife into her back.

She turned to see that Lucien had gone beet red. Good. She didn’t want him to be comfortable when she could not. Upstairs, Viola laughed. A moment later she moaned, then cried aloud.

At one time, Eve had believed that Lucien was the man who would show her what it was like to moan and cry and laugh in the dark. Unfortunately, he loved his ghosts more than he'd ever loved her.

Tea? she didn't wait for an answer, but turned and headed for the kitchen. We have a while to wait before the murder takes place.

Tea would be lovely, Lucien said. She heard him open one of the two cases he'd carried in and he began to remove his equipment.

Eve sighed. She did not want to ask. More than that, she did not want to care. Did you have supper?

There was a short pause before he answered. No, I don't believe I did.

Eve shook her head. The man needed a keeper! He couldn't even remember when he'd last eaten. And to think she'd almost volunteered for that position... Lucien Thorpe's keeper. His wife.

Perhaps he had done her a favor by leaving her at the altar. Humiliating her in front of her friends and family. Leaving her there for hours to wonder if he was hurt or ill or simply didn't love her. Letting her sit there until midnight had come and gone, and everyone else had left, and she'd come to the realization—there in the dark—that she wasn't the kind of woman who would ever be on the receiving end of the powerful kind of love she was prepared to give.

Lucien's explanation, delivered three days later, that he'd been on a very interesting case and the day had slipped past without notice, had only strengthened that realization. Men didn't fall madly in love with women like Eve Abernathy. She was too simple to incite passion, too plain to enflame undying love for life. Men like Lucien expected that women like her would wait forever. Well, she might be simple and plain, but she did have her pride. She would not abide being forgotten.

If she had been able to think of any other solution to her problem, she never would have contacted Lucien Thorpe.

As Eve boiled water for tea and viciously sliced ham and bread for a man who couldn't even remember to eat, Viola screamed and the house shuddered.

Poor Viola. When Eve compared her own problems to those of the murdered woman, she actually felt grateful for her less than illustrious life. Viola Stamper had married a man who, from all accounts, had loved her madly. And she had loved him, too. To those who looked on, their marriage had been ideal.

But things are not always what they appear to be. Somewhere along the way Alistair had begun to neglect Viola for his work. He had relegated her to second best, behind his business ventures. Eve knew how that felt. It was painful to be second best. It was excruciating to be forgotten.

Viola had problems of her own. She had become restless when their three years of marriage did not produce a child. The lonely woman, neglected by her husband and without a child to lavish her attentions upon, had allegedly fallen into an affair with another man.

Alistair had discovered his wife's infidelity, and from what Eve had learned—and judging by what she saw and heard every night—it appeared that he had forgiven her. But he hadn't forgiven, not really. He had only pretended to forgive her foolish mistake.

On Halloween night, 1855, Alistair Stamper had thoroughly seduced and then coldly murdered his unfaithful wife.

Eve shuddered. Perhaps she really was better off forever unmarried.

CHAPTER 2

While Eve prepared tea, Lucien unpacked his equipment and set it up, taking extra special care with the newly redesigned Thorpe Specter-o-Meter. When it was working properly, the device was able to measure the amount of ghostly energy in the air, which was indicated by the fluctuation of a red needle. Unfortunately, it didn't work properly as often as it worked improperly. Still, he had great hopes for the machine. It was a promising work in progress.

The Thorpe Ectoplasm Harvester was simpler and more likely to function correctly. Unfortunately, one had to be directly upon the spirit for the apparatus to work. He imagined he could carry the harvester upstairs and lay it on the bed where the ghosts frolicked, but that seemed... rude, even where the dead were concerned. He'd try it downstairs, at the point of the murder, first. If that didn't work, then he would try another, more intrusive method.

As he carefully assembled the equipment, he listened to the sounds of Eve puttering about in the kitchen. She had forgotten that he had exceptional hearing... or else she didn't care that he heard her occasionally mutter words like jackass and dimwit and another, more vile word he had not imagined she even knew. Those words were complemented by the random banging of pots and a thwack that sounded suspiciously like a knife hitting soundly against a cutting board.

He smiled as he adjusted the needle on the specter-o-meter. Eve tried to be a proper lady, but thank God she was not. There was too much fire in her blood for proper. And she had always been able to surprise him, with an intelligent comment or a full-throated laugh. At one time he had been looking forward to a lifetime of surprises, with her as his wife. She wasn't like other women, not at all. She didn't waste her time on tedious activities like primping or embroidering or planning unnecessary parties. Intelligence made her eyes sparkle, curiosity made her occasionally brave and often bolder than she should be. Eve Abernathy was a world of surprises, he imagined. He hadn't known she could be so damned unforgiving.

He hadn't intended to leave her waiting at the altar. He'd been summoned to rid a house of its pesky ghost, and from the information he'd been given he had assumed that the job would take no more than a few days. Usually he was in and out of a house in well under a week.

But the ghost of Winifred Kent had been resistant. More than that, her hands had been incredibly visible, as she knocked up and down the stairs, apparently unable to move elsewhere. Winifred had broken the specter-o-meter he'd been developing at the time, sending the needle right off the scale. She had tried to talk to him, he knew it, but like most ghosts—unlike Viola and Alistair—she had been unable to make a sound. Mrs. Kent had refused to use his own body to speak through; he had sensed her fear at that prospect. So there they were, needing to communicate but unable to do so, Winifred's hands expressive and insistent, Lucien's powers failing him in a most unusual way. How many hours had he stood on those stairs, knowing that the words the spirit wanted to say were floating just out of reach? Winifred had, eventually, made her wishes known, and Lucien had led her to the other side, where she could rest in peace.

He never knew what might be holding a ghost on the wrong side, caught between life and death, unable to move on. Sometimes the reasons were shocking. Sometimes, as with Winifred, the reasons were small. Not at all the sort of thing you might expect. Winifred had fallen down the stairs and broken her neck. At first Lucien had, of course, suspected that she had not fallen, but had been pushed. Sometimes a spirit demanded justice, and would not rest until it was delivered.

But Winifred had not been searching for revenge or justice. In the end it was determined that she had, indeed, fallen. She'd been on her way down the stairs to weed her garden. Winifred had loved her garden. She'd spent hours every day caring for it.

Once Lucien