Crimson Twilight.

A Krewe of Hunters Novella.

By Heather Graham.

On the Krewe of Hunters.

By Heather Graham.

I've always been fascinated by both history and stories that had elements that were eerie and made us wonder what truly goes on, what is the human soul-and is there life after death? When I was young, I devoured gothic novels and became a fan of Washington Irving, Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker's Dracula and Mary Sh.e.l.ley's Frankenstein.

And with years pa.s.sing-for some of us earlier in life and others later-we lose people. When we lose people, we have to believe that we'll see them again, that there is a Heaven or an afterlife. Sometimes, it's the only true comfort we have. I think it's a beautiful part of us-the love we can have for others. But it also allows for pain so deep it can't be endured unless we have that belief that we can and will meet again.

Having grown up with a Scottish father and an Irish mother, I naturally spent some time in church learning the Nicene Creed-in which we vow that we believe in the Holy Ghost.

I suppose people with very mathematical and scientific minds can easily explain away such things as "death" experiences shared by many who technically died on operating tables before being brought back. "Neurons snapping in the brain," is one explanation I've heard.

But I sadly lack a scientific brain and my math is pathetic, so I choose to believe that all things may be possible.

Have I ever sat down with a ghost myself? No.

But I have been many places where it's easy to imagine that the dead might linger. I've heard of many strange tales. And I love the chance that when a loved one needs to be soothed, when a right must be avenged, a ghost-or perhaps the strength and energy of the human soul-might remain.

Thus the Krewe.

Who better than an offshoot of a crime-fighting agency to help these wronged individuals-far too, well, dead, themselves-who wish to set the record straight?

I've had incredible chances myself to do wonderful things and while I haven't met a ghost, I have certainly been places where the very air around you feels different. Walking through the Tower of London, stepping into Westminster Cathedral-or standing at dusk on one of the hallowed fields of Gettysburg, you can easily feel seeped with history and the lives that went before us.

I've enjoyed working on the Krewe novels, setting them various places I've loved myself. Each year, a group of writers takes the Lizzie Borden house for a night. For promo, I've done a doc.u.mented seance at the House of the Seven Gables. I've been on expeditions with ghost "hunters" on the Queen Mary, the Spanish Military Hospital, the Myrtles Plantation, and many more wonderful locations where history, time, and place took their toll on men and women.

Wonderfully fun things happen. The incredible owner of the Lizzie Borden Bed and Breakfast and Museum, has restored the house to as close to the way it looked the fateful day that Lizzie herself either did-or didn't-take an ax (or hatchet!) and give her mother forty whacks. (It was really somewhere between 18 and 20, but that doesn't work well in a rhyme!) One year, the Biography Channel was filming there and my newly graduated Cal-Arts actress daughter, Chynna Skye, played Lizzie Borden for the Biography Channel-and hacked me to pieces as Abby Borden. (What a charming mother/daughter shot, right?) I've stayed at the 17hundred90 Inn in Savannah in the room from which their resident ghost, Anne, pitched to her death. The management there has a wonderful sense of humor-they have a mannequin of Anne in one of the windows, waving to those on the tours that go by. We also happened to follow a then young recording and television star's stay in the room. She left the inn a letter, telling them that Anne had been in her luggage, messing up all her packing. Having spent time with ghost trackers who did seek the logical explanation first, all I could think was, "But did you look for the note from the TSA?"

A favorite occasion was at the Spanish Military Hospital in St. Augustine where, watching the cameras set up by my friends, the Peace River Ghost Trackers, I was certain I saw a ghost. But good ghost trackers are out to find the solid solution to a "haunting" first-it was pointed out to me that I was seeing Scott's shadow as he moved across the room.

While Adam Harrison first makes his appearance in Haunted, the Krewe of Hunters series actually begins with Phantom Evil, taking place in one of my favorite cities in the world, New Orleans, Louisiana. I have put on a writers' conference there every year since the awful summer of storms and flooding decimated the city. There are few places in the world with an aura of "faded elegance," of the past being an integral part of the present. There are tales of courage there, of tragedy, and of adventure. The cemeteries stir the imaginations of the most solid thinkers. There are many ghosts with the right to be truly furious at their earthly fates-not to mention some of the most delicious food in the world!

Jane Everett and Sloan Trent first meet during a wicked season of murder at an old theater in Arizona reminiscent of the Bird Cage. The Wild, Wild, West certainly had its share of violence and intrigue as well. Cultures came together and clashed, miners sought treasure, and the ever-present human panorama of life went on-including love gone wrong, hatred, jealousy, and greed.

And where ghosts might well linger. If they exist, of course.

For this story-while thankfully, nothing went wrong and it was an incredibly beautiful day!-I have chosen a castle in New England and the seed of its imagining came from a real wedding-my son's.

Yes, in America, we have castles. That's because we've had men who lived with ma.s.sive fortunes and could indulge their whims and have them brought over-brick by brick or stone by stone-from a European country. And there's just something about a castle...

So many things can go wrong at a wedding. What with dresses, a wedding party, nervous brides, nervous grooms, bad caterers, and so on.

But what could be worse than the minister-dead on the morning of the nuptials?.

Dedication.

For Franci Naulin and D.J. Davant.

Yevgeniya Yeretskaya and Derek Pozzessere.

and Alicia Ibarra and Robert Rosello.

And to all kinds of different, beautiful-wonderful weddings!

One Thousand and One Dark Nights.

Once upon a time, in the future...

I was a student fascinated with stories and learning.

I studied philosophy, poetry, history, the occult, and the art and science of love and magic. I had a vast library at my father's home and collected thousands of volumes of fantastic tales.

I learned all about ancient races and bygone times. About myths and legends and dreams of all people through the millennium. And the more I read the stronger my imagination grew until I discovered that I was able to travel into the stories... to actually become part of them.

I wish I could say that I listened to my teacher and respected my gift, as I ought to have. If I had, I would not be telling you this tale now.

But I was foolhardy and confused, showing off with bravery.

One afternoon, curious about the myth of the Arabian Nights, I traveled back to ancient Persia to see for myself if it was true that every day Shahryar (Persian: , "king") married a new virgin, and then sent yesterday's wife to be beheaded. It was written and I had read, that by the time he met Scheherazade, the vizier's daughter, he'd killed one thousand women.

Something went wrong with my efforts. I arrived in the midst of the story and somehow exchanged places with Scheherazade a phenomena that had never occurred before and that still to this day, I cannot explain.

Now I am trapped in that ancient past. I have taken on Scheherazade's life and the only way I can protect myself and stay alive is to do what she did to protect herself and stay alive.

Every night the King calls for me and listens as I spin tales.

And when the evening ends and dawn breaks, I stop at a point that leaves him breathless and yearning for more.

And so the King spares my life for one more day, so that he might hear the rest of my dark tale.

As soon as I finish a story... I begin a new one... like the one that you, dear reader, have before you now.

Chapter 1.

"I say we fool around again," Sloan Trent said.

Jane Everett smiled.

They'd spent the night before fooling around-even though it had been their wedding eve- so she a.s.sumed they'd fool around again a great deal tonight.

Which was nothing new for them.

They'd finally made it out of the shower and into clothing and were ready to head downstairs. But Sloan was still in an amorous mood. He drew her to him, kissed her neck just below her ear, and whispered, "There's so much time in life that we can't fool around... so you have to fool around when the fooling around is good, right?" He had that way of whispering against her ear. His breath was hot and moist and somehow had a way of creating little fires that trickled down into her s.e.x, generating an instant burst of desire.

"We've just showered," she reminded him.

"Showers can be fun, too."

"We're supposed to be meeting up with Kelsey and Logan and seeing a bit of the castle before we get ready for the ceremony."

"You never know. Maybe Logan and Kelsey are fooling around and showering, too?"

He pressed his lips to her throat and her collarbone, drawing her closer, making the spoon of their bodies into something erotic.

She wasn't sure what would have happened if it hadn't been for the scream.

More a shriek!

Long, loud, piercing, horrible.

They broke apart, both of them making mad leaps for the Glock firearms they were never without, racing out of their room to the upper landing of the castle's staircase. Of all the things Jane hadn't expected as her wedding approached, it was for the minister to be found dead-neck broken, eyes-wide-open-at the first floor landing of Castle Cadawil. Logan Raintree and Kelsey O'Brien, their co-workers and witnesses for the wedding, rushed up close behind them.

They all paused, a.s.sessing the situation, then raced down.

Reverend Marty MacDonald lay on his back, head twisted at that angle which clearly defined death, his legs still on the steps, arms extended as if he'd tried to fly. Sloan looked at her, shaking his head sadly. She felt as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. Her blood began to run cold. Her first thought was for Marty MacDonald. She didn't know him that well. She'd met and hired him here, on the New England coast, just a month ago when she'd first seen the castle. She and Sloan had been talking about what to do and how and when to marry, and it had suddenly seemed right.

But now. The poor man!

Her next thought was- Oh, G.o.d! What did this say for their lives together? What kind of an omen- "Tripped?" Logan Raintree suggested, studying the dead man and the stairs.

Logan was the leader of the Texas Krewe of Hunters-the mini-division within their special unit of the FBI. Many of their fellow agents liked to attach the word "special" with a mocking innuendo, but for the most part the Bureau looked upon them with a fair amount of respect. They were known for coming up with results. Jane had known Logan a long time. They were both Texans and had worked with Texas law enforcement before they'd joined on with the Krewe.

Kelsey had come into it as a U.S. Marshal. She'd been working in Key West, her home stomping grounds, until she'd been called to Texas on a serial murder case. She and Logan had been a twosome ever since. One weekend they'd slipped away and quietly married. They told no one and it had become a pool in the home office, had they or hadn't they? If so, when?

Sloan had profited $120 with his guess. Sloan wasn't a Texan, though he, too, had worked there. Jane had met Sloan in Arizona during the curious case of the deaths at the Gilded Lily. He'd been acting-sheriff there at the time. Six-foot-four, broad-shouldered, wearing a badge and a Stetson, he'd been pretty appealing. That case put some distance and resentment between them, until solving it drew them together in a way that would never end.

"Tripped?" Logan said again, and she caught the question in his voice.

Logan and Sloan, and all of the members of the Krewe, worked well together. Logan and Sloan both had Native American mixes in their backgrounds, which brought a sense and respect for all beliefs and all possibilities.

Jane loved that about both men.

Of course, she loved Kelsey, too. She'd known Kelsey her whole life. Having grown up in the Florida Keys, Kelsey also had a keen interest in everyone and everything. She was bright, blonde, and beautiful, ready to tackle anything.

"So it appears," Kelsey murmured.

"Did you see anyone?" Sloan asked the maid, whose horrified scream had alerted them all.

The maid shook her head.

"I'm trying to picture," Sloan said, "how he tripped and ended up here, as he is."

"He had to have come down from far up," Kelsey noted.

Sloan rose and started up the winding stone stairway. "He'd have had to have tripped at the top of the stairs, rolled, and actually tumbled down to this position."

"Anyone can trip," Kelsey said, laying a hand on Jane's arm. "I'm so sorry."

Jane closed her eyes for a minute. She wanted to believe it. Tripped. A sad accident. Marty MacDonald had been a loner, a bachelor without any exes to mourn him and no children or grandchildren to miss their dad or grandpa. But did that mitigate a human life?

The housekeeper who'd screamed was still standing, staring down at the corpse through glazed eyes, her mouth locked into a circle of horror.

Jane felt frozen herself.

They were used to finding the dead. That was their job. Called in when unexplained deaths and circ.u.mstances came about. But this was her minister-the man who was to have married her and Sloan. She didn't move. The others still seemed to have their wits about them. She heard Sloan dialing 911 and speaking in low, even tones to the dispatch officer. Soon, there would be sirens. A medical examiner would arrive. The police would question them all. Naturally, it looked like an accidental death. But Jane always doubted accidental death.

But that was in her nature.

Would the police doubt so, too?

She felt a sense of hysteria rising inside her. She could wind up in an interrogation room on the other side of the table. Did you do this? I think I know what happened," a hard-boiled detective right out of some dime novel would demand. He'd be wearing a d.i.c.k Tracey hat and trench coat. "What was it? You were afraid of commitment. Afraid of marriage. You don't really love that poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Sloan, do you? You didn't think you'd get away with killing the rugged cowboy type of man he is. Tall, strong, always impossibly right. So you killed the minister. Pushed a poor innocent man of G.o.d right down the stairs!"

Whoa.

Double whoa.

She didn't feel that way. She'd never felt for anyone like she did for Sloan. She was in love with his mind, his smile, his voice. The way he was with her, and the way he was with the world. They shared that weirdness of their special ability to speak with the dead. They also shared a need to use their gift in the best way. She definitely loved him physically. He was rugged and weathered, a cowboy, tall and broad-shouldered, everything a Texas girl might have dreamed about. He had dark hair, light eyes, sun-bronzed features, and a smile that could change the world.

Except that he wasn't smiling now.

"You just now found him?" Sloan asked the maid.

The woman didn't respond.

"Ms. Martin," Sloan pressed.

Jane had noticed the maid's nametag too, identifying her as Phoebe Martin. At last, the woman blinked, focused, and turned to Sloan, nodding sadly, like a child admitting an obvious but unhappy fact.

"Is anyone else here?" Sloan asked her. "I mean, besides you, me, Logan, Kelsey, and Jane?" He pointed around to all of them, using their first names. That was a way to make her feel comfortable, as if she were one with them. In situations like this, people spoke way more easily to authorities when they felt as if they were conversing with friends.