Page 1 of Tall, Dark and Haunted

Chapter One

Rhiannon

Whohaseverheard of a bear shifter living in London? No one, that’s who!

Except here I am, lying in the middle of the Venus fountain in Sloane Square. Naked. Surrounded by first responders.

“Oddest thing I’ve seen on the job,” one of the paramedics says as she climbs into the fountain and wades toward me.

“Wait until you’ve been doing this as long as I have,” the other paramedic—a slightly graying older man—replies. “You wouldn’t believe some of the stories I’ve got.”

Considering my legs are literally up in the air, spread-eagle, I’m pretty sure his stories are all made up. What could possibly top this?

Why couldn’t I have at least stayed in bear form? Then the first responders could gawk at my furry arse instead of my very human, very exposed lady business.

If I were a bear, my neck wouldn’t be twisted at such an odd angle. One that would make anyone cringe. And my body wouldn’t be contorted like something from a horror movie.

The sight causes a sinking feeling of dread to form in the pit of my stomach. I’m most definitely not getting out of this one alive.

“You could at least cover the poor girl up,” an old lady calls out from the crowd.

Oh, shit. The crowd is growing! Seriously, where did all these people come from? It’s the middle of the night. They should be fast asleep, not playing the voyeur to my very awkward downfall.

My mum always told me to wear clean underwear in case I were to get hit by a bus. Obviously, no bus was involved, but I’m pretty sure it still applies. Not that she ever prepared me for something like this. Full-blown nudity never made it on to Mum’s Always Be Prepared list of dos and don’ts. Considering we’re bear shifters, maybe it should have.

And—oh, Goddess!—my left boob really is smaller than the right. I knew it! My last boyfriend insisted it wasn’t, but I should have known not to trust an abstract artist with something as important as my boob proportions. Nothing in his paintings ever looked even.

“How do you think she got here?” A young woman, who doesn’t seem to have the same uneven boob problem, nudges her friend.

The well-equipped, equally symmetrical brunette snorts. “Probably a kinky sex thing. She looks like the sort, what with that multi-colored hair.”

Just what does she have against my hair? And what does she mean, I look like the sort?

“It wasn’t a kinky sex thing!” I shout at her, but no one reacts. Because I’m dead.

Why am I so sure that I’m dead? Well, there’s the fact that two police officers are currently walking around the fountain with yellow crime scene tape. I’d tell them I wasn’t murdered, but what good would it do? They can’t hear me. Or see me.

I’m floating six feet in the air over my own body… the one floating in the fountain. Oh, and the me that’s in the air is semi-translucent.

Another dead giveaway? No pun intended. The fact that no matter how hard I try, I can’t shift. As if dying wasn’t bad enough, I can’t even escape into my bear. I feel trapped. It leaves me a little bit twitchy. My non-corporeal body is full of expendable energy I now have no way to use up.

Why can’t this just be some sort of bad dream? Perhaps I should try pinching myself, except there’s nothing to bloody pinch. I have no body.

“Young people and skinny dipping,” someone in the crowd mutters.

“Skinny dipping?” I gasp as my nostrils flare. “I wasn’t skinny dipping!”

Okay, I was kind of skinny dipping. But it’s not like it was intentional. I mean, who actually chooses to shift and fall into a fountain at four in the morning? If I knew I’d end up here, I wouldn’t have come to London in the first place. I would have stayed in Port Talbot and spent the rest of my life painting the sun rising over the hills. At least my hills look like actual hills, and not splotches of paint, and my paintings are proportionally accurate, unlike some people I know.

But no, I wanted more. I thought I could become famous like Monet or Van Gogh. Of course, Van Gogh managed to sell one whole painting before he died, unlike me. I sold a whopping total of zero, unless you count all the ones my parents bought. Pity purchases, if you ask me.

“Bloody hell!” I cry as a paramedic kneels next to me, placing his head at eye level with the larger of my two boobs.

If I wasn’t dead, my cheeks would be burning with shame. This is an utter disaster. Surely, it can’t possibly get any worse.

Only it does. Because that’s when a van squeals to a stop at the curb, and several reporters jump out. With cameras!

“Oh Goddess, that wasn’t a challenge for you to go and make my death even more tragic!” I cry to the heavens.