Autumn Thorns (15 page)

“I want you . . .” I whispered.

“Later, my love. It will have to be later.” He groaned softly, his lips by my ear, and then they were on my neck, licking and sucking the skin. The next moment, he let go—though I could feel his reluctance—and backed away with a rueful smile. “Damn it. Work calls. But will you be all right today? I'll come over tonight.”

Flushed, I held up my cell phone and stammered, “I'm going to call Ivy in a little while, to ask her if she has any ideas about the Shadow Man. I also plan on tracking down a few people today, letting them know I'm back in town—if they don't already know. Word travels fast in small towns, and Whisper Hollow's grapevine is a lot more active than most.” I grinned then. “The crows have ears, and they also tell secrets.”

He sucked in a deep breath, then let it out slowly. “So I gathered. I took the liberty of entering my name and number into your contacts on your phone while you were asleep. If you need me, call, though I'm starting to doubt we're going to be needing a phone at all.” And then, he reached out and took my hands. “Kerris, do you know how beautiful you are?”

I held his gaze and—for once—felt truly radiant. I mostly got catcalls from men because of my boobs, but here was a man talking to
me
, not to my chest.

“I really, really don't want to leave, but I have a call coming that I can't miss. I'll check in on you in a while, to make certain everything is all right.” And with that, he turned and vanished out the back door.

I stared at the remains of the omelet, so pent up that I could barely stand it. There was only one cure. I marched into the shower and lathered up with my Bath & Body Works Sensual Amber shower gel. Sliding my hands over my body, I began to breathe hard as I slowly reached between my legs, caressing myself with hard, insistent strokes. As the ache in my stomach began to build, I used my other hand to cup my breast, squeezing hard, rubbing, imagining Bryan's hands in place of my own. The image of his face loomed in my mind, and I could hear the soft panting of his breath—as if he were beside me. A moment later and I could see him, in a gray tiled bathroom, leaning against the sink. His jeans were pushed down, and he gripped his erection with one hand, as he used the other to brace himself on the vanity. His fingers slid over his penis, long firm strokes driving him on. I massaged myself harder, my finger swirling around the nub of my sex, as he polished himself. I could feel his passion build, and then—he looked straight at me and I realized he was seeing me just as I was seeing him.

Together we rode the frenzy. I squeezed my breast hard, the pressure shoving me higher as I caressed myself to the edge of orgasm. He clenched his penis and with one final pull, he called out my name as he came, fountaining out into the sink. Seeing him come, I gave myself one last tweak and joined him, coming hard and fast and loud.

As the waves of pleasure surged through me, rippling like breakers on the water, I let out another cry and then, slowly, slid back against the shower wall, the spray of water easing the spasms that ran through my body. I caught one last glimpse of Bryan—he was smiling and he whispered my name again, and then the image faded and I was alone in the shower, both relieved and yet hungrier for him than ever.

*   *   *

F
eeling slightly embarrassed—because I was certain that Bryan had picked up on what I'd been doing—I finished my shower, dried my hair, and slipped into clean clothes, taking care to choose a V-neck tank top that wouldn't aggravate the wounds on my arm. The bandages had gotten wet, so I did my best to change them with one hand. The wounds were still red, but they weren't infected and they looked a lot better than they had a few hours ago.

I cleared up the remnants of breakfast and then sat down at the table with my phone. Agent H decided that it was prime time to jump up and get a belly rub, and I absently stroked his fur as I put in a call to Ivy, hoping it wasn't too early. But she answered on the first ring.

“Hey, Ivy . . .” I thought about calling her Grandma, but it seemed too weird for someone I had just met, especially someone who looked barely older than myself. “Kerris here. I have a problem.” I told her what had happened the night before. “I could really use some advice on warding, and Ellia said you're good at it.”

After a moment's silence, she said, “Can you come over around two
P.M.
today?”

“Yeah, that would be fine.”

“Bring the bag of tools Lila left for you. I'll see you then. I've got to go now—the bread's about ready to come out of the oven and I don't want it to burn.” She hung up.

I couldn't tell whether she was happy to hear from me, but she had volunteered to help and if I was going to become some sort of protector for the town, I knew I couldn't do it alone. It was nearing quarter to ten, and I decided that I
needed to swing through town for supplies, to drop off all the old clothes, and to pick up some new sheets and a comforter. It was time to put my credit card to good use. Making sure the doors and windows were shut and locked, I grabbed my purse and keys and headed out to reacquaint myself with Whisper Hollow.

W
hisper Hollow had evolved from a few rough-in-the-wild homesteads into a very pretty, semi-Victorian small town. Unlike Port Townsend and Port Angeles, however, Whisper Hollow seldom encouraged visitors and most of its money came from the locals. While the economy wasn't exactly thriving, neither had it gone to rack and ruin. Mostly, people did their jobs, few ever moved away—at least not for good—and every now and then the town would lure in somebody new to stay.

Usually, they would come in, needing to stop for gas or a quick bite, and something would take hold of them, and before they knew it, they had settled in. Bought a house. Become part of the background as if they had been born here. The town had built up around a vortex of energy, ley lines crossing every which way. The vortex both cloaked the town from much consideration by the rest of the world and yet drew to it the people who were called to move in and settle down.

A number of the buildings were old brick and stone, with
some Victoriana interspersed among the solemn gray and red. The central downtown area looked a lot like it had when I had left home, though the upkeep had been considerable. Nobody ever let their shops go dank, or get too weathered without slapping on a new coat of paint or fixing the broken boards. A few new shops had gone in since I'd left—the Broom & Thistle Coffee Shop, the Herb & Essence apothecary. Although the latter was kitty-corner from the hospital, it was in no way a modern pharmacy. As I drove past, it occurred to me I might end up frequenting the place depending on what Ivy and my grandmother's journal had in store for me.

Gritting my teeth, I parallel-parked in front of another shop I didn't recognize. Vintage Books was on Cedar Street, one of the main drags downtown. I slipped out of the car and wandered over to check it out. I loved to read and spent a good share of my time with my nose in a book. The shop was open, so I decided to drop in and see what they specialized in.

The shelves were jammed—both new and used books, though housed in two separate sections. The shop had the feel of an old-world library, with tall ceilings and shelves that stretched up higher than arm's reach. Step stools were conveniently located around the shop, though, and as I navigated through the aisles, I began to notice that Vintage Books specialized in nothing, and carried just about everything. Romance, science fiction, fantasy, mystery, cookbooks, travel—they all seemed represented.

The man behind the counter looked to be in his late twenties, and he was Native American. That much was obvious right off the bat. He had long brown hair, smooth and silky, that flowed past his shoulders, nearly to his waist. His eyes were a soft brown, and his smile, genuine and gentle. He was sorting through a pile of what looked like used books—dividing them into sections. As I approached the counter, he glanced up.

“May I help you find something?”

I glanced around, then shook my head. “To be honest, I'm just checking out the shop. I just moved back to town and this
wasn't here before. I'm Kerris Fellwater.” As I reached out to shake his hand, a flicker of recognition raced across his face.

“Ah, you would be the granddaughter of Lila Fellwater, then? I'm so sorry about her passing.” He took my hand, his fingers firm and steady. “I'm Trevor Riverstone, the owner.”

As I touched his fingers, a tingle told me he was a little more than he seemed. “What brought you to Whisper Hollow, Trevor?”

He moved a pile of what looked like paranormal romances to one side and began sorting through another stack. “I don't know, to be honest. About five years ago, I lost my father—my mother died when I was twelve. I lived in Aberdeen. So I took what inheritance my father left me and decided to open a bookstore—and the only place I could think of to do it was here.” With a shrug, he added, “The town has always intrigued me.”

A book slid to the floor and he bent to retrieve it. As he pushed his hair to one side, out of the way, I noticed that on the back of his neck, he had a tattoo—a crescent moon with a raven on it.

Just like my birthmark. Just like the symbol of the spirit shamans.

Only, this one was in color, with the raven's eyes brilliant red, and a bit of green foliage coming out from beneath its talons.

“Your tattoo . . . when did you get it?”

He quickly brushed his hair back to cover it, but then, catching my eye, he stopped. “About two years after I moved here. You
would
recognize it, wouldn't you? Being the new spirit shaman.”

“Why did you get it?” I wanted to know why he was wearing a symbol I only associated with my grandmother. Was he a spirit shaman, too? The blood ran only in certain families, and usually through the women as I understood. We were few and far between. But that would explain him being drawn to Whisper Hollow.

He glanced around the shop, making certain we were
alone. “I belong to the Crescent Moon Society. We all wear the symbol. I shouldn't tell you that I'm part of the group, but you'll be joining us soon and I'd rather have you find out from me than go asking around town.”

“Then you're
not
a spirit shaman?” I
really
needed to read my grandmother's Shadow Journal and decided that as soon as I finished up in town, I'd start.

“No. Not in the least.” He pulled up the stool in back of the counter and hopped on it. “Listen, you're going to find out all this sooner or later, and I think you should know now before you go asking too many questions and get us all in trouble. We're your support system—the Society. We are . . . backup, in terms of policing, though our duties range a bit further abroad than yours. And we need to keep our secrets, so don't go asking around. Ellia's supposed to bring you to the next meeting. Together, we all make the town as safe as we can.”

I liked his quiet, steady energy, even though I didn't like being told what I should—or shouldn't—do. It made sense that the spirit shaman would need more help than just the lament singer. There was so much that I didn't know, and so much to learn. Damn it, why hadn't I stuck it out . . . I could have found a job and gotten away from my grandfather that way. But something inside told me I'd made the right decision—that if I had stayed, I might have ended up just like my mother.

I gave him a soft nod. “Yeah, I get that. Okay, then. I won't ask you any more until the meeting. I don't want to get you in trouble for spilling secrets, though I wish to hell I could just get on with it. I'm tired of being the last to know. Tell me, though, how did you join them if it's a secret society and you were new in town?”

“They came to me. And, Kerris, this town is a hotbed of secrets. We aren't the only ones around—and there are those who really don't like the Crescent Moon Society or the spirit shamans. There are those who would love to see the town fall to the forces we work against. There's power here . . .
my people have known about it for years. And power attracts those who would use it—be they for the light, or the shadow world.”

“Sometimes the foul are actually fair.”
I grinned at him. “Thank you, Trevor.”

“For what?” He looked confused.

“For being straight with me. Now, if you'd preorder a couple books for me, I'd appreciate it.”

He laughed. “Not using BookShopStop.com? You can get anything on there and usually cheaper.”

“Ah, but then I'd miss the chance to come in and browse around when they get here.” I wrote down the names of a couple of books I was eagerly awaiting, then sashayed out the door, feeling oddly lighthearted. Trevor had a way about him, and it occurred to me that he put a smile on a number of his customers' faces just by existing.

After Vintage Books, I wandered up to the Broom & Thistle for my second latte of the day. I had developed a high caffeine tolerance while managing Zigfree's Café Latte and had no intention of scaling it back. I didn't drink much, never smoked, and kept my consumption of junk food to a reasonably low amount, so I figured that coffee was my one vice and damned be the person who tried to convince me otherwise.

The owners—Nelly and Michael Brannon—I recognized from school. I hadn't known them very well, but they'd been nice enough and even back then, you could tell they belonged together. He had been the star of the fencing team and she had always landed the lead in whatever musical the school theater department was producing. Now, Michael sported a smooth ponytail and what looked like just as good a build as he'd had in high school, if not better. Nelly had long black hair to her midshoulders, with razor-straight bangs across the front. They moved behind the counter like well-oiled cogs, darting around each other with ease.

I glanced at the menu. They had all the regular sizes—short, medium, and tall, but had added “Bigfoot”—a sixteen-ounce
quad-shot drink, and Landa—after the lake monster—a twenty-ounce quad-shot drink.

“I'll have a Bigfoot mocha, and hello . . . it's been a long time.” I waited to see if they'd recognize me.

Michael gave me a vaguely familiar look, but Nelly—after a moment—let out a gasp. “Kerris Fellwater, as I live and breathe, you're back in town.” Her surprise was real, with no affectation. She really hadn't known.

I nodded. “To stay, it seems.” As Michael made my drink, I chatted with Nelly for a few minutes, catching up and accepting the usual sympathies about my grandmother. I was trying to think of a polite way to ask who the town gossip was. “Hey, if I wanted to catch up on everything that's happened since I left, who would I talk to? You know, get all the news in one fell swoop, so to speak.”

Nelly snorted. “You mean, who dishes the juiciest gossip and keeps their nose in everybody's business, don't you?”

Blushing, even though I really wasn't that embarrassed, I nodded. “Yeah, so to speak.”

“That would be Clinton Brady—the owner of the Fogwhistle Pub. You remember him, right?”

I blinked. Clinton had been the owner of the pub when I was younger—he was my mother's age and had taken it over from his father when the old man had a heart attack. I had forgotten all about him—and the pub. “That old place is still standing?”

“
That old place
was brought over brick by brick from Ireland.” Michael, who had been listening, joined us as he wiped down the espresso machine. “Clinton's great-grandfather had it dismantled from the shores of Eire and sent here via cargo ship. They rebuilt it exactly as it had stood in the old country. The pub is at least four hundred years old.” He straightened his shoulders. “The pub is older than any building in the United States, barring those that were here when the colonials came over.”

The pride in his voice was evident and then I remembered, Michael Brannon was second-generation Irish
himself. His parents had come over from Ireland and settled in Whisper Hollow when they were young, and while that wasn't all that unusual nowadays, he acted like they had entered via Ellis Island with the great wave at the turn of the nineteenth century.

“I suppose I should mosey over there and reacquaint myself with it. When I left town, I wasn't legally able to go inside.” Even though I had sneaked in a couple times. Clinton had pretty much ignored Peggin and me, never carding us because we almost always bought one drink and stopped right there. I had my doubts that he would have sold us any more if we had asked.

Michael slung his bar rag over his shoulder and glanced up—another customer had come in. “Welcome back, Kerris. Excuse me, I've got my work to do. So do you, Nelly.”

She stuck her tongue out at him but gave me a wink. “He's right. Busy morning ahead. A couple of the local groups always come in here on Wednesdays for their meetings—one in the afternoon, and one in the evening. I need to make certain we have plenty of pastries and supplies on hand.”

As she moved off, I took my drink and headed to a table by the window. As I settled in, I pulled out my iPad and began to make notes about Trevor and Clinton and what I'd found out. It was nearing ten thirty, and I needed to do my shopping, then head home so I could start reading up in the journal before my appointment with Ivy. Staring at the overcast sky—a storm was moving in from the north, it looked like—I sipped my drink, trying to make sense of the whirlwind my life had suddenly become.

*   *   *

A
fter stopping at Carter's Market—the main grocery store in town—and also a quick visit to the Whisper Hollow Town Square, where there was a Bed Bath & Beyond, I headed home with my spoils. I'd found a comforter set in shades of dusky green and blue, and matching sheets, and I had stocked up on staples and coffee beans and
cat food, along with a good selection of produce and meats. I had enough to keep me for a week or so. At the last minute, I'd added a garlic braid to the cart. Something told me I was going to need it, even though I didn't like garlic all that much. I remembered that Grandma Lila used it for protection, and it seemed to me that it wouldn't be a bad idea to hang it up in the kitchen.