Page 163 of Monsters in Love: Lost in the Underworld

RAVISHED BY THE REAPER

LUNA JOYA

Hayden

“Ooooh.”While the ghost in my passenger seat doesn’t rattle chains, she might as well drape a sheet over her head with the clichéd sound she makes as she helps herself to scattered artwork from my portfolio.

Not the architectural designs.

No, she goes straight for the monster smut.

Thank goodness she waited until I’d stopped at the last red light in town to pop out of nowhere.

“What will you call this one?” she asks, pointing to the dark shadows of a death specter sketched around a naked woman with her mouth parted in ecstasy.

If anyone else had seen my monster art, I would probably blush, but Good Time Glenda—whose name comes from her oversized shirt that says Here For A Groovy Good Time—won’t judge if the woman in the drawing has my hair, my figure, or…hell, heat rushes to my cheeks. Guess I’m blushing after all.

Focusing on Glenda’s question instead of my mortification, I say, “I was thinking an old-school romance novel sort of name. Something along the lines of Ravished by the Reaper. Too much?”

She shakes her head, not looking away from the sketch. “I dig it.”

Her sixties slang makes me grin despite the pounding headache that has steadily gotten worse these last few miles of driving up the California coast. “Thanks. I’m still working on the shading.”

“You planning to share it with anyone else?”

“No.” God no. My fans count on quirky and even creepy vibes from me. After all, I’m known on social media as @HauntedHayden. But they expect dramatically-lit gothic architecture or my historical narratives on macabre landmarks. “They want reality. Not monster smut.”

“Are you sure? This artwork is far out.” When the light goes green and traffic moves, she settles into the passenger seat as much as a ghost can while floating above the leather. “You don’t have to tell everyone he’s the spooky shadow man from your dreams.”

Don’t judge me for sharing my filthiest fantasies with a ghost. It’s not like I can tell anyone else I have a reaper lover who only visits me in my sleep. “No one would believe me.”

“They might.”

“Doubtful. Most people don’t die and then get shoved back into their bodies. Especially not by a sexy reaper who says he’ll come for you again…and you’ll be coming every night until then.”

“Depends. Sounds like something we groupies might’ve dreamed up while tripping on acid and following the band in a hip camper van like this. Hey, what’s your reaper’s name? There’s big power in names.”

“Wren.” I savor the way his name tastes on my tongue, the delightful shiver it sends through me even as I try to banish my building arousal. I am not showing up to the first day of an architectural consult with raging hormones that might as well scream WannaBe Reaper Slut as much as Glenda’s shirt will eternally define her.

“Hmm, Wren. It could be tribute to the badass little bird.”

“Or maybe he was named for the famous architect who designed so much of London after the Great Fire.”

“Only your brain immediately goes to history and architecture.”

“Probably,” I admit. “But it’s super on brand for me.”

“True. You start a new gig today?”

“Yep, a month-long history consultation.”

“Why’d you agree to such a long one? You spend a couple of days max at most places.”

“This one’s for charity. If I rough it for a few weeks and figure out the history of the house, a huge donation goes to the brain injury treatment center that helped me. A bunch of influencers applied for this job, and I won. There’s no way I could turn it down with a prize like that on the line. Think of all the people it could help.”

“Won’t you get bored?” she asks.

“Maybe.” I squint as rays of sunlight seem to reach through my custom-tinted windows like icepicks going straight for my head. “But get this, I already searched for the cliffside manor’s building and design records, and I found nada. There aren’t even permits for renovations or news of local craftsman working on the place. No historic registry applications. Nothing. It’s like it poofed into existence.”

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