Page 1113 of One More Kiss

But in my haste to turn around, I managed to trip over my own two feet and careen into the over-sized mirror. It and I crashed onto the floor, the sharp point of the gold frame gouging me right in the palm.

Miraculously, the glass didn’t shatter on impact, which was about all I could say I had going for me. Blood bloomed from my hand, the deep gash practically gushing, but I didn’t exactly have the time to worry about my pouring wound just then. There was a man in the attic. I’d heard him. I scrambled off the unbroken mirror, my blood smearing on the dusty glass before I managed to cradle my hand like a poor, wounded horror movie heroine.

“Smooth, Jasper. Way to dial down the cool factor,” the voice sounded again, coupled with a manly chuckle. Fear snaked its way up my spine and I skuttled further from the glass—backing away from the unseen voice and stupidly away from the exit.

“Who is that? Who are you? What are you doing here?” My questions came out in a breathless rapid-fire, a sure sign that I was about a nanosecond from losing it.

Then I heard a faint plink of metal hitting the floor, the sound drawing my eyes down to see Jeff, in all his kitty glory, batting the ring toward my foot. I’d chased him all over the house to get that damn ring back, but I couldn’t make myself reach for it.

Oh, no. All I could do was stare at the feline and pray that what was sounding like an alarm in my brain was not happening.

“What?” Jeff said. “It’s like you’ve never heard a cat talk before.”

Okay, Jasper, either you’re batshit insane or that cat just spoke to you.

I sat there like an idiot, blinking at Jeff to see if my crazy was a momentary lapse or if I’d need to check myself into a facility ASAP. He didn’t say anything else, so shakily, I stood, skirting around the demon kitty and closer to the door.

I wasn’t dumb enough to give Jeff my back, either. Oh, no. I was too smart for that… or so I’d thought until the cat started talking again, and this time, I caught the damn furrball in the act.

“All that work to get you up here, and you’re just going to bail on me?” Jeff said, letting out a harumph before dropping to his belly on the floor.

And there was no mistaking it.

Jeff. Talked.

“At least make sure the man wakes up before you turn tail and run,” he griped, blinking at me like I was stupid or something.

Wakes up? Who the fuck is going to be waking up?

“Honestly, Jasper. Breathe.”

At his words, I realized my lungs were on fire, and I sucked in a huge breath.

“That’s good,” he crooned like one might speak to a tantrum-throwing toddler. “Now, if you’d be so kind, squeeze a bit more blood onto that mirror for me, will you? I didn’t figure you’d be so fast. I thought middle-aged women were supposed to be slower.”

Of all the things to get my tongue working again…

“First of all, you furry-assed fuck, I’m forty-four, not middle-aged. Not that there is anything wrong with a woman getting some years on her and owning that shit, but if you’re going to use a label, use it right. Second, I’m not bleeding on anything, so you can get that shit right out of your head. And third? I’m going to go downstairs and pour myself a drink before I pretend this whole mess never happened. How about that?”

Did I just scream that entire tirade at a cat who was blinking at me like I was a special kind of stupid?

Why, yes. Yes, I did.

Just as I was about to spin on my heel and make a dramatic exit—not that I was prone to them, but it felt warranted—an eerie light erupted from the mirror.

The same mirror that gouged my hand.

The same mirror that had more than a little of my blood on it.

The one that now showed a blurry form of a man. Which should not be possible. But then again, Jeff talking shouldn’t be possible, either, and here we were.

Without much thought on my part, I stepped closer. Like a rubbernecker on the highway, I just could not peel my eyes off the creepy blue light or the visage of the man getting clearer and clearer.

He had a tan face made up of sharp angles and a furrowed brow. Dark hair swept back from his face in a style reminiscent of beatniks in the ’60s. A leather jacket caressed his shoulders like a lover, which was a thought that had never graced my brain before but didn’t make it any less true.

The smear of my blood shimmered on the glass, like it was seconds away from boiling, and then the mirror seemed to absorb it, the blood melting away as if it was being sucked into the glass.

Then the man—who didn’t exactly seem innocuous before—opened his glowing, red eyes.

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