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  THE HOST

  ALLISON HOBBS

  Copyright 2019 Allison Hobbs

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

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  Host: A human being who unknowingly provides lodging to an invading spirit.

  Dedicated to the memory of my friend,

  Phyllis Nelson

  CHAPTER 1

  An attractive male server carrying a tray of glimmering copper mugs approached Imani Pollard. “Moscow Mule?” the server asked.

  “Yes, thank you.” Imani lifted a drink from the serving tray and briefly admired the craftsmanship of the container before taking a sip. The bartender had been heavy-handed with the vodka, which was fine with her.

  Imani had arrived at her friend, Hope’s housewarming party only twenty minutes ago and was already downing her second Moscow Mule. Ever since Hope had married Dr. Franklin Lowell, a renowned plastic surgeon, who was twenty-five years her senior and who pampered her with the best of everything, she had turned into an unbearable narcissist. The only way Imani could deal with Hope’s pretentiousness was to get a little tipsy.

  “Imani, there you are! I’m so glad you could make it,” chortled Hope, sweeping into the grand rotunda where the guests were milling about. Hope’s face was beat for the gods. Dripping in jewels, she was rocking a body-hugging designer dress that showcased the hard work she put in at the gym.

  She approached Imani and gave her a double-cheek air kiss. Hope and Imani had never air-kissed a day in their lives, and Imani presumed that Hope had picked up the gesture from her current group of snooty friends.

  “You changed your hair,” Hope commented, gesturing toward Imani’s natural curls that were styled in a bouncy twist-out.

  “Yes, no more perms for me…I love being natural,” Imani remarked proudly.

  “It suits you, but it’s a little too Afro-centric for my taste,” Hope observed, running her fingers through her luxurious weave that hung well past her shoulders. “So, what do you think of my humble abode?” Hope asked, extravagantly waving a hand around the vast room with its twenty-foot-high vaulted ceiling and crystal chandelier.

  Hope was insufferably conceited and had to make every conversation about her material possessions. Refusing to let her know how badly she was irritating her, Imani took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Your humble abode is more like a palace. It’s really beautiful, Hope,” Imani said as graciously as she could manage.

  “Oh, you haven’t seen anything yet,” Hope bragged. “I decorated this entire mansion by myself. I didn’t want any help from an interior decorator because I doubt if anyone has better taste than mine.”

  A soft groan escaped Imani’s lips, but Hope didn’t seem to notice.

  “The official tour doesn’t start for another hour, but you have my permission to snoop around all you like. In the meantime I have to go check in with my party planner and make sure that everything is running smoothly and all of the entertainers have arrived.”

  “I didn’t know you’d hired entertainers.”

  “Of course! Franklin and I always go big. We hired a jazz ensemble, aerial dancers, an amazing opera singer. Oh, and there’ll be a Tarot card reader on hand.”

  Imani wrinkled her brows. “I’ve never known you to dabble in the occult.”

  “The reader I hired is on point, and her readings are more like therapy session or a life coaching session than anything mystical. She guided me toward the good life that I’m living now, so don’t knock the Tarot until you’ve tried it. Who knows, a reading might improve your life and point you in another direction. You’ve got to be tired of working all those hours at the hospital and not having any kind of personal life,” Hope said snidely.

  The shade of it all caused Imani to practically choke on her drink. Before she could check Hope for her spiteful comment, Hope spotted her party planner and began to sashay across the room.

  Taking Hope up on her offer to look around, Imani drifted from room-to-room, amazed that someone who had come from the same working class background as she was now living in such splendor and opulence.

  The house was insanely beautiful. With its six bedrooms and five bathrooms, the home exploded with amenities. Inside the guest suite was an exquisite spa-style bathroom with white porcelain tiles. There was an epic home theater on a lower level, and on the main floor there was a formal dining room and marble heated floors. Outside there was a landscaped terrace and pool, and many other lavish features.

  Imani wished she could be happy for Hope, whom she’d known for most of her life—they’d attended middle school, high school, and college together and both had acquired a bachelor’s of science in nursing degree—but it was hard to be happy for someone who constantly bragged about her fabulous lifestyle and seemed to enjoy throwing her newfound wealth in Imani’s face.

  Once a down-to-earth person and a loyal friend, Hope had become someone that Imani barely recognized, both physically and personality-wise. In addition to the boob job, nose job, and cheek implants, Hope had morphed into an obnoxious and shallow individual. She had begun working for Dr. Lowell soon after acquiring her nursing degree, and she married the successful surgeon a year later. Married to such an affluent man, Hope no longer needed to earn a living, yet she continued to work at her husband’s lucrative practice. According to Hope, her presence at his practice kept potential home-wreckers from getting any bright ideas about trying to steal her husband.

  Imani missed the friendship that she and Hope once shared, but had accepted that they’d grown apart and no longer had the same interests. As she moved about the home, she surveyed the guests and noticed that they all seemed to be around Dr. Lowell’s age. Hope seemed to be comfortable socializing with her husband’s peers while Imani preferred hanging out with people in her own age group.

  Hope and Dr. Lowell had gone all out for their housewarming party. The servers offered high-end finger foods and desserts prepared by a popular local chef. A professional bartender mixed pretty cocktails with fancy garnishes. But despite its lavishness, the party was a dud as far as Imani was concerned. She planned to mingle with the guests for another half-hour or so and then make an excuse to get the hell out of there.

  It was rare to have a Saturday night off from the hospital where she worked as an Emergency Room nurse, and she didn’t want to waste her precious day-off by putting up with Hope’s underhanded comments. She’d have a much better time if she went downtown and joined a few of her coworkers from the hospital who were currently enjoying themselves at a hookah spot that had recently opened.

  Biding her time until she could make a hasty getaway, Imani continued to take in the grandeur of Hope’s and Dr. Lowell’s home. As she ambled along corridors, she peeked inside rooms with open doors and grudgingly admired the tasteful décor. It wasn’t that she was jealous of Hope’s lifestyle, the problem was that she deeply resented the snobbish person that Hope had become. Their friendship was hanging by a thread, and she wondered how long they would pretend that everything was still okay between them.

  While touring the house Imani ambled along a wide corridor on the first floor. The walls were decorated with tribal art, and as she admired the collection of African masks and amulets, she found herself outside a room that had the smell of incense
wafting out into the hallway. Taking a peek inside, she was surprised to see a woman sitting behind a table. Noticing her bejeweled turban and the card decks on the table, Imani realized she was the Tarot reader that Hope had mentioned.

  Aside from the Tarot reader, the room was empty. Apparently none of the guests were interested in something as wacky as a Tarot reading. Figuring that a quick reading would be an interesting way to waste some time, she stepped inside.

  The reader, an olive-complexioned woman of ambiguous heritage, beckoned Imani over to her table that was covered with a mystical-looking cloth that depicted the constellations. On top of the cloth were a colorful array of crystals, two lit candles, and of course, there were several Tarot decks. The setup was so clichéd, Imani couldn’t help from snickering behind her hand as she took steps toward the table.

  “Have a seat,” the card reader offered.

  Feeling embarrassed about getting a Tarot reading, Imani looked around awkwardly before taking a seat.

  “They call me Waiola, what’s your name?” the woman asked.

  Feeling self-conscious, Imani’s eyes darted downward before giving the woman her name.

  Waiola peered into Imani’s eyes for a period that was lengthy enough to cause Imani to squirm uncomfortably and avert her gaze.

  “Hello, Imani,” Waiola finally said. “What’s your question?”

  “Uh, I don’t have a question in mind. Can you just give me a general reading?”

  “I could, but a specific question would strengthen the reading.”

  “Oh, okay. Ummm…” Trying to come up with a question, Imani looked off in thought.

  “Are you married?” Waiola prodded.

  “No, I’m single.”

  “Would you like to be married?”

  Imani blushed. “Yeah, I guess—one of these days,” she said with a shrug, trying to give the impression that she was nonchalant about marriage when in reality she was more than ready to find her perfect mate.

  Waiola gazed at her and smiled knowingly. “Let’s find out what your romantic future looks like, shall we?”

  Waiola picked up a deck of cards and began shuffling them, and Imani’s eyes were drawn to the many rings on her fingers and her bright red, clawed fingernails. Wearing a serious expression, Waiola spread ten cards into a curious pattern and then studied them intently.

  “What do you see?” Imani asked, leaning forward, scrutinizing the strange images on cards. She had no idea what she was looking at, but she stared at them anyway.

  Waiola pointed to the center card. “I’m looking at your current situation and I see that you’re longing for companionship.” She tapped a curved fingernail on another card. “This card indicates that you won’t have to wait much longer. Your soulmate yearns to be with you, too. In fact, he’s been searching for you. One thing is for certain, you’ll both recognize each other instantly.”

  “How will two strangers recognize each other?” Imani asked with a soft chuckle that made it clear that she didn’t take the reading seriously.

  “True love spans many lifetimes and star-crossed lovers always find each other,” Waiola said. “In fact, before each incarnation on earth star-crossed lovers agree to meet at a specific point in their lives and pick up where they left off during their last lifetime together. Each time they rediscover each other, there is the hope that they’ll stop making the same mistake and finally get it right.”

  Refusing to believe a word that had come out of Waiola’s mouth, Imani smirked. “Since you know so much about my soulmate, would you happen to have his name and phone number?”

  Waiola didn’t crack a smile. With furrowed brows, she returned her gaze to the cards. “You’ll be involved in a whirlwind love affair with this man.” She pointed to a card that read, King of Pentacles. However, you’ll have a rival. There’s a woman who’s envious of you, and she wants to possess all that you possess. You must beware of this woman. She’s dangerous. She’s very close to you and she knows all of your secrets.”

  Was Waiola referring to Hope? No, she couldn’t be. Imani had stopped sharing secrets with Hope several years ago. And with Hope’s change of fortune, she had no reason to be envious of Imani.

  Imani looked Waiola in the eyes. “I don’t have any friends who are close enough to know all my secrets,” Imani said with a hint of suspicion. She’d heard about unethical fortune tellers that gave readings that were shrouded in ominous warnings and then offered to help the client overcome the obstacles he or she faced—all for a hefty price, of course.

  “The person I’m speaking of will try to ruin your life. You must not allow her to get too close,” Waiola said, shaking her head gravely.

  There seemed to be genuine concern flashing in Waiola’s eyes and Imani thought it was possible that the woman was sincere. “Could this person be a relative?” Imani asked warily.

  “No, I don’t think so. She’s someone who shares your thoughts and affects your moods…”

  This is crazy. How can someone share my thoughts? Back to believing that Waiola was either a kook or was full of shit, Imani interrupted the woman with a groan of irritation. She didn’t appreciate the way Waiola was deliberately trying to frighten her.

  “Listen, I don’t know anyone who’s as diabolical as the person you’re referring to—I don’t have any friends or relatives who would act like that.” Imani shook her head briskly. “I’m not feeling this reading, and to be honest, you’re starting to freak me out.”

  “It’s not my intention to scare you. The cards never lie, and—”

  “How much do I owe you?” Imani asked, abruptly standing up. Snapping open her purse, she dug out her wallet.

  Waiola waved her hand. “No charge. Your hostess already covered the cost for the readings this evening.”

  “Well…enjoy the rest of your evening,” Imani said tersely and stormed out of the room.

  Feeling off-kilter and needing a stiff drink, she hurried to the main room of the party and grabbed yet another copper mug from the serving tray that was set out in a central location

  This time she didn’t sip it slowly. She tossed back the drink and then reached for another.

  “If I were you I’d be careful. Don’t underestimate the potency of the Moscow Mule,” said a masculine voice behind her.

  She jerked around, expecting to see one of Dr. Lowell’s aging cronies, wearing a lecherous smile while trying to be clever. But to her surprise, the voice belonged to a much younger man, who was holding a brand of beer that Imani didn’t recognize. He looked to be around Imani’s age, in his mid-to-late twenties.

  She skimmed her gaze over him and her eyes lit with appreciation. Standing before her was a man with perfect bone structure; who was well over six feet of gorgeous masculinity. Tall, lean, and sinewy, he had the body of a basketball player. His maple brown skin was clean-shaven, except for a faint mustache. He had deep-set dark eyes that sparkled when they fixed on her, and a dimpled chin added to his attractiveness. His hair was fashionably styled in a high fade with twists on top. Rocking smart casual attire, he wore perfectly tailored gray slacks, a charcoal blazer, and a powder blue shirt that was unbuttoned at the neck.

  Feeling an instant surge of attraction, Imani’s lips curved into a slow smile. Her fingers unconsciously flitted upward and lightly stroked the riotous mass of inky tresses that brushed her shoulders.

  “That drink is pretty potent; it’ll sneak up on you,” he warned.

  “You’re right, I should pace myself,” she said, smiling as she twirled a lock of hair around her index finger. Realizing that she no longer needed to steady her nerves, she returned the copper mug to the tray.

  “Whoa, I’m not the drink police, and I didn’t intend for you to stop enjoying yourself. I just wanted to warn that the Moscow Mule can be lethal.”

  Beneath his thin mustache, his lush mouth spread into a sexy smile, and Imani marveled at how ripe and kissable his full lips looked.

  “Logan Conway,” he sa
id, introducing himself with an assured smile.

  “Imani Pollard,” she replied. Her eyes swept stealthily from his prominent cheekbones and sexy dimpled chin, down to his left hand. She was relieved to discover that his ring finger was bare.

  From the corner of her eye she noticed Hope showing off artwork to a group of her silver-haired friends, and Imani turned around and waved at Hope. The party had suddenly become much more interesting, and Imani was no longer annoyed with Hope and was no longer in a hurry to leave.

  “I’m gonna take a wild guess and assume that you’re a friend of Hope’s,” Logan said, his sexy mouth tugging upward in a teasing smile.

  “Yes, Hope and I go all the way back to middle school. Are you a friend of Hope’s, also?”

  “Actually, I’m Dr. Lowell’s godson. He and my dad were frat brothers—and best friends.”

  “Were?” Imani asked.

  “Yeah, my dad passed away last year,” he said glumly.

  There was a flash of hurt in his eyes and she wished she could think of something comforting to say, but she only came up with the worn-out expression, “Oh, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  Logan nodded solemnly. “Ordinarily, I wouldn’t attend this kind of event…”

  She looked at him with curiosity. “Why not?”

  “I don’t generally hang out with an older crowd like this, but Dr. Lowell wanted me here. He’s trying to play a more paternal role in my life now that my dad…” Logan’s words trailed off. “Anyway, I agreed to stop through.”

  “So, you don’t intend to stay very long?”

  He shook his head. “I planned to make an appearance and then be on my way.”

  “That was my plan, too,” she blurted with laughter.

  He gazed at her with warmth in his eyes. “But…I’ve had a change of heart. I think I’ll stay as long as you…” He paused. Looking slightly embarrassed, he caught his lower lip between his teeth and shook his head in silent reprimand. “That sounded creepy, didn’t it?”