Chapter Four

M ortimer was used to spending the holidays alone. The people in Pine Ridge who were conversant with magic often stopped by the outside of his home, but public access to the interior was closed. In recent years, with the advent of a more powerful coven in Pine Ridge, he’d considered having a spirit bottle enchanted that would allow him to travel away from his home for a day or two at a time. Jakob Minegold, by no means a warlock, but still a conversant magic user, even had a bottle standing ready for him if he wished to claim it.

But that would require someone who could move freely in and out of the library and who he would trust to carry the spirit bottle with him inside of it, so at the moment, Mortimer was alone in the library and alone with his thoughts. He could, of course, call for assistance using the library phone or send an email using the computer.

Of course, if a person wasn’t conversant with the paranormal, they would hear nothing but static, and they’d assume a written electronic message was nothing but a prank. Still, there had to be a better way of talking to Louisa than dropping books and flapping pages.

The first Christmas I’ve spent with someone in decades, the first—and only—woman I’ve ever really loved, and she’s willing to give me a chance, give me her time, suspend her disbelief...

Tonight has to be something special...

I want it to be something I do, something I can give her, not something I have the living do to assist me. I want her to see that I’m meant for her. Perhaps it’s why I’ve been waiting here so long—until my angel found me.

Well. Necessity is the mother of invention.

Mortimer grabbed an armful of books and then rummaged in the library’s emergency supply box under the main counter, pushing aside flashlights and weather radios until he came upon a box of long white emergency candles.

He’d replace them later. His one shot with Louisa wasn’t a natural disaster, but as far as he was concerned, it was a definite emergency.

LOUISA WALKED UP THE library’s snow-covered steps, pausing to look at the dark winter sky. It was clear and dark, deep blue with silver stars. The forecast called for a white Christmas, and Pine Ridge was certainly excited for it. In the distance, she could hear a local band playing in the park. She saw little throngs of carolers. Smells of heavenly baked goods came from every corner of town—including the insulated bag under her arm.

There was probably no ghost—only a hallucination brought on by a wacky dream, a bad sleep schedule, and one too many paranormal romances. But, spending Christmas Eve in the library attic was going to be better (much better) than spending it at home alone with or without a spectral visitor. She would read books in her cozy, comfortable hideaway, sipping from a thermos of hot cocoa and working her way through a whole plate of coquito sugar cookies covered in red and green sprinkles.

Common sense told her it was going to be a sad, lonely kind of night, the kind of night where she’d cry a few tears once the enormity of another Christmas spent single and without the family she wished for hit her. Common sense told her there was a logical explanation for falling books and flipping pages, like small earthquake tremors or passing construction vehicles, and a bug in the HVAC system.

“Go in, pig out, and have a good cry,” Louisa whispered and turned the key in the lock.

Louisa let go of the door and stood, gasping. “Wh-what??”

White candles floated up the polished wooden railing that led to the second floor. Small squares of white printer paper made a path of stepping stones.

It was too beautiful to look scary—although eerie, yes, it definitely made her think of a haunted space.

Duh, Louisa.

The paper closest to her began to skid across the floor, blown by a silent wind. She bent to retrieve it, still clutching her insulated bag like a weapon. That thermos would put a dent in someone’s skull—provided they still had a physical skull to hit...

Her eyes scanned the note.

My darling Louisa. Thank you for being my guest. You have nothing to fear.

“Yeah, right, buddy.”

Was it her imagination, or did she hear a laugh from somewhere above her?

Another few steps, another note.

My name is Mortimer Ashfield. I lived and worked here for many years. I died here, too, but I didn’t leave. I loved it here too much.

Well. She could relate. Should she say that aloud? “I get it. I wasn’t raised here, but it’s definitely becoming home. It just... It has a feel to it.”

This time, the paper all but smacked her in the face, gusting upward to rest in front of her eyes.

I always thought I was simply waiting to finish all the books I wished to read—futile task.

“Ha! No way, Mortimer,” she murmured.

But now I wonder if I have resisted leaving because I wanted to meet you. My true love.

Louisa swallowed. Creepy. Guys shouldn’t tell you they love you too soon. Another paper, this one gently wafting into her hand.

Don’t doubt my love. Even though you have only just met me, I have seen you almost every day for four years. I love your laugh, your smile, the way you make a grand show of giving a child his or her first library card, the way you organize the monthly crock-pot soup lunch, and the way you keep a novel beside you at all times. I’ve seen you cry, rage against injustice, organize, research, and even sing. Every thing, no matter how small, makes you more dear to me.

“Stalker,” she murmured, but the feeling of rage or fear she expected didn’t manifest. Everything in her was simply... curious.

Selfishly, I love your beauty. Your raven hair, your brown velvet eyes, and the way your skin glimmers in the light, like you have a thousand tiny diamonds just waiting underneath the surface for some lucky man to find and treasure.

The last paper was waiting on the first step of the staircase.

If you relax and trust that there are more things that exist than can be seen, you’ll be able to see me. Hear me. Even feel me, if you’d like.

Feel him?

Was he really there last night in her fevered, orgasmic dream? Was Mortimer whispering those filthy, sweet things? Touching her?

Why did she suddenly want him to touch her so much more?

“It’s Christmas. I believe in a miracle or two,” she whispered.

The candles suddenly flickered and flared brighter, each flame higher than the last, lighting her way to the top of the stairs and then to the attic beyond.

SHE SAT IN THE SOFT , thick cushion of her chair, eyes closed. A little table used during local craft shows had been dragged up and assembled with a chair beside it.

So ghosts can move things.

Or I’m about to be in the worst trouble ever and a real human man is going to spring out of a hiding place and—

Not going to think like that.

“Were you here the other night? In the attic?” she blurted, voice fast but hushed.

Nothing—at first. Then, as she made up her mind that she’d never be able to hear this ghost (or majorly creepy guy with a special effects degree), she heard it, like a breath of air, even slighter than a whisper.

“Yes.”

A light, feathery wisp of something warm crossed the back of her hand. Eyes opened wide, she saw nothing.

“Why can’t I see you?”

Another long pause, and then the words began to come, wavering and soft, hard to catch. “Our brains like what we understand. Ghosts aren’t so hard to understand, not truly. We are the soul’s echo. We are memories distilled, the essence of a person, what they treasured most.”

Louisa let her eyes fall shut and leaned back further as Mortimer’s voice grew stronger and more audible. “And you treasure old books?”

“Words, wisdom, knowledge, yes. This community, yes. A certain stunning brunette scholar. Yes.”

“I could listen to you talk all night,” Louisa sighed and returned to an earlier train of thought. “Did you... Did you enter my dream?”

“Ah. Perhaps. If you dreamed of me, it was a happy accident, but yes. I was... present.”

There was no doubt that the voice sounded bashful.

No one will ever believe this. I’m not even going to tell anyone about this, so why the hell not? “Were you saying dirty things to me? In real life or did I dream that?”

“I’m sorry, my dear. It was wrong of me, I know. I have always tried to give you privacy in—erhrm—delicate moments. But last night you seemed like you could use cheering up. A release. And again, I was wrong. Selfishly wrong.”

It was wrong.

Wrong in a way that unexpectedly made her toes start to curl as a pleasurable tingle raced up her calves. “Lonely?”

The word was soft, but perfectly clear. “Very much so.” Mortimer’s voice shifted, coming from beside her one moment, and now behind her, so that she tilted her head back and felt a sweep of warmth across her cheek and down her rounded chin. “I thought that you seem to love these passionate romances—so why shouldn’t I read one to you? Why shouldn’t I tell you that you inspire me?”

“Because when I read books like that, I start to think naughty things, Mortimer. Do naughty things.” Her voice grew stronger, and her smile wider. Was she baiting the ghost? Yes, and why not? Why not see if those delicious warm rushes smoothing across her skin were in his control? Why not learn how he would use them?

For science, of course.

Mortimer’s well-bred voice turned lower and thicker, a guttural edge that sounded like he was speaking while winded. “Naughty implies you shouldn’t. As far as I have seen, you have no lover to lavish you, to make you feel the sensations you desire. Deserve. How is it you don’t have a ring on your finger, my Louisa?”

It was on the tip of her tongue to snap that it was none of his business, to snap that not all women wanted rings and babies, stuff like that.

Except she did.

He certainly couldn’t give her those things. But... No living man was giving them to her, either.

“I’m picky, and I like to spend all my time at the library. Single men don’t come here to scope out the hot chicks,” she snorted.

“Foolish men. I can’t give you everything you desire, perhaps, but I would love to try. I believe you’ll see we’re compatible, my Louisa.”

“Except for you being dead?”

Mortimer chuckled, which surprised her. She instantly liked that he hadn’t gone on the defensive but instead seemed to find her words amusing. “I still read, frequent the library, keep up on current affairs, and find you utterly ravishing. There are other paranormal creatures in this town, my dear, and they have rich, full lives, right under humanity’s nose. You may not find out everything about me in one night, but I’ll try to show you that I’m worthy of your attention.”

Worthy. A treasure. A prize that ought to be on some educated man’s arm.

Frankly, this ghost was playing straight into her fantasies, and she was too curious to care. “There’s one thing you can’t give me—as far as I know,” she hinted, hips shifting restlessly.

Warm pressure that felt like the gel masks she wore to soothe her sinuses caressed her neck, then moved down her shoulders. She moaned as it washed over her, moving lower and deeper across her back, lingering at the base of her spine before hugging her hips. She gasped and waited, mouth open, panting just a little as the pressure moved back up and two not-quite-solid objects pressed into her breasts. “Yes!” she choked out, stealing a breath as the pressure tightened. Hands. His hands cupped her breasts as he sat behind her, under her, without making her move at all.

“What is it you want me to give you, Louisa? I’m your present, after all.”