Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective

Mona Livelong: Paranormal Detective

The Case of the Angry Ghost

Valjeanne Jeffers

Copyright Valjeanne Jeffers 2012, 2013, 2014 all rights reserved. No portion of this book may be photocopied or reproduced without the written permission of the author. Mona Livelong is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is purely coincidental.

Cover model, Gabrielle Morris. Cover art and design by Quinton Veal Copyright 2013, 2014. All rights reserved.

Lightning ‘bout to strike a pine, from Words of my Grandfather by Quinton Veal. Copyright 2013, 2014 all rights reserved.

Praise for Valjeanne Jeffers

****

Consider a world that is much like our own, but better in ways that matter most. . . Consider a world that is post-racial but still acknowledges racial differences. Consider a world in which shape-shifting and sorcery coexist with advanced technology. Consider a utopia on the brink of disaster. . . The Immortal novels are multi-racial, multi-cultural, and multi-dimensional. Valjeanne is adept at writing about relationships, everyday activities, conflicts, near-future technology, and mind-boggling magic. She can also snap a plot twist on par with the best of the thriller writers. These books are a wonder and a pleasure.

—Charles Saunders, author of Damballa, the Imaro and Dossouye series, and creator of Sword and Soul.

Immortal is an amazing story that flows like water. It’s a speculative-cool piece that takes the reader on a trip that is horror, cyber-punk, and fantasy, all rolled in one. Valjeanne Jeffers is one of those authors who can make words drip color. I had a ball exploring her world. I was captivated by the surreal dreamscapes Karla and Joseph ebbed in and out of, and the utilitarian society in which they spent their waking lives.

—Edward Uzzle, author of Neters and Retro-Km

"Ms. Jeffers has created an oddly vivid and not so far-fetched neo-Earth in Immortal. Quick paced and well-crafted, I felt a connection with her protagonists and a distilled hatred for her antagonists. The characters’ back-stories fit together like the pieces of an intricate puzzle.

From the absence of war to the presence of the obscenely paranormal. . ."

—B. Sharise Moore, author of Taste: an Erotic Fantasy Series

I’m not a shape shifter fan but I’m a definite Valjeanne Jeffers fan. She takes the genre and tosses it around, combining sci-fi, horror and romance resulting in an exciting and interesting book. Valjeanne also makes her characters very believable in this fantastic setting. She never fails to incorporate the character’s personal and ordinary struggles into their extraordinary and public lives. Valjeanne is also a master at action scenes. Her fight scenes are exciting and tense, just like I like them. I’ll be following this series to the end.

—Milton Davis, author of the Meji and Changa’s Safari series

Jeffers offers up a whole world of werewolves and demons, street gangs and drug addicts, drug rehab, political and social upheaval, revolution, and corporate overlords. But now she’s added soul stealers" into the mix—vampires who not only drink blood but steal time from their victims. Add to all this some new and intriguing characters, plus demons, centaurs, mermen, merwomen, folks who walk between the raindrops, and mirrors that are actually portals into other realities. . . Valjeanne Jeffers is the real deal, and these novels are the real thing. Five-star rating, for the whole series."

—Joe Bonadonna, author of Mad Shadows: The Weird Tales of Dorgo the Dowser

Immortal II is a whirlwind of mysticism, intrigue, and horror. Its characters are deep and palatable. Its landscapes are beautiful and tragic. Valjeanne Jeffers is a master at weaving a tale that combines eroticism, metaphysics, and hard science fiction in a way that is natural and addictive. No other piece reads like the Immortal series. The experiencer is transported to a place where one forgets that they are reading—but instead finds themselves living the characters; breathing in step with each passing page.

—Edward Uzzle, author of Neters and Retro-Km

Other Titles by Valjeanne Jeffers

Immortal

Immortal II: The Time of Legend

Immortal III: Stealer of Souls

The Switch II: Clockwork (includes The Switch I and II)

Immortal IV: Collision of Worlds

Colony: Ascension A Space Opera

Voyage of Dreams

****

Short Fiction

Grandmere’s Secret

The Visitor

Probe

Colony

Mocha Faeryland

Outcasts

Awakening

The Sickness

For my children Toussaint, Gabrielle, Mikail, Little Valjeanne and my man of rivers, Quinton. And for Carla, who befriended a lonely little girl.

Part I

Lightning Strikes the Pine

Chapter one

Herman Lowe had less than an hour to live. The District Attorney was wearing his best suspenders and stove pipe pants. His Stetson top hat and drink sat on the table before him. His date Marissa, a shapely woman half his age with her plump build encased in a corseted dress with petticoats, snuggled up next to him; his arm about her shoulders.

The Pretender was his getaway. A spot where no one knew him. Even better, it wasn’t a nightclub his wife or her girlfriends frequented.

He kissed Marissa wetly on the lips and winked, Be right back, sugar. I gotta pay my water bill, scooted his considerable girth out from behind the booth and sauntered to the gentlemen’s room.

Herman pushed the swinging door open into a restroom lit by oil lamps, and walked over to a stall. As he relieved himself, he reflected pleasantly over his last courtroom win. He’d managed to convince a jury that the accused, Sonny Peters, had swindled fifty folks out of their life savings with a bogus gold-mining investment scheme.

It was a difficult case. Over the years Sonny had used a plethora of different names and disguises. But Lowe’s barristers, under his tutelage, had pieced together Sonny’s paper trail and turned it into hard evidence.

Another victory. Ten years and I’ve only lost three cases. Could be Monterrey is ready for its first Black mayor. Herman Lowe, Monterrey’s first Black District Attorney, was a man who believed in firsts.

He buttoned his fly, pulled the chain to flush the toilet, and walked across the bathroom to the basin to wash his hands. Lowe poured water from a vase into the washbasin, and picked up one of the towels beside it to dry his hands.

The door swung open, and he looked up but no one came in. Herman shrugged and finished drying his hands.

The temperature in the room suddenly dipped from seventy to forty degrees. Lowe felt a suffocating claustrophobia, as if he were being forced inside a coffin. He clutched the towel, breathing hard, his heart thumping. By now it was so cold he could see his exhaled breath. Footsteps echoed over the bathroom tiles, slow and measured. They stopped just beside him.

A plume of breath floated toward him. With a cry of terror, he bolted for the door. And a shadow blocked his path.

****

Lowe’s rich ebony skin had faded to a sickly gray. That was the first thought that came to the detective’s mind, as he stared down at the body. Curtis Dubois fingered the toothpick in his mouth. He was a lean, muscular man, his skin the color of brown-sugar, with close-cut hair and dark eyes. He sported a mustache over his full lips, and his youthful face belied his thirty-two years.

The blood-spattered corpse on the bathroom floor, was all that was left of District Attorney Herman Lowe. He was the third victim. The first victim, Xavier Wolf, a Native American banker, had been found dead in Pandora’s box, a brothel. Paul Potts, a Black school principal, was discovered on the floor of the Rat Pack Casino.

Curtis’s partner, Harold Polanski, a lanky White man with green eyes, tussled black hair and an aquiline nose, shook his head ruefully. Poor bastard.

Four other constables their blue suit-coats with bronze buttons, steeple caps, and watches-chains, setting them apart from the homicide detectives, were questioning The Pretender’s patrons—those who hadn’t fled as soon as they heard the law was coming—looking for clues of who’d killed Lowe.

A constable joined them in the bathroom holding Lowe’s ID. Found this in his pocket. Doesn’t look much like him now, does it?

The ID card was a six by four inch, hand-cut square, with a sepia photograph of Lowe. The District Attorney’s physical measurements were included too, and a wax seal of the North American flag. Curtis took the card from him with a gloved hand and studied the picture of a smiling Herman Lowe. He gave it back to the officer for bagging.

Harold stared down at the body. Shit, man this is the third one this month. We got a serial killer on our hands.

Wordlessly, Curtis studied Lowe’s corpse. They’re gonna find the same thing they found with Potts and Wolf.

The first two victims, like Lowe, had been stabbed multiple times, and the flesh around Potts and Wolfs’ wounds, as with Lowe, had been dimpled. Like scars. But the cuts had been fresh, the bodies still warm.

What kind of weapon does that to a man? Not one I ever heard of.

In the club proper Marissa Dell, Lowe’s latest mistress, was sitting on one of the couches dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief.

Curtis eyed the young woman. None of the other Constables had questioned Marissa yet. I guess they want us to do the honors.

Grilling Marissa proved to be yet another dead end. Do you think his wife did it? she asked tearfully. Maybe she found out about us!

We’ll look into it. Curtis watched the woman twist away. His wife coulda done him. But chances are, Irene Lowe didn’t give a damn about Marissa. So long as her husband didn’t bring the dirt home. Women like Irene Lowe, Susan Potts, and Cherry Wolf don’t usually murder their husband’s pretty little mistresses. Or his bookie. Or his favorite prostitute. They’re too smart for that. Smart enough to spend their husband’s money, and find a young stud to spend all those lonely nights with. N’est-ce pas?

The same madman is doing them all.

Everyone they grilled in The Pretender, who’d actually paid any attention to Lowe, said the same thing: He went into the lavatory and never came out. A big fat nothing. Just like the others.

****

The homicide detectives stood outside, watching the medics wrap the corpse in cloth and load it into the back of the steam-powered ambulance.

The ambulance puttered off. A brothel, a casino, and now a nightclub, Harold said. "Man, anybody could have done these