Chapter 1 – Close by
Where the
hell are you…?
Summer
concentrated hard. Her right hand sat loose and relaxed in Becky's, but her
left was being squeezed so tight, she'd lost the feeling in her fingertips.
Alice had never been to a séance before and, judging by how nervous she looked,
Summer guessed this would be a one-time thing. With an effort, she tried to
ignore Alice and focused again.
Tea light
candles flickered on the table in front of her. She blinked. No draughts, no
window left open. Letting her eyelids droop, she stared at the nearest candle,
her gaze intent on the tiny flame until the light blurred and separated. Her
breathing slowed, heart following suit, and she forced her entire body to relax
from the shoulders down.
Any minute now…
It was as though
she'd been split into two people: Summer-at-the-table, head down, silent and
empty – a shell – and Summer-on-the-psychic-plane, where she felt at home. Her mind soared,
tendrils of her consciousness roaming far and wide, rippling out in waves. She
knew a spirit was close by, lurking just out of reach.
Summer-at-the-table
spoke in low, measured tones. “I want to talk to Arthur Milton.” A pause.
“Arthur, your wife and daughter are here with me. They’d like to speak to you.”
Beside her at
the small round table, Alice shivered, the tremor running up Summer's arm.
“It's cold in here,” Alice muttered. “Why is it so cold?”
Summer exhaled
slowly and ignored the question. Another deep breath. “Arthur, can you hear me?
Come to me.” It wasn't cold in the room—not really. The sun had been relentless
this afternoon, a beautiful late spring day, and it still felt hot outside. The
chill in the room was due to the spirit that
still
refused to show
himself. Summer gritted her teeth and probed deeper.
Come on, Arthur.
Something
brushed up against her mind. Hard, warm and confident, this spirit was strong
and proud, and somehow
bigger
than she’d expected of the late Arthur
Milton. The photograph she'd seen portrayed a nervous looking gentleman and, by
all accounts, he'd been henpecked throughout forty years of marriage. Summer
wondered if by dying he'd finally achieved some peace and quiet. She sat
perfectly still and waited for the spirit to approach again.
“Come to me.”
Her voice was gentle.
Chapter 2 – Who are you?
A smell
drifted into the room. Freshly cut grass? No, more dusty… Hay. It smelled like bales of hay. Beside her, Summer heard Alice
sniff, then Becky too. A soft jingling noise grabbed her attention, and she
followed the sound.
Standing in the
corner of Alice's parlour, looking so absurdly out of place that Summer wanted
to laugh aloud, was a cowboy. His frame tall and well built, his over-long inky
black hair fell forwards onto a tanned face, jaw grazed with dark stubble. Deep
blue eyes looked mischievous, his gaze flashing over Summer while the corners
of his mouth tugged upwards in amusement.
She swallowed
and tried to order her thoughts but could only stare. A cowboy ? Leather
chaps over faded denim, boots with spurs – that explained the jingle – long
coat and a hat clutched in his right hand. Yep, he looked the part.
Alice squeezed
her hand even tighter, and Becky shifted in her seat. She could practically
smell their nervousness. While it was normal for Summer to see spirits
manifesting like this, poor Alice was probably freaking out.
Finding her
voice, Summer strove for calm. “Are you Arthur?”
“Arthur?” The
cowboy raised one eyebrow. “I've been called many names, darlin’, but never
Arthur.” His voice washed over her, smooth and seductive, and sweet as a bowl
of melted chocolate. Summer felt an inexplicable urge to ask him to say
something else. Her name, perhaps. Get a grip, Summer .
She blinked and
spoke again, slightly more controlled. “We're looking for Arthur Milton. Are
you his spirit guide?”
That drew a
short laugh. “The only Arthur I know is my brother's dog.
Where the
hell are you…?
Summer
concentrated hard. Her right hand sat loose and relaxed in Becky's, but her
left was being squeezed so tight, she'd lost the feeling in her fingertips.
Alice had never been to a séance before and, judging by how nervous she looked,
Summer guessed this would be a one-time thing. With an effort, she tried to
ignore Alice and focused again.
Tea light
candles flickered on the table in front of her. She blinked. No draughts, no
window left open. Letting her eyelids droop, she stared at the nearest candle,
her gaze intent on the tiny flame until the light blurred and separated. Her
breathing slowed, heart following suit, and she forced her entire body to relax
from the shoulders down.
Any minute now…
It was as though
she'd been split into two people: Summer-at-the-table, head down, silent and
empty – a shell – and Summer-on-the-psychic-plane, where she felt at home. Her mind soared,
tendrils of her consciousness roaming far and wide, rippling out in waves. She
knew a spirit was close by, lurking just out of reach.
Summer-at-the-table
spoke in low, measured tones. “I want to talk to Arthur Milton.” A pause.
“Arthur, your wife and daughter are here with me. They’d like to speak to you.”
Beside her at
the small round table, Alice shivered, the tremor running up Summer's arm.
“It's cold in here,” Alice muttered. “Why is it so cold?”
Summer exhaled
slowly and ignored the question. Another deep breath. “Arthur, can you hear me?
Come to me.” It wasn't cold in the room—not really. The sun had been relentless
this afternoon, a beautiful late spring day, and it still felt hot outside. The
chill in the room was due to the spirit that
still
refused to show
himself. Summer gritted her teeth and probed deeper.
Come on, Arthur.
Something
brushed up against her mind. Hard, warm and confident, this spirit was strong
and proud, and somehow
bigger
than she’d expected of the late Arthur
Milton. The photograph she'd seen portrayed a nervous looking gentleman and, by
all accounts, he'd been henpecked throughout forty years of marriage. Summer
wondered if by dying he'd finally achieved some peace and quiet. She sat
perfectly still and waited for the spirit to approach again.
“Come to me.”
Her voice was gentle.
Chapter 2 – Who are you?
A smell
drifted into the room. Freshly cut grass? No, more dusty… Hay. It smelled like bales of hay. Beside her, Summer heard Alice
sniff, then Becky too. A soft jingling noise grabbed her attention, and she
followed the sound.
Standing in the
corner of Alice's parlour, looking so absurdly out of place that Summer wanted
to laugh aloud, was a cowboy. His frame tall and well built, his over-long inky
black hair fell forwards onto a tanned face, jaw grazed with dark stubble. Deep
blue eyes looked mischievous, his gaze flashing over Summer while the corners
of his mouth tugged upwards in amusement.
She swallowed
and tried to order her thoughts but could only stare. A cowboy ? Leather
chaps over faded denim, boots with spurs – that explained the jingle – long
coat and a hat clutched in his right hand. Yep, he looked the part.
Alice squeezed
her hand even tighter, and Becky shifted in her seat. She could practically
smell their nervousness. While it was normal for Summer to see spirits
manifesting like this, poor Alice was probably freaking out.
Finding her
voice, Summer strove for calm. “Are you Arthur?”
“Arthur?” The
cowboy raised one eyebrow. “I've been called many names, darlin’, but never
Arthur.” His voice washed over her, smooth and seductive, and sweet as a bowl
of melted chocolate. Summer felt an inexplicable urge to ask him to say
something else. Her name, perhaps. Get a grip, Summer .
She blinked and
spoke again, slightly more controlled. “We're looking for Arthur Milton. Are
you his spirit guide?”
That drew a
short laugh. “The only Arthur I know is my brother's dog.
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