Shadow Lover (Siren Publishing Allure) (4 page)

When she heard what sounded like the screech of a wild bird, her eyes shifted to a patch of dense, tangled trees that seemed to be their favorite hangout. The little path that veered off of Old Rocky Road reminded her of the things the men at Cheney’s Market had said about it. She had to admit that it was kind of creepy. It looked remote, and always had a dark, gloomy look to it. There were so many trees, the road stayed littered with leaves and rotten branches, and it didn't seem to matter about the weather, the road was constantly shrouded in shadow. Swarms of cicadas perched in the twisted brush serenading night and day. Chyna shivered as her eyes moved to the crude sign that had been posted at the fork.

Entrance to Cat's Paw
.

Cat’s Paw
.

The words haunted Chyna. They meant nothing to her, yet the mere sound seemed to suggest something dark and mysterious. If only she’d remembered to mention it to the men at the market. No doubt they would have linked a colorful story with it just as they had about the place rumored to be littered with human bones. “Ridiculous,” she muttered, refusing to believe the wild tales the men had told her. “There is no boneyard, no…”

Suddenly she jumped at the screeching call of another bird from out of the wild, dense jungle of trees. This time when she looked up, she saw a large gathering of birds, and a quick surge of fear almost made her believe that the birds were gathering to attack.

My God,
she thought, as she stared up at what could be nothing more than innocent birds hovering together in the cold morning air. Suddenly she thought of Tippi Hedron in the Hitchcock film, and a sharp chill glazed her arms.
Stop it!
She told herself.
I’m not going crazy, I’m not!

She kept her eyes on them for a moment, watching them perch and peck, then finally forced her eyes away. Gently pushing herself out of the swing, she wandered over to the front stoop and leaned against the column. Without stepping down, she narrowed her eyes, trying to see down the road as far as she could.

Where does it go after it passes out of sight?
She wondered.

She had to admit to the eerie feeling, and the chilling, ghost-like atmosphere. Her writer’s curiosity kept telling her there was a good story idea lurking up there somewhere, if only—

No,
she thought.
I’m being silly, it can’t be true.

These rumors were probably invented by the infamous group of rocking chair fanatics that spent their days in front of Cheney’s Market discussing everything from chicken feed to horse manure. They’d seen someone from the big city coming, and probably decided they’d have a little fun. She was sure they’d clucked their thick tongues in delight when she left that day, her ears burning with their outrageous tales.

I’ll show them,
she thought, her writer’s curiosity digging into her.
Maybe I won’t pay any attention to their wild stories. Maybe I
will
go up there, and when I come back, I’ll expose it as lies, throw the stories in their faces, or—
Her thoughts hesitated, and she shivered and gulped, feeling her defiance turning to cold feet. –
–be thrown on the boneyard to decay along with all the other curious fools.

Just then the overpowering sound of an engine brought her out of her thoughts. She turned and saw Mrs. O’Hanlan’s new four-on-the-floor car as it came bumping up into the drive. "When are you gonna learn to drive that thing?" Chyna called out with a teasing smile.

"Just don't ye worry about me, young lady. I'm not the one standin' out in this cold air lappin' up pneumonia. What in the world are ye doin' out here anyway?"

"Just getting some fresh air. By the way," Chyna said, nodding toward the dense, overgrown little path, "how much do you know about that little road? Have you ever been up there? How long do you suppose it is?"

"Full of questions this mornin' aren't ye. Ye need to get yer mind off that gloomy old road, it's nothin' but trouble."

"Someday I'm going to find out what's up there."

Firmly herding Chyna into the house, she said, "Well, today's not the day, so come on in and get warm."

Turning around and looking at the older woman, Chyna said, "You're a bossy old biddy. Why did I ever hire you anyway?"

"In addition to bein' cute as a button, ye hired me because I convinced ye I was the best cook in the county, and ye needed someone to look after things while ye write them sexy novels that, God help us, should be burned up in a heap."

"Read one or two, huh?" Chyna laughed, having fun teasing her. When the woman gave her a razor sharp look, she added, “Well, how would you know otherwise?”

"I don’t have time to read. I’m kept busy keeping ye from doin' stupid things like goin' up that evil little road and never bein' heard from again." The woman opened up a broom closet and reached for her apron. While wrapping it around her ample waist, she continued. "I know ye think it's nothin’ but a lot of hogwash, but I wouldn't set foot on it for a million dollars, and if ye do, ye'll be sorry, as well as dead."

"But Mrs. O'Hanlan, it's nothing but a lot of rumors. That place has gotten its reputation from people's imaginations."

"Maybe so, but I'd advise ye not to take any chances. Besides ye don't have time to go traipsin' up that road, ye got work to do. Now get in that room, lock yourself in, and write them books that nobody but perverts wants to read." Grabbing the broom she lunged it at Chyna. "Go! Scat! Now!"

Laughing at the old Irish woman, and dodging her lunges with that evil broom, she quickly scooted into the study and reluctantly turned on her computer. She thought of all the work in front of her. Create a plot, characters, and an intriguing storyline that would keep the readers from putting the book down until it was finished.

Finally putting her coffee cup down, she placed her fingers on the keyboard and they slowly began to move. With every word she typed a mental image began forming until she stopped and looked at the words glaring at her from her computer screen.

A wayward curl along his forehead—

Long hair—

Dark clothes—

A cape—

Eyes that glittered like shards of glass
.

She knew immediately he was the man in her dream. Dark, mysterious, handsome, and residing in an old southern mansion of shadows. He seemed real, but she knew he was nothing more than a figment of her imagination—a paper hero like all the rest

Chyna hadn't stopped typing all day long. She had already created and named all the characters, outlined the plot, and almost finished the third chapter. She didn’t stop, not even for lunch, or a break. She couldn’t. Ideas kept coming to her one by one, keeping her fingers pattering across the keyboard with a fever. She knew this book was going to be one of her best.

She smiled when she envisioned the handsome, bloodthirsty killer that romanced his victims before he killed them. She felt a thrill in every finger as she created a time warp in the form of a dark, mysterious tunnel. When he entered, he would be leaving the carriages and narrow cobblestone streets of 1700 England, and emerging on the streets of present day New York City. He was so real to her she could hear the click of his heels on the asphalt—see the fog swirl around him as he trekked mile after mile—

1700—

1800—

1900—

2000.

She imagined his dark cape flare out around him, accented by his blood red mouth, the only color in the enigmatic picture she had created in her mind.

She was in love with him already.

When she got so tired she couldn't think anymore, she clicked off the computer and went to the phone to call Joni. After punching in the numbers she listened to it ring several times. She was just about to disconnect when she heard a voice.

"It's your dime."

"Hey girlfriend, what's happenin'?"

"Well,” the voice said with a sarcastic sound to it, “if it isn't the
great
Chyna Marsh."

"Hey look, I'm sorry. I was in one hell of a mood this morning. You know how I get when I have to start a new book. I'm as bitchy as hell and shouldn't be allowed among civilized human beings. But, hey, I'm over it. I’ve started my book, and it's going great."

She heard a heavy silence on the other end.

"Hey, kiddo, don't make me pay for this. You're my best friend for God's sake."

"Oh, yeah? If I'm your friend, cookie, I'd hate to see how you treat your enemies."

"All right, I deserved that. Now, since you’ve told me off are we friends again?"

Joni sounded sulky. "I don’t know. I guess so."

"I'm really beat tonight, how about we make that celebration dinner tomorrow night?"

"I don't know,” she whined. “It won't be the same. Your book will have been out a whole two days."

"My treat."

"You talked me into it. Where'll we go?"

"I'll leave that up to you. Surprise me, okay? And don't worry about money. Nothing's too good for the best friend of the
great
Chyna Marsh.”

"All right, but get some sleep, okay? And don't drive yourself so hard. I'll be around tomorrow night about seven."

"Okay, see you then." After hanging up, Chyna got up and went to the kitchen.

Mrs. O'Hanlan was just gathering up her stuff to leave and turned when she heard Chyna come into the room yawning and stretching. "Oh my,” she said, shaking her head. “Ye look pretty well pooped."

"Just a little tired, but I'll be fine."

"Okay. Well, dinner's in the oven, and if ye need anything," she looked over at her, droopy-eyed, "call somebody else. I'm pooped too."

Chyna laughed, escorting her out the door. "See you tomorrow."

After picking at her dinner, Chyna decided to be lazy and watch a little TV in her bedroom before going to sleep. She stepped into the bathroom for a quick shower, put on her sexiest nightgown for nobody, then sat down on the bed. She reached over and picked up her poor little cracked alarm clock and set it, hoping it still worked. Slipping lazily into bed she turned on the TV, totally exhausted. When she couldn't keep her eyes open any longer she punched the button on her remote and drifted into a sound sleep that lifted her into a strange, blue mist.

When the mist finally parted, she found herself standing out on a high crest where the wind was blowing hard. She looked out at the choppy waves of a dark ocean, rubbing her arms as the stinging wind buffeted her about roughly.

Suddenly she felt someone behind her.

"What in God's name are you doing out here without anything on?" he yelled, trying to be heard above the wind as he wrapped a shawl around her.

She turned while the wind ripped at her clothes and hair, and saw the man in her dreams looking down at her.

"Where am I?" she yelled.

"You're on Cat's Paw," he answered loudly.

"Cat’s Paw?” she shouted above the wind. “What is that?"

"It's what they call this ridge that overlooks the ocean.” He gathered her close, and pointed toward the beach. “See the lighthouse in the distance?"

"Yes," she said, huddling against him.

"That's where the old widow lives.” He grasped the tops of her arms and turned her to look at him while he still battled the wind. “Never go over there,” he yelled. “She's a witch, and she can put a curse on you before you know it. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she answered, nodding.

"Now come with me,” he yelled, his words getting lost in the gust. “You're freezing out here, and I have a fire going." She was barefoot, so he picked her up as if she weighed nothing and headed down the rise.

The wind continued to pound the bluff with thin sheets of sand and spray, nature’s tools used to forge the cliff into the craggy shape of a cat’s paw.

The tall, dark stranger abruptly swept through the front door with Chyna in his arms. After putting her down he grabbed some pillows and strewed them on the floor. She stood looking around the familiar room, feeling it was different somehow. The room seemed warmer, more presentable, and although there was still a certain amount of mystery lurking in the shadows, Chyna felt much more comfortable. He sank down on a pillow and invited her to sit beside him. As she sat slowly, he pulled her close to warm up, and then took the wrap from around her shoulders and threw it aside. Chyna looked up to thank him, but her speech was taken when she saw again how utterly handsome he was. Her appreciative eyes scanned his perfect face, noticing the little rebellious curl that still fell along his forehead and the dimple that pierced his chin.

"You're name is Quinn, right? Quinn Grayson?"

“My name doesn’t matter, Chyna. I have no name until you give me one.”

“What?” she said, blinking her eyes and looking at him, completely lost.

"Chyna, don’t you understand? I exist because you brought me to life. I’m anything you want me to be. The hero of your novel, your dream lover, the man in your life. Pick a name for me, Any name. But remember. Unlike the others you create, I exist. I'm real."