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Lord Anubis, sweep the demons that plague me from my path that I may attain my place among the dead. – Partial inscription from tomb wall at KV60, Luxor, Egypt
Wind swept the scarf from Billie’s head, whipping strands of hair in her eyes, nose, and mouth as she made her way toward the cemetery. She snatched the plaid wool before it flew into the street and tied it more securely around her neck. Residual flakes scattered in the freezing onslaught, and it took all her muscle control to keep her balance on the icy sidewalk.
Canvassing the immediate block produced no black mutt. He must have headed back to his old haunt when Nettie let him out the front door. What the hell had the nutty professor been thinking? That she could talk to animals? Billie wanted to roll her eyes. She prayed she found her canine savior before Animal Control did.
The adrenaline rush faded with her anger. By the time she reached the wide-open back gates of the cemetery, every fiber of her body ached with pain and cold. Now, how does someone find a dog she doesn’t really own?
Billie peeled off her single glove and raised two fingers to her lips. Her usual blasting whistle raced away with the wind, leaving a faint echo behind.
“If you’re trying to wake the dead, that’ll do it.”
The sudden appearance of Cyrus Johnson’s voice nearly dropped her on her butt again. She caught her balance on the glazed blacktop and glared at the vague outline standing next to her. Even the guide’s brilliance appeared milky under the overcast sky.
“Go away, Cyrus.” She scanned the area, searching for black fur among the gray stones and white ground.
“My baby’s gonna have no means of support if you don’t do something about my case.” Even though she couldn’t clearly see his eyes, she would have sworn she could feel the heat of his wrathful stare.
“You’re dead, Cyrus. It’s not your case. Have you seen the dog that was with me last night?” The snow-covered grass would give her better footing than the ice-slicked asphalt. The frozen crust crunched beneath her boots as she stalked further into the cemetery.
A snort of disgust filled her ear. “Why did I even expect you would help me? You can’t even take care of your own pet.” Of course, Cyrus followed and harassed her.
“He’s not mine, but he saved my life. I need to return him to his owner.” She left out the fear the two monsters that had attacked her and the children would find the dog alone and tear the poor thing to bits.
As she cut across the lawn, a hint of movement drew her toward Marcus’s grave. She rounded a tall monument to find a man crouched next to the headstone, his bare right palm flat against the frozen ground where the snow had been brushed away. Her own hand automatically reached for the small of her back. Shit! She’d left her knife under her pillow in her panic over the missing dog.
Worry over Marcus overrode her common sense. “What are you doing?” The words came out harsher than she intended.
The man stood, leather shifting across broad shoulders, and turned. Porter. The bouncer, not the dog.
She couldn’t stifle her gasp and took an involuntary step back.
Hazel eyes lit up, and a slow smile spread across his features. “I could ask the same of you. Billie, isn’t it? Kyra’s friend?” When her tongue remained firmly glued to the roof of her mouth, he added, “Or would you prefer I call you Wilhelmina?”
“No!” Her tongue couldn’t form the proper sounds after the initial rush of anger at someone using her hated full name. “I-I-I mean, Billie’s fine.”
His gaze swept the length of her body. Heat followed the path of his eyes to the point she began to sweat despite the freezing temperatures. The odd sense of déjà vu didn’t help her discomfiture around this man.
She swallowed hard, determined to regain some sense of control over her own reactions and the situation. If she couldn’t get rid of him, she would have come back and rouse Tommy or Sarah Jane and have them check on Marcus for her. “What are you doing here?”
Something harder, dangerous even, replaced the glimmer of humor in his eyes. She didn’t feel threatened though, more like protected. Like she had last night when the black dog came to her rescue. His gaze flicked to her left before his attention returned to her. To her left. Where Cyrus and the guide floated. Damn, could he see or sense them? “I heard something in the cemetery last night.” He shrugged. “Thought I’d check it out.”
Fear prickled her spine. Had he witnessed her fight? “W-what did you hear?”
His eyes narrowed. The examination he gave her felt nothing like his earlier semi-erotic perusal. In fact, it reminded her of her own behavior when she had a witness on the stand, her sixth sense ferreting out the truth.
Instead of answering, he threw out his own question. “What are you doing in the middle of a cemetery on a freezing Saturday morning?”
His question brought to mind her original mission. And it seemed a much safer topic of conversation. “I’m looking for my dog. My crazy landlady let him out the front door instead of into the back yard to do his business.”
A dark eyebrow rose on Porter the man’s handsome face. “Really?”
Heat flooded her cheeks despite the icy wind. “Okay, he’s not really mine. He’s a stray I found, but he’s smart and trained. Someone must be looking for him. I was going to put up flyers today.” A grimace tugged her lips. “Except my landlady let him out this morning, and he took off. I’ve got to find him before Animal Control takes him away. He doesn't have any collar or tags.”
“Well, I haven’t seen your dog.” He drew out the last two words as if questioning her story. “But I did find this.” He held up her missing left glove.
She reached for the bright red accessory, not intending to touch him again, but his fingers curled around hers anyway. Breath caught in her lungs. That weird sense of knowing, of familiarity, sent a rush of heat through her body.
Cyrus Johnson’s raspy voice ruined any budding rapport with the sexy bouncer. “Jesus Christ, woman! Can’t you get your hormones under control long enough to help me?” A cocky grin filled Porter’s face, but he couldn’t have possibly heard Cyrus. Could he?
“If this dog is as smart as you say, I’m sure he can dodge the authorities. I wouldn’t worry about him. I’m sure he’ll show up. Maybe I should walk you home.”
Panic ran through her. She just wasn’t sure whether it was worry over Porter the dog or anxiety about Porter the man. “Thanks, but—”
His large hand grabbed her elbow, not hard enough to hurt but firm enough to guide her in the direction of the back gate. “It’s too damn cold to be arguing about this.” More warmth seeped through her coat and sweater and sent another flurry of desire through her. As they walked, he mumbled something under his breath.
As they crossed the graveyard, the transparent figure of Cyrus Johnson stepped in front of her. “Hey, what about me?”
She gritted her teeth and accepted the shock of cold when she passed through him. Her determination didn’t stop the shiver that passed through her body.
“Bitch!” But the insult didn’t hold much bite since Cyrus was too busy keeping his essence intact. The guide bleeped in protest.
Billie swallowed her own smile. Most ghosts learned not to repeat that little trick. Something about her disrupted their cohesiveness. But Cyrus would be back. She was sure of that one fact.
A warm, masculine chuckle tickled her ears. “Next time wear your long johns.”
She didn’t correct Porter’s assumption about the cause of her shivers. Nor did she protest when his arm encircled her shoulders, his body heat, and his presence, far more comforting than she’d admit out loud.
They were silent for the walk back to Nettie’s house. As much as Billie wanted to blame the lack of conversation on the noise of the occasional city truck spreading salt on the ice, she had no frickin’ clue on how to talk to this guy. Okay, most guys.
She chewed on her tongue trying to find a decent topic to start. “So, how’s the funeral business” didn’t sound like a polite opening line, but nothing else sounded right either. Besides, why would he possibly be interested in anything she had to say? Before she could come up with a reasonable topic that didn’t involve the weather, they were standing on Nettie’s front porch.
Porter slid his arm from her shoulders and held out his hand her key. Before she could decide whether to be pissed at his chauvinism or touched by his manners, the door flew open.
Kyra stood in the frame, a smirk on her face.” I thought you said you were coming home last night.”
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