Haunted: Haunts and Hoaxes, #1

By Irene Preston and Liv Rancourt

Noel Chandler had a good reason for leaving the L.A.P.D. for New Orleans, but when he walks into a burned out Garden District mansion, he discovers there are some things he can't outrun. The spooks can find him anywhere.

As the resident historian for the cable show Haunts and Hoaxes, Professor Adam Morales keeps an open mind about the supernatural. Or that's what he tells himself, until he meets a man who puts that principle to the test. Noel's smart, sexy, and has killer cop instincts. One glance from his bedroom eyes has Adam ready to believe anything.

But is Noel haunted, crazy, or just another hoax?

⚜ This story in the Hours of the Night Universe can be read as a standalone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Prescourt Books
• Release date: May 21, 2018
• ISBN: 9780996809986

Book preview

Haunted

An Hours of the Night Story

Irene Preston

Liv Rancourt

IrenePreston.com

LivRancourt.com

PrescourtBooks.com

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

Haunted

© 2018 by Sharon Stoker Laurent and Amy Dunn Caldwell

Cover Art: Amy Dunn Caldwell

Editor: Linda Ingmanson

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

ISBN: 978-0-9968099-8-6

To good neighbors everywhere….

i.

Dear Reader:

If you are new to the Hours of the Night and concerned about reading out of order, please don’t worry. Haunted is a standalone story within the Hours of the Night universe. It takes place outside the series storyline and follows completely new characters. You can jump in here without needing to know any background and there are no spoilers that would ruin the regular series if you choose to read later.

If you are already an Hours of the Night fan, Haunted takes place concurrently with Nocturne. You might recognize a few of Adam’s neighbors.

Enjoy!

Liv & Irene

Chapter One

Noel

His phone rang. Bergeron’s ringtone, the one that sounded like a rooster. Cock-a-doodle-dammit. He should never have allowed that fool to program his phone. Ignoring Bergeron would only make him call back, and call back again, so Noel answered.

What?

Hey hey, you sittin’ down? Bergeron spoke like he had a mouthful of molasses, and he’d appointed himself Noel’s combination tour guide and escort.

More or less. In fact, Noel was tucked into a corner booth at Lafitte’s Booty, a French Quarter strip club where the dancers were all male—and so was the clientele.

Yeah, I hear what’s in the background.

Noel stifled a cutting comment. Sure, the speakers were set to stun, and yes, it was just after two p.m. And tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day. So sue me.

All right, well, just don’t come back into the office if you’re out getting drunk.

Again, Noel bit his tongue. At this rate, he wouldn’t be able to taste the gin through the blood. I’m not getting drunk. Yet. He was still on the clock.

Okay, Susie Sunshine. Whatever you say.

Is there a reason for this call? A new dancer sashayed onto the stage. His ribs stuck out like he hadn’t eaten in a week, but he was hung like a draft horse. Noel swallowed the dregs of his cocktail, wondering how much the horse would charge for a lap dance.

Bergeron cleared his throat, a cue that he was ready to leave off the sermonizing. Noel straightened in his seat, shifting so he couldn’t see the dancer’s assets swinging in his tighty-whiteys.

You’re looking into that house explosion, right? The one out in Mandeville?

AKA the case that wouldn’t die. Yeah.

Weren’t you telling me the cops pulled in a couple people for questioning, and one was a guy with a girl’s name?

Sarasija Mishra. So?

"So I’m reading the Times-Picayune online…"

Because you have no life.

…and they did a story about a house fire yesterday, over in the Garden District. They said two men lived in the house. Bergeron dropped some of his down-home drawl, another clue he was getting serious. The homeowner’s a guy named Thaddeus Dupont, and for the last six months or so, he’s been living there with a Sarasija Mishra, called Sara.

Huh. Noel rapped on the tabletop, thoughts percolating. That’s interesting.

Same guy?

Same name, and I’ma guess there’s only one guy in NOLA going by the name of Sara.

Noel flagged the bartender, an older man with a white handlebar mustache and a pair of black, assless chaps. Seems like this Sara’s having a shitty week. Did you get the address of the house?

Twelve thirty-seven First Street.

Hang on. Noel moved the phone away from his ear and typed the address into his map app. Got it. The story have any other useful info?

Not really. Bergeron paused, and Noel winced, knowing what was coming next. I reckon you owe me a drink, though.

Noel snorted a laugh. I reckon I do. Though he’d rather not. Bergeron’s idea of a hot night out likely started at Hooters.

You have fun hanging with the one percent, and I’ll see you when you get back to the office.

Hey, thanks, man. Noel meant that sincerely. Bergeron might be a douche, but he had a good heart.

All right.

The bartender slapped a bill on the table as Noel was shoving his phone back into his pocket. Hey, do you know what Baryshnikov up there likes to eat? Noel nodded in the dancer’s direction.

The bartender’s grin might have widened. Hard to tell under all that lip hair. Bacon cheeseburger.

Noel flipped his bank card toward the bill. Put one on my tab and give it to him. With fries.

You gonna wait for him? He’s on stage for the rest of the hour.

Nah, I gotta take off. Tell him my hand thanks him. Because he did love dick.

There just hadn’t been many opportunities since he’d moved to New Orleans. Sure. That’s right. He was so busy getting the hang of his new gig and finding his way around the city’s convoluted streets, he hadn’t had time to look.

Either that, or he was still hung up on Stephen.

With a shudder, he scrawled his name on the charge slip and headed out into the gloomy, humid February afternoon. Nope. He hadn’t moved all the way from Los Angeles to avoid a shrieking sissy with three cats and a thing