All the Rules of Heaven (All That Heaven Will Allow #1) - Amy Lane Page 0,13

Well, I need a puppy.” Tucker had never wanted a dog before in his life, but suddenly, in this new place with the cold of the iron and the chill of the unhappy souls surrounding him, he wanted something. Something warm. Something that gave simply and expected only affection in return.

Tucker fell asleep dreaming of loyal, trusting eyes staring at him as he slept.

The eyes were green.

TUCKER AWOKE in the late afternoon.

The room had a window that faced north, into the riotous entropic garden, and the sun was enough to Tucker’s right that the west wing of the house cast a long shadow over the greenery. For a moment, as he lay staring into the world beyond the soul-trapping antique he slept in, he could see them. Women in Edwardian dresses walking, arms linked, along the garden path. A man wearing the uniform of a WWII aviator, gazing off into the sunset with melancholy in his eyes. Children sporting various periods of dress, darting around in what appeared to be a free-for-all game of hide-and-seek.

Those were the happy ones. Tucker concentrated on them, ignoring the sinister man in gambler’s garb with a knife in his fist. The beaten young woman, covered in blood, dragging the scalp of her attacker behind her. The two young men, running hand in hand from a mob that would catch them if Tucker didn’t look away.

There was too much tragedy in the world. And Tucker could only do so much. He closed his eyes against the worst of it and tried to find his center.

He found it in the thought of a puppy and wanted to cry.

Angel was right. A puppy wouldn’t be able to take all of this; dogs were already too attuned to ghosts as it was. Maybe a cat? Not that cats didn’t see psychic forces—cats just didn’t give a shit. If something freaked a cat out, they hissed and let it alone. A cat wouldn’t offer unconditional love like a puppy could—but if a cat did love you, it could return affection.

Okay, then. The purring of a cat would have to be enough. Tucker was finally living in a place that didn’t expect half his rent in a cleaning deposit, and where he could let the cat go outside without the fear that it might become a victim of traffic. Ten acres spread outside his window, and there may be ghosts, but there were also birds, mice, and voles. A cat could weather the psychic storms of this place—and maybe give Tucker some stability as well.

But a cat would want to roam the house. Tucker couldn’t blame it. He felt trapped in this room by its very existence. The one “clean” room here, and it was vaguely corrupted with the memories of an irritated nurse. Tucker wondered if he could bring his next “mission” here, and perhaps they could refresh the room with a sexual epiphany, giving the place the sort of joy it didn’t have now.

But it would still be just one room. Tucker closed his eyes and pushed out with his imagination, remembering the oppressive Victorian décor he’d seen on all sides as he’d walked from the kitchen and down the corridor. Fifteen rooms, Angel had said, not including Aunt Ruth’s and this one here. Well, sort of. He’d said, “There should be fifteen bedrooms,” which didn’t bode well since he’d existed at Daisy Place for at least seventy-five years and should know exactly. And he hadn’t been counting the bathrooms either.

This had probably started off as a large family residence before it became a hotel, possibly a B and B–style place, which is what it had been before it had become a burden on the back of a frail old woman.

Tucker wasn’t ready to populate the place with a family again, but he could make it into a B and B. One room at a time.

He opened his eyes, and the macabre pageantry of souls on the lawn didn’t bother him quite so much.

“Angel?” he said, swinging his feet over the side of the bed. “Angel, are you awake?”

“I don’t often sleep, but I do rest,” Angel said from his pose on top of the dresser. “What do you need?”

“For starters, I need a cat.”

“But—”

“And for finishers, I need some books on home decorating, some home improvement tools, and a fuckton of paint.”

“Tonight? I thought we’d start with an object or two. I have a pretty paperweight picked out—”

God, this guy had an agenda. “Sure. Whatever. We’ll do