Thriller

Erica was crossing the foyer headed for the parlor when a tall, dark haired man wearing blue Dockers and an open neck yellow shirt stepped inside. He was tan and muscular. He removed a pair of expensive looking sunglasses and scanned the room. His eyes were the most amazing shade of turquoise she'd ever seen. To say he was good looking didn't begin to cover it. He was hot!

"I'm obviously in the right place. I recognize this foyer from the publicity shots on the website. I'm Andrew Harrington."

"Erica Parkhurst. Welcome to the Spirit Lake Inn. Thank you for agreeing to cancel your other reservation and stay with us on such short notice." She couldn't help but enjoy the view.

"Christine will be along. She's gone around back to take a look at that wonderful lake of yours."

Erica hoped poor Christine wasn't being treated to a view of the Richters making love, or worse yet, renewing their argument. Andrew Harrington seemed to be looking for something as he glanced around and even peeked into the parlor.

"I can give you the guided tour," Erica offered.

"No need. I'm sure we'll see it all in good time. I'll go get the bags, unless you have someone who takes care of that."

"Raymond is out overseeing the work being done in the garden, I'm afraid."

"That tall older man, yes I saw him. He has a dog with him. Don't bother him, I can manage."

Erica smiled. It would seem Mingo and Raymond were bonding after all. "I'm afraid you'll have to move the car, also."

"I figured as much. Just let me get the bags first. Where should I park it?"

Erica stepped around Andrew and went out onto the porch. In passing, she caught a whiff of his after shave--tangy, spicy, and sexy. The Harringtons were driving a sleek, black Corvette.

"You can park on the access road at the bottom of the hill, next to the driveway," she told him. "The workmen should be gone in a couple of hours. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. The rain threw things off schedule."

He smiled, exposing the most perfect teeth she'd ever seen. "You don't have to tell me. We drove through torrential downpours yesterday. Christine hates to fly."

Erica recalled that the Harringtons were from New York City. "Well, it's not that much of a drive. I lived in the Big Apple for many years."

Andrew Harrington's smile faded. "Do tell." His tone showed disinterest. "Oh, there's Christine, now."

The woman who came around the corner of the house was of medium height with short, stylishly cut auburn hair and deep brown eyes. A pair of oversize sunglasses rested on top of her head. She was wearing yellow slacks and a matching blouse. She looked crisp and cool in spite of the humidity.

"That lake is beautiful, Andy, you should look at it. Do you allow swimming?" Her gaze was now focused on Erica.

"No…there's an undertow," Erica said quickly. She never went into the real reason with guests.

"Pity," the woman said. "I'm Christine Harrington, by the way. And you are?" She joined her husband who was now taking two pieces of expensive looking luggage out of the trunk of the Corvette.

Erica introduced herself but didn't offer to shake the woman's hand. Somehow she could sense that Christine Harrington wasn't the type to welcome such an overture. Now that the Harringtons were standing side by side she could fully appreciate what a striking looking couple they were.

"It just feels good to stretch my legs. Why Andy insisted on bringing the two-seater on this trip, I'll never know," Christine said.

"Stop complaining, Chris. It has plenty of legroom and trunk space to boot. That why I like this model. Plus it is a convertible. What more could you want?"

Christine looked around. "Where's your bellman?"

"It's not the Hilton, Chris. We tote our own here," Andrew Harrington told her.

Erica noted that Christine Harrington's nose went up in the air just a little but that the space between her brows didn't move even though the rest of her face played at making a frown.

Botox. No doubt about it.

Just then the Richters rounded the corner of the house from the parking area. Erica was glad to see that things had settled down between them for the moment. At the same time, the cement workers headed down toward the dock, carrying their lunch pails.

Raymond joined Erica and her guests. Mingo was nowhere to be found.

When the Harringtons introduced themselves to the Richters, Erica was surprised to see that Pamela hung back, acting almost shy. Andrew Harrington, however, seemed to take a special interest in her. He was standing very close and even brushed a stray strand of her long black hair off her face when another sudden breeze ruffled it.

Christine Harrington, seemed to be cool with the attention her husband was lavishing on Pamela, but Erica could see that she was seething inside. Her soft brown eyes now had golden flecks dancing in them.

Erica decided it was time to move things along. Laying a hand on Andrew Harrington's arm she said, "Why don't I show you to your room? We have snacks available, nothing fancy, just sandwich makings and a veggie tray," She led the Harringtons inside. Raymond followed, carrying one of their bags.

Christine examined the foyer with a critical eye and insisted on taking the elevator. The men took the stairs.

When Erica opened the door to their room, Christine stood for a moment, surveying things. "It's certainly cozy. Isn't it, Andy?"

Andrew Harrington put his bag on the bed and indicated that Raymond should do the same with the one he carried. He then reached into his pocket and took out a ten dollar bill, thrusting it at Raymond, who backed up and flinched as though he'd been struck in the face. He then left the room without uttering a word.

Erica felt embarrassment color her cheeks. "He's also a guest. He's just helping out with the garden restoration. I'm sorry I didn't make that clear."

Christine Harrington raised an eyebrow. "So you put your guests to work? Maybe we should have checked in at the Hilton after all, Andy."

"It's a Hampton Inn, Chris," Andrew Harrington said idly, then asked Erica, "Tell, me, where's your co-owner?"

Erica turned around and faced him. "She's been ill. Why do you ask?"

"Just curious. The website mentions you both," He favored her with that perfect smile again.

Christine flung open the closet door and peered inside. "Where's the bathroom?"

"There are two, at the other end of the hall," Erica told the woman. She was beginning to like her even less than she liked Pamela Richter.

Christine sniffed with obvious disdain. "We have to share a bathroom with the other guests?"

"Is this your first visit to a bed and breakfast?" Erica shot back before she could stop herself.

Andrew laughed out loud. "Is it that obvious? This was my idea, I'm afraid."

Christine sniffed haughtily. "I'd never heard of this place. I didn't even know we were on the cancellation list until Andy informed me we'd be staying here instead of a real hotel." She opened a suitcase and began hanging things up in the closet.

Andrew sidled up to Erica, keeping his voice low. "Christine is more of a luxury hotel person, but I thought that it might be fun to do something different. Don't worry; she'll live right through it."

He kept moving, forcing Erica into the hallway. Before she could reply, the door was closed firmly in her face.

* * * *

After her unceremonious ouster from the Harrington's room, Erica returned to the first floor. Somewhat miffed by Andrew's abruptness, she decided to leave the food in the refrigerator. If they wanted something to eat, they could ask. She wandered out the back door in search of Mingo, only to find him digging in the freshly turned earth where the gazebo would sit. The workmen were gathered around the area, pointing and chattering like excited school children. Raymond was kneeling by the hole, using one hand to brush at the dirt. As she drew closer she could see that he'd uncovered something.

"What's going on?" she called, joining the group. Then she saw what the furor was about.

"It is a gun," one of the men said in a heavily accented voice.

Raymond pulled the object out of the dirt and held it up for all to see. "Indeed it is."

It was a revolver with a barrel Erica surmised was at least six inches long. The handgrip, although caked with mud, looked like wood.

Raymond stood up and examined his find. "I say, this is quite an antique. He brushed it off as best he could. "It's an old forty-five caliber Colt Peacekeeper. Six shot cylinder."

Erica took a good look at the weapon. "How can you tell? It's filthy."

Raymond turned the revolver over and over in his hands. "Guns have been a hobby of mine for a good many years. This baby was manufactured by Colt around 1873. Some call it the single action Army revolver."

Erica didn't like this one bit. What was a gun doing buried in the garden, especially under a cement slab? "Who do you suppose put it there, Raymond?"

By now the workmen had all closed in, wanting a better look at the weapon. Raymond held it away from them and turned to Erica. "I don't know, but we need to get it inside and clean it up. It looks like it's in good shape, in spite of some rust. The handgrip has held up well. I'd say it's been in the ground for a long, long time though."

"Should we report it to the authorities?" She looked nervously over her shoulder and was relieved to see that the Richters were no longer in the driveway. She assumed they'd gone back inside the inn.

"Look….the dog…" one of the workmen yelled, pointing to where Mingo now dug furiously a few feet away.

Erica rushed at the animal then took a sudden step back when she looked down and saw what he'd uncovered. Memories of July when he dragged a skeletal hand into Joe's cabin, and of December when she'd found him just sitting near this spot staring at the place where the gazebo once stood, came flooding back. "Oh God, Raymond, is that a--"

He finished the sentence for her. "Skull?" He knelt next to Mingo and brushed the rest of the dirt off the object. "Yes, it's a human skull."

As Talia got dressed, she thought about her upcoming meeting with Victor. He was a strange man. And she was almost sure something was going on between him and his office manager, Caroline Thomas.

For some reason, Talia sensed that Caroline didn't like her, although she couldn't recall doing anything to offend the woman. She almost acts jealous of the attention Victor gives me.

She ran a brush through her hair and applied a smattering of lipstick. She needed little else to make herself look presentable. Her skin was clear and smooth, with just a few freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose.

A knock at the cottage door startled her and she jumped. When she saw her visitor though the screen door, she muttered, "That will teach me to close both doors."

Craig Lynch smiled a greeting from the small stone stoop, which served as a front porch. "Hey, Tally, want to come out and play?" he finally said, the grin widening.

"No comment," Talia responded. She did not open the door or invite him inside.

"Good one, very funny. Actually I'm here in my capacity as a reporter. I want to do a story about you and the upcoming art exhibit for the paper. Need to set up a time. How about over dinner tomorrow night. You pick the place."

He was, she would guess, somewhere in his mid-thirties. He was partially balding and slightly built. His pale blue eyes ogled her from behind a pair of rimless glasses.

"I'm just on my way out, Craig. Call me later," she said, opening the screen door. She remembered she didn't have her purse or keys. She went to grab them from the coffee table, and when she turned around, he was standing right behind her.

"Nice dress, by the way," he said, reaching out to touch the silky skirt. He rubbed the fabric between his thumb and forefinger.

"I have to go, Craig. As I said, call me and we'll set up a time for me to come by the newspaper office and do the interview."

Craig had been flirting with her since she'd moved to town and it hadn't taken her long to grow tired of it. However, he never seemed to get the message that she wasn't interested. In fact, something about him almost repulsed her.

He let go of her skirt and moved his hand to her hip. Sidestepping, she walked around him and went to the door, opening it wide.

He followed her. "Need a ride?" he asked, his thin lips curling up in a half-smile. They both stepped outside.

"I'd rather walk into town. It's a great day and I like being outdoors," she said as she locked her door, then strode past him and down the cobblestone walk.

When Talia entered the art gallery, the first person she saw was Caroline Thomas, hovering over an older, middle-aged couple who were studying a bronze sculpture.

She looked around for Victor, but didn't see him so contented herself with examining some of the pieces that were propped against the far wall. In fact, most of the paintings that usually hung on the walls had been removed and the place smelled of fresh paint. Victor was obviously sprucing things up for the upcoming show.

"I'm going to use easels for a lot of the paintings, especially yours," Victor said, from the mouth of the short hallway that separated the showroom from the offices.

Funny, she could have sworn he hadn't been in there when she'd looked for him a few moments ago.

He came to her, then reached out and took both of her hands in his. "You look beautiful as always. So what do you think of the place?" He beamed proudly.

It did look good. The new, lighter shades made a world of difference. "It's perfect." She smiled at him, thinking that he really looked more suited to big city life. So why had he tucked himself away in this little village so off the beaten path?

Caroline joined them, looking Talia up and down, before turning her attention to Victor. "The Swansons want that sculpture. I'm sending it out tomorrow, but they want a word with you."

As Victor went to talk to the Swansons, Caroline leveled her gaze on Talia. "Victor is quite enthused about your paintings. They will be ready, won't they?"

The other woman's animosity was obvious. "They'll be ready," Talia replied coolly.

"See that they are. I wouldn't want to see Victor disappointed," Caroline said before walking away.

Suddenly, the hair at the nape of Talia's neck stirred and she shivered. I'm being watched, but from where? Out of the corner of her eye, she caught a fleeting glimpse of someone staring in the front window. But when she turned to look, there was no one there.

Talia stirred, muttered something, then became fully awake. She sat up, clutching the down comforter around her naked body and looked at the other side of the bed.

Empty.

She glanced at the bedside clock. It read just after midnight.

She listened for movement, hoping she would hear him walking around in the living room, or bathroom. Nothing. She was alone in the house.

Where is he at this hour?

Memories of their ferocious lovemaking came back to her in a rush. She'd been like a woman possessed. Was it because she saw the attention he'd been paying to Abby Stewart?

Lucas had explained the scene she's walked in on and she believed him. There was something innately conniving about that woman.

Talia glanced at the French doors. It was then she noticed they were not locked. Getting quickly out of bed, she went to them and pushed the white curtain aside, peering out. Satisfied that no one was lurking around, she opened one of them and stepped out into the night.        

The air smelled fresh and clean. She looked up at the moon and felt a stirring deep within her that had nothing to do with sex. Then she recalled the way she'd felt earlier when she'd begun to change, to transform. Fear slithered up her spine.

Lucas said we could control it, that we wouldn't turn unless we wanted to. We promised one another we'd never transform again. Not after the awful things that happened in the spring.

All at once, she knew where he was, and she felt sick inside.

Talia settled into the hot bath water and sighed. Lucas, standing at the bathroom sink was trimming his goatee. "I'm starting to resemble a sailor who's been at sea too long," he said.

"I sort of like the shaggy look, gives you an aura of mystery," she said, with a smile. She sighed and laid her head back against the cool porcelain.

"What are you doing under those bubbles anyway? You're doing an awful lot of cooing," he asked.

"You're a pervert. Besides, if you're so curious, why don't you join me and find out?"

He turned and looked at her. "I think I just might take you up on that," he said, stripping off his under-shorts and walking toward the antique claw-foot tub.

Once he was settled opposite her, his feet wrapped around her hips, he said, "Bliss. Pure bliss."

"Oh, you haven't seen anything yet," Talia promised, feeling a sense of contentment she hadn't experienced in a long time. She'd been a real bitch at the shop earlier, she realized that. Rachel Lewis was just a young woman trying to earn a living and had been fortunate enough to come across Lucas's ad. Of course she was enthused and felt good about herself--she had a job she liked and was good at. Jealousy was an evil monster and Talia had made a vow tonight to never let it get the better of her again. "I'm thinking we should have Rachel over for dinner soon. She's probably not rich by any means, having just gotten the job at the shop and could probably use a free meal now and then."

"What changed your mind about her?"

She met his gaze. "I didn't have any particular mindset about Rachel, Lucas. I just was surprised by her, that's all. Now I want to get to know her better."

Lucas shrugged. "Sure. Let me know when and I'll ask her. But right now, I have other things on my mind."

Talia smiled. "Oh, like what?"

"Guess."

She bent her knees and scooted toward him. "Meet me halfway?"

Brie froze, drink in hand, as his power sought her, surrounded her, enveloped her and loved her. His eyes shot open and light, golden light, as powerful as the sun, scored everyone in the room. She was rooted to her spot and found herself irreparably shaken…Shade moved and muscles rippled. Large, long-fingered masculine hands caressed a washboard stomach, moved to a miracle of a chest, which consisted of well oiled pectorals lightly covered with soft curling hair…Angelic auburn curls framed his exquisite face caught in rapture as he began to make love to himself through his art. In perfect time to the music as it stopped between two heartbeats, his pants were lost to the crowd. The screams became howls as women swooned and demanded his attention…He indulged them, danced for them, but never came close enough to be touched by them, this he would not allow.

Shade undulated with ease, he spun, leaped, danced in a sexual abandon that caused Brie’s heart to lurch and her body to burn for the feel of him inside her, moving, lifting, showing her the way to heaven. She thanked whatever beings who watched over her for the sturdy barstool because her knees grew weak…Shade smiled, sly and undeniable, then winked as the final piece of clothing, a simple loin cloth, died in a forgotten heap on the stage floor. A g-string well designed to look like a fig leaf barely covered him as he struck a final pose in conclusion to the melody.

A drunken female patron began to cry, broken hearted at the thought of not having him. When he finally exited the stage…she and her equally drunken companions left…to fulfill their fantasies in the disappointing reality of partners they had long grown bored with.

She swatted at him. "Yeah, well, if you knew the night I had, you wouldn't question how glad I am to see you." Relief flooded her like sunlight after a storm and she regaled him with the tale of the night before. Manic, she swallowed hard in between sentences and her eyes resembled moon pies, before he interrupted her.

"What happened here?" He scrutinized the side of the cottage where a board hung haphazardly. "Looks like something hit this with a sledgehammer or something mighty heavy."

Simone, feeling discombobulated for a moment, gasped. "Wow, look at that." She drew closer.

Jackson shook his head. "Is this why you were so glad to see me?"

"Jackson, I heard so many bizarre noises last night. I don't know how long that's been there, but I wouldn't be surprised if it happened last night." With him next to her, she reveled in his presence, the night before seemed years ago. A warm morning with air scented by a cluster of nearby lilac bushes, she glanced his way. "How does breakfast sound to you?" She grabbed his arm and pulled him toward the back porch.

"Sounds wonderful honey." She dragged him around the side of the cottage.

"Did you notice the steps?" he asked.

"The what?" She stopped and let go of his arm and her head turned toward the stairs. "What the heck!" She hadn't noticed the holes in her excitement to meet Jackson. Not just holes, but giant gaping wounds met her gaze, as if ripped out by someone with colossal, vice-like hands. "Jackson, who would do this? Why would they do this?"

"I don't know, darlin'. It was awful windy last night. Could be the gusts ripped these out. They're old and getting warped."

Simone shook her head.

His face turned serious and he asked, "What exactly happened here last night?"

"Jackson, I told you, I heard noises and locked the bedroom. I didn't have the guts to deal with whatever was around. Whoever it was, came into the cottage. I heard them outside the door. They couldn't get in and they slammed on it so hard it practically knocked it down. I tell you, I was scared to death."

Appearing to appreciate the chance to help, he rolled his sleeves and moved to take out the remaining piece of step. "I'll look at these. They look awfully old. It may be that someone was trying to scare you and purposely jumped to break 'em. Regardless, they need replaced."

Jackson worked outside and Simone went in to put on the teapot. She heard him bang around and smiled when she thought of how afraid she had been the night before and now with him here, she felt so safe, so secure. She brought him a cup of tea and put it on the wicker table while she sipped hers and watched.

"I've got some lumber at my place. I think I have something that will fit these just fine."

A plank came out with one final pull and he turned it over and dropped it. He rubbed his arm to rid it of the gooseflesh that covered it.

"Jackson, are you all right? What happened?"

He didn't answer, but continued to rub his arm.

"Jackson, are you okay?"

He came out of his trance-like state long enough to look at her. "I…I'm…" he cleared his throat. “I'm fine. I thought I saw an animal or something in there. It's nothing though."

"It doesn't seem as if everything is fine." She watched him rub his arm. She walked over to curiously inspect the board. "Look here, there's writing on the underside. What's it say?" She squinted and rubbed at the letters. "It's so faded, but it looks like it says Beyond this point. That's an odd thing."

Jackson stared at her.

Simone, now interested in the new discovery, momentarily forgot Jackson's reaction. "Wait, I'll bet the rest of the writing is on another one." She wore the smile of a detective with a mystery to solve.

"No!" said Jackson, loudly. "Let me measure this and burn it. I'll replace the others later."

Taken aback by his abruptness, slight shock showed on her face. "Oh, okay, fine. I guess you're right. This isn't my place, after all."

Jackson picked the slat up.

So high, she cared only for the music, the excitement and the fun, euphoric feeling inhabiting her otherwise dull, boring life.

They danced to three songs before heading back to the table. Getting late, a few of their friends left for home.

"Where is everyone?" A cocktail napkin in her hand, Tilley waved it in front of her perspiring face, and appeared concerned.

Maggie, who again gave everyone shots of tequila, smiled.

"They took off and left us. They mumbled something boring about husbands, children and responsibility. So that means we get to do their shots."

Tilley didn't see any problem and drank two in a row.

"Yeah, we're leaving, too," Michelle said.

Maggie spent the evening gaping at a cocky, shaved head cowboy and he finally came over.

"Not yet." Maggie crooked her head his way. "I want to go two-step with John Wayne here." Her hand out, he grasped it and they headed to the dance floor.

Annoyed, Michelle glanced at her watch and shook her head. "All right, a couple more songs and then we're leaving." Ensconced in her chair, she sipped water.

A slow song played and Steve led Tilley to the dance floor.

"I shouldn't be doing this," she slurred.

"You aren't allowed to dance with a friend?" Steve smiled at her sweetly. "Think of me as a friend."

Rhythms from the song melted her body into his and she pulled Steve close, her head on his shoulder, her face turned away. His hands on her hips, he moved them down to the round of her bottom and she felt he'd grown as he rubbed against her.

Facing him again, her lips caressed the stubble on his neck, just below his jaw line. His scent, intoxicating, she put a delicate kiss on his beating pulse.

Michelle witnessed the entire tawdry scene and showed signs of disgust. After they finished and sat down, she glared at Tilley.

"If you want a ride, you have to take it now," she said. She let Tilley know she didn't appreciate her behavior. "I'm leaving."

"I'll take you home later if you want," Steve interrupted.

"Really! Great, yeah," Tilley said. "Thanks."

Michelle gave Steve a deadly stare. "She's coming home with me."

"Tilley's a big girl, I think that's her decision to make," he said.

"Tilley's had too much to drink," Michelle said sarcastically and yet firmly. "So, I think as her friend, I should do what's best for her."

"I'll be fine," Tilley said. "Steve's a friend. We know--each other from w-work. Don't worry. Besides, I'll be with Maggie. Go home."

"You've had a lot to drink, Tilley," Michelle said. "I'm worried. I think you should come home with me."

"God, I'm not friggin four-years-old," she said. "I'll make up my own mind, hiccup, when to go home, thank you very much. I'll thank you to keep your nose out of my, hiccup, business. Steve is a friend. He'll drive me and Maggie home."

Michelle, upset, left reluctantly. Tired of arguing with Tilley, she hoped for the best and depended on the fact Tilley knew Steve from work, although she'd never mentioned him before.

As if bounced out of a time machine, allowing her to replay her days as an unattached college girl, Tilley lived in the moment.

They did more shots and Steve pulled Tilley tight as the night wore on. Her inhibitions completely gone, she let him wrap his arms around her and press himself close. Michelle and her other friends gone, taking their judgmental attitudes with them, she felt free to have some fun.

The crowd thinned to a couple dozen people as the lights came on. Ready to go, the room did a spin and Tilley grabbed a table to steady herself. Darting a worried gaze around, she didn't see Maggie anywhere.

"Where did Maggie go?" Tilley asked Steve woozily.

"She skipped town with the urban cowboy." He took her arm. "Come on, I'll take you home."

Hesitant for a moment, she held onto him and they left the club together. His car, parked in the empty lot, appeared expensive and she attempted to open the door. Coming to her aid, he helped and then gently guided her in.

In the driver's seat, he told her he was lonely, never having found the right woman to spend his life with. Feeling sorry for him, she enjoyed the kiss he placed on her lips, felt honored someone so good looking considered her worthy of such adoration, but her mind raced with worry at the mess she found herself in.

He reached over, cupped her face in his strong hands and kissed her again. His lips, soft and inviting, welcomed her kiss in return. The first man, other than her husband, she'd kissed in twenty-five years. Warm in his car, Tilley pushed a button to lower the window, but it didn't move. Sick, hot and claustrophobic, she only wanted out. "I'm so attracted to you," he said.

He shined the light across the long hallway just off the entrance. To the right, a stairway led up to the second floor. Sage cautiously made his way into the musky smelling hallway and could feel how cold the inside of the house felt. It was almost a chilling feeling ten degrees cooler than outside. A shiver of apprehension raced down his spine. His instincts never failed him and tonight they were on high alert.

He could sense the body heat of the others following him and saw Jason light the flashlight he'd given him. Once everyone was inside, the door slammed shut without warning and a loud click reverberated throughout the room.

"What was that?" Sage knew the sound was the door locking and he also knew the door couldn't lock on its own. He turned his head just in time to see a strange white apparition floating past him. No, he decided his imagination must have been playing tricks on him. He didn't believe in ghosts. Just at the point of asking one of the others if they'd seen anything, Sage heard Summer scream.

"Let's get out of here, Sage!" Her blood curdling scream sent another wave of apprehension racing through Sage. She grabbed his arm and dug her nails into his skin.

Not owning much in the way of play or work clothes, Jaylyn wore one of Eli’s old t-shirts, cut off just under her breasts. The stretched neck slid over her now tan shoulder and her hair, pulled back in a ponytail at the neck, came loose, strands of her blonde hair sticking to her neck and cheeks. Her cut off jean shorts showed off the bottoms of her firm cheeks and she wore no panties or bra in the heat. He sported only a pair of frayed, cutoff jeans himself and she couldn’t concentrate on the task at hand, he looked so good.

“Damn!” Pulling her hand away from the newly boiled jars, she sucked on her finger. “These puppies are hot.” His non-response confused her, so she turned to see why he didn’t answer. When she did, the look of the hungry tiger radiated from his eyes once again. His bare chest and arms glinting with sweat, rugged, masculine her gaze traveled to his hair, strewn about wildly in the heat. His legs, his bare feet, every inch of him oozed sensuousness, manly perfection.

A cool breeze, out of nowhere, came by and her breasts, flat in the heat, rose, showing through the fabric of the thin t-shirt she wore. Mental telepathy played a part in her removing her shirt and after she did, her bare breasts, small, but firm showed off her perfect pink nipples. He licked his lips and she unbuttoned her shorts, pulling the zipper down slowly. They fell to the floor and she removed one leg and then the other. Another breeze, this one stronger, came through the window and whipped her hair around her shoulders and the once light kitchen darkened and she glanced outside.

“I think a storm’s heading in,” she said softly.

“In more ways than one!” He crossed the kitchen as a flash of lightning struck off in the distance and the boom of thunder it produced banked off the walls. He lifted her into his arms and kicking open the back door with his foot, he brought her into the yard and walked far back into a clearing, laying her down roughly.

The traffic was light at such an early hour and jokes and laughter floated around the interior of the car. Somehow, Lacy felt safe now that Ryan sat only an arm length from her in the front seat.

“Lacy, grab one of the CD’s out of the glove box and put it in the stereo,” Ryan told her. “I can’t get anything on the radio but this country music. I’ve never been too fond of country, but that’s all they’re offering.”

“I know what you mean. Carol and I ran into the same problem on our last trip. Talk about boring.” While she talked, she placed the CD in and cranked the sound up filling the car with a current hit song.

Amid joking, laughing and singing the entire trip, the ride seemed shorter than Lacy remembered. It wasn’t long before she saw a sign along the highway with Salem printed on it.

Just on the outskirts of the small town, Lacy glanced at a car headed in the opposite direction. She thought for an instant her eyes were playing tricks on her, believing she saw Steve and Jason riding along in a hot rod at a fast rate of speed heading out of town. No, I have to be wrong. Surely, I’m imagining things. Steve and Jason were supposed to be in jail waiting for the court date that morning. But again, they could be out on bail waiting for the trial to begin.

Suddenly, there was a metal sound filling the air around them. Lacy glanced over her shoulder just in time to see the hot rod deliberately swerving toward a pickup truck. The truck tried to get out of the way of the car, but the driver wasn’t having any success. The truck spun out and flipped over a number of times before coming to rest on its top in the ditch.

Brie stepped into a miasma of pulsing house music and screaming women. Her eyes took a few minutes to adjust to the intensity of the stage lights that highlighted her man. He had just finished his performance. A swollen audience cheered in ecstasy at his incredible sweat soaked body while he stopped to pose for his admirers. The thought of touching him sent a sensual wave of anticipatory pleasure through her like a trade wind.

An unbelievable amount of money landed onstage. Shade did not touch it. He allowed the bouncers to retrieve it, then handed both men substantial tips. After the initial yet erotic shock of learning her physical therapist lover worked part time as a stripper, Brie learned the money was not why Shade worked there. He earned a good wage working at City General and didn't need the extra cash. Shade performed for the sheer joy of the dance and the sensuality of the movement.   

Brie, mesmerized by his grace, allowed the crowd a moment to bask in his glory. He smiled at the patrons who sought his attention. There was no ego involved in his acceptance of their desire. She realized Shade knew he was attractive. She also knew, as she grew to understand him over the last few months, he did not take his good looks seriously because he understood the transitory nature of the physical body. Nothing lasted forever therefore he accepted the form given to him as a part of who he was as a human being, but did not allow it to define him. Always gracious though he crouched down and shook some of the more adamant women's hands. This was the only time he allowed the patrons to touch him. Another fact that impressed Brie was she learned Shade donated all cash earned at Paradise to Father Donovan Kenny at St. Jude's Parish. The tiny priest was Shade's friend and mentor, a man for whom he carried deep respect.

"You're so beautiful," Brie whispered. Her heart opened to him and she inhaled. She could swear she detected his scent and the erotic thought pulled her from her position toward the stage.

Shade's head turned, lifted. His gaze landed in her direction, seemed to find her in the over-stimulated crowd. Brie startled. It was as if he knew she arrived. Her heart pounded in syncopated rhythm to the background music. It was so crowded toward the stage area she needed an escort and she searched for Moana, the giant Samoan bouncer who was head of security for the club. Within seconds, Moana found her and wrapped a beefy hand around her arm. He pushed through the throng of women as they clapped to the beat of another song to introduce the next dancer and within seconds, they approached a side entrance door.

"Thanks," Brie smiled. He grimaced in return, which she realized was his idea of a grin.

Once through the door, she paused for a moment to allow her eyes to grow accustomed to the darkness of the interior. It didn't take her long to find him. Shade seemed in deep conversation with one of the female dancers, a petite Asian woman dressed in a short red sequined sheath dress and matching red platform stilettos. She stroked Shade's arm. He stopped her, removed her hand in gentle rejection.

A rush of possessiveness slammed Brie in the chest. She strutted forward, hands in her jean pockets. The idea of ripping the woman's hair extensions out of her head occurred to her, but she realized she would have a hard time explaining her actions to fellow police employees when she was booked on battery charges.

"You were awesome tonight, baby, they loved you," crooned Vanessa as she reached to run her hand along Shade's washboard stomach. Brie clenched her jaw in irritation. She cracked her neck in an effort to relax. Her gaze raked the diminutive stripper over burning coals.

Vanessa must have received a clue something was wrong when Shade stepped away from her because she paused, then turned around to follow Shade's gaze. Brie noted the stripper's eyes grew wide at her approach. In a show of what Brie recognized as street bravado, Vanessa crossed her arms in front of her chest, bobbed her head on her slender neck from side to side. Brie thought the dancer looked like a sparrow doused in the dyed red sugar people put on their Christmas cookies.

"Wassup, Brie?" Vanessa's cocky tone rolled from a mouth filled with gold plated teeth.

"Not him, Vanessa." Brie replied. Her voice carried a dangerous finality to it.

Vanessa uncrossed her arms, turned to look at Shade. When no assistance arrived from that quarter, she threw up her hands. "Whatevah, I gotta bounce."

Brie watched the stripper run away as fast as her little feet could carry her. She turned to Shade. His eyes flashed to yellow gold and a thrill of desire blasted through her. Their ability to change on a dime still filled her with amazement, but she had long ago accepted it was a unique trait of her lover.

Stepping forward with jaguar grace, Shade grabbed her by the lapels of her leather jacket. He pulled her into him, plunged his mouth over hers, his need of her evident.

He was the deluge to her thirst. It was as if she had wandered in a desert and found an oasis. She collapsed towards him, returned his fervor with desperate desire. Her knees weakened. Shade lifted Brie into his arms, carried her to his dressing room.

He locked the door behind him and placed her on a sheepskin rug. He straddled her hips and removed her jacket, tossed it on a sofa across from his dressing table. Shade moved his hands in a smooth caress over her arms, trailed his fingers down to her belt buckle.

Brie shook her head. "Now," she demanded. She was in no mood for foreplay, wanted him inside her before she burst into flames. Tonight was about need, about demand, about pure primitive mating.

“Do you want to know a secret?” she said in a whisper.

“Yes, of course.”

She took Anastasia by the hand and explained to Miss Pigeon they were going to the water closet. Through a labyrinth of vestibules and foyers, they went, Rose glancing over her shoulder on occasion lest they be followed.

“What is it?” Anastasia said. Her face flushed. “We should join all others, I’m to get very nervous.”

“Don’t be nervous,” Rose said. “This is an adventure.”

They stopped before entering an immense, dark hallway.

“This is it?”

“What?” Anastasia asked.

“Where the door is.”

“We really will go back now,” Anastasia said, concern dripping from each word.

“We’re not allowed to open it. Actually,” Rose glanced about, “we aren’t even allowed in this wing of the house.” Trancelike, she stared down the long hall until Anastasia grabbed her arm.

“Come, let’s go back. I do not like this…it feels to be wrong.”

Rose continued to stare. “Papa said if we open it, there is death on the other side.” She licked her lips, her gaze intent.

Anastasia pulled Rose away. “You must to stop this silliness.”

“I have to tell someone or I’ll lose my mind,” Rose said. She floated back to reality, but wasn’t quite on solid ground…just yet. “I have a secret.”

“If you promise me we head back after telling to me, I’ll listen patiently,” Anastasia said.

Rose spoke softly. “I used to have another sister.”

“What!”

“Yes, she was a year older than Flora and beautiful. The most beautiful of us all with red hair just like me, and I hear, a very fiery temper.”

Anastasia looked right and then left. “Okay, you told me, now let us to go back to the others.”

“Please, listen,” Rose begged. “No one else will. I saw her. I followed her the day she opened the door. She told me to go back, but I hesitated. I saw her go through but she never came out again. I ran away as fast as I could, down the hall, back to my room. After that, we were forbidden to even mention her name. It’s as if she never existed. My sisters are terrified to talk of her, and Miss Pigeon has punished me if I even look like I’m thinking of her.”

Anastasia grabbed her by the arm. “I no longer will suffer listening to such nonsense as this. If you do not stop such talk, I shall leave to my Russia tomorrow. You are frightening me.”

“Oh, no! Don’t go. I’m so sorry, Anastasia. I needed a friend to hear me. I didn’t mean to upset you so.”

They walked back in silence. Rose, upset about disturbing her friend, she could tell Anastasia was now frightened and anxious, all because of her.

They stepped past several shelves and Daniel turned at the last, moving into a spacious corner. Not all of the books had titles on the spines which made Karen’s heart sink. She wondered exactly how they were supposed to know which texts they were supposed to pull or how they were going to differentiate them.

“So…” Daniel cleared his throat. “We’re looking for information about the Reilly family. This area has port journals and some ancient captain’s logs. I’m hoping that we’ll come across something from Colin Reilly, preferably something late in his career. It should have clues to what we’re interested in.”

“But how can we find anything in this?” Karen waved her hand over the books. “Do we have to check every single one?”

“No, they do try to organize them somewhat.” Daniel drew one book from the top left of the shelf. Karen presumed that it was the beginning of the section. “These are port records. You can tell because they’re made of this dark red leather and are often grouped up in threes. They spread them out because they’re easy to spot and organized by what port master was in charge at the time.”

“Wouldn’t it be easier to do that by year?”

“That depends on what research you’re doing.” Daniel put the book back. “All of those books have been scanned into a computer and put in chronological order. This is more about the people who wrote in the books than what’s in them.”

“And the log books… alphabetical by author? Or ship name?”

“Good question,” Daniel replied, drawing another book out near the top. “This is the log book of Reginald Alponte of the merchant ship Sequester.” He paused a moment and chuckled. “I wonder if he meant to make that play on words.”

Karen snorted, stepping closer to the shelf and carefully drawing out a text to look at it, on the third shelf down about midway through.

“This one is Bartholomew Lamont of the HMS Dragon.” Karen slid it back carefully. “So we should be close. They really need to put letters on the shelf to give a researcher an idea of where to look.”

“I believe they change things out a little too often for that.” Daniel crouched and began to look through books in the section that Karen motioned to. “And it doesn’t take much to figure out where you’re at. Draw a couple out and you’re in the right location.”

Karen took the other side and worked toward him. “Maybe we should have hit the natural history museum first, especially if they have journals.”

“When and if we have to go there, you’ll see that they’ve got a lot of books. If we had to pour through those, we’d be there for a very long time.” Daniel hesitated a moment. “I found a book by Roberts.”

“Like… the pirate?” Karen looked over hopefully.

“No, his name was Timothy Roberts… worked on a fishing schooner.” Daniel smiled at her enthusiasm. “So you’re a pirate girl, are you?”

“Hmm? No, I… well, I’ve got a passing interest. You know, seen all the movies… read some books… watched the movies again.”

“Ah, a fan of the genre.” Daniel moved on with the books. “I believe they have a rather large section of pirate fare here. You should come back sometime and delve in.”

“I might.” Karen flushed. “It’s just… you know, a guilty pleasure.”

“I know all about them.” Daniel paused again. “Desmond Reilly… 1712. That can’t be a coincidence. I think I found the family’s section here.”

The shop had two bedrooms nestled away in the back. He set her up in the small one he never used and did his best to make her comfortable. Will she wake up while I’m gone? I don’t want her to panic because she’s in some strange place. He penned a quick note and left it by the bed. I hope that helps… And I won’t be gone that long.

Daniel left, locking the front door behind him and hopping in Karen’s car. The engine roared to life and he took a deep breath, considering his next course carefully. They had to get to the bottom of what was going on but he couldn’t risk Karen again. At least in the shop she’d be safe.

What if there’s something out there that you can’t handle? He asked himself. What happens to her then?

That concern had to be shelved. There wasn’t any time for extreme caution. There were answers to be found but they required some risk. Daniel felt resolve return to him and he put the car in “Drive”. At least the trip wouldn’t take very long.

He was fairly certain he knew where James McKellan had lived—the description that Andrea gave could only be one of a couple places. Someone owned the house that he was heading to but it was not currently occupied. He was certain that there wasn’t going to be easy access to the lab but he could at least see what obstacles needed to be overcome.

Andrea wasn’t just any spirit. Daniel hadn’t seen her sort of power for ages and even back then, demons were involved. After years of dealing with the supernatural, Daniel was surprised to admit that he had seemingly encountered something new.

And that created more questions. What else could this spirit do? Why was she compelling Karen instead of asking her to do things? What was her real motivation?
 

One night, Riley made his journey to the old cemetery and could feel the chill of the night seeping into his bones. “What a night to be out,” he muttered. “I have a feeling about tonight that I can’t shake.” Riley smiled, realizing he was talking, but only the empty cemetery and lonely tombstones could hear him.

He kept looking at an old tombstone a few feet from where he stood. The granite slab acted almost like it was beckoning him. He walked over and leaned down, brushing aside the leaves piled on top. The thick marble slab looked as if it had been there forever. The cut and style of the stone had to date back to the nineteenth century. The tombstone read, Wild Bart Jamison, from out west in Colorado.

Riley decided this gravesite might be an interesting plot to place his recorder on and let the microphone try to pick up any message that may be coming through. Something urged him to do this.

The marker stated that Bart Jamison died in 1850. After his death, the family brought the old prospector back east to be buried in the family plot. A small inscription at the bottom of the marble stone stated that Bart had discovered gold in Colorado right after the California gold rush of 1849. Near the inscription was a carved out picture of a cowboy astride a horse.

“Wow, this looks like a good find,” he stated, his voice carrying across the lonely cemetery on the stiff breeze now sending chills through his bones.

Riley felt excitement stir in him as he placed his recorder on the old gravestone and turned it on. Just maybe he would be lucky tonight and find out a little about this Bart Jamison. He wondered if the man had really struck it rich or died a pauper and his relatives had to bury him in New York City.

Suddenly, Riley saw a light flashing across the deserted cemetery. He didn’t bother removing his equipment from the marker as he hunched down behind the tall gravestone. The light made another pass right near his hiding place.

 

The man in the suit smiled and walked towards Ricky and Kristy. When he was less than three feet away, he asked, “A friend of yours?”

“Not our friend,” Ricky blurted.

“Hey, that’s not nice,” Frank laughed.

The man in the suit backed up and shouted, “Is he anyone’s friend here?”

The audience murmured.

Someone called out, “I don’t think he has any friends.”

The crowd laughed.

The man in the suit ambled over to Frank. “Looks like you’re alone,” he said.

“I got Connie here,” Frank laughed.

“Are you desperate, Connie?” the man in the suit chuckled.

“Listen, asshole,” Frank sneered. “Getting insulted wasn’t part of the deal.”

“Oh, really?” the man in the suit snapped. “What about the actors you insulted?”

“That’s different,” Frank said.

“Is it?” The man in the suit put his hand in his pocket, pulled out a revolver and smashed Frank on the side of the head.

Frank screamed in pain and fell to his knees.

“Hey,” Connie shouted. She dropped to Frank’s side and tried to help him up.

“Come here, honey,” the man in the suit growled. He grabbed Connie’s arm and dragged her away from Frank. When she was in a dark part of the scenery, he appeared to punch her in the stomach. She began to moan and cry. The man in the suit returned to Frank. He hit him in the head with the gun again and pulled him to the center of the scene.

The man in the suit shouted, “What should I do with this asshole?”

“Kill him!” someone replied.

“Kill him!” Ricky yelled.

Soon the audience was chanting, “Kill him! Kill him!”

“See?” Ricky laughed. “I told you he was part of the act.”

“If you insist!” the man in the suit laughed. He aimed his gun at Frank’s head and pulled the trigger twice. The entire scene lit up with each blast from the gun while loud explosions rang in the audience’s ear.

The man in the suit faced the audience and yelled, “What about the bitch?”

“Let her go,” Kristy cried.

“Nah, kill her, too,” someone else shouted.

Again, the audience was again chanting, “Kill her! Kill her!”

“If you insist,” the man in the suit mumbled. He aimed his pistol at the sobbing woman and pulled the trigger twice, again assaulting the audience with harsh bright lights and loud explosions.

“What a fucking hoot!” Ricky laughed.

“That was the first part of this stupid show that I enjoyed,” Kristy giggled.



* * * *



Twenty minutes later Kristy had her head buried in Ricky’s lap. She was trying to gain her composure while Ricky talked with a uniformed policeman. “Don’t you get it?” he said. “We thought it was part of the show. I mean, we probably would have helped, especially the lady, but…”


He wilted under the dismissive stare of the cop, and his voice trailed off. “Don’t you get it?” he mumbled.

 

After ensuring that I was encased from shoulders to ankles like a mummy, I wriggled my arm free to drain the water. When I heard it tumbling down the drain, I wandered out of my bedroom and down the hall to the nearest guest room. It hadn’t been used in a while, but the last time the maid was over, she had changed the bedding.

I cranked on the heat and crawled under the blankets naked. Pajamas were an extra effort I was way too tired to indulge. When I closed my eyes, my breathing fell into a heavy rhythm moments later. Sleep danced on the edges of my conscious mind, casually closing in until I drifted off.

A surreal landscape opened before me and for the first time I could ever remember, I knew I was dreaming. Most of the time I simply accepted whatever oddity my brain threw my way, but now I felt like an intruder in my own subconscious, a voyeur who shouldn’t be seeing the things presented to me.

I saw a tempest brewing on the horizon and off to the right, a violent sea thrashed like a restless monster rousing from a long sleep. Dusty rocks surrounded me, the jagged edges bit into my bare feet. I was naked in these elements, the breeze tickling my skin, but it wasn’t cold enough to make me miserable.

I knew I should’ve put on pajamas.

A man came out of the storm, walking with a stiff, proud gait. He was armed with a wicked looking sword, which he held in his right hand, the tip pointed away from him. The blade was longer than my leg with a serrated top and curved edge.

He was still a silhouette, but I could make out some details. His body was covered by piecemeal plate armor. The left shoulder had a massive spiked pad where the other was bare. Boots came high and covered the knees in the front while wrapping low around the sides.

His long hair was caught up in the wind, flowing to the side like he was a living fantasy painting.

Wait, why is he coming this way?

It would take him some time to get to me, but what happens when he got here? That nasty looking weapon was not designed for cuddling. Was it meant for me or some other purpose?

Self-preservation suggested that waiting around to find out was a bad plan. I turned to flee and stopped so suddenly, I nearly toppled off the cliff behind me. The chasm yawned before me, the bottom lost to a swirling mist some dozens of yards down.

Why the hell is my dream so inconvenient?

I turned around to see how much progress my potential attacker had made and let out an involuntary scream.

He was standing three feet in front of me.