Wraith, Book 1

Excerpt:

One of the perks of astral travel is the inability to smell, especially when I glide into restaurants that haven’t thrown out their raw meat in a day or two.

Now that’s an odor that sticks to the back of your tongue like a hairy sock.

My name is Zoë—that’s with a long e. Not the pronunciation like toe. Martinique. Irish mother, Latin American father. Which means I have darker than usual skin for an Irish Catholic, a mass of brownish hair, very light brown eyes, a wicked mean temper and love of bawdy pub-songs.

My mother insists I look like my father, whom I’d always sort of imagined as resembling Antonio Banderas. Okay—so Antonio’s not Latin, but Spanish. He’s still one beautiful man. But you know how it is, how a daughter always imagines her father as being the most beautiful man in the world. A hero. A legend.

But according to my mom, the only legendary thing my dad did was vanish from my life. As to the whereabouts of one Adiran Martinique, can’t help you. Haven’t seen him since I was four. Mom refers to his absence as necessary.

Try explaining the word necessary to a teenager with raging hormones and the want of a daddy.

As strange as this may sound, I astral travel for a living, gathering up information that people pay good money for. I can’t give you the mechanics of how I do it, only that I can. I’m not sure there’s any real official name for what I am or do. I’ve sort of self-labled myself a Traveler for want of a better name. Telling a new client I travel to locate the information they pay for is easier than saying “Oh—I go out-of-body and toodle around in my all-together to snoop on people.”

Ever tried explaining the astral plane to any average Joe? They get that whole MEGO look—you know—My Eyes Glaze Over.

Where was I? Oh. Yeah.

Smell.

The smell problem wasn’t what brought me into the biggest case of my life—the one that sent me down a road of no return.

It was the sound of a gunshot.