[Corine Solomon 5] Agave Kiss Read Free

milling passengers. The train station was busy with people collecting friends and relatives, tourists poring over maps to figure out the way to their hotels, commuters striding with bold confidence.
    A few paces on, the driver was waiting for us with a small sign. He was around forty with a crop of ginger hair and a generous sprinkling of freckles.
    Shan nudged me. “Is it weird that I feel shiny over that placard?”
    “No. It’s a first for me too. Very VIP.” I managed a smile.
    He wasn’t wearing a uniform, but there was no question we were the Cheney party. At our approach, the driver reached for my backpack, but I shook my head. “I’m fine, thanks. Just lead the way.”
    “As you like, miss. The car’s parked over here.” He led us out to a gray sedan and opened the door for us.
    I climbed in, Shannon after me. As we settled, he checked the address. “You’ve rented the ghost cottage, then? I didn’t know it was to let.”
    Raising a brow, I exchanged a silent look with Shan, before replying cautiously, “It should be an adventure.”
    The driver cast us a look as he pulled into the stream of traffic. I’d never get used to driving on that side. “The place is quite isolated. Are you sure it’s habitable?”
    “We’re used to roughing it,” Shan said, hefting her backpack.
    “Are you ghost hunters? Will you be doing EVPs?” It seemed like an odd logical leap until I remembered the reality shows devoted to that pursuit. Maybe it was mainstream enough these days that this became the natural assumption.
    It seemed safer to play along. “Strictly on an amateur basis.”
    He turned down a busy street with the confidence of one who had lived someplace his whole life. “Have you ever found anything spooky?”
    “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Shannon’s grin took the sting out of the rebuff.
    “What’s the legend behind the ghost cottage?” I asked.
    “You didn’t research it before coming all this way?” He sounded surprised.
    A valid question, but I covered. “Of course. But I’d like to hear how local stories differ from what’s online.”
    “Oh, good point. The story starts back in the early nineteen hundreds. The man who lived there was odd. Reclusive. People whispered all kinds of things about him . . . that he was a murderer, a wizard who practiced the dark arts.” The driver’s tone became self-deprecating, as if he was embarrassed to repeat such rubbish.
    “What happened to him?” Shan asked.
    “Nobody knows. He simply vanished one day. People say he disappeared on the day Aleister Crowley died, but I suspect they’ve embellished the story.”
    I thought about that. The mysterious, vanishing mage must’ve had heirs. “Since then, what’s become of the property?”
    “No relatives were found, so I hear. The land was auctioned, and it’s been bought and sold half a dozen times since. People can’t seem to live there. The last owner tried to renovate, turn it into a bed-and-breakfast, but eventually she went back to Ireland in tears. Nobody from town will step foot inside the place, not to clean or keep watch, not for love or money.”
    “That’s super creepy,” Shan said.
    Belatedly, I realized he had been waiting for some response to his recitation. He nodded, as if gratified by Shan’s reaction. I didn’t know what to make of his account, but local lore wouldn’t stop me from seeing about Booke.
    “I suppose the owner’s trying a turnkey business to recoup her investment?” He was definitely fishing, probably so he could report his findings at the pub later.
    “Who could blame her?” I murmured with a friendly smile. “It can’t have been easy abandoning her dream of a bed-and-breakfast.”
    “No, indeed,” the driver agreed.
    Shannon and I made noncommittal noises, encouraging him to point out attractions that might be of interest, if we got a chance to explore the city at all. I didn’t think that was too likely, given my track record.