OH! For the love of books!

Heather Graham The Krewe of Hunters books 9 and 10 EP 65

January 29, 2024 Jessica Season 3 Episode 65
Heather Graham The Krewe of Hunters books 9 and 10 EP 65
OH! For the love of books!
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OH! For the love of books!
Heather Graham The Krewe of Hunters books 9 and 10 EP 65
Jan 29, 2024 Season 3 Episode 65

Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters 38 book series. Book 9 The Knight is Watching , Book 10 The Knight is Alive. 

A secret government unit is formed under the oversight of Adam Harrison, famed paranormal investigator. The six members he's gathered know a little of the otherworldly each has honed a psychic talent of their own.

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Heather Graham Krewe of Hunters 38 book series. Book 9 The Knight is Watching , Book 10 The Knight is Alive. 

A secret government unit is formed under the oversight of Adam Harrison, famed paranormal investigator. The six members he's gathered know a little of the otherworldly each has honed a psychic talent of their own.

Support the Show.

If you liked the show subscribe and give a review.



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"Hello book worms and welcome to OH! For the Love of Books!, This show gives you information from the books I have read or ones you suggest for me to read. I'm your host, Jessica Vickery, and thank you for joining me. 

Here are the next 2 books from The Krewe of Hunters

Book 9 The Knight is Watching


Mornings were quiet in Lily, Arizona.

A pity, Sloan Trent thought, walking up the two steps to the raised sidewalk of the town’s main street. He felt tourists were missing out, because these summer mornings were beautiful, retaining the night’s chill, while the days were often blazing.

Not surprisingly, the street was called Main Street. Sometimes, when the wind picked up, tumbleweeds actually swept down the street, along with little clouds of dust. The tourists loved it—except on the few rainy days that turned the dirt road into a mud slide, which clearly explained the raised wooden sidewalks of the 1880s.

The entire town was built of wood; only a few of the newer dwellings on the outskirts were brick or concrete. When Lily was built, lumber had been the easiest material to acquire, so everything was made of wood. Even the jail.

It was probably a miracle that Lily had never burned to the ground. But, small and barren though it might be, the town was a survivor. Just naming it Lily had been a piece of optimism, but when Joseph Miller had first come in hopes of finding gold way back in the 1850s, he’d named the place for his grandmother—not because she’d been beautiful or sweet, but because the Irishwoman had been blessed with the greatest tenacity he’d ever known, according to his memoir.

And Lily, Arizona, was a town that had held on tenaciously through good and bad, fair times and foul.

Sloan looked down the broad dusty road that had been preserved. Lily had almost been a ghost town, in the truly deserted sense; at one time, in the early 1900s, only three places of business had remained open, and since one had been the sheriff’s office and jail, there’d really just been two mercantile establishments, both hanging on by a thread. Those two had been the Paris Saloon and the theater, the Gilded Lily. Of course, staying afloat at that time in this dry Western town off the beaten track, on the road between Tucson and Tombstone, was a struggle, and the Gilded Lily had offered pretty tawdry entertainment in the guise of theater. Clearly, the place had been successful.

And because miners, ranchers, opportunists and downright outlaws enjoyed the services of the main saloon across the street and the bar in the theater, the jail did a booming business, as well.

Today, there weren’t many shoot-outs. There weren’t even many drunken brawls. It was strange to be sheriff back here after being with the Houston, Texas, police force. And strange to be head of a six-man—including one woman—force when he’d previously worked with hundreds of fellow officers.

But he’d come back to be with his grandfather when they’d first found out about his illness, and then stayed with him, tended to him, while the cancer slowly killed him. And now...

Now, he didn’t have the heart to leave again.

Ah, yes, here he was in Lily, Arizona, taking care of not-so-major crime!

And that, he reminded himself, was why he’d left the new sheriff’s office down the highway and come into the tourist end of town. There was another report from the old sheriff’s office and jail, which was now being operated as a restaurant and bed-and-breakfast, known, naturally, as the Old Jail. It was featured on all the “haunted” shows that continually played on cable stations. Another “theft” had occurred.

The nineteenth-century office and jail sat next to the Gilded Lily, while the Paris Saloon and the old stables were across the street. While it was small in comparison to major tourist destinations like Tombstone, Lily had made something of a comeback. The other side of the saloon, in an old barbershop, had become a state-of-the-art salon and spa, and next to it, in the old general store, was a place called Desert Diamonds—a souvenir shop that also boasted a pizza parlor, ice cream and a barista stand. It was also a small museum. Grant Winston, proprietor, had been around since practically the Dark Ages and he displayed his old newspapers and artifacts in a special climate-controlled room in the back.

Main Street was hopping as a tourist destination. The old stables offered horseback riding, day tours and haunted night tours. They’d even arranged a few Styrofoam “relics” out in the desert to heighten the pleasure.

Shaking his head at the marvels of modern commerce, Sloan paused for a minute.

A breeze had picked up suddenly, and a large clump of sagebrush went skidding down the road before him. He was struck by the feeling that something was about to change—that dark forces were coming to life in Lily, Arizona.

He couldn’t help grinning at his ridiculous feeling that the sudden chill in the air and the sweep of sagebrush could be a forewarning of some kind of evil.

He opened the door of the bed-and-breakfast. The old sheriff’s desk was now the check-in counter, and the deputy’s desk held a sign that read Concierge.

Because, of course, in Lily, Arizona, you needed a concierge.

But the concierge did double duty, working the morning coffee and continental breakfast station that was laid out in the old gun room and pitching in when the gun room turned into a restaurant. The food wasn’t bad and there was often a need for reservations, since the room held only six tables.

“Sheriff, thank God you’re here!”

Mike Addison, owner and manager of the Old Jail, was at the sheriff’s desk. He stood quickly when Sloan walked in.

“I came right over, Mike,” he said. “What is it this time?”

“The couple in Room One! You know, Hardy’s cell,” Mike said dramatically. “They were robbed last night!”

“What happened?”

“They woke up this morning—and their wallets had been stolen. I wouldn’t believe it myself, Sloan, if they weren’t such fine people and if they weren’t so honestly upset. The husband says they were over at the Gilded Lily, they saw the show, had one nightcap and came back. As you know, only our guests have keys to the front and the cells. I swear, I can’t figure out how someone could have gotten into their room!”

Mike was in his thirties, tall, lean and earnest. He’d come out from Boston, having been a lover of all the Old West movies he’d seen growing up, thanks to cable channels. He’d bought the jail from old “Coot” Stevens, who’d first turned it into a B and B. Mike had worked hard to maintain its historic aspects and make it a nice place to stay. While the rooms were extremely small—they’d started out as cells, after all—they featured beds with luxurious mattresses, exceptional air-conditioning and tales of the outlaws who’d lived and died in the area, some in the cells and some at the scaffolding on Main Street.

“Where are they?” Sloan asked.

“The breakfast room. I offered to spike their morning coffee, they were so upset. Jerry and Lucinda Broling.”

Sloan nodded and went in. The walls were covered with various weapons and rifles dating from the early 1800s to the 1960s. The tables were stained wood, which gave the place atmosphere and was easy to clean.

The young couple in question certainly looked dejected enough as they sat at the table, heads bowed and shoulders slumped. They appeared to be in their late twenties. Jerry Broling glanced up with hope in his eyes as Sloan entered. “It’s the sheriff, honey. He’ll do something. Everything will be fine, you’ll see!” he said.

Lucinda, a blonde with cornflower-blue eyes, smiled tremulously. She’d been crying.

“How do you do? Sloan Trent,” he said, introducing himself. “So, you think you were robbed during the night. In your room?”

“It had to be!” Lucinda insisted. “We went to the show—it’s very funny, by the way—and afterward we stopped at the bar in the Gilded Lily.”

“We had Kahlua and cream,” Jerry said.

“I had Tia Maria. You had Kahlua and cream.” Obviously, the robbery had made them both irritable.

“Neither of us drank a lot,” Jerry said. “We—”

“I hadn’t been drinking at all,” Lucinda broke in. “Jerry was draining a few beers in the saloon during the show.”

“I wasn’t even slightly buzzed.” Jerry’s tone was hard.

Lucinda waved a hand in the air. “I paid for the drinks.”

“And that’s the last time you saw your wallets?” Sloan asked. “At the saloon and the bar?”

“Mine never came out of my pocket. It should’ve been in my jeans this morning,” Jerry said.

Lucinda waved a hand in the air. “I’d been using my credit card. Jerry hadn’t paid for anything all day. His might have been anywhere. But I know that my wallet was in my purse when I went to bed.”

Sloan nodded thoughtfully. “I understand you were in Room One.”

“I’ve already searched it,” Jerry told him.

“We even pulled the mattress up,” Lucinda said.

“Did you ask at the Gilded Lily?”

“Well, they’re not open this early, are they?” Jerry asked.

“Not for business, but they have rehearsals, meetings... The costumer goes in to sew up rips and tears and so on.”

Mike was at the door. “I called. Spoke to Henri Coque. They’re up and about, working down in the old storage room digging up more wigs. He went up to the bar area and searched through everything. Couldn’t find any credit cards. Talked to everyone he could, but no one handed in a lost wallet.”

“So, you were in Trey Hardy’s cell,” Sloan said.

They nodded. “Excuse me. I’ll give the place a search, too, if you don’t mind.”

The couple looked at him doubtfully. “Sheriff, there’s a thief in this town,” Lucinda said.

“A low-down, no-account pickpocket!” Jerry muttered.

“Stop trying to sound like some Old West bank robber,” Lucinda groaned.


Sloan left the squabbling couple, passed through the barred wooden door to the cells and walked down the length of the hallway. The door to Room One, the Trey Hardy cell, was open.

Hardy had been a true character in his day. A Confederate cavalry lieutenant who had lost everything during the Civil War, he’d started robbing banks. He was a hero to some back in Missouri—just like Jesse James. He’d stolen from the carpetbaggers to give back to the citizens. He’d been dashing and handsome, and when things had gotten hot for him in Missouri, he’d gone farther. But in Lily he came up against another ex-Confederate, Sheriff Brendan Fogerty. Fogerty felt that the war was over, and ex-Reb or not, Hardy wasn’t stealing from the citizens of Lily, Arizona. He’d taken Hardy in after winning a fistfight on Main Street. Hardy had promised to come willingly if Fogerty bested him. To a cheering crowd, he had turned himself in when Fogerty had pinned him. Sadly, unknown to Fogerty, his deputy, Aaron Munson, had a long-standing beef with anyone who’d fought against the Union. Before Hardy could be brought to trial, Munson shot Hardy down in his cell, only to be dragged out to the street and lynched himself by a furious mob enamored of the handsome Hardy.

While Munson haunted Main Street, Hardy was said to haunt the jail and the cell where he had died.

The doors to the cells were wooden with barred windows. They were entered with large jail keys that had to be returned—lest the guest be charged a hefty fee. In the age of the plastic slot card, the Old Jail was a holdout. But entering a cell with a big jail key held greater charm.

The door wasn’t locked, so Sloan stepped inside. The couple had done a pretty thorough job of searching. Drawers were still open and the mattress lay crookedly on the bed.

Sloan turned back to make sure he hadn’t been followed. There was a security camera in the hall but he knew that was just for show; Mike never remembered to change the tape. He seldom had trouble. Guests seemed to love talking about the shadowy apparitions they’d seen in the halls or the “cold spots” that had moved into the room, et cetera, that went with staying at such a place. He walked to the dresser; it was heavy. A wide-screen TV sat on it, along with the bust of an Indian chief.

Sloan waited a minute, then shook his head, said quietly, “Give it up. Return the wallets.”

He heard the rasp of something against the wall. Turning, he saw that that there were two wallets on the floor. They might have been wedged behind the dresser and wall—and fallen when he tugged at the dresser.

He picked them up and headed to the door, then looked back into the room. “You know, Hardy, shadows in the night, cool. Your few ghostly appearances—great. But quit with the money, the keys and the wallets, huh? All these people think you’re the next best thing to Jesse James. Don’t go ruining your wonderful reputation.”

For a moment, Sloan thought he saw him. Hardy seemed to be standing there, still wearing a gray jacket and a sweeping gray hat with a plume, a cross between a Western outlaw and a disenfranchised soldier. He had a neatly clipped golden beard and his eyes were bright. He saluted Sloan.

Shaking his head, Sloan walked back to the breakfast room and set the wallets on the table.

The couple gaped at him incredulously. “They were wedged behind the dresser,” he said.

“Oh, thank you!” Lucinda gushed.

“Yeah, man, thanks!” Jerry said.

“Check them, make sure everything’s in them,” Sloan said.

“You said you searched everywhere!” Lucinda accused Jerry.

“Hey, you were in the room, too!”

She’d barely finished speaking when they heard it.

The sound was terrible; it seemed to come from the earth itself. It was a scream—one that might have been piercing except that it was muffled.

It came again and again...

“What the f—” Jerry began, leaping to his feet.

“Oh, my God!” Lucinda cried, trembling.

Even Sloan felt as if ice trickled down his spine.

And then he realized the source of the scream. There was nothing unearthly about it. It was simply coming from the basement of the theater next door.

Sloan strode quickly from the Old Jail and down the few steps to the swinging, slatted doors that led into the Gilded Lily. He saw the long bar and the rows of seating to the side of it and the stage at the far end.

“Hey!” he called out, seeing no signs of life.

He hurried behind the bar to the stairs that went down to the basement and storm cellar, now a depository for over a hundred and fifty years’ worth of costumes, props, scenery and other old theater paraphernalia.

He heard the scream again as he rushed down the steps.

The muted light blinded him for a moment. The basement was divided into a main room and three side rooms, separated by foundation walls.

He blinked and adjusted his vision. A woman stood alone at the back of the main basement room. She held an old burlap cover that had apparently protected shelves holding wigged mannequin heads. She was young, blonde and pretty, and he recognized Valerie Mystro, the current ingenue in residence at the Gilded Lily Theater Company.


She didn’t hear him when he called her name. She was staring in horror at something on the shelf.

Sloan strode over to her and took her by the shoulders. She looked at him blankly, as if not seeing him at first.


She trembled. “Sloan!” she said, and swallowed.

“Valerie, what is it? What’s wrong?”

She lifted a shaky finger and pointed at the row of old carved wooden wig heads.

They were creepy, Sloan agreed. Each had been painted with a face. Some pouted, some just stared, some seemed to laugh. A few of the newer heads were made of plastic or Styrofoam.

And at the end of the row...

There was one that bore a dark curly wig tied with a red ribbon. Dark curls fell over the forehead.

But the head wasn’t carved from wood. Nor was it plastic or Styrofoam.

It was a human skull, a skull stuck on a wooden spike. The jawbone had fallen and lay on the ledge.

That made it appear as if the skull itself was screaming.

As if evil was indeed alive in the world and had come to Lily, Arizona.


Book 10 The Knight is Alive



Abby didn’t know why she awoke; she might have heard a sound in the night. Whatever it was, she’d gone from being curled up, enjoying a dream about the great tenth birthday party she was going to have at her grandparents’ tavern, the Dragonslayer, to being pulled out of her dream, as if she needed to be awake. And aware.

There was someone in her room, she thought. Someone with a kind, handsome face staring down at her, eyes filled with great concern.

Then the face was gone and she was instantly wide-awake.

And scared.

She slipped from her bed and out of the room in the apartment above the Dragonslayer, running to the door in the little hallway that led to her grandparents’ suite. Neither of them was in bed.

That scared her more. Her grandparents weren’t in their bed.

She instantly knew she should be quiet. The fear she felt was instinctive, and she tiptoed in bare feet down the curving metal stairs to the ground floor.

Halfway there, she stopped. Her heart seemed to squeeze and her whole body froze.

She wasn’t afraid of the tavern, she never had been. It was filled with old ships’ wheels, countless figureheads, paintings, etchings, maps and more. The elegant beauties, dragons and mythical creatures that gazed down at her from the walls were part of her heritage.

No, she wasn’t afraid of anything in the Dragonslayer, but...

Someone was there, someone who shouldn’t be. He was standing at the entry, looking through the cut-glass window on the front door, and it wasn’t her grandpa Gus.

He was tall, and beneath his tricorn hat, his rich black hair fell down his back in curls. He had a neatly manicured beard and mustache. His black boots were tight on his calves over tan breeches. He wore a crimson overcoat with elegant buttons that matched those on his vest, and a white shirt with lace at the throat and sleeves. He seemed improbably imposing as he stood there—as if nothing could pass by him. She couldn’t see his eyes in the darkness, but she knew their color.

Just as she knew him.

He was the man who’d been standing by the bed, watching over her.

She’d seen images of him dozens of times. He’d been loved—and hated. He’d sailed the seas on a constant quest for adventure, some said. For his own riches, according to others. He’d never killed a man, although he’d made good on many threats regarding severe thrashings. He’d kidnapped a wealthy man’s daughter and held her for a fortune, but when she was rescued, the girl had wanted to go back to her captor. He never broke his word.

Of course, despite his sense of honor, he’d been hunted. He had been the pirate, Blue Anderson. He was her umpteen-great-great-uncle.

Had been.

He was dead. He had been dead for more than two hundred and fifty years.

But there he was—standing in the darkness, watching whatever was happening outside the door. Watching with intense interest.

He looked up at her suddenly, as if he realized she was there.

He studied her for a moment and then he smiled, inclining his head curiously and nodding.

He could tell that she saw him.

If she’d been able to move, she would have. She would have screamed and gone running back to her room to hide under the bed.

But she couldn’t move. She could hardly breathe, much less scream.

He smiled again, tipped his tricorn hat, glanced outside one more time and then slowly disappeared.

As he did, she heard the door open. Her eyes darted to it with fear.

It was her grandparents coming back into the building. But it had to be about four in the morning, and they didn’t go out at 4:00 a.m. From the stairway window—she hadn’t managed to move yet—she realized there were flashing lights in the parking lot.

Flashing lights. The kind police cars had.

“Not to worry. They got him, Brenda, my love,” Gus told her grandmother.

“Yes, but... Oh, Gus! That horrible man might have gotten in.” Her grandmother sounded worried. She was such a wonderful grandmother—different from most, perhaps; she wasn’t much of a cookie baker. But she came to all of Abby’s school events. She loved to dress up, she read stories and acted out all the characters. She was slim and energetic, too; she loved a long bike ride.

“Hey, so what? He would’ve stolen what little cash we have in the register. But he didn’t get in. We woke up, we called the police, all is good,” Gus said. He looked up then—just as Blue had done, but of course, she couldn’t really have seen Blue. That would’ve been seeing a...

A ghost.

“Hey, munchkin, what are you doing up?” Gus called to her.

She willed her frozen lungs to function. “I woke up,” she said. Her voice sounded funny, and she forced herself to move. “I—I just woke up. And I couldn’t find you.”

“It’s okay, now, Abby. Everything’s okay. You can go back to sleep,” Gus told her.

“What happened?” she asked.

Her grandmother turned to her grandfather, and Gus answered. “A thief trying to break in, baby. But the police got him. We’re fine.”

“Back to bed, child!” her grandmother said. She smiled to lighten the sternness of her words. “It’s late. Or early. Whichever. Time for young’uns to be asleep! What would your parents say about the way we keep you up?”

“Mom and Dad wouldn’t mind. Mom always says you’re the best. She said that if you and Gus weren’t so wonderful, she’d never be able to travel with Dad as much as she does. Not many kids are so lucky. I get to stay with you.” Her father worked for a major tech company and traveled frequently. She had a room at the tavern with almost as much stuff in it as her room in the house on Chippewa Square.

“Be that as it may!” her grandmother began. “I want you back in your bed. It’s a school night.”

Abby gave her grandfather a wide-eyed look. He was an easier mark than her grandmother. She couldn’t possibly go back to bed—alone. Not yet.

“Come on down. We’ll have a cup of tea, and then we’ll go back to bed. How’s that?”

She managed to nod. And to come running the rest of the way down the stairs.

“Abigail Anderson!” Brenda said sternly. “I told you not to run around barefoot! Glasses do break, my darling, and even when we clean up, you can’t be sure we get all the little slivers.”

“Leave her be right now, Brenda,” Gus suggested.

Brenda wagged a finger at her. “Tonight. Just tonight. You follow the tavern rules—my rules, young lady—or you don’t stay here anymore!”

“Yes, ma’am,” Abby said.

Brenda spun on Gus. “And you! Don’t go putting a shot of whiskey in her tea to calm her down, do you hear me? She’s barely ten.”

“Oh, Brenda, it’s what our parents did for us—”

“And nowadays, it’s considered child abuse. You two behave. I’m going back up.”

She caught Abby’s chin and gave her a kiss on the cheek before she went up the winding staircase.

Gus winked at Abby. “Come into the kitchen,” he said. “We’ll brew some tea.”

In the tavern’s large, modernized kitchen, she sat on a stool and watched Gus place the kettle on a burner and bring out the makings for tea. There was a bottle of whiskey on one of the top shelves. He hesitated, and then shrugged. “One little nip. Cured me of colds, stubbed toes and a broken heart, and I had a wonderful mother, God bless her!” He crossed himself and looked upward. “Now, think you’ll be able to sleep after this?”

She nodded enthusiastically. A few minutes later, he’d made tea—with a “nip” of whiskey in it for the two of them. He brought the cups out front and they sat together beneath the figureheads and other artifacts. She cherished these occasions with him; there weren’t many.

“So, why are you scared?”

“You weren’t there,” she said.

He ruffled her hair. “I wasn’t gone. I’d die before I’d leave you, munchkin, you know that.”

She nodded again and sipped her tea. It was sweet and good with a lot of milk and sugar. Whatever else was in it, she couldn’t tell.

“Something’s bothering you,” he said.

“Well, Gus, of course!” she said. She didn’t know why she called him Gus, since she called her grandmother Nana.

He sighed and turned to her and stroked her face. “A bad man was trying to break in. But we heard him...saw him. Called the police, they came right away and now all is well.”

She bit her lip. She couldn’t get rid of the image of the dead pirate watching her grandparents through the door. Watching her.

“What is it?” Gus persisted.

“How did you know someone was trying to break in, Gus?” she asked him.

He looked away from her quickly. “Ah, just heard him.”


He studied her, as if trying to read her mind. She was afraid to speak, afraid to say she’d seen a ghost. She was almost ten, and she didn’t want him thinking she was a scaredy-cat baby. Or worse—having mental problems. Benny Adkins had acted weird at school, and they’d taken him out and sent him to some kind of special home for children.

She didn’t have to speak. Gus sipped his tea thoughtfully. Eventually he said, “You saw old Blue, didn’t you?”

Her heart thumped. “What?”

“I guess I was about your age when I saw him for the first time,” Gus said. “Where was he?”

“Blue?” she whispered.

Something about the somber tenderness in her grandfather’s eyes made her believe it was going to be all right. She could admit to him what she’d seen.

“I—I think he was over my bed. I think...maybe he... I think he was making sure I was all right. But I was scared and I jumped out of bed and I came running down the stairs. I saw him standing there...at the entry.”

He didn’t laugh or tell her she was crazy or seeing things. He nodded gravely and smiled at her. “Don’t be afraid of Blue. He’s kind of like a guardian angel for us. Some of us see him—some of us in the family—but the rest of the world? I don’t know. We don’t see him often. I figure we’re very lucky, but also that others wouldn’t understand. So let’s keep it a secret, okay?”

“Did he wake you up, Gus? Is that how you knew the tavern was in danger?”

“He woke me up. Yes. I hadn’t seen him in years and years. Hey, this is between us. Drink that tea now so you can get some sleep.”


“Abby,” he said, “don’t tell people that you see Blue. They’ll think you’re some kind of fake or crazy, one or the other. And seeing Blue is...well, it’s special. So, just know that if he’s around, he’s looking after you.”

She nodded.

“We won’t speak about it unless we’re alone, okay?”


She drank her tea and they went back to bed. She was surprised she fell asleep easily and that she wasn’t afraid.

But she wasn’t. The way her grandfather had explained it...Blue was looking after her.

The next day, although her family tried to keep the facts from her, Abby learned that the man who was trying to get in had broken into a tavern in Charleston a few nights before—and killed the owner. Thanks to her grandparents calling the police so quickly and quietly, they’d never have to find out what their fate might have been had he gotten in. And thanks to them, he’d been apprehended.

Thanks to Blue, she thought.

But she didn’t see the pirate in the tavern again, and as the years went by, she convinced herself that she’d seen him standing there because she knew so much about him, because actors portrayed Blue all the time, and because she’d been so frightened.

Once, when she was thirteen, she talked to Gus about it. “I never saw him after that night,” she said.

And Gus had smiled and put an arm around her shoulders. “He comes when we need him, Abby. He comes when we need him. He made an appearance during the American Revolution when a family member needed to escape after spying on the British. And he came during the Civil War...and he came again when an Anderson was hiding from a fed during prohibition,” Gus admitted dryly. “Blue watches, you know. And he finds the one who sees him, and...well, he’s not on call. God save us all from ghost hunters. I won’t let them in here. Blue isn’t a séance away. Like I said, he comes when he’s needed.”

She saw him the night her mother died of pneumonia, and again two years later when her father died, his heart having given out. Blue stood in the cemetery and watched solemnly as they were buried, and Abby felt his touch on her hair as she sobbed each time.

She thought she saw him at her bedside, occasionally, just watching over her.

But life was busy. Years passed, and her memory of Blue faded and settled back into history, exactly where it belonged.


Stayed tuned for the next 2 books for The Krewe of Hunters Series

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