She had called him about hooking up after work, and while he had willingly complied, now that she had dozed off, he was wide-awake.

There was no light on in the living room, which was unusual, as he normally kept at least one lamp on to help him navigate his way to the john without tripping over something or banging his knees. Still, it wasn’t unheard of. The French Quarter, with its power surges and antique wiring, tended to eat light bulbs like candy.

As he was groping his way toward a light switch, he suddenly became aware that there was someone sitting on his sofa in the dark. His heart nearly stopped as he realized he had been caught completely vulnerable.

“Do not be concerned, Griffen McCandles. You know who I am.”

Forcing his heart rate down to somewhere near normal, he switched on the light and turned to greet his visitor.

“Hello, Rose,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting you, to say the least.”

The young black woman with the long, waist-length hair smiled at him in return.

“I apologize for visiting your home unannounced, but at some times it is more difficult than others to make contact, and I needed to speak with you.”

Rose was a ghost, a voodoo queen who had been dead for eight years. Shortly after he arrived in New Orleans, she had approached him on Jackson Square one night to ask his intentions toward the supernatural community in town. She had also given him a necklace of small black and red beads that he wore constantly, and had helped him out of some awkward, potentially dangerous situations.

“You know,” she continued, “you should really have some wards set on this place . . . on your sister’s, too. It was entirely too easy for me to enter. If you ask Jerome, he should be able to help you with that.”