Table of Contents
They’re smart, sexy, and supernatural. They’re the men and women of the Otherworld -- a realm of witches, ghosts, and werewolves who live unseen among us. Only now a reckless killer has torn down the wall, trapping one very human woman in the supernatural cross fire.
Robyn Peltier moved to Los Angeles after her young husband’s sudden death, trying to put some distance between herself and her memories. Though she’s still grieving, the challenges of her new life as the PR consultant to Portia Kane -- the world’s most famous celebutante wannabe -- can sometimes be amusing, even distracting. But when her client is gunned down in the back room of a nightclub, Robyn is suddenly on the run as the prime suspect in the murder. And as more bodies pile up around her, it seems like only Hope Adams, Robyn’s best friend, and Hope’s somewhat spooky boyfriend Karl are on Robyn’s side. Hope Adams follows the kinds of stories whose headlines scream from supermarket checkout lines. But the difference is that Hope’s stories are even weirder -- and they’re all true. Though determined to help Robyn, Hope knows it’s only a matter of time before her friend is caught. But it’s not the police Hope is worried about. For Robyn has gotten herself in the middle of a turf war between two powerful Otherworld cabals who’ll spill any amount of blood -- human and inhuman -- to protect what they consider theirs for all eternity. And the only way Hope can keep her friend alive is by letting her enter a world she’s safer knowing nothing about.
Read an Excerpt
12 years earlier...
Mommy forgot to warn the new baby-sitter about the basement.
Chloe teetered on the top step, chubby hands reaching up to clutch both railings, her arms
shaking so much she could barely hang on. Her legs shook too, the Scooby Doo heads on her
slippers bobbing. Even her breath shook, puffing like she’d been running.
“Chloe?” Emily’s muffled voice drifted up from the dark basement. “Your mom said the
Coke’s in the cold cellar, but I can’t find it. Can you come down and help me?”
Mommy said she’d told Emily about the basement. Chloe was sure of it. She closed her eyes
and thought hard. Before Mommy and Daddy left for the party, she’d been playing in the TV
room. Mommy had called, and Chloe had run into the front hall where Mommy had scooped her
up in a hug, laughing when Chloe’s doll poked her eye.
“I see you’re playing with Princess–I mean, Pirate Jasmine. Has she rescued poor Aladdin
from the evil genie yet?”
Chloe shook her head, then whispered. “Did you tell Emily about the basement?”
“I most certainly did. No basements for Miss Chloe. That door stays closed.” When Daddy
came around the corner, Mommy said, “We really need to talk about moving, Steve.”
“Say the word and the sign goes up.” Daddy ruffled Chloe’s hair. “Be good for Emily,
kiddo.”
And then they were gone.
“Chloe, I know you can hear me,” Emily yelled.
Chloe peeled her fingers from the railing and stuck them in herears.
“Chloe!”
“I c-can’t go down there,” Chloe called. “I-I’m not allowed.”
“Well, I’m in charge and I say you are. You’re a big girl.”
Chloe made her feet move down one step. The back of her throat hurt and everything looked
fuzzy, like she was going to cry.
“Chloe Saunders, you have five seconds or I’ll drag you down here and lock the door.”
Chloe raced down the steps so fast her feet tangled and she tumbled into a heap on the
landing. She lay there, ankle throbbing, tears burning her eyes as she peered into the basement,
with its creaks and smells and shadows. And Mrs. Hobb.
There’d been others, before Mrs. Hobb scared them away. Like old Mrs. Miller, who’d play
peek-a-boo with Chloe and call her Mary. And Mr. Drake, who’d ask weird questions like
whether anyone lived on the moon yet, and most times Chloe didn’t know the answer, but he’d
still smile and tell her she was a good girl.
Chloe used to like coming downstairs and talking to the people. All she had to do was not
look behind the furnace, where a man hung from the ceiling, his face all purple and puffy. He
never said anything, but seeing him always made Chloe’s tummy hurt.
“Chloe?” Emily’s muffled voice called. “Are you coming?”
Mommy would say “Think about the good parts, not the bad.” So as Chloe walked down the
last three steps, she remembered Mrs. Miller and Mr. Drake and she didn’t think about Mrs.
Hobb at all . . . or not very much.
At the bottom, she squinted into the near darkness. Just the night lights were on, the ones
Mommy had put everywhere when Chloe started saying she didn’t want to go downstairs and
Mommy thought she was afraid of the dark, which she was, a little, but only because the dark
meant Mrs. Hobb could sneak up on her.
Chloe could see the cold cellar door, though, so she kept her eyes on that and walked as fast
as she could. When something moved, she forgot about not looking, but it was only the hanging
man, and all she could see was his hand peeking from behind the furnace as he swayed.
Chloe ran to the cold cellar door and yanked it open. Inside, it was pitch black.
“Chloe?” Emily called from the darkness.
Chloe clenched her fists. Now Emily was being really mean. Hiding on her–
Footsteps pattered overhead. Mommy? Home already?
“Come on, Chloe. You aren’t afraid of the dark, are you?” Emily laughed. “I guess you’re
still a little baby after all.”
Chloe scowled. Emily didn’t know anything. Just a stupid, mean girl. Chloe would get her
Coke, then run upstairs and tell Mommy, and Emily would never baby-sit her again.
She leaned into the tiny room, trying to remember where Mommy kept the Coke. That was it
on the shelf, wasn’t it? She darted over, and stood on her tiptoes. Her fingers closed around a
cool metal can.
“Chloe? Chloe!” It was Emily’s voice, but far away, shrill. Footsteps pounded across the
floor overhead. “Chloe, where are you?”
Chloe dropped the can. It hit the concrete with a crack, then rolled against her foot, hissing
and spitting, soda pooling around her slippers.
“Chloe, Chloe, where are you?” mimicked a voice behind her, like Emily’s, but not quite.
Chloe turned slowly.
In the doorway stood an old woman in a pink housecoat, her eyes and teeth glittering in the
dark. Mrs. Hobb. Chloe wanted to squeeze her eyes shut, but she didn’t dare because it only
made her madder, made everything worse.
Mrs. Hobb’s skin rippled and squirmed. Then it went black and shiny, crackling like twigs
in a campfire. Big chunks fell off, plopping onto the floor. Her hair sizzled and burned away.
And then there was nothing left but a skull dotted with scraps of blackened flesh. The jaws
opened, the teeth still glittering.
“Welcome back, Chloe.”
One
I bolted up in bed, one hand clutching my pendant, the other wrapped in my sheets. I struggled to
recapture wisps of the dream already fluttering away. Something about a basement . . . A little
girl . . . Me? I couldn’t remember ever having a basement–we’d always lived in condo
apartments.
A little girl in a basement, something scary . . . Weren’t basements always scary? I shivered
just thinking about them, dark and damp and empty. But this one hadn’t been empty. There’d
been . . . I couldn’t remember what. A man behind a furnace . . .?
A bang at my bedroom door made me jump.
“Chloe!” Annette shrieked. “Why hasn’t your alarm gone off? I’m the housekeeper, not
your nanny. If you’re late again, I’m calling your father.”
As threats went, this wasn’t exactly the stuff of nightmares. Even if Annette managed to get
hold of my dad in Berlin, he’d just pretend to listen, eyes on his BlackBerry, attention riveted to
something more important, like the weather forecast. He’d murmur a vague “Yes, I’ll see to it
when I get back” and forget all about me the moment he hung up.
I turned on my radio, cranked it up, and crawled out of bed.
A half-hour later, I was in my bathroom, getting ready for school. I pulled the sides of my hair
back in clips, glanced in the mirror, and shuddered. The style made me look twelve years old . . .
and I didn’t need any help. I’d just turned fifteen and servers still handed me the kiddie menu in
restaurants. I couldn’t blame them. I was five foot nothing with curves that only showed if I wore
tight jeans and a tighter T-shirt.
Aunt Lauren swore I’d shoot up–and out–when I finally got my period. By this point, I
figured it was “if,” not “when.” Most of my friends had gotten theirs at twelve, eleven even. I
tried not to think about it too much, but of course I did. I worried that there was something
wrong with me, felt like a freak every time my friends talked about their periods, prayed they
didn’t find out I hadn’t gotten mine. Aunt Lauren said I was fine, and she was a doctor, so I
guess she’d know. But it still bugged me. A lot.
“Chloe!” The door shuddered under Annette’s meaty fist.
“I’m on the toilet,” I shouted back. “Can I get some privacy maybe?”
I tried just one clip at the back of my head, holding the sides up. Not bad. When I turned my
head for a side view, the clip slid from my baby-fine hair.
I never should have gotten it cut. But I’d been sick of having long, straight, little-girl hair. I’d
decided on a shoulder-length, wispy style. On the model it looked great. On me? Not so much.
I eyed the unopened hair color tube. Kari swore red streaks would be perfect in my
strawberry-blond hair. I couldn’t help thinking I’d look like a candy cane. Still, it might make
me look older . . .
“I’m picking up the phone, Chloe,” Annette yelled.
I grabbed the tube of dye, stuffed it in my backpack, and threw open the door.
I took the stairs, as always. The building might change, but my routine never did. The day I’d
started kindergarten, my mother held my hand, my Sailor Moon backpack over her other arm as
we’d stood at the top of the landing.
“Get ready, Chloe,” she’d said. “One, two, three–”
And we were off, racing down the stairs until we reached the bottom, panting and giggling,
the floor swaying and sliding under our unsteady feet, all the fears over my first school day gone.
We’d run down the stairs together every morning all though kindergarten and half of first
grade and then . . . well, then there wasn’t anyone to run down the stairs with anymore.
I paused at the bottom, touching the necklace under my T-shirt, then shook off the memories,
hoisted my backpack, and walked from the stairwell.
After my mom died, we’d moved around Buffalo a lot. My dad flipped luxury apartments,
meaning he bought them in buildings in the final stages of construction, then sold them when the
work was complete. Since he was away on business most of the time, putting down roots wasn’t
important. Not for him, anyway.
This morning, the stairs hadn’t been such a bright idea. My stomach was already fluttering
with nerves over my Spanish midterm. I’d screwed up the last test–gone to a weekend
sleepover at Beth’s when I should have been studying–and barely passed. Spanish had never
been my best subject, but if I didn’t pull it up to a C, Dad might actually notice and start
wondering whether an art school had been such a smart choice.
Milos was waiting for me in his cab at the curb. He’d been driving me for two years now,
through two moves and three schools. As I got in, he adjusted the visor on my side. The morning
sun still hit my eyes, but I didn’t tell him that.
My stomach relaxed as I rubbed my fingers over the familiar rip in the armrest and inhaled
chemical pine from the air freshener twisting above the vent.
“I saw a movie last night,” he said as he slid the cab across three lanes. “One of the kind you
like.”
“A thriller?”
“No.” He frowned, lips moving as if testing out word choices. “An action-adventure. You
know, lots of guns, things blowing up. A real shoot-’em-down movie.”
I hated correcting Milos’s English, but he insisted on it. “You mean, a shoot-’em-up movie.”
He cocked one dark brow. “When you shoot a man, which way does he fall? Up?”
I laughed, and we talked about movies for a while. My favorite subject.
When Milos had to take a call from his dispatcher, I glanced out the side window. A
long-haired boy darted from behind a cluster of businessmen. He carried an old-fashioned plastic
lunch box with a superhero on it. I was so busy trying to figure out which superhero it was, I
didn’t notice where the boy was headed until he leaped off the curb, landing between us and the
next car.
“Milos!” I screamed. “Watch–”
The last word was ripped from my lungs as I slammed against my shoulder belt. The driver
behind us, and the one behind him, laid on their horns, a chain reaction of protest.
“What?” Milos said. “Chloe? What’s wrong?”
I looked over the hood of the car and saw . . . nothing. Just an empty lane in front and traffic
veering to our left, drivers flashing Milos the finger as they passed.
“Th-th-th–” I clenched my fists, as if that could somehow force the word out. If you get
jammed, take another route, my speech therapist always said. “I thought I saw
some-wha-wha–”
Speak slowly. Consider your words first.
“I’m sorry. I thought I saw someone jump in front of us.”
Milos eased the taxi forward. “That happens to me sometimes, especially if I’m turning my
head. I think I see someone, but there’s no one there.”
I nodded. My stomach hurt again.
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