Shadow Lover (Siren Publishing Allure) Read online

  “You’re hair’s different,” he said, hesitantly giving back her license.

  “Yes,” she said, plucking it out of his hand. “It was shorter then.”

  “Mmmmm,” he answered, still watching her like a bug under a microscope.

  “Well, have a good day,” she said with a smile, thankful that he gave no hint of detection. Not wanting to linger any longer than necessary, she hurriedly picked up her bags.

  While walking out of the market juggling her armful of groceries, she noticed the group of old men turning their heads in her direction. She tried to ignore them as she continued on toward her car, but apparently she was more interesting than politics or fertilizer, so one of them strolled over.

  "Looks like you got quite a load there," a man in overalls called out in a friendly voice. "Care for some help?"

  She smiled. "Thank you very much. I didn't realize I had bought so much until the clerk bagged everything up for me."

  "The name's Sam—Sam Walters."

  "Chyna Marsh," she said, while managing to work her hand around the lurching bags.

  As soon as he heard the familiar name he stroked his chin, leaving Chyna’s hand hanging. “Chyna Marsh,” he mumbled. Like a peeping tom he peered around one of the bags, and a big smile lit up his face when he recognized the famous novelist. "Of course, Chyna Marsh,” he blurted out. “Well, what do you know about that? I heard about you," he said, grabbing her hand and pumping it up and down, almost spilling Chyna’s groceries. "You’re that writer lady they say moved down here from New York."

  "I’m afraid so," she said with a note of despair, thinking her luck hadn’t held out after all.

  Curling his fingers around a match he'd been chewing on, he slowly removed it and said, "So, you just went right on ahead and bought the old Lawson place, huh?"

  Hearing all kinds of implications in his question, Chyna’s answer was hesitant. "Well, sure. It’s a nice house. Why shouldn’t I?"

  The well-chewed match stayed secure between his thumb and forefinger while his hand moved through the air as he talked. "Oh, I don’t know. I thought maybe you’d change your mind once you heard the stories. All the others did."

  Becoming concerned about what the hot sun was doing to her frozen items, Chyna began to edge toward her car, but the man stuck to her like glue. With a few pitching movements, she finally managed to get her trunk open without his help. Once she got her bags inside she gazed up at him, shading her eyes with her hand. “I’m a little lost here,” Chyna said, feeling as if she were being baited for some reason. “I’m afraid I don’t know what stories you mean."

  "You ain’t heard the stories about—"

  "Oh, the stories,” she said, trying to hurry the conversation along. “I see. You’re trying to tell me my house is haunted.”

  “Oh hell, no. I’m talkin’ about the little road right near there."

  Chyna felt herself getting more and more confused. "What road is that?"

  "Well, it ain't got a name, but it's the one just down a ways from your house. It’s the narrow, overgrown little path that veers off to the right of Old Rocky Road. Hell, you can’t miss it. It’s downright scary to look at."

  "Oh yes," Chyna said. "I know the one you mean."

  "You know about that road, yet you still bought the house?"

  "Well,” Chyna said, not understanding the man’s attitude. “I know the road looks—"

  “Looks, hell. If you’ll excuse me for sayin’ so, ma’am, they’s a lot more than just the looks of that place to worry about. It's a goddamned death trap."

  "A death trap?" she repeated, her eyes widening.

  "Yes ma'am. You'd best stay away from it, ‘specially at night."

  A nagging fear grew in Chyna. "I don’t know what you mean."

  Just then one of the other men jumped down from the porch and hurried over. "Don't aim to worry ya none, ma'am, but they's been people that's gone up that little road and never been heard from agin, that's what Sam means."

  Sam began chewing on the match again while leaning against Chyna's red, low slung Spyder Convertible.

  Chyna cringed when he lifted his massive boot and rested it on her fender. “Sir, uh, Sam, please—”

  "That’s Hector Jackson’s property,” he interrupted, his eyes angling toward Chyna. “I don't imagine he told you nothin' about that road, right?"

  “Well, no, but—” Chyna’s words halted, a look of irritation on her face when she realized she’d been cut off again.

  “I thought not. Hell, all them damn realtors are alike. Money,” he said, disgust coloring his voice. “That’s all they care about.”

  "But what's there to tell?” Chyna asked, furtively eyeing the place where Sam’s rough work boots were doing their best to scratch up her fender. “It's nothing more than a place to, I don’t know, jog, use as a bicycle path, whatever.” Slowly her doubting eyes shifted between the two men. “Isn't it?"

  "Little lady, you ain’t gonna find no joggers or bicycles on that road.” The old man who spoke had something caked in the corner of his mouth, and she could smell the overpowering odor of wet snuff as he pushed his face close to hers. “That piece of land belongs to the devil, pure and simple. Why, they’s a man livin’ up there that eats people,"

  "And they's a graveyard with bones spread all over creation," another man offered as he too jumped down off the porch.

  Chyna could feel herself getting dizzy as she turned to one voice, and then another.

  "You'd do well to stay away from it, missy. A pretty little thing like you don't wanna go and get herself all chawed up like a chunk o’ chewin’ tobaccy."

  Before Chyna knew what was happening, all the men had come down from the porch and were crowded around her, apparently talking about their favorite subject.

  A new face and voice pushed forward. "I think they's some kinda spell on it, that's whut I think. It's dark and lonely, and—"

  "I've heard tell all kinds of weird sounds comes driftin' down that ol' road," another voice lifted, interrupting the first.

  "Sounds?" Chyna asked the latest speaker.

  "You know, screams and sech."

  “But it’s birds, jus…” Chyna said, turning to one, then the other, but no one would listen.

  "Gives me goose pimples jes' talkin' about it," the caked snuff said, shaking himself and rubbing his hands along his frail arms.

  Chyna continued turning to the different voices, hoping she could get a word in, but by now the men were talking mostly to each other, and slowly drifted back up to the porch. Chyna had been left confused and curious while standing alone beside her car. “It’s the friggin’ birds,” she muttered angrily, while turning abruptly to reposition her grocery bags. “By the way, thanks for the help, creep, and keep your filthy boots off my car.” She leaned down to check the damage while muttering, “Screams, bones, eating people, sheee!”

  Thinking the whole thing was ridiculous, she tried to put it out of her mind, but couldn’t seem to resist listening to the old men’s conversation and picking up a word here and there. She knew she was purposely taking her time, and didn’t understand why she wanted to hear something that was nothing more than back fence gossip. The wild tales of these snuff-sucking old men had managed to bring something to life in her—something she’d hoped had been dead and buried.

  Finally, not being able to find anything else to consume her time, she reluctantly got in her car and pulled out. As she drove she couldn’t put it out of her mind. Before when she felt it coming on, she’d always tried to ignore it, push it down, crush it—hell even starve it, but nothing helped. Why did she even try? She knew better. It had come back to haunt her, and there was nothing she could do about it. There were pills for everything these days. Everything from simple headaches to that time of the month. If there was only a pill she could take when she felt herself coming down with a big case of writer's curiosity. She bit her lip, knowing where it would eventually lead her.

  Dow
n that dark, rutted old road.

  Chapter 2

  Later that night Chyna lay on her bed dividing her time between reading and watching an old classic movie on TV, neither one getting her full attention. Her gaze lifted when she heard a deep guttural sound, and saw the Frankenstein monster walking stiffly toward the camera, his hands outstretched. A tiny thread of fear chilled her spine at the sight of the tall, foreboding castle silhouetted against a luminous collection of clouds in varying shades of gray. The monster seemed to be walking through a field of tombstones, his enormous feet causing a sinister sound of crunching, scraping, and crushing.

  She leaned her head down and rubbed her forehead. The headache had finally gone away, but now she was feeling a little peculiar, and wondered if she was coming down with something. When she felt an unusual heaviness in her head, she finally clicked the TV off and lay back on her bed, a lighter-than-air sensation closing about her.

  She drifted on a witch's spell.

  Higher and higher she floated until she entered into a cool darkness. The night wind swirled around her, wrapping her in a lonely cocoon, its amorous hand lifting her thin nightgown and mussing her hair sensuously. As she drifted, she passed through several shades of darkness that draped mysteriously over the earth, then passed out of this world and into another. When her eyes finally opened she saw herself surrounded by a cool, blue beauty that was breathtaking. Within only seconds she felt a solid surface beneath her feet that was smooth and cool. She glanced around, wondering where she was. The further she walked, the darker it became, until she saw dancing flames in the distance.

  Suddenly she was part of a scene that filled her with fear.

  As she shifted her gaze and looked around, she saw an extremely cavernous room with a wide, flowing staircase. The flames she'd seen came from a grotesque stone fireplace that filled one whole wall. She felt small and insignificant as she looked up at the beamed ceiling, and a sudden dizziness came upon her making her reel as if drunk. The towering walls had giant panels of glass looking out into a black night.

  "My God," she muttered as she heard the sound of gnarled tree limbs scratching at the glass. "I've stepped into the Frankenstein movie."

  Her gaze darted around, almost expecting to see a big, hulking monster coming toward her with outstretched arms and bolts on his neck. She didn't know where she was, or how she had gotten there, but didn’t intend to stay. Turning, she ran toward the front door, and had just reached for the large antiquated door knob when something moved. The sound made her jump, and she turned quickly, slamming her back against the door.

  Her eyes darted to a pool of shadows where she saw a pair of glowing blue eyes watching her. Seconds passed with her breath caught in her throat. As she watched, slowly the shadow heaved with life, and one darkness slowly separated from the other. What emerged was an incredible face. The stranger’s eyes glittered like broken pieces of glass, and a dimple pierced his chin. His lips, although not excessively full, were appealingly curled. His black hair fell in thick waves, reaching his shoulders. His sideburns extended to the tips of his lobes, and he had just the slightest shadow of a mustache. He was tall, dressed in dark clothes—even a cape.

  “Oh, God,” she mumbled. She finds herself trapped in a Frankenstein movie, then enters—Dracula!

  He slowly moved toward her.

  In desperation she whirled around and pulled on the doorknob, but it wouldn't budge.

  "It's locked," he said, his deep voice resonating through the spacious room.

  She turned back slowly, fear making her heart pound and thrash. Her gaze darted wildly, looking for a way of escape, but could find none, so she inched along the wall, watching as he followed her.

  She was trapped in a corner.

  She began to feel uncomfortable when she saw his eyes move slowly along her body, lingering on her breasts. She followed his gaze to see what was so fascination, and saw her cleavage revealed seductively. Her hands flew up to the lacy top of her nightgown, trying to somehow close it. From the hungry way he looked at her she wasn't quite sure whether he wanted to kiss her or bite her.

  His heavy-lidded eyes watched her discomfort with amusement.

  "W-Where am I," she asked when she found her voice, "and, who are you?"

  "My name is Quinn Grayson, and this mansion is my home, Moon Amber."

  "Moon Amber?" she whispered, her eyes darting about. "Strange name," she muttered, "but why should that surprise me?"

  "It’s foolish to be afraid. I’m not going to hurt you."

  "Why am I here?"

  "You were summoned."

  "Summoned? By who? How?"

  "You're in the middle of a dream, a fantasy. And I—" He gave her a sexy, lopsided smile. "— am here for you. Your dream man, perhaps. As for how, well, it doesn't matter."

  She looked at him suspiciously. "Did you say, dream man?"

  "Yeees," he whispered, seductively. “Does the idea appeal to you?”

  Ignoring his question, her frightened gaze raked over his face, then glanced quickly down his body. "Then you're not real."

  "No?” he returned. Gently taking her hand in his, he brought it up to his lips and closed his mouth over one finger as if to suck it intimately, and then suddenly bit her.

  "Ouch!" she cried out, jerking her hand back.

  His mouth twitched with amusement. "Still think I'm not real?”

  “I d-don’t know what the hell you are, and I’m not about to hang around and f-find out,” she managed, stiff with fear. “Either you unlock this door, or direct me to the nearest exit.”

  He looked at her intensely, his eyes glittering like a pool of glass shards. “The only exit to this dream is satisfaction, delight and pleasure for both of us.” His voice became a seductive whisper. “Now just relax, and let me show you what I can do.”

  She recoiled as he reached out to her. "Don’t touch me.”

  “Please,” he whispered with distress, “you must trust me.”

  “Look, Dracula, unless you want me to show you what I can do, you’d better stay back.”

  Her words wiped the smile from his face, and he gave her a stern look. “We have no time for games.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, this,” he growled, the dark danger in his eyes warning her not to fight him. “It’s why you’re here.”

  “Don’t,” she cried, struggling against him until she smelled something spicy and wild emanating from him. While luxuriating in his smell, her eyes closed in rapture. It’s okay, she told herself, he’s not real, only part of my imagination. I’ll wake up any minute and he’ll be gone. She opened her heavy lids slightly and saw his handsome face coming closer, and closer. She became weak under the power of his glittering eyes, his hot breath on her face, the heat of his lips as they touched hers. In response, she parted her lips under his, being sure she was submitting to a stranger, a specter, an exotic part of her imagination.

  “Ohhhh, God,” Chyna moaned, feeling his lips burn a path from her lips down to her very core. She moaned beneath the soft urgency of his mouth on hers.

  * * * *

  Chyna jumped at the jarring sound of her alarm clock. She fitfully pushed her arm from beneath a thick, handmade English quilt, and flailed it around looking for the collection of metal parts enclosed in white plastic. When she found it, she picked it up and angrily threw it against the wall. The tangled bedclothes finally parted and she sat up, burying her face in her hands.

  "My God, what a time to wake up."

  Lifting her head slowly she recalled in detail the dark, handsome man of her dreams as if his image had been indelibly stamped upon her memory. His eyes flashed blue and reckless, and the little stray curl that fell waywardly along his forehead gave him…

  Suddenly the phone rang, and Chyna jumped.

  With an unsteady hand she grabbed the phone. "Yeah? What do you want?"

  "What in hell is wrong with you?"

  "Oh, hi, Joni. What's up?"
<
br />   "Nothing much. You know what day this is?”

  “Just a minute,” Chyna said, looking closely at her calendar. “It’s Thursday. The garbage goes out today.”

  “Very funny. Your latest novel is scheduled to hit the stands today.”

  “As I said, the garbage—”

  “Chyna, be serious. Nobody makes the kind of money you do writing garbage.”

  “Easy, Joni, I was just kidding. So what’s on your mind?”

  “I thought we could have dinner tonight. You know, to celebrate. But if you're in a bad mood I guess I'll have to find other company."

  "I'm sorry, it's just that, well, you wouldn't understand."

  "Sure I would,” Joni said, munching on something. “Come on, give me a try."

  "What the hell is that noise?"

  "My breakfast," she said, her speech muffled with food. "Some of us do eat, you know. Not all of us are a size four."

  “Ten.”

  “Whatever,” Joni retorted, then waited. Finally she mumbled with her mouth full, “So talk already, I can hear you.”

  "It’s really not that important,” Chyna began, feeling like a silly teenager talking about her fantasies. “It’s just, well—” She hesitated. “—oh, all right here goes. I had another dream last night.”

  “Another dream? You mean about the eyes?”

  “No, not this time,” Chyna said, getting excited. “This one was different. There was this great lookin' guy, Joni. You should have seen him. He was tall, dark, and we were—" She paused for a moment, then deflated. "Well we didn't quite get that far. Just as the fun was about to begin, the damned alarm clock woke me up." Her eyes shifted to the fractured clock lying in a corner,

  The voice on the other end snickered.

  Chyna sighed. "There, see? I told you."