In Your Dreams Read online

  In Your Dreams

  (Book II of the Afterlife Series)

  by

  Gina Ardito

  The following is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover Art by Elaina Lee of For The Muse Design

  Copyright © 2013 by Victoria Ardito

  All Rights Reserved

  No part of this book may be reproduced or stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form, whether by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without express written permission of the publisher.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Dedication

  For my son, Nick. I’ve watched you grow from a beautiful baby to a witty, caring man. I’m so proud of all you are and all you’ve yet to become. I love you. Be happy. Always remember to live, laugh, and love with all your heart!

  Prologue

  Sean Martino stared over the stark world of the Chasm and steeled against another round of shivers. The smoldering ash covered nearly a mile of this colorless land, and his orders specifically stated that he must not leave a single wisp behind. Not that he intended to be negligent in this last service to his dearest friends, Luc Asante and Jodie Devlin.

  Besides, the ashes glowed a stellar pink—not from heat, but pulses of leftover energy. And maybe, he hoped, from an excess of love. Had they known love before their destruction? God, he hoped so!

  Once all the ashes were gathered into the golden urn Sherman had pressed upon him before he started out, he rose with his precious burden. “Goodbye, my friends,” he murmured and tucked the urn beneath his arm.

  On a twinkle of light, Sean landed outside the auditorium where Sherman paced relentlessly. “You have them all?” the spirit guide asked. “Every ash?”

  “Of course,” Sean replied. “I said I’d get every one.” He’d have to be blind to miss one, no matter how miniscule. “Trust me. I got every one.”

  Sherman’s cheeks flushed rusty. “Sorry. I just can’t bear the thought of any single part of Luc or Jodie lingering in that hellish place.”

  Yeah, he understood perfectly. The same misery trickled through him like a slow and scalding poison. Drip, hiss, drip, hiss, drip, hiss…

  “Come this way.” Sherman beckoned to the auditorium doors. “Bring the urn.”

  As usual, the doors swished open on their approach, and Sean strode down the long aisle alone. Some things never changed. The Council of Elders sat at their places on the dais. “Come, Mr. Martino. Bring their remains to us.”

  Their remains. The idea flipped his stomach. How could they be gone? Unfortunately, his mouth moved ahead of his brain. “They were already dead. How could they die again?”

  A dark-haired woman in a snow white toga floated forward, hands outstretched for the urn. “Luc and Jodie did not die again. They spontaneously combusted, Mr. Martino.”

  “Semantics,” Sean retorted. “They’re still gone.”

  “We warned them both on many occasions.” Taking the urn, she turned back to the dais. “You may go now, Mr. Martino.”

  Goddamn it, he hated these Elders! “Yeah, great,” he growled. “You’re welcome.”

  Chapter 1

  Sometimes, being dead was a real drag.

  From backstage inside the defunct Bowl of Cherries Nightclub, Sean Martino waited, emotionless, while his current bounty threw a hissy fit. Harris Walcott, aka Mercedes Bends, had a major league flair for the dramatic. Then again, female impersonators weren’t exactly known for maintaining a low profile.

  Harris, dressed in a fire-engine-red sequined evening gown, stomped his size 12 Lucite-heeled sandals on the dusty floorboards. Despite his furious tantrum, and no matter how hard he pounded his hammy fists, not a single dust mote danced in the still air. Dead men (and/or women) made no impact on Earth.

  After several minutes, the storm dissipated to a few sniffly tears. And then, at last, acceptance overcame self-pity. On a sigh heavy with defeat, Harris osmosed through the cobwebs shrouding the rafters and came to land where Sean stood.

  “I was really good, you know.” Harris shook his head, but his heavily Aqua Netted pageboy haircut, black and sleek as a crow’s wing, remained plastered in place.

  “I know,” Sean replied solemnly.

  The entertainer’s second sigh infused the musty air with regret. “I never hit the Big Time.”

  Despite a burgeoning talent that included perfect renditions of classics by Liza Minelli, Judy Garland, and a soulful variation of Aretha Franklin known to bring audiences to tears, Harris had been struck down by a hit-and-run in 1998—two days before a Hollywood agent had an appointment to take in the transvestite’s show. Thus, no one outside the downtown club circuit ever got the opportunity to “discover” this versatile performer.

  “And I’m sorry about that,” Sean said.

  At one time, he might have actually meant his words of sympathy for Harris Walcott’s plight. The heavier a spirit’s burden, the more energy a bounty hunter depleted when transporting that morose spirit to Ghoul Central for his/her reprocessing. To alleviate some of that extra weight, Sean might have gone out of his way to instill some sense of peace in the troubled phantom.

  But that was before the loss of Luc and Jodie.

  Once—a lifetime ago, maybe more—Sean thought he served a greater purpose for the Afterlife. He believed the insight gained by retrieving these unfortunate souls taught him something about his own shortcomings. Perhaps, by helping miserable souls on Earth, he’d come to terms with the demons that had driven him to suicide in his life. Although, technically, he knew what had driven him to suicide. A young man, high on PCP, who’d waved a toy gun at him—a toy gun that in the darkness of that alley in Bedford-Stuyvesant had looked too real for Sean to take a chance. But the truth had been his undoing, and despite assurances from his C.O. and even I.A.B. that his actions were justifiable, Sean couldn’t live with the guilt. He put his service revolver in his mouth and sought peace from the demons that refused to be silent.

  When he’d reached the Afterlife, he’d hoped for a second chance, an opportunity to come to terms with his pathetic past so that he might achieve his own advancement to the next realm.

  Until that dismal journey to the Chasm. The memory of what he’d seen there crept into his thoughts like a chill fog in a graveyard. Bits of astral dust, all that remained of two extraordinary bounty hunters, glittered over a stark taupe landscape. Fetid wind howled mournfully, empathizing with his misery and scattering the last few pieces of Luc and Jodie across the bleak canvas.

  Such an ignoble end for his dearest friends. And no one, except Sean himself, railed against the injustice of it all.

  Second nature now, fury rose inside Sean. Beneath a frustrated growl, he swallowed his bitterness and returned his attention to his latest quarry. “Maybe you’ll hit the Big Time in your next life.”

  Spiky black lashes dotted with silver sparkles fluttered against strawberry-rouged cheeks. “Do you think so?”

  No. But as a former NYPD detective, Sean was an e
xpert at hiding his real thoughts. He forced a confident air, complete with shit-eating grin and wide-spread arms. “Absolutely! The next time around, Harris—”

  “Mercedes,” the drag queen corrected with a sniff drenched in disdain. “I prefer to use my stage name at all times.”

  “Well, next time around, Mercedes, life will be different for you. I promise.”

  Different time, different place, different name…

  Plenty of differences there to make the statement fact. Besides, once he got to his new life, Harris wouldn’t even remember Mercedes. Or anything else about this dingy theater, his glitzy nights on stage, or the mysterious gray car that had careened out of the darkness to end his dreams in one painful collision.

  Maintaining his sideshow barker veneer, Sean held out a hand. “If you’re ready to go, take my arm. I’ll do the rest.”

  ~~~~

  With one final spin of electrical cyclonic energy, Sean touched down and guided Mercedes to a stop beside him. As always, the Welcome Level of the Afterlife roared with activity. New spirits, garbed in their lavender togas, lined up inside the velvet-roped queue that snaked around in front of the long white marble Reception Desk. Busy clerks behind the desk processed the incoming spirits with assembly-line speed. The occasional staccato call of “Next!” resounded like gunfire in the cavernous marble lobby.

  Amethyst crystals, suspended from the sky-high ceiling on silver filaments, winked with light. Water splashed into fountains shaped like unicorns, angels, and winged horses, saturating the vanilla-scented air with spring mist.

  Like the local yokel experiencing the big city for the first time, Mercedes Bends gaped and gawked, craning his neck to look up, down, around the porcelain statues, past the throng of dazed newcomers, up to the numerous floors towering hundreds of stories overhead. “Oh, my.”

  Yeah, yeah. Sean, long accustomed to the hustle and bustle here, simply pulled the man…woman…bounty along. “Come on. This way.”

  One hand clutching the bounty’s arm, he meandered around the lost sheep waiting to be processed, but stopped dead when he caught sight of a familiar profile among the newcomers. The kid. He stiffened. It couldn’t be. Coincidence, right? Yet, that hawk nose, strong chin, slender build, and screw-you-attitude all matched up. He’d have to get a closer look, see the guy straight on, rather than from the back, to be sure.

  “Sean!” The Afterlife’s top spirit guide, Sherman, strode forward, ivory hair flowing behind him as if he posed for the cover of a romance novel. He wore his usual white suit with gold braid embellishing the padded shoulders. His ever-present clipboard sat snugly tucked beneath one armpit. Expectancy glowed in the ageless geezer’s marble eyes.

  “Sherman,” Sean greeted him with a terse nod, gaze still glued to that unique buzz cut and pimpled neck in the crowd.

  “Splendid to see you’ve returned from your hunt, successful again,” Sherman enthused.

  “Uh-huh.” All he wanted now was to hand over the goods so he could catch up with the kid on line. Was it him? Really? He was too far away to be one hundred percent sure. Sweat broke out on his palms, and a high-pitched buzz filled his head.

  Apparently unaware of Sean’s discomfort, Sherman addressed Harris…Mercedes. “Ms. Bends, I’m delighted to make your acquaintance. My name is Sherman, and I’m here to assist you with your transition. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay with us more comfortable, please do not hesitate to ask.”

  Sean shook off his distraction to pay attention to the discussion in front of him. What a load of crap. In some other life, Sherman must have been a hotel manager or concierge. He played the part perfectly.

  Harris, like most other newcomers, fell for the act, clasping the offered hand as if it were a life line. “Thank you,” he replied on a whoosh of drama-laden breath. His gaze dropped to his platform sandals, and his voice lowered to a mere whisper. “Should I be frightened? I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.”

  Sherman’s boisterous laughter drew several curious stares from the milling crowds. “You’re not supposed to know, my friend. If you did, I’d be out of a job.”

  Yuck, yuck, yuck. The humor in this place made the Three Stooges look like comedic geniuses.

  Sherman cleared his throat, and the gawkers went back to staring blankly ahead. Patting the manicured hand in his grasp, the spirit guide added, “There is absolutely nothing to be afraid of here, Mercedes. You’re about to discover the peace that eluded you on Earth.”

  Lucky bastard. Sean wouldn’t recognize peace if it slapped him across both cheeks. With his anger mounting, he itched to get to that queue and see the dead kid’s face. Maybe talk to him. Apologize. “If you’ll excuse me,” he said with a nod.

  Before he could spin away, Sherman’s voice stopped him cold. “Sean, I have some news for you, as well. The Elder Council has agreed to meet with you. If you’ll follow Mercedes and me, I’ll let them know you’re available now.”

  Well, well. About damn time. Sean had pestered Sherman for an interview four bounties ago. But of course, the Elder Council had their own concept of time versus need. And naturally, they chose a time when Sean was fresh off a hunt. Knowing that bounty hunters depleted all stores of energy in traveling to and from Earth, they must have planned to catch him at his weakest, in the hopes he’d be too exhausted to argue. Fat chance. He’d call up extra power from any source in the area, including the energy of the crowded room, to make his case.

  Focusing on the frantic clerks behind the counter, he amassed excess static from their frenetic movements, from their keyboards, and from the air crackling around the harried space. Energy sparked inside his core, snapping his synapses into a moderate speed.

  Semi-rejuvenated, he leveled a withering glance at the spirit guide. “I know the way, Sherman.” Straightening his spine, he strode with determined steps toward the auditorium where the sages of the Afterlife held their meetings with residents and newcomers.

  Sean didn’t know where the Council of Elders came from originally or how they’d achieved their wise status. Since the sorry episode at the Chasm, any respect he’d once reserved for the dozen members had evaporated, turned to dust.

  Like Luc and Jodie.

  Hands fisted at his sides, he made his way up the aisle to the dais where the council of six women and six men sat in assembly. As he drew nearer, a woman, garbed in a nineteenth century style gown of robin’s egg blue, rose from her seat at the dais and came toward him. The lights dimmed, and the rest of the spirits dissolved away in a cloud of purple mist.

  Only Verity remained. Verity, his personal counselor. He’d chosen her at his first meeting here, shortly after his suicide. To some, she might have seemed an odd choice for a hard-bitten New York City police officer.

  Verity was lovely in face and form, with rich red hair framing a soft, oval face and eyes the color of Granny Smith apples. Her profile reminded Sean of a cameo pin his mother used to wear. With that memory lingering in his still-numb senses, he’d connected immediately to its embodiment. And until recently, he’d believed opting to work with Verity had been a wise decision.

  She stopped before him, her usually flawless face creased with worry lines. “Sean,” she murmured in her maternal tones.

  “Verity,” he replied, his tone all black rock and chipped ice. “I thought I saw the kid in the crowd outside. Did I?”

  “The crowd outside has no bearing on our discussion today,” she answered—which was no answer at all. Worse, as she spoke, the auditorium melted away, replaced with a scene indicative of the kitchen in his childhood home.

  The bastards did this on purpose: surrounding their subjects with the familiar. They claimed the setting was to put the recently departed at ease, but Sean suspected an ulterior motive. At least in his case. Out of respect, he would never raise his voice or misbehave in his mother’s kitchen—even if the kitchen wasn’t real but a facsimile created by the Afterlife’s Council of Elders to cow him into submission. Talk
about a Catch-22. He despised them for manipulating him while allowing them to manipulate him.

  To hell with Verity and the rest of them. Just because they provided the furniture didn’t mean he had to sit at the Formica dinette table. He was an adult, dammit—not a five-year-old, scared that Mommy might get mad. Besides, his suicide had disappointed his mother far worse than any trouble he could possibly cause in the Afterlife.

  “You’ve asked to speak with us?” Verity asked as she took the seat at the right end of the table—traditionally, his mother’s seat.

  Shifting his weight to one hip, Sean folded his arms over his chest. “You know why, Verity.”

  “Yes, I know. And I believe we have a solution for your quandary.”

  “Quandary? Is that what you call the destruction of two souls? A quandary?”

  Her finger wagged in his face, the ultimate chastisement. “Do not use that tone with me, Sean Martino. My position in this realm makes me worthy of far more than your rudeness.”

  “Oh, you bet you deserve more,” Sean snapped. “You deserve to roast in hell. Or since hell doesn’t really exist, you should be sentenced to the same fate you placed upon Luc Asante and Jodie Devlin.”

  Verity’s deep sigh neutralized the charged air as she shook her head. “Their story is no longer our worry. Yours, however, is. And the Board is concerned about your welfare.”

  “Terrific.” He made the term sound more fearful than a death sentence. In his opinion, any interference the enigmatic Board and its Council offered could bode no good for him.

  “Sit, please. I don’t appreciate having to crane my neck to look up at you.”

  Grudgingly, he sank into the chair directly across from her, the seat he’d always had at his mother’s table.

  “You haven’t been yourself lately,” Verity continued. “You’ve become impatient, surly, and distracted. Therefore, the Board has decided to reassign you.”