Between blotch and blok

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Gwen’s Christmas Ghost
Lords of the South Coast Book 4
by Alicia Rasley

Co-authored by Lynn Kerstan and Alicia Rasley

Eternity is a bloody bore for Valerian Caine

Once a swashbuckling rake, he died in a duel at twenty-seven—and has been sulking in the afterlife ever since.

When he’s offered a second chance, he jumps at it: one month back on Earth to end the century-old feud sparked by his death. Succeed, and he gets his life back—bullet-free.

Fail, and it’s back to limbo.

But fashionable London isn’t quite how he left it. And Gwen Sevaric—sharp-tongued, stubborn, and resistant to romance—may be his biggest obstacle… and his only reason to stay.

Because for the first time in his life and afterlife, Valerian Caine is falling in love.

Lords of the South Coast, Book 4

____

Had she a choice, Alicia Rasley would be living in an English village in 1816, writing with a quill pen, and solving mysteries. Unfortunately, she lives in Indiana in the 21st Century, types on a laptop, and teaches students the mysteries of grammar.

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Prologue

Eternity was a bloody bore.

Valerian Caine didn’t know exactly how long he had been in this not-heaven, not-hell, but he knew he’d had enough.

Unfortunately, no one had bothered to consult him on the matter. He was, not to put too fine a point on it, dead. And dead men had three alternatives—Heaven, Hell, and this remote antechamber of the Afterlife.

Time seemed to be irrelevant here, and consciousness an occasional thing. Now and again he would find himself engaged in some useless task, but nothing that gave him any excitement. He had vague recollections of monitoring the motions of a comet, and was marginally certain he’d once been put to nursemaiding a troop of breeding sea-turtles. A profound waste of talent, in his opinion.

But then, death was a waste of his talent. He had been very good at living, and a notable failure since his life was cut short by a bullet.

Whatever assignments he was given, he invariably bungled them, or so he was informed whenever Proctor called him to account. That was never a pleasant experience. And now he had been summoned once again, from a place he could not recall to a place he didn’t recognize, to hear yet another pious lecture on the subject of his imperfections.

’Struth, he had never claimed to be a saint. Indeed, he claimed, with some pride, to have reveled in all the Seven Deadly Sins and invented a few of his own. But Proctor held him to higher standards enumerated in tedious platitudes that only confirmed his dedication to wickedness.

Usually Valerian listened with sullen incomprehension, but this time he intended to stand up for himself and get a few answers. This time he felt stronger, more truly himself, than he had done in a long time.

For one thing, he had some awareness of his body. Not much—an outline at most—but when he concentrated he could see his arms and legs. As he peered down at what seemed to be his body, he saw something appear below his feet. A floor. He looked up and saw that an office had materialized around him. There were a massive desk, a pair of chairs, and wisps of mist rather than the fog that usually enveloped this place. Something—no, someone—sat behind the desk.

Naturally, now that he was geared for battle, he was deprived of his opponent. Instead of Proctor, he was greeted by a sweet-faced, balding man wearing a long white robe.

“Won’t you be seated?” Politely he gestured toward a chair. “I am Francis, your… er… Guardian.”

Valerian slumped onto the chair, surprised that it felt solid. He ran his fingers over the carved wooden armrests. “Is this real? It appears translucent. So do you, by the way.”

Francis sighed. “I was hoping to make you feel more comfortable, but I’m woefully inept at reproducing solid objects. Not many souls care about physical sensation once they have… moved on.”

“Moved on? You mean died?” Euphemisms might be appropriate here in this translucent no-place, but suddenly Valerian wanted clarity. “And if you are my guardian, why haven’t we met?”

“But we have, although you’d not be aware of it. I was assigned to you from the instant of your creation.” Francis chuckled. He shook his head, leaving long wavery trails in the air. “I was warned how much trouble you would be. But my last charge was Teresa of Avila, and I had little to do beyond modifying the content of her visions. When she Advanced, I was dispatched to the Major Challenges Department. You have proved to be that, I must confess. I did my best, but if anything, you have sunk below the point at which you started.”

Valerian had once been known for his expressive face, but now it took all his concentration to lift a quizzical brow. “Were you supposed to see to my salvation?”

“Something like that. Alas, my abilities are circumscribed. You see, only through your own free will can you move to a higher place. At most, I am permitted to nudge your conscience and… rarely… protect you from harm.” Francis folded his arms, looking sad. “I admit to having let you down in that regard. Do you remember how you passed from earthly existence?”

“Hell, yes.”

Francis winced. More shimmers trailed from his face and dissipated into the mist. “That is not a word we like to use around here.”

“My apologies. But if I was such a failure, why aren’t I there? In Hell, I mean. Not that I’m complaining,” he added hastily. “But I have to wonder if there even is such a place.”

With a frown, Francis began to pace the room. The mist didn’t so much part for him as slide through him. “There is indeed a state of eternal damnation. Fortunately for you, every soul is given many opportunities to choose good over evil. Now and again a creature is bent on perdition, and no amount of mercy can stay his course.” Some emotion—regret?—flickered across his face. “Even angels can choose evil over goodness. Lucifer was like that.”

Valerian nodded. He had heard of Lucifer, had, in fact, gone once to a club named for him. Only once, for the cards were marked and the dice were loaded. “He is real, then? Lucifer?”

“Oh, yes. Our greatest disappointment. We were friends once, you know.”

It was hard to imagine the sweet, slightly dim Francis befriending the Evil Angel. “No longer, I take it.”

“Oh, no. He never forgave me for not joining his band of rebels. I sometimes wonder if he attacks my clients for that very reason. Your earthly death is a case in point.”

That was more interference than Valerian could accept. “Sounds like humbug to me. You think the Devil had some hand in my demise?”

“Possibly. You caused the duel, of course, by seducing Richard Sevaric’s wife. But I assumed you would win—you always did—and I did not think to monitor the outcome. How was I to guess his bullet would ricochet off a stone and strike you in the temple?”

Valerian erupted from his chair, more slowly than he would have preferred. “You caused my death?”

“Certainly not.” Francis clucked. “But I might have saved you. At least, I could have moved that stone, although the bullet might have found it anyway. We Guardians never know when our efforts will have any effect. And accidents do happen. If it’s any consolation, Sevaric died from a bullet to the heart.”

Even after eternity, Valerian felt a certain vindication. “As I intended. So—where is he now?”

“That is none of your concern,” Francis replied austerely. “Now pay attention, because Proctor will be here shortly. I have put my reputation on the line and begged an enormous favor on your behalf. For once, try for a little humility and make the most of this opportunity. If you succeed, you will get what you keep wishing for. Unfortunately, that is not what you ought aspire to, but as things stand now we are making no progress whatever.”

What he kept wishing for? It couldn’t be—he couldn’t hope. “You’re being as clear as mud,” he muttered, just as another Presence manifested itself. An imposing Presence, like a Roman Senator. Tall and lean, with a stern face and penetrating eyes, Proctor radiated authority.

“You again,” Proctor said in a resigned voice. “What is that Earth-proverb about a bad penny? Do sit, Valerian. So long as Francis has gone to the trouble of semi-materializing an office, we may as well use it.”

Sullenly, Valerian lounged on the chair and folded his arms. “I suppose I have tripped up again. Damned… er… blast if I can even remember that last assignment.”

“Irrelevant, but you botched it as always.” Proctor glanced at Francis. “How much did you explain?”

“Nothing, sir. But I advised him to cooperate.”

“That would be a refreshing change.” The stern gaze transferred to Valerian and fixed there. “The fact is, Valerian Caine, you have been trouble from the moment you joined us. The only thing I can say in your favor is that with all these galactic storms, we have been too busy to diagnose the exact nature of your difficulties. However, Francis has suggested a solution. For his sake alone, I am considering a radical departure from the usual procedure.”

“The usual procedure?” Valerian grimaced. “So far as I can tell, there is no ‘usual’ in this place.”

“It isn’t a place, and you are by no means ready to comprehend the slightest aspect of the Divine Plan.” Proctor pointed a long finger in his direction. “Know only this. There are many paths a soul may take after a Transition, from physical reincarnation to a position here with the Directors. And you suit none of them.”

“That’s because you haven’t let go your previous existence,” Francis put in.

Proctor shot him a dark look, but didn’t contradict him.

“Do you mean the life I led before that idiotic duel?” Valerian took a deep breath as memory flooded his mind. “Of course I can’t let it go! I had everything a man could possibly want—good looks, position, money, women. All snatched away because a bullet bounced off a rock. Dammit, I was just twenty-seven years old!”

“And a fool,” Proctor said curtly. “A useless, self-absorbed mortal, wasting gifts that should have been put to better use.”

“Perhaps.” Valerian slumped lower in his chair as that litany of flaws echoed in the mist. “Oh, very well, I made a few mistakes. But—” Cannily he introduced a term he had heard someone use around here. “I never had a chance to repent.”

“Death comes like a thief in the night,” Proctor intoned.

“You don’t say.”

Proctor glared at him. Then, with what looked to be an almighty effort, he assumed a more pious face. “We have decided that you will never progress while your spirit continues to hunger for mortal animation. And frankly, we are weary of cleaning up after you here. Therefore, you will be granted one chance to reclaim your former existence. Complete the tasks assigned and you will find yourself in the garden moments after the duel. This time, Sevaric’s bullet will miss you.”

Valerian felt a surge of exhilaration. To live again! To feel blood coursing through his body. To taste brandy, to laugh, to hold a woman in his arms. “I’ll do anything,” he vowed. “What will it take, to go back to what I was?”

“It won’t be easy,” Proctor warned. “Your dalliance with the Sevaric woman precipitated a feud that has endured, by Earth-time, a hundred years. Caines and Sevarics have been at daggers drawn ever since.” He shook his head. “I cannot count the sins, on both sides.”

“You hold me responsible?”

“In part. A soul is accountable for its own actions, and for the consequences of those acts. But judgment is not mine to pass.”

“Thank God,” Valerian muttered.

“Exactly.” Proctor raised his eyes to the insubstantial ceiling, as if seeking divine patience. “Nevertheless, you are in my charge for what is beginning to seem like an eternity, so I suggest you practice the unaccustomed virtue of self-restraint while I rid myself of you. Otherwise, I shall put you to work hatching dung-beetles.”

Valerian slid down an inch in his chair and lowered his head. He could restrain himself, even with Proctor, if he had hope of a return to life.

“Very well then,” said Proctor with satisfaction. “We were speaking of the feud. Not long ago the most virulent of the antagonists, Basil Sevaric and Hugo Caine, passed into the Afterlife, and so far their heirs have not pursued the quarrel quite so diligently. We have some hope this matter can be put to rest before old wounds begin to fester in the younger generation. And that, Valerian, is to be your task.”

“You expect me to end a feud? But I don’t even know why they are fighting. I cannot credit that my affair with Blanche Sevaric was to blame, because heaven knows I was scarcely her first lover.”

“Heaven,” Proctor informed him dryly, “knows everything. But that does not mean it will all be explained to the likes of you. As a rule, we do not interfere in earthly matters, and you must not count on extraordinary assistance to acquire information you can discover for yourself. If you are to claim your reward, by God you will earn it.”

“Whatever you say. So, if everyone, Sevaric and Caine, shakes hands and calls it quits, I may continue my former life?”

“Oh, we shall ask more of you than that.” Proctor’s patrician lips curled. “Now pay attention, because you will hear this only once. Turn your chair around.”

Puzzled, Valerian obeyed and found himself looking at what appeared to be a blank wall. Suddenly it dissolved and he saw a man sitting at a desk, a quill in his hand. He was frowning.

“Maximilian Sevaric,” Proctor said.

This was clearly a descendant of Richard Sevaric—dark-haired and dark-browed, with a powerful set of shoulders. He hadn’t any of Richard’s fashionable pallor, but otherwise, Valerian had to admit, he was better-looking than Richard. More formidable, at least.

A young woman came into view, carrying a cup and saucer, which she handed to Sevaric. He smiled at her warmly, and she perched on the corner of the desk. The girl was plain and petite, with short, curly, ginger-colored hair and a sprinkling of freckles across her nose. She had a stubborn chin, a pursed mouth, and large hazel eyes.

“Gwendolyn Sevaric is the baron’s sister,” Proctor said. “Until her father died, she kept house for him, and now does the same for her brother. She is unmarried.”

“I’m not surprised,” Valerian observed. “She’s no beauty.”

Francis made a tsking noise. “Do not be unkind, boy. It ill becomes you.”

“Sorry. But she doesn’t look dangerous either. Not like a woman engaged in a lethal feud.”

“Appearances are often deceiving,” Proctor chided. “If physical beauty reflected the soul, you would surely have been a saint. But—”

“I get the point.” Mischief seized Valerian and he glanced over his shoulder at Proctor. “Have you considered that unattractive people may be virtuous only from lack of opportunity to be otherwise?”

“For shame!” Francis scolded. “Sometimes I despair of you, Valerian.”

“I begin to think,” Proctor said in a forbidding voice, “that this project is doomed to failure before it begins. Obviously you are more suited to marshaling dung beetles.”

“It was only a question.” Valerian tried, without much hope, to right the situation. “I thought we could be honest here in Heaven.”

“Young man, you are so far from Heaven that a millennium of repentance would not open the gates.”

The image of the two Sevarics faded, and the wall reappeared. Francis moved, or floated, to Proctor, and the two engaged in a long whispered discussion. Now and again Valerian heard words like “recalcitrant,” “degenerate,” and “hopeless case.” His heart sinking, he wondered if he should go to his knees and beg another chance.

But he couldn’t make himself do it. Not to Proctor, that marble-hearted, censorious brute. Obviously Proctor had never experienced any of the things that made life worth living—passion, curiosity, the sheer excitement of not knowing what the next moment would bring. Proctor had never been human. And if he was an angel, he gave the species a bad name.

“For your sake only, Francis,” Proctor said finally, and even in his defiant mood, Valerian felt relief shoot through him. “With a soul like his to guard, I, too, should be close to despair. And don’t imagine I shall allow you to intercede on his behalf once we send him back. He must succeed, or fail, on his own.”

As their voices lowered again, Valerian cocked his head, trying to hear their discussion. He wasn’t altogether sure they were truly speaking. All he sensed was a flow of energy between them.

The energy flow increased, and Valerian could hear again. “Oh, very well, Francis, if you insist,” Proctor said grudgingly. “Now and again you may play a part, but I shall monitor you carefully. And his motives must be pure. Given his usual attitude, I doubt you’ll have occasion to take action.”

Then, without seeming to move, Francis materialized at Valerian’s side, placing a hand on his forearm. Valerian saw it without feeling his touch.

“Behave,” Francis whispered urgently. “Proctor is losing patience with you.”

Brandy. Women. Life, Valerian reminded himself, mustering a tone of humility. “I apologize, gentlemen. Only tell me what you expect and I shall do my best.”

From behind him, Valerian heard a grunt of disbelief. But the wall dissolved again and he saw a slender young man with his own green eyes, mobile mouth, and high cheekbones. There the resemblance ended. The youngster had a weak chin, dull brown hair, and the pastiness of a man who spent all his time indoors. Indeed, he was seated at a green baize table, holding a fistful of cards and wearing the grim expression of a loser.

“Robin Caine.” To judge from the dry tone, Proctor disapproved of this young man even more than of Valerian. “Viscount Lynton, the great-great-grandson of your elder brother. You see what a poor specimen your family has dwindled to. He is addicted to drink and gaming, not unlike yourself at his age. Indeed, he has no other interests. In our opinion he is a lost cause, at least in his current existence, and we shall not hold you responsible for salvaging him. But you will have to deal with him nonetheless, hence the introduction.”

Robin’s image faded, to be replaced by a lovely girl. Valerian sat up straight, something like a pulse thrumming in his veins.

“Dorothea Caine,” Proctor said. “Robin’s sister.”

Like Sevaric, Dorothea was frowning, only this frown was more fetching, the slightest wrinkle between her perfectly arched brows. Wherever she was, the sun must be shining, because she raised her hand to shield her gray-green eyes. With the other hand, she brushed aside a windblown strand of honey-hued hair. What she looked at must have pleased her, for the frown dissolved into a sweet secret smile.

Now this is a Caine, he thought—full-blooded and true-bred. Almost, Valerian felt a twinge of desire. But a liaison with Dorothea would border on some sort of incest, he reckoned, even though a century separated them. Still, he’d always enjoyed the company of beautiful women, whether or not he could bed them.

His task, whatever it was, appeared more promising, or at least more interesting, with Dorothea in the picture.

The wall became a wall again and Proctor moved in front of him, a stern look on his gaunt face. “All four of these people are unhappy, for different reasons. It will be your responsibility to change that, save for Robin. He need not concern you.” Proctor looked up, concentrating fiercely, as if communing with Something or Someone elsewhere. Then he nodded and focused his cold, colorless eyes on Valerian.

“You will be granted one month, by Earth-time, to fulfill your tasks. When you take form again, remember that on Christmas morning the feud must be at an end. Moreover, Dorothea Caine, Max Sevaric, and Gwendolyn Sevaric must be happy and at peace. Now, as I have far, far better things to do, I will leave Francis to explain the rest.”

“You think I will fail,” Valerian said flatly.

“Yes.” Proctor’s image began to shimmer. “I greatly fear that all too soon, you will be back to torment me. But if it matters, no creature in the universe wants you to succeed more than I do.”

In a blink, Proctor disappeared.

“Well.” Valerian lapsed back in his chair with a sigh. “I’m glad he isn’t God.” His eyes narrowed. “Is there actually a God, Francis, or is this all some never-ending nightmare?”

Francis’s face glowed brightly. “Of course God exists. He is, always was, always will be. What is the point otherwise?”

“I have no idea,” Valerian said glumly. Brandy. Women. Life. That was the point, he told himself. “So, what happens next?”

“You will be returned to Earth, one hundred years after your last visit there. I shall provide you with everything you require to get started, but beyond that I must leave you on your own. To others, you will appear perfectly normal, and in most ways you can function like a mortal man. Alas, that means you are subject to all the foibles and temptations you experienced when you were truly alive. Your ability to resist and overcome your own faults will determine your success.”

“You sound nearly as pessimistic about that as Proctor.” Valerian stood. “If I’ve been dead for a century, Francis, how will I know how to go on? Surely things have changed.”

“Human nature has not. As for the details, you must be clever and improvise.” He stepped forward and placed his fingertips at Valerian’s temples. “Are you prepared to go?”

“Yes. Wait! One question first. If God exists, why is Proctor in charge of everything?”

“But he is not,” Francis said kindly. “Proctor manages a portion of Creation, nothing more. There are many others like him, appointed to deal with galaxies and worlds you cannot begin to imagine.”

Valerian frowned. “But why would a deity leave a whole universe in the hands of stiff-rumped bureaucrats?”

“That you must ask Him, son, if ever you have the opportunity. For the most part, God communes with those who reach out to him in sincere and selfless prayer.” Francis sighed. “There are few enough of those. Most who pray are greedy and ask for foolish things. I’ve always suspected He devotes Himself to innocent babies because only they are pure of soul. I know that I would do that, given the chance.”

“Instead, you are stuck with me.”

Francis gazed solemnly into his eyes. “I do His will. Perhaps you will remember me, Valerian, when you return to Earth. I do not know. But I shall be with you, always praying for your success.”

“Pray hard, Francis. I want nothing more than to reclaim my life just as it was when I left it.”

Francis began to shimmer, and Valerian caught his last words from what seemed like a great distance.

“I want better for you than that.”

Buy Gwen’s Christmas Ghost at BVC Ebookstore

https://bookviewcafe.com/bvc-announces-gwens-christmas-ghost-by-lynn-kerstan-and-alicia-rasley/

https://bookviewcafe.com/?p=20421