Hiya!
I’m here as Holly today. A few days ago, To Kill a Ghost was released. It’s the third and last story in the House of Horrors series.
I really like this world, but it’s time to allow our psychics and vampires to go on their merry way.
In this one, we get Zidane and Arawn’s story. One is a vampire who’s spent a few months staked in a basement, and the other is harassed by ghosts and has just realized that if he touches a vampire, the ghost can’t reach him. The problem is he doesn’t want to be around vampires, so lucky for him, there is one hidden in the basement who can’t move or talk.
There is a new couple in every book – Rufus the Dead, The Death God, and To Kill a Ghost – but I strongly suggest reading them in order since there is an overlapping arc. The focus is on the couple, but it might get a little confusing if they’re read out of order.
Read the first chapter below!
To Kill a Ghost
Who knew vampires were ghost repellent?
Arawn Sage has a ghost problem. The warden of the facility where he once was held captive has come back to haunt him, and Arawn has no idea what to do about it. There is no way to keep a ghost out, and the warden is preventing Arawn from sleeping while trying to persuade him to do things he doesn’t want to do. It isn’t until he accidentally touches a vampire and the ghost momentarily disappears, he feels a sliver of hope. Maybe there is a way out of this torture.
Zidane Dodd has been staked in the basement of a castle for close to a year. He can’t move. He can’t breathe. He can’t talk. And he’s bored out of his mind. But one night, Arawn comes down there to hold his hand. He can’t feel it, but since he has nothing better to do, he doesn’t mind playing safety blanket for a scared little ghost whisperer.
There has to be a way to get rid of a ghost. Arawn has no idea how, but he can’t walk around touching vampires whenever he needs a break, can he?
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Paranormal gay romance: 58,349 words
Chapter 1
Arawn Sage tiptoed down the first three steps of the basement stairs before he stopped to listen. He’d been in the castle for seven months now, and he wished he could enjoy it. He’d spent years, all his life, dreaming about being free.
Now he was. Only… he didn’t feel free.
“Where are you going? Planning to hang yourself in the basement?”
No, he wasn’t planning to hang himself in the basement. The light of his phone slid over the steps. He did his best to ignore the specter, spirit, ghost, wraith, phantom, or whatever term was the correct one, and stepped down another step.
“You need to take the others back to the facility before you off yourself. You always were useless, but your life would be worth something if you did the right thing now.”
Arawn took another step. It was hard to listen for sounds when there was a ghost blabbering by his side.
There were other ghosts in the castle. He’s seen a few, but he didn’t go looking for them, and should he happen upon one, he pretended he couldn’t see them. He was exhausted. This particular ghost didn’t leave him be, and if he somehow managed to fall asleep despite the constant prattling, he touched him. The moment he dropped off, an icy caress woke him. Sometimes his nightmares beat the ghost to it.
It was the reason he was tiptoeing down the basement stairs at three in the morning—not the nightmares, but the talkative ghost. The warden. The person he’d feared the most growing up and well into his twenties. A nightmare come to life, only now he was dead, and he was still here.
He’d found Arawn a few weeks ago, and since then, he hadn’t managed to get any rest.
Arawn had yet to tell anyone he was here. He should. He knew he should, but he hardly spoke to anyone, and other than having told them he couldn’t conjure spirits, they hadn’t talked about his skill.
Hour upon hour of listening to the warden demanding he hand Prophecy, Minerva, and Thanatos back to the facility was doing his head in. Driving him insane. Preventing him from sleeping.
His eyes prickled, and all he wanted to do was cry. And sleep.
He’d cried a few times when he couldn’t take it anymore, but it changed nothing except then the warden taunted him instead of saying the things he normally did.
He didn’t leave Arawn alone in the shower, but it was where he allowed his tears to flow.
Useless. He was useless, and he was tired. So, so tired. The droning of the warden’s voice was drilling holes in his brain.
The warden didn’t care about him, he didn’t care about Jaki, and Arawn was unsure if he was aware Kratos and Himeros lived in the castle. He didn’t pay them any attention. They’d never lived at the facility, so it might be he had no clue they were psychics or seers or whatever they were called.
Arawn had spent his entire childhood, teens, and about half of his twenties in the facility. In the green wing. Jaki, Minerva, Prophecy, and Thanatos had been in the blue wing, though he hadn’t had a clue about them while he lived there.
A little over seven years ago, he’d been moved to the black group, and the warden had informed him it was his last chance to be useful.
He hadn’t been.
The warden had been switched for the superintendent, a strict woman with eyes so sharp they made him shudder. She was dead now, the werewolves had killed her, and luckily, she hadn’t come to haunt him. Yet. He wasn’t sure what made one spirit stay and another move on.
He slowly made his way down the stairs, doing his best to ignore the warden as he harped on about how useless Arawn was.
A couple of weeks ago, he’d collided with Gregory in the doorway to the kitchen, and Gregory had grabbed his shoulders. Normally, no one touched anyone in this house. Or it wasn’t true. Rufus and Jaki were mated, as were Gregory and Thanatos, so they touched. Minerva and Prophecy also touched, but no one touched anyone who wasn’t their boyfriend or girlfriend.
Gregory had, accidentally, and he had apologized when Arawn had whimpered and thrown his arms up to shield his face from a blow. No blow came, but there had been a moment when Gregory’s thumb had rested against his skin above the collar of his shirt. During the brief contact, the ghosts had gone away.
The moment Gregory removed his hand, they’d been back.
Were vampires ghost repellent?
They weren’t on their own. There was the ghost of a tall, caramel-skinned woman with braids hanging down her back who often visited Rufus and Gregory. He hadn’t let on he saw her, but sometimes she reached out as if to touch one of them, only to hover with her hand over their arm or something similar. So vampires weren’t ghost repellent on their own, but maybe the combination of Arawn and a vampire was.
It was worth testing.
He’d never met a vampire before Gregory got him out of the cabin where he’d been kept with Moneta, Penthus, Aletheia, and Himeros. It had been chaotic. A pack of wolves had crashed in through every possible entry, and Arawn had done his best to stay out of the way while the others had fought them.
He’d seen Gregory then. Deadly, but oh so handsome. Scary.
Then they’d been taken to the castle, and there was Rufus, a far less handsome vampire with flaming red hair and scars over half his face. Arawn liked Rufus. A lot. He didn’t speak to him often, but Rufus was calm and collected, and he was kind to Jaki, his mate. Arawn watched them sometimes when they were in the same room. It was interesting to see the looks they exchanged, the small touches, the way Rufus always made sure Jaki ate and served him before he served himself, and so on.
Arawn had never seen anything like it. Jaki had been in the facility. He’d gone through what Arawn had gone through, and still he had managed to move on.
Arawn didn’t think he ever would. It had been over seven years since he’d last had to endure a private session in the bowels of the house of horror—they had an apt name for it here—but he still didn’t do touch. Or being alone in a room with another person.
Which was why this was fucking terrifying.
He crept along the corridor, the light of the flashlight on his phone shaking slightly. The stone walls did nothing to shield him from the January cold, and he shivered.
When they’d been settled in the castle for maybe a week, Rufus and Gregory had set them down in the kitchen and explained there was a vampire in the basement, and they were not to remove the stake in his chest.
Another shiver took hold of his body. A fucking stake.
They’d said they were free to visit him, Zidane, and he could understand everything they said, but couldn’t reply. He couldn’t move at all, but if they opened his eyes and stood in his line of sight, he’d see them.
Arawn hadn’t gone down here. He didn’t want to see a staked vampire.
But if vampires were ghost repellent, then maybe a paralyzed vampire was the best vampire to hang out with? He blew out a breath.
“What’s this?” The warden glared into the room, then something changed in his expression, and he turned to grin at Arawn. “Good boy.”
Arawn stared at him. “What?” Fuck, he’d promised himself he wouldn’t speak to him. He hadn’t uttered a single word during the weeks he’d been here.
The warden smiled. “You’re gonna release him. He’ll take you all back to the facility. I know this vampire. We had a deal. Or I had a deal with his master. She’ll do the right thing, I’m sure.”
Arawn stood frozen. No one had told him why Zidane was staked in the basement, only that he was, and he was not to be released. If he’d come here for Jaki, Thanatos, Minerva, or Prophecy, it would explain why Rufus and Gregory didn’t want him around—or maybe not Prophecy. He didn’t think they cared about Prophecy much.
But wouldn’t they have killed Zidane if that was the case?
“I’m not releasing him.”
“Of course, you are.” The warden straightened his back and glared at him. He was about a head taller than Arawn and broader, but he wasn’t as frightening as he’d been when he was alive. He could talk until Arawn lost his ability to think, but he couldn’t touch him. Or he could, but all it did was create a cold sensation. It wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t dangerous.
He blew out a breath, strode into the room, and took in the shape of a man in the dark. He was stretched out on a table, but Arawn aimed the light on the floor, not wanting to see. His heart was racing in his chest, but he neared the table. Shit, this was creepy.
“Eh… hello, Zidane. Sorry to bother you at this hour.” He winced. Did Zidane know what time it was?
“I’m… eh… gonna touch you. Sorry.”
“No!” The warden rushed him, a chill blowing through Arawn’s soul as he tried to push Arawn away from the table, then Arawn slipped his hand into Zidane’s, and he was gone.
Arawn let out a shuddering breath. “Oh fuck.” He yanked his hand away, and the warden was back.
“Remove the stake, foolish boy.” Fury contorted his features.
“I’m sorry.” His mumble was barely audible, but he hoped Zidane would forgive the touch. It must be terrifying to be this vulnerable and have someone touch him when he couldn’t move away. Arawn hesitated, but as the warden kept hurling slurs at him, he slipped his hand into Zidane’s, and peace settled.
He whined. He didn’t want to touch anyone, didn’t want anyone to touch him, but as the silence held, a sob wanted to climb his throat.
Peace.
* * * *
Zidane Dodd didn’t know who was in the room with him. It wasn’t a voice he recognized. He believed he’d been here for about nine months, but he wasn’t sure. At times, someone said what day it was, but it wasn’t something people often dropped in conversations with a staked person.
In the beginning, he’d been furious. Now he was bored. He’d been staked before, had spent two years in a coffin only a decade ago. No one had come to see him then. He’d been alone in his head, and not talking to a single person for two years drove you crazy.
He’d imagined voices.
Then Iris had come by, and in exchange for his loyalty, she’d gotten him out. He might not have liked Iris, but working for her beat being trapped in the dark.
She was dead now, and he couldn’t find it in himself to care. He wished it hadn’t resulted in him being here, but as mentioned, he’d been staked before, and this time around it wasn’t too bad.
It was bad enough.
He wanted someone to pull the fucking stake out.
He needed to feed. He wanted a shower. He wanted to change clothes. He wanted to be able to go wherever he wanted to go. But after a few months of people coming here to talk to him, he was invested in their lives. Not invested emotionally, but it was like watching a soap opera, though he couldn’t see, he only listened to their words.
Rufus and Gregory opened and closed his eyes for him. It was a nice gesture. He’d never been close to either of them, had in fact done some pretty shitty things to fuck Rufus’ life up, but they were… He wouldn’t be caught publicly calling them decent, but as far as jailers went, they were the best he’d had.
“Oh, God.” The low mumble made Zidane want to turn his head and look at the man. He couldn’t, of course. Who was he? And maybe more importantly, what was he doing? His body wasn’t moving as if he was being pushed, so he didn’t think he was doing anything too bad. Though he could’ve slit his wrists, and he wouldn’t have a clue.
“I’m sorry for doing this.”
Okay. He’d notice if he was being undressed—he wasn’t. Was he taking his blood? Cold filled his core. Rufus had almost given his blood to Thanatos, and he’d screamed his protest in his mind, but then Gregory had stormed in and taken over.
Judging by the sounds, Zidane believed he’d not only given his blood to Thanatos but bonded with him as well. Stupid fucker. Zidane would never bond with anyone—he was almost over the foolish dreams of finding someone to share his life with. And should he ever find someone, it wouldn’t be a psychic. They were as fragile as humans. They were humans, only they could do things with their abilities humans couldn’t.
Fuck, what if this stranger was bonding with him without his consent and then went and got himself killed? Fear clawed at him, but he tried to calm his panicky brain enough to feel if a bond was forming, but no, he didn’t think so. The stranger wasn’t drinking his blood. He was almost convinced. And he’d know if he was fed some, right? Yes, he was almost sure.
So what was he doing?
Silence stretched and held. Several minutes went by, and all the man did was breathe.
He wanted to ask questions. Most often, when someone came to see him, they’d talk. Gregory would be rude, but Zidane had come to enjoy it. As the months had gone by, the anger had simmered down in both of them, and the insults were now more habit than anything else.
Rufus talked about what happened in the world. Jaki didn’t say much, but since they’d only met twice before Zidane had been staked and neither of those times had gone well, he didn’t blame him. Minerva talked about Prophecy and the people in the castle. Thanatos talked recipes. At first, it had annoyed Zidane, but now he found it amusing.
This man, though. It could be Prophecy, but as far as Zidane was aware, he’d never come to visit him before. Then there were the new people. Kratos, Arawn, and a Greek-sounding name he never could remember. He was the one who’d fucked things up with the wolves.
Zidane was surprised he was still alive. Had someone tried to trick him into a mating, he’d have slaughtered them.
He hoped it wasn’t the guy who created lust who’d come to him. Was he horny? Yeah, but was he more horny than he’d been the last few months? He didn’t think so. It allowed him to relax a fraction, though the tension was only in his head.
Maybe the lust-god was making someone desire him and not the other way around. If he’d understood his skill correctly, he created a one-sided bond. Fuck, he hoped not. If someone came here to try to force mate him, he’d be royally pissed.
Rufus wouldn’t allow it, would he? He’d been forced into a mating. Zidane had been there, had been part of forcing him. He winced, though only in his mind. Shit, maybe Rufus would allow someone to bond with him. Payback was a bitch.
Icy fear curled around his heart. What if he’d be trapped here forever? If one of the psychics bonded with him, they’d get an extended life. If they kept him here, safe and sound, staked on the table, they could live for centuries.
Panic had him trying to move, but his body didn’t respond.
“Are there no chairs here?”
The low murmur silenced some of the terror in Zidane. Chairs? He tried to blow out a breath, but there was a stake in his chest, preventing him from breathing.
“I’ll be right back.”
Nothing changed apart from footsteps sounding on the stone floor. Then there was a scraping sound from somewhere outside the room. Shortly after, the man was back. He apologized again, but Zidane still had no clue what for. Then there was a little jostle, as if maybe he’d moved his arm.
Another few minutes went by, and the man’s breaths evened out. Had he fallen asleep sitting by the table?
Early on, Thanatos had come down here to nap. Zidane waited. Normally, it didn’t take long before the nightmares started.
If this man were the same, there would soon be jerking, whimpering, pleading, and shouting. Zidane hated to listen to Thanatos’ dreams. It made him feel guilty. He hadn’t done whatever had been done to the psychics, but he’d done nothing to prevent it either. If he hadn’t ended up staked, he’d have helped the warden bring his runaways back to the facility.
It was too late for regrets now, but he liked Thanatos, and he didn’t like knowing he’d played a key role in almost succeeding in bringing him back to the house of horrors.
Ofelia Grand 