Adult(ish) Excerpt from The Dead of Haggard Hall by Marie Treanor As I skirted the throng, which was broken into several smaller ones, like satellites around my mother, I cautiously opened myself further to their emotions. I felt my gaze tugged once more towards the open doorway to the hall. And there he was, my sceptic, looking right at me. Something jolted inside me. I had been right. Full-on, his face was dramatic. Angular, almost bony, it was dominated by black, straight brows over dark, harsh eyes that concealed layers of turbulence and profound, conflicting emotions; a hard mouth with a sensual curve. Tall, straight, and broad shouldered, his body gave the impression of being only loosely flung together. His dress was respectable and yet hung on him with such carelessness that it somehow suggested the entirely disreputable. His unblinking regard washed over me in waves. Anger; constant anger. Curiosity and annoyance. He didn’t want to be here and yet needed to know what would happen. Contempt, disbelief. And a sudden surge of lust that made me gasp and spin away from him in shock, for my own body flamed in wicked reply. It was hardly the first time I…

“It’s good to see you, Danica.” His voice sounded as though sand was lodged in his throat. The gritty sound raised the hair on her forearms, and her nipples grew harder. “Good to be back?” she ventured. Resting his elbows on his knees once more, he dropped his head into his hands. When he scrubbed his jaw, a rasping noise sent her into a bigger spin than the F4 that had wiped out their town. Finally, he raised his head. “I can’t answer that yet. But it’s good to be stateside.” There it was—that burning in his eyes again. It took the dark brown to a whole new level of intensity. She unfolded her legs and reached across the short distance to rest a hand on his arm again. He let her touch him, offering a millisecond of comfort. The hair under her fingers was wiry and his skin warm. This was Brodie, not some stranger. They’d climbed trees together and fallen out of them too. He’d carried her, with a badly sprained ankle, to the house on his back. She’d cried so much she’d snotted on him, and he hadn’t come near her for a week. They were practically…

“Hey.” My mouth went dry. Staring out at the city, I said, “So, um. I talked to Nate. About what’s going on.” “Oh.” Something rustled in the background. Was he still in bed? I wasn’t even sure when he got up these days. “Um. How did he take it?” “As good as we could’ve expected, I guess.” Theo exhaled. “I should call him. It might be good for him to hear from both of us.” “Yeah.” I turned around, watching Nate’s sleeping form through my semitransparent reflection. “Give him a little while, though. He’s not up yet.” “He’s—” Theo paused. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. “So he’s still there.” “Yeah, he’s—” I faced the city again. “Is that a problem?” “No.” His tone suggested it clearly was a problem. “Just…could you pass the message along for him to call me when he has a chance?” I ground my teeth and tried not to get defensive. If I’d been the one in his position, five hundred miles away while Theo broke the news to Nate, I’d probably not feel great about the situation either. “I’ll tell him.” “Thanks.” Silence set in. I fixed my gaze on the road…

The lights came on and I whirled around. A short, plump woman in her early seventies, with a mass of auburn-and-white hair untamed by a blue crocheted beret, dressed in jeans and an army jacket covered with protest slogan buttons, stood in the doorway holding a laundry basket. A small tan, mixed-breed dog, still a puppy, ran inside, danced around my feet, barked with much enthusiasm, then sat and looked up at me with adoration in its deep brown eyes. “Boo-Boo! Hush. What’s the matter with you, mutt? Have you gone loco? Chill, puppy.” I wasn’t in the mood to make nice. Two long strides brought me within a foot of the doorway in case I needed to make a quick exit. “Who the hell are you, and why are you waltzing into my apartment?” I demanded. A gasp, wider eyes, and then a beautiful smile flashed across her perfect peaches-and-cream complexion. “I am not waltzing. I am trudging. I save my waltzing for the dance floor, although I prefer the tango.” She squinted. “Oh sweet Mother Mary. I’m talking to an auditory hallucination. What the hell did my bartender put in the last margarita? Boo-Boo? Are you seeing this?…

Mitchell searched his memory. “The calling-card murder count was at twenty-four when I left the force six months ago.” “The overall number will have climbed since then, but it’s the victims who possess the sight that I’m most concerned about. Certainly, the others matter, but their deaths—how can I put this?—provide nothing more than operating money for Leshad. They keep the cash flow up and his filthy operation in the black. Very comfortably in the black, I suspect.” “Why are you most concerned about the victims who possess the sight?” “Partly because I’m one of them, like my mother and her friend Twila Black. Twila’s sister, Tallulah Black, possessed some vision as well, but not a sufficient amount for Leshad to use.” Was this intriguing him or annoying him? Mitchell wasn’t sure. Maybe it depended on what Phoebe expected him to do. “Where does your fading appeal enter into this?” he asked, although he had a feeling he could guess the answer to that one. She maintained her benign expression. “I’m Madeleine’s daughter, cher. I possess certain modest sensory abilities. Leshad assumes I inherited my mother’s full gift of second sight. I didn’t, but it’s what he thinks.” “So you…

The ten o’clock news came on, so Clara knew it was time for Alfred to come in. She used her remote to turn off the television, then picked up her cane and hobbled out to the kitchen. She opened the back door. A chilly wind blew against her. She took a deep breath of the fresh October air, and peered across her yard. “Al-l-l-fred!” she called. Generally, she would hear the clink of his collar tags before ever seeing him. She listened, but heard only the dry shuffling of leaves on the graveyard trees. “Al-l-l-fred?” Careful not to fall—her broken hip last year had laid her up good and proper for five months—she stepped down the three wooden stairs to the yard. She made her way across the moonlit lawn, and stopped at the edge of her flowerbed. From there, she peered through the bars of the cemetery fence. So dark over there, the trees shading the moon. “Al-l-l-l-fred!” she called. Much too loudly. She imagined heads rising in their coffins, turning—corpses listening to her voice. Softly, she called, “Here, kitty-kitty-kitty.” Her eyes searched the darkness. Saw a solitary figure near the cemetery fence. Gasping, she took a quick step…

Exclusive Excerpt for Fresh Fiction: “Please, please, do not tell me I just missed her!” The balding little man behind the counter jumped at Sebastian’s tone. Sweat beaded the clerk’s brow as he fidgeted with a stack of travel brochures. “Well, I’m sorry, but you have.” He hitched a thumb over his shoulder toward the window behind him. “In fact, there she goes now.” The edge of the countertop cracked beneath Sebastian’s fingertips as he watched the twin engine Cessna taxi down the runway. He’d chased that double damned woman all over this Godforsaken town. Port August, Michigan had become his own personal version of limbo from which it seemed he could not escape. A never ending loop of always being one step behind the cursed woman and never lucky enough to quite catch up. The storm brewing inside him boiled closer to the surface as the front wheels of the plane left the tarmac. Breathe, Sebastian reminded himself. And there she went, slipping through his fingers.Again. A red haze winked over his vision for a moment. The little gnome took a cautious step back, sweat streaming down the sides of his smooth forehead now, his eyes wide as saucers…

He hadn’t taken it well at all when she’d told him “it’s not you, it’s me.” This had to be the tenth text she’d gotten from him since last night. Give me another chance. Just tell me what you want from me, and I’ll give it to you. Seriously. He was too freaking perfect. But not for her. She’d known almost from the beginning things weren’t going the way they should. She’d kept putting off ending it because she didn’t want to go back to being lonely. But if she was honest with herself, being with Charlie hadn’t made her feel any less alone. She’d just been alone with someone else along for the ride. Staring at the large saguaro cactus in front of the window then the mountains beyond, she sighed and clicked off the message, slipping her phone back into her handbag and picking up her plate. As usual, her record for choosing men who weren’t suitable for her, one of whom had later turned into a husband, held true. The first serious relationship with a boyfriend had gone two years and come with an engagement ring she’d given back when she found him in bed with another…

Professor Trueblood watched from the door of Wesley Hall as they hurried down the concrete stairs. Once away from him, they walked slowly side by side. They walked through the warm night in silence. Then Melanie asked, “How’s your nose?” “It’ll live.” He sniffed. “I think the bleeding’s stopped.” “I’m sorry I hurt you.” “It’s nothing.” He looked at her. “Are you going to tell me what happened?” “Oh, Bodie,” she whispered. Her arm slipped around his back, her small hand warm on his hip. “It’s something terrible.” “I know. I saw.” “Not that. I mean…what I saw.” “What you saw?” “My dad. It must’ve been Dad. Or my sister.” Her hand tightened on Bodie’s hip. “God. He…he must be dead. One of them, anyway. I…damn it.” She sobbed. “I don’t know which one. But Dad, I think. When it happened last time, it was Mom.” Bodie stopped. He turned and stared down into her glistening eyes. Her sorrow made a thickness in his throat and a tight hurt in his chest. But her words… What was she saying? He tucked the handkerchief into his pocket and gently took hold of her shoulders. Too late, he realized he had blood…

“A glove’s important, Mom.” “I know it is.” “I really need a new one.” Rachel didn’t doubt that. Josh was basically a good kid. He didn’t whine, he didn’t ask for a lot. His passions were simple—anything sports-related and the occasional computer game. That was it. Christmas and birthday presents revolved around whatever sport most had his interest. As they had for the past three years, spring and summer meant baseball. Los Lobos didn’t have a Little League team, but there was a county league. Josh insisted they sign him up the first hour they could, something she was happy to do. He was eleven—she figured she had all of two, maybe three years before he became a raging male hormone and then all bets were off. “Dad said he would buy it for me but I had to check with you first.” At least she was driving and had an excuse not to look at Josh. Because she couldn’t—not without him seeing the rage in her eyes. Damn Greg, she thought bitterly. Of course he could afford to buy his son a new glove. Greg only had himself to worry about. Her ex-husband made a good living as a…