Eternally Yours: The Afterlife Series, #1

By Gina Ardito

If they weren't already dead, working together would probably kill them.

After one too many disappointments, Jodie Devlin took her own life. Until a new future can be created for her, she serves as one of Death's bounty hunters, retrieving souls who haunt Earth. She'll need smarts, charm, and trickery to convince these specters to give up the ghost and move on. These same skills come in handy for dealing with her bull-headed, know-it-all trainer.

Luc Asante's wife ordered him taken off life support, condemning him to employment in the Afterlife. Now he's saddled with a trainee who's as soft-hearted as he is hard, as impulsive as he is methodical. In a place where perfection is the norm, she flaunts her flaws just to drive him nuts.

When the two confront the secrets of their past, only the ultimate sacrifice can save them both.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gina Ardito
• Release date: Jun 26, 2012
• ISBN: 9780999373309

Gina Ardito

Gina Ardito is the award-winning author of more than twenty-five romances in contemporary, historical, and paranormal sub-genres. In 2012, she launched her freelance editing business, Excellence in Editing, and now has a stable of award-winning clients, as well. She’s hosted workshops around the world for writing conferences, author organization chapter meetings, and library events. After raising a husband and two kids (the kids are grown; the husband’s still a child), she now focuses her attention on her books and her rescue pups. To her everlasting shame, despite all her accomplishments, she’ll never be more famous than her dog, who starred in commercials for 2015’s Puppy Bowl. 

Book preview

Chapter 1

Jodie Devlin sucked at life. So she refused to screw up her death. No turning back, no chickening out, hoping life would get better tomorrow. Like, magically, some genie would appear to make her successful, beautiful, happy. Loveable.

The Jeep explosion so many years ago in Castelan, El Salvador had stolen her parents, scarred her flesh, and ruined any possible chance she’d know love. Gabe had never loved her. She understood that now.

He didn’t deserve you, some inner voice told her.

No more fantasies, she fired back. After all, she knew the truth. She hadn’t deserved him.

For once, though, she’d do something right. Her suicide tonight would go down perfectly. A combination of over-the-counter sleep aids, a brand new bottle of Grey Goose, and a filled bathtub gave her a trifecta guaranteed to succeed.

On a half-dozen gulps of vodka, she downed all thirty blue pills, a handful at a time. The mixture hit her stomach like a prize fighter’s punch, but she swallowed hard to keep it all down. No way did she intend to exit like that 1940’s starlet she’d read about—Lupe Something-or-other. The Mexican Spitfire had set up a gorgeous room, donned the perfect gown, hand-picked the flowers and candles. Unfortunately, when the cops found her the next day, poor Lupe sat hunched face-first in the toilet.

Jodie required more dignity for her end. The dignity she’d never gained in life. Shivering at the bitter memories, she stepped into the hot, glistening water. Aaaahhhh. Who knew death could come so pleasantly?

Gentle hands caressed her descent into nothingness. Peace rolled over her, wrapped her in sweet vanilla warmth...

Next! Yoo-hoo? Next!

Jodie snapped alert at the snotty woman’s prompt. Where was she? Was this hell?

Blinking, she studied the polished golden marble walls and floor. Red velvet ropes with brass fittings encased her in a serpentine line along with a host of other barely attentive people. Each figure—male or female, tall or short, fat or thin—wore a diaphanous lavender toga. the same garment draped her limbs, soft as spun spider webs.

They stood in a tremendous reception area of what might have been a five-star hotel lobby. Deep mahogany wood framed the glass elevators and a wraparound railing one story above her. Although a dozen doors broke up the monotony of solid walls, none held an exit sign or window which might lend a clue to her whereabouts. From the ceiling, at least a hundred stories up, chandeliers dripped filaments of colored light like purple rain. Was she in Prince’s house? Oh, God, this was hell!

But no. Behind her, a waterfall, surrounded by lush ferns and majestic palm trees, splashed cool mist into primavera air. Men and women, garbed in white uniforms with gold braid, raced around life-sized white marble statues of angels, unicorns, and smiling dragons.

Neeeee-exxxxt! The woman’s voice turned the one syllable word into two.

Jodie’s gaze flew to a long reception desk with ten clerks behind and nine customers in front. A dark-haired, sloe-eyed woman in the same white and gold uniform leaned forward from the open slot and signaled to Jodie with a crooked finger. Confusion dogging her steps, she inched forward. The woman’s attention veered to a computer monitor and keyboard, fingers clickety-clacking with expediency. Name?

Jodie Devlin, she replied through dry lips.

Any middle initial?

R. Rosalind.

The woman frowned. Date of death?

She almost answered with her birth date, but then stopped to think. Date of... A lump rose in her throat, and she swallowed with difficulty. ...death?

Over the polished mahogany top, the woman’s hands rolled in mid-air. Can we speed this up, please? There are a thousand people behind you. What was your date of death?

The eighth of A-April.

Brow cocked, the clerk sighed. You’re not on my reservations list. Are you sure you’re supposed to be here?

Was she? She had absolutely no idea. After another glance at the marble and mahogany décor, the crowds of lost sheep, and the harried attendants, she leaned over the counter to whisper, Ummm...where exactly is here?

Oh, for God’s sake. Palms against the marble edge, the woman pushed away from the keyboard. Her barstool-style wheeled chair skidded across the floor. Leaning, she slammed a large red button on a table behind her. Sherman? I think I’ve got a thirty-six-slash-eleven over here. She rolled back behind the counter, eyes narrowed. Are you, perhaps, a suicide?

Heat rocketed into Jodie’s cheeks—did she have cheeks anymore? Whatever she had, embarrassment shot flames through her face. She managed a slight nod, and then turned away.

Through the milling crowd, a small man, only about as high as her shoulder and narrow as a swizzle stick, strode toward her. He was garbed entirely in white except for the gold studs winking in his earlobes. Despite the snow white clipboard he clutched under one arm, he extended his hands in greeting. Miss? My name is Sherman, and I’m the spirit guide here. How can I help you?

He had a face like an apple left too long on a windowsill, ruddy bronze with sunken cheeks, wizened to a state that made him appear ancient, yet ageless. Long white hair, a lion’s mane, swept away from his high forehead and fell to his padded shoulders.

She doesn’t have a reservation, the woman said with a sneer. At least not for her current date of death.

Understanding dawned on his mushy face. Ah. Miss...?

Devlin. Jodie’s reply sounded hoarse in her sandpaper throat. Swallowing, she tried again. Jodie Devlin.

Miss Devlin, why don’t you step away from the reception desk so we can continue moving others forward? If you’ll follow me, I’m sure we can straighten this out. Without waiting for her reply, he turned to head back into the crowd.

Sidling away from the snotty clerk, Jodie hurried to catch up to Sherman. Straighten what out? What’s going on? Where are we? Is this heaven?

Please, Miss Devlin. Follow me. He led her beneath a carved marble archway to a set of double-doors. As he approached, the doors whisked open on a sigh of air. Inside, gold leather club chairs sat at each corner of an enormous white marble desk. He pointed to the chair nearest the entrance. Have a seat, please. He tossed his clipboard on the desktop and took up residence in the kingpin’s seat.

Too antsy to relax, she sat on the edge of the club chair, fingernails digging holes into the supple leather armrests.

From the top drawer, he pulled out what looked like a small hand mirror and passed it to her. Please focus your eyes directly in the two areas drawn on this device.

Taking the mirror, she noted twin dark circles in the center of the glass. What is this?

An identification scan, he replied. Now if you’d focus your gaze on those two pinpoints and count to ten, please? Oh, and try not to blink until after you’ve reached ten.

She lined up the two miniature circles with her pupils and counted. One, two, three...

By the time she reached ten, the gentleman had turned his attention to the clipboard, which had suddenly begun to blink with an increasing and decreasing purple glow. Strange neon characters raced like ants across the clipboard’s face.

Ah, here we are. Jodie Rosalind Devlin. Only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and John Michael—also known as Jack—Devlin. Both deceased during a violent political coup in Central America. You were severely injured but survived and returned to the United States where you attempted to rebuild your life. And you almost succeeded. He looked up at her, brow steepled. Your date of death was scheduled to be sixty years and three months from the date you opted to end your life.

The hand mirror doohickey fell from her hands and splintered into shards on the marble floor. Wh-what?

He shot a glance at the shattered glass, frowned, and then reverted his steely gaze to her. Oh, yes. You heard me correctly. Do you want to know what would have happened had you decided against designing your untimely end?

Nausea rose in her throat, and tremors danced across her flesh. Too stunned to speak, she nodded.

According to your file, which, of course, will now have to be updated, Jodie Rosalind Devlin, only child of Rachel Andrea Gibbons Devlin and—

You said that already.

He waved a hand at her. Jodie Rosalind Devlin married Gabriel David Sachs and subsequently gave birth to three children: Jacqueline Monet Sachs, Iona Renoir Sachs, and Aidan Degas Sachs.

An ocean of self-pity threatened to drown her. Dear God, what had she done? Of course. Gabe, the art historian, would insist on naming his children after the Impressionists. She fisted her hand in her mouth to keep her agony inside.

These three children presented the couple with eight grandchildren, Sherman continued reading, apparently unaware of her turmoil—or else, he didn’t care. Would you like to know their names?

She shook her head, her tongue too thick inside her mouth to form words.

Folding his arms on the desktop, he looked up at her, his agate gaze solemn. "You bore so much pain after the loss of your parents, my dear. I felt your agony when the fire ate your flesh in that explosion. I know the scars you try desperately to hide. I have ached for your loneliness. I have seen you struggle time and again to connect with someone in the outside world. Gabriel was your gift, your reward for a life lived with so much suffering. Had you been able to withstand this last test, you would have known a joyful life. Your choice to self-terminate destroyed your chance at happiness. And such a selfish act not only affected your future, but the future of your husband, your children, their spouses, their children, and so on and so on."

Rubbing fingertips over his eyes, he frowned. Surely, then, you understand why we become perturbed at those who end their lives precipitously. Your rashness has disrupted the natural order we struggle to maintain here in the Afterlife.

Shame forced her head down, and she looked at the puckered pink flesh above her bare feet. I’m sorry. 

His sigh communicated indulgent surrender. We’re accustomed to these kinds of glitches and will make the necessary rearrangements. However... He paused to study the clipboard again.

To keep from biting her nails, she sat on her hands. The silence in the room became a wall, threatening to suffocate her. However? she prompted.

He shrugged. Your rooms are not prepared because you’ve arrived long before your reservation is due to be processed.

S-so... She tried to force a light-hearted tone. Her stutter and his arched brows suggested she’d failed. W-what happens now?

We have contingency plans in effect for all untimely deaths, including suicides. You’ll be assigned a job here until such time as arrangements can be made for you to be transferred elsewhere.

Transferred? An icy hand clutched her throat. Shit. She’d totally screwed up. What would happen to her now? Transferred to where? Purgatory?

His laughter diminished her little spurt of curiosity, shrank her into the leather until she felt as large as a hobnail. There is no purgatory, my dear. Or heaven or hell. There is only the Afterlife.

What exactly is the Afterlife?

Fingers tracing the animated characters racing over the clipboard, he offered her a sideways smile. You’ll find out over time.

Great. That was helpful.

Out of thin air, a musical interlude played. Jodie couldn’t place the melody, but it was lyrical and sweet, like harps in heaven.

Ah, look here. He tapped an index finger on the neon characters, now immobile on the glowing clipboard. The Board has found a job opening for you.

She stared at the purple geometric figures, recognizing nothing legible in the chicken scratch. What kind of job?

He rose and held out a hand. Come. First we will review your lifetimes with the Council of the Elders. And then you will meet your trainer.

LUC ASANTE HATED HANGING around cemeteries. Of all the places his job took him—prisons, woods, abandoned hospitals, battlegrounds—only these mournful havens for the dead and the grieving made him long for his bleak room in the Halfway House. Even on a clear night like tonight, with no breeze, and a full moon illuminating the rows of headstones like books on a library shelf, his nerves frayed. Death was a constant reminder in a cemetery. And Luc needed no reminders about the Great Beyond.

Twin white lights bounced up the pitted dirt road, piercing the eerie blackness.

Oh, what fresh hell was this? The captain hated intruders. And if Luc didn’t bag the old sea dog tonight, his perfect record would be shot to hell. No way did he intend to return without the captain. One out, one back. Luc always got his man. Or woman. Or ghoul. 

The vroom of a noisy exhaust system preceded a rust-pitted sedan driving through the never-closed wrought iron gates. As the car drew closer, Luc caught a whiff of burning motor oil. The sedan’s paint color was sun-bleached adobe red, except for the primer passenger door. Only one human demographic would drive that kind of shitbox to a cemetery on a moonlit night. Kids. Had to be some dopey kids.

Why did teenagers consider cemeteries great sites for consumption of ill-gotten booze, illegal smokes, and make-out parties? He wouldn’t be caught dead in one.

Hmmm...poor choice of words there. As a living, breathing teenager, he wouldn’t be caught dead in one. These days, he didn’t have much of a choice. Still, he’d have to get rid of these interlopers.

The car passed his hiding place, and sure enough, a young guy sat behind the wheel with a female passenger’s head leaning on his shoulder. Ah, young love. What a crock!

Enjoy it while you can, pal. Pretty soon she’ll be after you for the material crap you can give her. If she isn’t already...

The driver pulled to a stop at the edge of the south gate, near the cliff overlooking the water, and cut the engine. Heavy rock music thumped and wailed from the car’s interior. The couple locked in a shadowy embrace.

He snorted back a laugh. Whatever these two planned for tonight was about to go vastly awry. Creeping out from behind the captain’s worn headstone, he floated toward them. By the time he reached the car, he’d transformed to mist. Not that the dopey teens noticed. The windows had fogged up so badly there was no way they’d ever feel the drop in temperature or see how clouds suddenly obscured the full moon.

Time to do the orb thing. He hated throwing orbs, those small haloes of energy that danced through the air and sent paranormal investigators into orgasms of delight. And since his uninvited guests had more interesting tasks on their mind than stargazing, he’d have to direct a tremendous amount of focus into making his orb bright, bold, and menacing enough to scare the crap out of them. And the energy he expended on these two brainless twits would leave him with less fight for whatever else lay in store tonight. What if the captain proved too stubborn to come along quietly? Unless...

Maybe he should throw a series of orbs to resemble a police cruiser appearing behind their car. Yes. A much better solution. That would scare them away and not draw attention to his actual presence.

Spreading his vaporous form thinly over the ground, he gathered atoms into static electricity bundles. Electrons skittered through him, and he flattened himself into a pool of negatively-charged plasma covering the dry dirt. When he’d amassed all the energy available in the nearby ground and air, he focused on creating two white lights the approximate size and luminescence of a car’s high beams.

Needing more electricity, he pulled at the car’s battery. His depletion of sine waves converted the blaring music into a continual static hiss. If the teenagers noticed the change, they didn’t care. More likely they were too involved in each other, too intent on acting on their hormonal impulses, to wonder what happened to their favorite song on the radio. Their car rocked side-to-side in a rhythm Luc hadn’t forgotten from his own reckless youth. The good old days. Before he’d fallen for the wrong woman.

Smothering the bitter memories, he focused his energies on balancing the two orbs with his mind, an inch or so beneath the car’s rear bumper. He then evoked a series of red and blue lights, which he aligned above his headlights. With his false image ready, he lifted the orbs into position directly behind the back windshield. For added effect, he moaned a quick, guttural whoop-whoop, which managed to sound remarkably official.

The girl’s head shot up and swerved to the lights. Shit! Cops! she shrieked and struggled with the pink t-shirt currently wrapped around her neck.

The boy leaped into full alert status, straightened in the driver’s seat, and quickly cranked the key in the ignition. The engine coughed, and then sputtered to life.

If Luc weren’t already dead, the car’s ensuing peel-out would have knocked him flat and dragged him over the rocky incline into oblivion.

Admirable work, young man. The lazy round vowels of post-Revolutionary Long Island thudded from behind him.

With his essence already depleted, Luc amassed the last stores of his energy to transform vapor into human. If any real human had dared come close, they’d see nothing but mist. But to other entities of the Afterlife, he would appear as flesh and bone, wearing his favorite stonewashed jeans and black t-shirt. With a tired sigh, he turned toward this new visitor. Captain, he said with a solemn glare. You know why I’m here.

Aye. Captain Edmund Fitzhume of the frigate, Mary Grace, nodded.

He wore his traditional cobalt blue frock coat with dozens of brass buttons over a loose-fitting ivory shirt and tan breeches. In his hands, he crushed a cocked hat braided with gold.

Luc recited the details the Board had provided upon assigning him this bounty. Your first mate’s diary was discovered in an attic in Sag Harbor last year. In it, he wrote about the mutiny—a deathbed confession that has reinstated your once-sterling reputation. The details were made public, a book has reached the bestseller list and there’s talk about making your story into a movie. I’d say you’ve been fully exonerated of the shipwreck. And now it’s time for you to move on.

Aye, the captain repeated, twisting the hat’s brim between agitated fingers.

Wow. If only all the souls he wrangled up were this easy to convince. Experience, however, had taught him to tread carefully. The dead weren’t always what they seemed.

Truth is, the captain said, I am tired of this place. Tired of the scientists who come with their light meters and strange viewing tools. They trample my resting place and chase after floating bits of ectoplasmic dust like a hunter stalks a ten-point stag. And the youths are even worse. They sit and drink their ale and rum beneath my favorite tree there. He pointed to a graceful elm, its leafy branches extended, nature’s canopy shading his headstone. And then they tell tales of how I walk around with my head tucked under my arm.

Luc bit back a smile. No doubt a man like Captain Fitzhume, who’d lived his entire life with honor and dignity, despised those drunken tales as much as he did the blame he’d been mistakenly assigned when the Mary Grace hit the rocks off Fire Island and sank, killing ninety-seven of the one hundred souls aboard. If not for the found diary, would the captain’s soul have ever surrendered the fight to prove his innocence? Three hundred years. Nearly three hundred years the old sea dog had loitered here in this dismal place, waiting for justice.

Anger bounced over Luc’s synapses, charging his nerve endings into frenzied fireflies illuminating the dark night in sporadic flashes. How many years of penance would he have to perform? For Daphne’s sins? But he couldn’t lay all the blame at Daphne’s feet anymore. He had to share some responsibility for what had happened to him, for his untimely death. Because he’d been stupid enough to marry the greedy, selfish bitch. When everyone had warned him against taking the plunge, he’d dived in, heedless of the consequences.

Shaking off the memories and inherent rage, he studied the captain through jaded eyes. Does that mean you’ll come along peacefully?

Aye. The agreement came stronger now.

Terrific, Luc said. If you’ll follow me—

The captain’s gloved hand clamped his shoulder. One thing, laddie, before we go.

A spider of suspicion skittered down his spine. He should’ve known. None of the souls ever went away easily. The temptations of Earth kept them bound to old lives, old habits, old passions. Such a shame. He sighed. Yes?

The captain glanced at his hat, must have realized he’d pretty much destroyed it, and brushed a hand over the brim in a pitiful effort to repair the damage. What happens now?

You’ll move on.

To where?

He shrugged, struggling to keep the bitterness from his tone. I don’t know.

The captain’s bushy brows became one straight sooty caterpillar over his beady eyes. You’ve never been?

No.

Why not?

I died before I was supposed to. Even after all this time, the words tasted like acid on his tongue. Now I’m stuck wrangling up guys like you until my reservation is confirmed.

Well, then, I’d best not keep you from your duties. Lead on, sir. With a sweep of his hat, the captain bowed.

Chapter 2

Once again, the sounds and images of this place stunned Jodie into mute submission. When Sherman, the odd little spirit guide, led her into a vast auditorium, she paused at the entrance to gain her bearings. Behind her, the quiet yet frenetic activity of the Welcome Area served as a constant reminder that she was, in fact, dead .

But everything seemed so real, so life-like. If not for Sherman and the weird purple bath towel she wore—a getup she’d never wear on Earth—she might have thought she was dreaming of a vacation in a glorious five-star hotel. Even this new room, where she stood on the edge of the doorway looking over a space that could easily seat a thousand people, resembled a Broadway theater without an audience. Strangely, the room held only a lone golden leather club chair. The chair faced the stage—or what Jodie considered a stage—a raised platform in the front of the massive room.

The Council of Elders, a line of twelve men and women garbed in gauzy white togas, with gold hoops in their lobes, stood. Their faces, though lineless, held the wisdom of the ages. The Elders faced the empty audience area, silent but waiting, as if, one by one, each would step up to deliver a speech.

Sherman tugged Jodie’s arm. Come along, my dear. It isn’t good to keep the Elders waiting.

On leaden feet, she took a tentative step, then another. But Sherman, apparently impatient with her hesitancy, gripped her elbow and tugged, dragging her at a much rapid pace to the front of the room. As she neared, the council members floated forward.

Okay, a little freaky to have people moving without the use of legs and feet—even though they have legs and feet! Jodie struggled to come to grips with this place, but her head spun, and her legs trembled.

Come to us, Jodie Rosalind Devlin, they spoke in unison, a jury of the peerless. Learn from us.

She stopped. Good God, what would they do to her? Would she be punished for ruining so many futures in one blinding stroke of self-pity? Terror drove her to her knees, but Sherman grasped her elbow even tighter and pulled her upright. Despite his grip, she stumbled, the skirt of the toga she wore twisted around her unsteady feet.

Have no fear, my dear, he whispered urgently. The Council is not here to judge you in any way. They are the wisest souls in the Afterlife. Their presence is meant to soothe you, not alarm you. Place your trust in the one who pulls strongest for you.

Jodie’s gaze scanned the six male and six female spirits. How was she supposed to place her trust in these people who frightened her? She’d never liked strangers, had always avoided them in an effort to minimize the staring and the questions about her scars. A long-ingrained reflex, she tucked her hands into the folds of her garment, hiding them from sight.

On the next breath, her gaze locked on a woman whose deep sapphire eyes mirrored sympathy, kindness, and maternal compassion. Her hands dropped to her sides again as she simply stared at the woman’s ethereal beauty.

As if reading her unspoken request, the spirit nodded. I am honored you have chosen me, Jodie, she said in a voice warm and soft as a spring breeze.

Jodie blinked. Was that what she’d done? Chosen this lovely woman, simply by taking a moment to appreciate her beauty? 

The woman’s eyes locked on Jodie’s. In their wondrous depths, stars glittered, a galaxy of love. For a moment or two, Jodie lost herself: senses numbed, her mind slowed to a halt, and nothing mattered but the velvet blue of the woman’s eyes. When she finally tore her gaze away and refocused on the auditorium, she and the feminine spirit stood alone in the room. All the others, including Sherman, had disappeared. Oh, God. I am definitely not in