Read Online Grave Robber for Hire by Cassandra L. Shaw - Free Book Online
Authors: Cassandra L. Shaw
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dimensions.
Lost time unfolded to what appeared to be a hotel or a gentleman’s club. A brandy bottle sat alongside a half full tumbler and a top hat. Clyde, looking relaxed in a dark gray topcoat and tan leather gloves, sat near a crackling fire. A traveling writing desk and sheets of paper waited for the application of his gold quill. On the rough-hewn table, a tiny engraved silver ink pot sat uncapped.
Clyde turned and peered over at me, sneered and gripped his quill firmer. A young pretty lady came to mind. Someone he loved. His daughter, Jessica who’d recently married and relocated to Sydney. A slight unsettling anger told me daddy didn’t like her clergyman husband. Considered him beneath the Jones family name. Then, he turned back to me and shook his fist.
My body tensed, and my mouth turned into the Sahara. Holy crap. He could see or feel my presence. Time to dash or flash out. I pulled everything I possessed in dimensional strength and sucked my body out of the room fast. The two times shimmered, head spinning from my speedy exit, breath hitching, I closed the link in a blur of ether that should leave skid marks in my thong. In trembling hands, I refolded the letter and slid it into its aged speckled fragile envelope.
I needed alcohol.
Viggo flashed to my side. He ran his gaze over me, sneered at Tyreal then looked at the letters and journals spread over the table. “Clyde?”
I gave him a faint, hopefully unseen by Tyreal, nod. Vig sighed and looked at the seat beside me which was pushed into the table. I casually pulled the chair back as if it was in my way, and Vig dropped into the seat.
Tyreal touched my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, great.” If I told myself that enough I’d almost believe it.
“So did it tell you anything?”
Well, Clyde can see me, and he doesn’t like it. “He didn’t like his daughter’s husband. Otherwise, I found nothing.” Which meant, much to my increasing horror, I’d have to read and face more of Clyde.
“Mind if I read the letter’s contents?”
Using a freshly red painted fingernail, I pushed it over to him. “Go ahead.”
I continued reading. Vig leaned back with one arm looped over the back of my chair. He kept a keen gaze on Tyreal, but that was nothing new. Vig never liked men around me. But this one was safe. I wasn’t going to have sex with Tyreal.
In each letter, I found nothing more than love and concern for his daughter, and in each letter I faced his cold time-penetrating eyes of hatred.
At the end, I sucked on the bitter truth that I found nothing about the Rembrandt and that I had to find bowling ball sized nuts to read the journals. I glowered at the aged books with loathing. If it wasn’t with the hope I’d one day be able to help more animals, I wouldn’t continue. It freaked me out Clyde could either sense or see me, I didn’t know how far that two way connection could go, and didn’t fancy finding the answer.
I closed the final letter and pushed it away. Tyreal headed for the kitchen and dug around for the ingredients of our promised meal.
I selected a journal from the pile. The tang of chopped onion wafted into the room.
Hand resting on the open journal, I blended ether until I gazed around the inside of a small cabin or shack. A faded blue dress lay discarded on a three legged pine stool. Clyde, naked, pale skinned, and surprisingly well muscled thrust himself into someone from behind. Flesh slapping flesh, he rammed into the woman as if in punishment.
Disgusted and way beyond my personal boundaries, I tried to slam shut the connection. Something locked my mind in a steely grip, forcing me to stay. The muscles in my neck strained and cramped as I tried to turn my head to the side to look away, but my neck acted as if it were held in a vice. Trapped, I was trapped. My stomach feeling as if suddenly made of rock, plummeted into my pelvis. What the hell? Why was I being forced to watch Clyde have sex with a
Lost time unfolded to what appeared to be a hotel or a gentleman’s club. A brandy bottle sat alongside a half full tumbler and a top hat. Clyde, looking relaxed in a dark gray topcoat and tan leather gloves, sat near a crackling fire. A traveling writing desk and sheets of paper waited for the application of his gold quill. On the rough-hewn table, a tiny engraved silver ink pot sat uncapped.
Clyde turned and peered over at me, sneered and gripped his quill firmer. A young pretty lady came to mind. Someone he loved. His daughter, Jessica who’d recently married and relocated to Sydney. A slight unsettling anger told me daddy didn’t like her clergyman husband. Considered him beneath the Jones family name. Then, he turned back to me and shook his fist.
My body tensed, and my mouth turned into the Sahara. Holy crap. He could see or feel my presence. Time to dash or flash out. I pulled everything I possessed in dimensional strength and sucked my body out of the room fast. The two times shimmered, head spinning from my speedy exit, breath hitching, I closed the link in a blur of ether that should leave skid marks in my thong. In trembling hands, I refolded the letter and slid it into its aged speckled fragile envelope.
I needed alcohol.
Viggo flashed to my side. He ran his gaze over me, sneered at Tyreal then looked at the letters and journals spread over the table. “Clyde?”
I gave him a faint, hopefully unseen by Tyreal, nod. Vig sighed and looked at the seat beside me which was pushed into the table. I casually pulled the chair back as if it was in my way, and Vig dropped into the seat.
Tyreal touched my arm. “You okay?”
“Yeah, great.” If I told myself that enough I’d almost believe it.
“So did it tell you anything?”
Well, Clyde can see me, and he doesn’t like it. “He didn’t like his daughter’s husband. Otherwise, I found nothing.” Which meant, much to my increasing horror, I’d have to read and face more of Clyde.
“Mind if I read the letter’s contents?”
Using a freshly red painted fingernail, I pushed it over to him. “Go ahead.”
I continued reading. Vig leaned back with one arm looped over the back of my chair. He kept a keen gaze on Tyreal, but that was nothing new. Vig never liked men around me. But this one was safe. I wasn’t going to have sex with Tyreal.
In each letter, I found nothing more than love and concern for his daughter, and in each letter I faced his cold time-penetrating eyes of hatred.
At the end, I sucked on the bitter truth that I found nothing about the Rembrandt and that I had to find bowling ball sized nuts to read the journals. I glowered at the aged books with loathing. If it wasn’t with the hope I’d one day be able to help more animals, I wouldn’t continue. It freaked me out Clyde could either sense or see me, I didn’t know how far that two way connection could go, and didn’t fancy finding the answer.
I closed the final letter and pushed it away. Tyreal headed for the kitchen and dug around for the ingredients of our promised meal.
I selected a journal from the pile. The tang of chopped onion wafted into the room.
Hand resting on the open journal, I blended ether until I gazed around the inside of a small cabin or shack. A faded blue dress lay discarded on a three legged pine stool. Clyde, naked, pale skinned, and surprisingly well muscled thrust himself into someone from behind. Flesh slapping flesh, he rammed into the woman as if in punishment.
Disgusted and way beyond my personal boundaries, I tried to slam shut the connection. Something locked my mind in a steely grip, forcing me to stay. The muscles in my neck strained and cramped as I tried to turn my head to the side to look away, but my neck acted as if it were held in a vice. Trapped, I was trapped. My stomach feeling as if suddenly made of rock, plummeted into my pelvis. What the hell? Why was I being forced to watch Clyde have sex with a
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