Page 3 of Tall, Dark and Haunted

Chapter Two

Rhiannon

Iopenmyeyes and find myself in Margam Castle. The same one I’m named after. In Wales. Which makes some sort of twisted sense, I guess, since it’s supposedly haunted… and I’m most definitely a ghost.

Floating on my back, I stare up at the ornate ceiling. Purple magic explodes around me. It feels as if the whole world is shaking, and I let out a shriek as another ghost suddenly comes into view and peers down at me.

“Why, hello there,” he says with a musical Welsh accent.

I’m too stunned to reply.

“This is new,” he adds absently as he takes me in. “I wonder if it’s an earthquake. It’s a bit odd. This is Wales, not San Francisco.”

Earthquake? What is he talking about? This isn’t like any earthquake I’ve ever experienced. Can’t he see the weird sparks of magic ricocheting around us? Although, he doesn’t seem to have eyes for anything but me, so maybe not.

He stares down at me with the most beautiful pair of eyes I’ve ever seen. I think they’re blue, though it’s a little hard to tell when they’re so pale. I get lost in their cloudy depths as I breathe in his delicious deer shifter scent. And for a second, I forget everything else.

I forget that I’m dead. I forget that I’m a ghost. I forget that there seems to be some sort of magical earthquake happening. I even somehow manage to forget that I’m naked! But when that particular realization hits, a scream erupts from my lungs, and I scramble to sit up. Which is all sorts of confusing in ghost form. I just roll head over heels a few times before I end up right where I started.

With another shriek, I wrap one hand around my uneven boobs and the other around my hoo-ha—my still drenched hoo-ha, and I definitely don’t mean drenched in a good way. Because apparently if you die soaking wet, you stay that way… possibly forever.

I whimper.

The magical earthquake—or whatever the fuck is going on—stops and the handsome ghost gives me a very pointed once-over.

I flush.

He’s hands-over-boobs one of the hottest men I’ve ever seen. He’s built, with a somewhat bulky frame—all strong and toned and muscled in all the right places. His hair is a dirty blond, and he’s also got an arrogant but oh-so-hot smirk on his perfectly chiseled face. He even somehow manages to make his obscenely large top hat and mustache look good.

Why does he have a top hat and mustache? I don’t think anyone’s worn those in this century… and probably not in the last century, either. It’s weird, but somehow there’s still something magnetic about him.

Then again, who am I to judge his dress sense? Not because I’m drenched and naked. Because I go to art school! I’m the queen of abnormal fashion choices. My hair has yellow, green, purple, and pink in it—or it used to before I became semi-translucent. Right now, it looks like the heavens are punishing me, and someone took away all the good paint.

The other ghost doesn’t seem to mind. His checkerboard beige trousers are forming a rather large tent… which he doesn’t bother to hide as he takes me in.

Suddenly, a second ghost steps into view in the open doorway. His bunny shifter scent is just as sweet as the first ghost’s deer. His dulled orange trousers—who wears orange trousers?—are stretching over a pretty impressive bulge as well. He’s wearing a slightly less obscene top hat and a gray-blue bowtie, so the only thing he’s really missing is a pocket watch. It reminds me of Alice in Wonderland, which makes me think of Alice—who’s probably telling all sorts of lies to the reporters—which makes me seethe.

But a few more seconds of taking in the bunny shifter ghost, and I forget all about her. The man in front of me is just as attractive as his friend. His hair is darker—a lovely chocolate-brown that almost perfectly matches his warm chestnut-colored eyes, though both are muted and ghostly. And he looks just as well-built with his yummy broad shoulders and strong frame.

I guess death might not be so bad if there’s eye candy like these two around.

“Was that a magical earthquake?” he asks, floating into the room. He also sounds Welsh, and his voice rumbles through me and sends shivers down my spine. Or maybe I’m shivering because I’m still cold, still wet, and still very, very, naked.

His eyes widen as he finds me floating slightly above the floor. “Cover her with a shirt, Topher!” he cries.

“How do you suggest I do that, Davydd?” Topher rolls his eyes and doesn’t budge.

Yup, I’m definitely back in Wales, if one of the ghosts is called Davydd. It’s not the sort of name you often hear outside of Wales, and when you do, it’s rarely pronounced correctly. Dav-idh, instead of Day-vid.

“Did you see the sparks? Should we be concerned?” A third ghost floats down the stairs and, seeing me, tries to avert his gaze. “Turn around and give her some privacy!”

His voice is soft yet stern, and also Welsh. He gestures at me with his own top hat—a beastly silver thing which seems to be stuck like glue to his open hand. If you ask me, that’s a good thing, seeing as how it clashes awfully with his muted red hair. His outfit is just as unfortunate as his friends’—a faded red waistcoat and pale purple trousers that stretch over his bulge—and his beautiful face is practically disfigured by the longest sideburns I’ve ever seen.

His scent tells me he’s a bird shifter of some sort. Is his red waistcoat a clue? Perhaps he’s a cardinal… or a red-breasted robin. And why does everything have to remind me of my lopsided breasts?!

All three men spin around, so their backs are to me, which doesn’t magically make me any less naked. But hey, at least they’re no longer staring.

“Being a ghost is hell,” I mutter. “Wait, am I in hell?”