Free Into the Light by Sommer Marsden Page A

certain they share one brain between the two of them. Missy is a romance writer by day, a ghost hunter when she gets the call. She claims it gives her plenty of romantic, tragic material to work with in her novels. She sells quite a few of them, too. Looking at her mousy exterior, it's hard to believe she writes some of the steamiest novels I've read. The group was complete with Liz. Liz is our gal Friday. Hot coffee, cigarettes, new batteries, extension cords—you name it, she fetches it.
    I put out a silent prayer to my companion angels to whisper in Liz's ear to bring me hot coffee. It probably wouldn't happen. That falls under the heading of personal gain, and that, in the spiritual world, is a no-no. Getting paid for what I do is pushing the boundaries, but acceptable as long as I'm fair and reasonable with the folks I work with.
    My worst payment ever consisted of twenty dollars and a hand-knitted afghan. The woman who gave it to me needed me to release several confused yet harmless spirits in her house. I did the job and hugged her after she paid me. That afghan is damn warm, too.
    "Here they come” Trip stubbed out his cigarette and zipped his jacket. “Looks like Lizzie brought fresh brew."
    I mouthed a silent ‘Thank you,’ and heard a faint tinkling in my left ear. That's the angels signaling that I'm not alone. I'm hardly ever alone. I'm used to it now.
    "Gang's all here!” Mikey hopped from foot to foot on the shattered concrete. “What're we looking at, Trip? Spill it fast, ‘cause I'm freezing my balls off."
    Liz gave him a stern look for his language and passed out scalding hot cups of coffee.
    "Bless you, Liz. I was dying. I need a caffeine fix.” I took a sip and burned my tongue. After a curse, I took another.
    "Let it cool,” Liz scolded. Always the mother hen. She does daycare on the side to supplement her meager Seekers’ income.
    "Screw it. I just need the jolt. Doesn't matter if I taste it."
    "Listen up, ladies” Trip's breath feathered out in white plumes. “The current owner, Mr. David Richards, says he's heard women laughing. No women currently live with Mr. Richards. On more than one occasion he's also smelled pipe smoke. He's not a smoker. At night, when he sleeps, the furniture is rearranged to resembles the original owner's layout. He found a box of photos in the basement furnace room this week. Needless to say, he's unsettled. Not necessarily scared, but wary."
    "That's not too bad,” Mikey said. “No ectoplasm, flying furniture, or otherworldly booby traps this time. We're dealing with an afterlife Martha Stewart."
    This earned him a giggle and blush from Missy. Missy wants to get in Mikey's pants so bad it's sick. The sad part is I'm an empath. I pick up on people's emotions. It's such a strong gift that if I'm not careful, I can mistake them for my own.
    A surge of excitement blossomed in my belly and a quick zing of arousal shot through my groin. I was picking up on Missy's feelings.
    I said a quick prayer and closed my eyes. Imagined myself surrounded by bright white light, and blocked her out. Once I got in the house I'd have to shut the defenses down. For the time being, it would keep me from dry-humping Mikey on Missy's behalf.
    "You okay?” Trip asked. His bright blue eyes looked tired and glassy. The fatigue didn't stop them from being gorgeous.
    Picture perfect recollection flooded my brain. I saw in perfect detail our last steamy night together. Those blue eyes looking so serious as he thrust into me. For a moment, I felt his mouth on my nipple, his hands holding my hips firmly. The grand finale had taken place on the sturdy butcher block in my kitchen. I felt a flare of arousal all my own and pushed it away. Bright lights wouldn't fix this one. I owned these feelings.
    "I'm fine. Just cold, tired, and ready to get moving."
    He nodded. “Good. Let's go then. Everybody have what they need?"
    The great part about being the psychic in the mix is that I don't have to lug