The Rising: A Badlands Novel Read online

  THE RISING

  A BADLANDS NOVEL

  MORGAN BRICE

  CONTENTS

  1. Simon

  2. Vic

  3. Simon

  4. Vic

  5. Simon

  6. Vic

  7. Simon

  8. Vic

  9. Simon

  10. Vic

  11. Simon

  12. Vic

  13. Simon

  14. Vic

  15. Simon

  16. Vic

  17. Simon

  Afterword

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-939704-86-3

  Print ISBN: 978-1-939704-87-0

  Badlands: Copyright © 2019 by Gail Z. Martin.

  The right of the author to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), locales, and incidents are either coincidental or used fictitiously. Any trademarks used belong to their owners. No infringement is intended.

  Cover art by Natania Barron

  Darkwind Press is an imprint of DreamSpinner Communications, LLC

  1

  SIMON

  “We need more pirates. Pirates sell.”

  Simon Kincaide, owner of Grand Strand Ghost Tours, looked up with a chuckle. “Especially dead pirates. Or should I say ‘dread’ pirates?”

  Pete King, Simon’s assistant store manager and part-time tour guide, rolled his eyes. “Both. I’m just saying, we could switch up the scripts and add more pirates to the ghost tours. Especially with the new wrecks the hurricane exposed. That’s all everyone seems to be talking about these days.”

  Simon nodded. “I think you’re on to something. I have some good pirate ghost stories, but they’re pretty well known. Why don’t you do some research and see if you can come up with some that aren’t as familiar?” He grinned. “Let me guess—you’re itching to try out a new pirate costume?”

  “Guilty as charged,” Pete replied. “You know the tourists love that stuff.”

  “Oh, believe me. I know!” Simon used to do all the tours himself, but during the past year, business had grown enough for him to promote Pete and bring him in to expand the number and types of tours offered. Pete did his tours in full costume and made it more of a performance, fitting since he was finishing up a degree in drama. Simon had been a folklore professor before coming to Myrtle Beach, so his tours stuck to the facts and history. Both types of tours were popular.

  “People say that the new wreck was a pirate corsair, pretty notorious in its day,” Pete went on, obviously thrilled with his topic.

  “Don’t get your hopes up too much—around here, everything is a pirate ship until proven otherwise,” Simon joked. “Seriously, the last time a good wreck washed in, everyone was sure it was Bluebeard’s ship until it turned out to be a garbage scow!”

  “Shh!” Pete teased. “Leave me my fragile illusions!” he added, throwing an arm across his face and pretending to swoon.

  Ten in the morning on a late January Monday meant Myrtle Beach was quiet. The snowbird tourists were likely still sleeping or enjoying breakfast. Not like the summer when walkers and joggers practically crowded the beach and boardwalk at dawn. And with a storm forecast, it was likely to stay quiet.

  “I’ll go pick up some coffee,” Simon offered. “Somehow, I don’t think you’ll get overwhelmed with customers while I’m gone.”

  Simon wandered down to the railing and looked out over the Atlantic. Wind blew his shoulder-length brown hair and stung his hazel eyes as he looked out over the whitecaps and the rough surf. He loved the ocean like this, wild and powerful. Simon took a deep breath of salty air and listened to the pounding waves.

  Tourists might not be on the boardwalk, but the weather never stopped its resident ghosts. Simon watched two children in old-fashioned clothes skip several yards, then vanish. A translucent old man on a bicycle laden with possessions rode past, giving a ghostly jingle of his bell. On the steps to the beach access, a dreadlocked young man leaned on his elbows and stared out at the water that took his life, in no hurry to move on.

  Most people couldn’t see the ghosts, but Simon could.

  Grand Strand Ghost Tours didn’t just arise from Simon’s passion for myth, legend, and folklore; it was rooted in his abilities as a psychic medium. Sure, the ghost tours were largely entertainment, but Simon also gave private psychic readings and conducted séances by appointment. Along with the books he wrote about ghosts and the speaking engagements he provided for local organizations, Simon had managed to create a thriving business. He leaned against the railing, enjoying a moment of contentment.

  Or maybe, the calm before the storm, a little voice in the back of his mind warned.

  His phone buzzed, and Simon pulled it from his pocket and smiled. “Hey. Miss me?”

  “Always.” Homicide lieutenant Vic D’Amato’s voice was a husky rumble. “I just wanted to check what time you finish up tonight. Figured it was my turn to pick up dinner.” The tone in Vic’s voice promised far more than food, and Simon felt the anticipation go right to his dick.

  “I should be finished around seven. It’s off-season, so no tours on Mondays. You have a busy day lined up?” Simon asked as he started walking toward his favorite coffee shop.

  “Not yet, and I’m hoping it stays that way,” Vic replied. “It’s never a good thing when we’re busy.”

  “Let me know if you hear anything official about the storm. I’ve heard six different forecasts, and I haven’t even gotten coffee yet.”

  “Sure thing—but don’t expect anything dependable yet. We’re too far out.”

  Simon knew how changeable forecasts could be so close to the ocean. Still, Myrtle Beach had barely gotten back on its feet after the last hurricane, so the news of another severe winter storm—hurricane or not—had everyone on edge.

  “Be careful out there,” Simon said, letting his voice drop to a growl. “I love you.”

  “Love you, too. Stay out of trouble.”

  Despite the forecasts, Simon couldn’t help feeling a spring in his step after talking with Vic. They’d been together for less than a year, but Simon was finding it more and more difficult to remember what life was like before meeting his handsome homicide cop. Vic had officially moved into Simon’s retro blue bungalow after the holidays, and while they were still working out their new living situation, Simon had never been happier.

  The boardwalk might not be busy, but Le Mizzenmast, Simon’s favorite coffee shop, was always bustling. The locals called it Le Miz, not to be confused with the musical. The building had previously been a pirate-themed attraction, and when Tracey Cullen took over, she couldn’t afford to remodel, so she just incorporated the pirate decor into her theme and went with it.

  “Hi, Simon!” Tracey called with a wave from behind the register. “You want the usual?” When Simon nodded, Tracey turned to her barista. “One Dread Pirate Roberts and a mocha please!”

  Simon took his place in line, remembering how he and Vic had met right here, waiting for coffee. Simon had taken one look at Vic’s muscled body, his dark brown eyes, and the ink on his arms and felt an instant attraction. After all these months and several hair-raising adventures, the magnetism had only gotten stronger. Being in love felt wonderful, and Simon resolved to enjoy every minute of it.

 
; “You must be thinking about Vic. You look like a smitten puppy,” Tracey said when Simon made it to the front of the line. Tracey’s dark skin glowed with a slight sheen from the warmth of the espresso maker’s steam. Her long braids rocked blue tips for winter, after red for Christmas and orange for Halloween.

  “Nothing wrong with that,” Simon returned. “You’re exactly the same when Shayna’s around.”

  “Yep. I won’t argue that,” Tracey agreed. Tracey was Simon’s best friend, a connection he’d made not long after he moved to Myrtle Beach from Columbia three years ago. Shayna, Tracey’s girlfriend, was an emergency room nurse, and the four of them often double-dated.

  The line ended with Simon for a moment, though he had no doubt more customers desperate for good java would crowd in soon.

  “You hear anything new about that wreck offshore?” Tracey asked as she rang him up.

  “Why? Are you going to name a drink after it?” Simon teased.

  “Maybe. Only if it’s got a cool story behind it. I mean, no one wants a boring pirate, right?”

  “Are there such things? I figured all the swashbuckling and looting and pillaging was exciting, by definition.”

  “More for the pirates than the townspeople, I’m sure,” Tracey said as she counted his change. “A lot less fun than that Disney ride makes it look. Although it would have been awesome if the town ladies really had chased off the pirates with frying pans!”

  Simon moved down to wait for his Dread Pirate Roberts latte, and his attention drifted to the TV in the corner. Even without the volume turned up, he could see the weather map and read the crawl at the bottom of the screen. The green, rotating CGI graphic of the storm looked ominous, and several arrows showed the possible course. Some projected it hitting Myrtle Beach head on, while others showed the storm veering northward, or stalling off-shore. Despite all the forecasting tech and weather satellites, no one ever really knew what was going to happen until the last minute.

  “You think they’ll have to take the SkyWheel apart again?” Samir, the barista, asked.

  The huge Ferris wheel was a Grand Strand icon, visible for miles with its neon lights. Last fall, when the hurricane was on its way, Simon and the other boardwalk merchants had watched the wheel get disassembled to ride out the storm. That might have been months ago, but it felt like days.

  “I hope not,” Simon replied, taking his drink and Pete’s mocha from the counter. “We’re out of hurricane season. This is just a winter storm.”

  Samir raised an eyebrow. “Just? You’ve been here long enough to know a storm is bad news, no matter what they call it. Between what it blows down and what it washes up, they’re nothing but trouble.”

  Simon nodded. The insurance premium on his shop reminded him of that every time he got the bill. Storm damage and flooding were two of the hazards that went with living at the beach. To Simon, the benefits far outweighed the dangers.

  Melancholy settled deep as Simon walked back to his shop. Normally, looking out at the ocean lifted his spirits, but today, he felt a strange foreboding. The Atlantic was beautiful, but it could be deadly. Every year, drowning deaths reminded residents and tourists that the ocean wasn’t a wave pool.

  Farther out, beyond where swimmers and jet skis ranged, a graveyard of ships held the remains of sailors from centuries past. Like the wreck people were talking about that had been exposed and washed closer to shore by the last big storm. Everyone else conjured up fantastical stories about the doomed ship, like something out of Treasure Island. But Simon couldn’t shake the feeling that this particular wreck was trouble waiting to happen.

  Simon had learned long ago to listen to his intuition, even if it fell short of a full-on vision or premonition. He lifted his face to the wind and let it rush past him, taking his breath away and tangling his hair. While Myrtle Beach in January might be warm compared to other places, it was still cold enough to deter even the most stout-hearted snowbirds from taking a dip.

  He ducked into Grand Strand Ghost Tours and handed off Pete’s mocha. One woman lingered in the back looking at t-shirts, while another studied the rack with Simon’s ghost books. A solidly build man in khaki pants and a contractor-logo polo shirt read their tour brochures as if he were waiting for something. He looked up when Simon walked in.

  “Are you Simon Kincaide? The ghost hunter?”

  Simon stifled a sigh. “I’m a psychic medium, not really a ghost hunter.” He tried not to let wording bother him. Most people only knew what they saw on television. Simon didn’t need to go on ghost hunts—the ghosts usually came to him. And unlike the paranormal investigators on television, Simon’s gift was solid enough to earn him consulting status with the Myrtle Beach Police Department, thanks to Vic and his boss.

  “Sorry,” the man said, coloring a bit with embarrassment. He had sandy blond hair and blue eyes, with a tan that said he spent a lot of time outdoors. Not surprising, if he did construction for a living like the shirt suggested. “I’ve been watching too much Long Island Medium.”

  “It’s okay,” Simon replied. “I get it all the time. How can I help you?”

  “I’m Trevor Nichols,” the man said, extending his hand. His grip was dry and firm. “I’m the general contractor on the renovations for Socastee Manor.”

  Simon frowned, trying to place the name. “The old plantation on the coast below Murrells Inlet?”

  Trevor nodded. “Yes. It’s being sold to a developer who wants to bring it back to its former glory. Which, given decades of neglect, is going to take some doing. That’s my job. But as you may know, the house has a…history. That’s where I’m hoping you come in.”

  Simon leaned against the counter and took a sip of his coffee. “So, it’s haunted?”

  “I think so. As far as I can tell—and I’ve looked hard—no one’s pranking us. Frankly, the incidents have been dangerous enough that they’d be criminal, not a joke.”

  “Tell me.” Simon gestured for Trevor to follow him over to the table and chairs that sat in the back corner of the shop. It was where Simon did his psychic readings.

  Trevor settled into a chair and took a deep breath. Simon could tell the man felt uncomfortable. But whether it was asking for help or coming to a psychic that bothered him, Simon couldn’t discern. He tried to tune in to Trevor’s energy, hoping to get some kind of read but got nothing except worry and exhaustion. A strictly non-magical appraisal told Simon that his visitor hadn’t been sleeping well and that he was jittery from nerves and too much caffeine.

  “Kalston-Waters is the development company that bought Socastee Manor. Jonah Camden is the developer I work for. He’s got a great vision for the house, but a demanding timeline. The hurricane last fall put us behind—some damage, but more of an impact because of material delays and weather too bad to risk having crews there.”

  “The house is directly on the water?”

  Trevor nodded. “It’s on a spit of land that practically becomes an island at high tide, and it’s often cut off except by boat if the water rises. Which, if the stories are true, served well for smuggling.”

  Simon struggled to remember what he had heard about the old mansion. The family that built it had been wealthy, but not particularly well-liked. The plantation had been prominent before the Civil War, but like many others, fell into decline afterward. There had been whispers about smuggling, but the family—which had been powerful locally until the 1980s—had ruthlessly squashed anything that might tarnish their reputation.

  “What’s going on?” Simon asked.

  “Tools go missing. Sometimes they’re destroyed, other times they just never get found. That’s expensive—and causes delays. Materials are fine when we leave for the night, and ruined in the morning. And there’ve been accidents—cracked boards, scaffolding that gives way, and a fall down the stairs that could have really been bad. The guy who fell said he was pushed, but no one else was in the house at the time. Thank God no one’s gotten killed or seriously injured, but it�
��s only a matter of time if this stuff keeps happening.”

  “Can you rule out malicious tampering?” Simon had run into cases where people tried to cover up their crimes by faking a haunting.

  “We put up cameras, and of course the whole place is locked at night. Even set a night watchman. The security guards won’t stay—they say there’s something weird out there and then they don’t come back. The cameras have picked up white flashes and lots of those little light spots—”

  “Orbs.”

  “Yeah. Those.”

  “Other than the man who fell on the steps, have you or the crews experienced anything strange?”

  Trevor hesitated as if he were afraid he might sound crazy.

  Simon leaned forward. “It’s okay. I’ve seen a lot of weird things. I’ll believe you. I just need to know what’s been happening.”

  Trevor swallowed, then gave a curt nod. “Okay. So…we’ve had places in the house suddenly get so cold we can see our breath, but the rest of the house—hell, the rest of the room—isn’t. Then a minute later, the cold spot’s gone. The crew hears footsteps in places there aren’t any people, and when they go to look, no one’s there, and everybody’s accounted for. Tools get moved around, like I said. A couple of my guys said they saw movement and thought one of their buddies was coming up behind them, but when they turned, no one was there. But it felt like there was someone in the room.” He met Simon’s gaze, silently begging to be believed.