Last of the Ravens. Linda Winstead Jones

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СКАЧАТЬ a woman too long or promising more than he could give. The downside to being the last Korbinian was accepting that he would never find the one woman he could bond with, the one who could give him children and share his life. She did not exist.

      He could marry, he supposed, but there would be no children, and he had never before met a woman he felt he could share his secret with. His body, yes; his secrets, never.

      In order to keep his life as he wanted it—solitary—he had to keep his intimate relationships shallow and short-lived. He didn’t want any woman in his house; he didn’t want any woman thinking he could offer more than a night or two. In the past he’d had a couple of relationships that had lasted a few months, but a few months had always turned out to be too long.

      Bren had almost finished checking out when he realized that the cashier was flirting with him. She smiled, she commented on each of his purchases, she leaned forward, breasts shown to their best advantage. He hadn’t seen her here before. She had the face and body a man would remember, and thick, long dark hair that had been pulled back into a massive ponytail. Tammy, according to her name tag, was the perfect solution to his current dilemma. He needed a woman who wouldn’t drive him to distraction. One he could have a little fun with and then walk away from without guilt or second thoughts. One who didn’t talk to herself and get under his skin and vacation at the cabin that was a blight on his mountain.

      The problem was, this beautiful woman who was flirting outrageously did nothing for him. Nothing at all. Miranda Lynch takes a sip of coffee and he gets hard. Tammy thrusts her boobs in his direction and slowly licks her lips and looks him in the eye with an unmistakable come-hither expression—and nothing. Nada. Shit.

      It was a long hike down the winding road to the gas station and convenience store at the foot of the mountain, but it was a pretty, mild spring day, and after just a few hours in the cabin Miranda found she was tired of sitting. She could only take so much vacation, apparently. Her restlessness had nothing to do with Korbinian’s morning visit, she told herself. Nothing at all.

      As she walked carefully along the side of the road, Miranda admitted to herself that her friends had been right when they’d insisted that she needed some time off. She constantly pushed herself hard, feeling that with every murderer she helped to catch she was honoring Jessica’s memory. With every burden of grief she eased, she felt as if a bit of her own grief was released. The death of a beloved sister was not in vain if Miranda put the abilities that had been awakened in that accident to good use.

      That didn’t mean she enjoyed reliving violent deaths and soothing the tears of those left behind. It was simply what she had to do to honor Jessica’s memory. This was not the life she had planned, but in the end it was the life she’d made. What choice did she have?

      Suddenly Miranda realized she was not alone on the winding tree-lined road.

      “You’re sad,” the ghost said as she kept pace with Miranda’s easy, cautious stride.

      “I thought you were going away,” Miranda said without so much as altering her step. “In fact, you promised that you would.”

      “Your sadness called me back,” the woman said. “We don’t have to talk about Bren if that makes you feel any better.”

      Miranda sighed. “It does, actually.” She glanced at the amazingly solid-looking specter at her side. The woman appeared to be maybe fifty or so, and her dark hair had a few strands of silver-gray shot through it. She was pretty; perhaps had once been a great beauty. Unlike Miranda she was tall; she was elegant and commanding in a way a woman of five-two could never manage. “Do you have a name?”

      “Of course,” the ghost answered simply. “Doesn’t everyone?” It was the same flippant answer Miranda had given Korbinian last night. Had this meddling ghost been listening in? Probably.

      “What should I call you?” Miranda persisted. If the woman was going to insist on hanging around, she should call her something.

      “My friends call me Dee.” The ghost looked pointedly at Miranda, her eyes amazingly alive and bright. “I believe I can call you a friend, and I promise you that you can call me the same.”

      “You’re haunting me,” Miranda argued, though she had to admit that Dee had been less than tormenting. Maybe she’d been a matchmaker in life and had carried that proclivity into the afterlife. Most spirits remained earthbound for more pressing reasons, but anything was possible, she supposed. “Friends don’t haunt friends.”

      “I’m only haunting you a little,” Dee said, and then she laughed lightly. “I would not feel pressed for time if you had not been so late!”

      “How could I be late?” Miranda asked.

      “Two years I’ve been waiting. Two years!” She didn’t sound angry, just frustrated. Dee took a deep breath. Odd, since ghosts really didn’t have to breathe. “But we’re not going to talk about that now. We’re going to talk about why you’re so sad.”

      There was no use in arguing the point. “I miss my sister.”

      “That’s only natural,” Dee said with sympathy.

      Miranda didn’t allow herself to share her feelings openly, not anymore, but since no one else could see or hear Dee, what difference did it make? Ghosts frequently spilled their guts to her. Perhaps there was nothing wrong with her doing the same. “Jessica was my only family, and her death was sudden and unnecessary and…” Miranda fought back tears. “I miss her,” she said again. “Even years later some days I feel so alone. I have some wonderful friends, but still, I feel like I’m isolated from everyone, like I’m separate. Does that make sense?”

      “You will have another family one day,” Dee said. “You won’t always be alone.”

      Miranda shook her head. Her abilities were a complication, she had found, and romantic relationships didn’t work. The Lynch love curse remained in effect.

      “You will,” the ghost insisted in response to the silent reaction.

      They continued to walk, both of them silent. Miranda’s steps were short ones to accommodate the steepness of the hill, and Dee simply kept stride, always directly beside. When they hit a stretch of road that was not so steep their speed increased, then as it dipped down they slowed again. Miranda found she was oddly glad of the company, even if her only friend in Tennessee was an interfering ghost who thought the local grump was the catch of the decade. Maybe Korbinian wasn’t a psycho, but he wasn’t exactly dream date material, either. Who was these days?

      The road that led to the cabin and then farther up the mountain to Korbinian’s place was narrow. She couldn’t imagine two cars of a normal size passing without tires leaving the road and easing onto the perilously crumbling shoulder. The narrow strip of dirt along the sides of the road was uneven and narrow, and beyond the edge was a slope that varied in height from a few feet to a frightening vast drop. Miranda found it best to stay on the pavement. It wasn’t as if there was any traffic along the road to deal with.

      At least, not much traffic. When she heard the approaching vehicle she knew it had to be Korbinian. He’d been gone for hours, so he must’ve done more than grocery shopping while he was out. Not that she cared where he had gone or what he had done. Miranda moved to the shoulder as far as was safe, glancing down to the tangled green and brown growth on the slope below. She took small, cautious steps, waiting for the vehicle to come around the corner and pass. If she was lucky her neighbor wouldn’t feel he had to stop and offer her СКАЧАТЬ