Shadow Lover (Siren Publishing Allure) (2 page)

Just then the sun came out from behind a cloud, and its instant warmth poured over her, stinging her skin like liquid fire. She saw her ghostly image appear in the clear glass. The words,
Cheney’s Market
arched above her head like a crown—or was it a shroud?

Her face was clean of makeup because she didn’t want to be recognized. “God, I look awful,” she muttered, smoothing back wayward strands of blonde hair as it crept out of the French braid and curled around her face. Her hand fluttered down and lightly touched her naked skin, wishing she’d at least put some lipstick on her pale lips. Her eyes, normally sky blue and sharp, had become dull and cloudy. She was thankful the people in this tiny little coastal town dressed casually, and hoped her cutoff shorts and white tank top didn’t cross the line into grungy for running errands.

Hearing a burst of laughter, her attention was taken by a group of men sitting out front on a planked porch supported by nothing more substantial than a tall sand dune. It was squared off by two iron bars painted white. To the left was a wide column of seven steps leading into a parking area large enough for no more than four cars.

Her gaze shifted, once again admiring the little town of Mystic Islands, a little coastal town in New Jersey. It was part of the mainland, but was interspersed with a number of inlets that coiled throughout the town, giving a false impression of closely knit islands. There were several small boat-hiring operations for those who lived close enough in to cut through the inlets instead of winding around on land. The little town always smelled of salt air and seemed to naturally favor the décor of anchors, ropes, piers, seagulls, and the color blue.

Beach Drive speared through town, dead-ending at Ocean Boulevard which edged along Mystic beach at the other end. The beautiful, wide carpet of sand stretched for miles both ways. Since the town was so close to the coast, the streets seemed to stay covered by a light dusting of sand whipping through the town on a rogue wind that moaned like the ghost of a dead pirate. Unfortunately, the little town could not avoid commerce which finally invaded Mystic Islands in the form of housing developments, malls, and business centers that spread lazily across the hilly countryside.

While the cold, impersonal outskirts continued to grow, the tiny, picturesque little shops that made up the center of town stubbornly held on to the past. Small silver bells tinkled prettily at the opening and closing of their doors, and old fashioned street lamps glowed with a lovely golden warmth along the narrow cobblestone walkways when the sun sank behind the constant bank of clouds in the West.

Chyna was used to cracked asphalt, dirty streets, towering skyscrapers, and crowds stumbling all over themselves in their rush to the subway or in and out of taxis. She smiled to herself. Mystic Islands didn’t even have a taxi service unless you counted the boat operations. And since there were no shrill sirens, car chases, drive-by shootings, muggers, or killings, it caused her to wonder what the Police Department did to earn their pay. The little town was disturbed by nothing more than the noisy lapping of ocean waves, and soothed by the beauty of the sparkling water that seemed to rise like a wall at one end of town.

In the background Chyna could hear the clickity clack of the old fashioned cash register the clerk used to ring up her grocery order while she gazed up at a distant bluff. The old mansion that sat on it reminded her of a tattered old duchess on a throne peering out over the ocean. It was gloomy, old and sinister—and oddly familiar.

“That it, miss?” the clerk asked, interrupting her thoughts.

Chyna turned. “Yes, I think so,” she said, pulling out her wallet as she turned to walk back to where her groceries waited. She leaned over the wooden counter that was badly worn with nicks and scratches to write out a check.

While she wrote, the clerk leaned back, propped his foot on the edge of a cracked orange crate and watched her. “Name’s Luke Cheney. I own this here store.” His eyes lifted and flitted around the small space. “Sech as it is.”

“Nice to meet you,” Chyna said, still writing.

“Thinkin’ about stayin’ here a while, are ye?”

“Yes,” she said without looking up. “For a while, at least.”

“That bein’ the case, you might want to think about settin’ up an account here at the store.”

“No,” Chyna said, smiling as she handed him the payment. “That’s not necessary. I’ll be paying by check.”

The clerk took the check, frowning down at it as if he’d never seen one. “Most people use credit,” he mumbled. His aged eyes that were surrounded by wrinkled, sagging skin lifted over his wire-rimmed glasses, and peered sharply at her. “You got identification, I take it.”

“Oh, of course,” she said and began to dig for it. Suddenly a thought came to her, and she hesitated.
It would mean recognition,
she thought.
No, it’s all right, if he hadn’t recognized the name on the check, then he—
She shook her head.
What the hell is wrong with me? I’m not a criminal, for God’s sake, and if being too tired to deal with a bunch of fans right now is unlawful, then lock me up, I’m as guilty as hell.

Finally finding the small laminated document that would reveal all the secrets she held dear, she pulled it out. “Here it is,” she said, thrusting it forward. She watched him as he took it and peered down at it through his bifocal lenses. Her eyes shifted down to his apron that was once white but now wildly splattered with blood. Chyna shivered, getting a crazy picture of the hawk-faced man heaving a hatchet in his hand. It didn’t help that his hair was the color of dried blood, and the wrinkles on his face criss-crossed each other into a permanent scowl. All together, it painted a pretty gruesome picture. She glanced around nervously, making a mental note to check out the other two markets in town. Just then she happened to notice a large rack of reading material where several of her books had a lovely color photograph of herself. Her eyes immediately darted back at him, wondering what was taking him so long.

“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.