What's on the back of the book:'I can see ghosts. I can talk to ghosts.
And, if necessary, I can kick some serious ghost butt.'
Susannah Simon has an unearthly gift: she's a Mediator. She must help trapped and tortured souls move on to the next world. But not all spooks want her guidance or want to go quietly - that's when Suze has to get tough. Then she meets Jesse, a drop-dead-gorgeous ghost who just happens to haunt her bedroom. It's hard to boot a guy into the afterlife when he makes your heart beat faster - even though he's been dead for 150 years . . .A piece from the book - Love You To Death:
To say that the guy looked surprised to be addressed in this manner would have been a massive understatement. He didn't just look surprised. He actually looked over his shoulder, to see if it was really him I was talking to.
But of course, the only thing behind him was the window and through it, that incredible view of Carmel Bay. So then he turned back to look at me, and must have seen that my gaze was fastened directly on his face, since he breathed, 'Nombre de Dios,' in a manner that would have had Gina, who has a thing for Latino guys, swooning.
'It's no use calling on your higher power,' I informed him, as I swung the pink-tasselled chair to my new dressing table around, and straddled it. 'In case you haven't noticed, He isn't paying a whole lot of attention to you. Otherwise, He wouldn't have left you here to fester for - ' I took in his outfit, which looked a lot like something they'd have worn on The Wild, Wild West. 'What is it, a hundred and fifty years? Has it really been that long since you croaked?'
He stared at me with eyes that were as black and liquid as ink. 'What is . . . croaked?' he asked, in a voice that sounded rusty from disuse.
I rolled my eyes. 'Kicked the bucket,' I translated. 'Checked out. Popped off. Bit the dust.' When I saw from his perplexed expression that he still didn't understand, I said, with some exasperation, 'Died.'
A piece from the book - High stakes:
The first time she showed up, it was about an hour after I'd come home from the pool party. Around three in the morning, I guess. And what she did was, she stood by my bed and started screaming.
Really screaming. Really loud. She woke me out of a dead sleep. I'd been lying there dreaming about Bryce Martinsen. In my dream, he and I were cruising along Seventeen Mile Drive in this red convertible. I don't know whose convertibleit was. His, I guess, since I don't even have my driver's licence yet. Bryce's soft wheat-coloured hair was blowing in the wind; and the sun was sinking into the sea, making the sky all red and orange and purple. We were going around these curves, you know, on the cliffs above the Pacific, and I wasn't even carsick, or anything. It was one really terrific dream.
And then this woman starts wailing, practically in my ear.
I ask you: who needs that?
Of course I sat up right away, completely wide awake. Having a dead woman show up in your bedroom screaming her head off can do that to you. Wake you up right away, I mean.
I sat there blinking because my room was really dark - well, it was night-time. You know, night-time, when normal people are asleep.
But not us mediators. Oh, no.
She was standing in this skinny patch of moonlight coming in from the bay windows on the far side of my room. She had on a grey hooded sweatshirt, hood down, a T-shirt, capri pants and Keds. Her hair was short, sort of mousy brown. It was hard to tell if she was young or old, what with all the screaming and everything, but I kind of figured her for my mom's age.
Which was why I didn't get out of bed and punch her right then and there.
I probably should have. I mean, it wasn't like I could exactly yell back at her, not without waking the whole house. I was the only one in the house who could hear her.
Well, the only one who was alive, anyway.
After a while, I guess she noticed I was awake because she stopped screaming and reached up to wipe her eyes. She was crying pretty hard.
'I'm sorry,' she said.
I said, 'Yeah, well, you got my attention. Now what do you want?'
'I need you,' she said. She was sniffling. 'I need you to tell someone something.'
I said, 'OK. What?'
'Tell him . . .' She wiped her face with her hands. 'Tell him it wasn't it fault. He didn't kill me.'
This was sort of a new one. I raised my eyebrows. 'Tell him he didn't kill you?' I asked, just to be sure I'd heard her right.
She nodded. She was kind of pretty, I guess, in a waifish sort of way. Although it probably wouldn't have hurt if she'd eaten a muffin or two back when she'd been alive.
'You'll tell him?' she asked me, eagerly. 'Promise?'
'Sure,' I said. 'I'll tell him. Only who am I telling?'
She looked at me funny. 'Red, of course.'
Red? Was she kidding?
But it was too late. She was gone.
Just like that.
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