Shadow Lover

  Shadow Lover

  Lydia Parks

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter One: The Illusion

  Chapter Two: The Truth

  Chapter Three: The Touch

  Chapter Four: The Fantasy

  Chapter Five: The Choice

  Prologue

  He heard the sound of her muted footsteps on the wet leaves long before she approached the tree under which he stood. Every evening, she followed the same trail from her sister’s home to her own, holding her skirts above her ankles to keep them dry, whistling a soft tune against the darkness. She never tarried on her way, never stopped.

  Tonight, he would stop her.

  “Who’s there?”

  He stepped out from the deepest shadows and smiled. “Good evening, my dear. My name is Griffin.”

  Although clearly startled, she recovered quickly. “What is it you want, sir?”

  He strolled toward her, sending forth thoughts of peace and goodwill. “The chance to alleviate my loneliness, dear Molly, even if for only a few hours.”

  “How do you know…my…name?” Her eyelids drooped as her will to protest faded.

  This one he’d watched for months, admiring the way her auburn locks reflected moonlight and her pale skin glistened in the evening dew. He’d retired each morning humming the sweet, sad melody she whistled.

  He couldn’t spend another night alone.

  “You need not worry, my dear, I won’t hurt you.” He stroked the side of her lovely face, thrilling to the downy warmth of her cheek. “And when I leave, you’ll have no memory of what passed between us.”

  He caught her as her knees buckled. Careful not to bruise her precious flesh, he carried her to his resting place, well inside the damp cavern. Once he’d placed her on his bed, he lit a lamp and watched her wake.

  She was truly lovely, a small-framed woman, perhaps twenty years of age, with a heart-shaped face and large eyes the color of wet clover.

  He reacted to the sight of her on his bed as any man would, hardening to the point of discomfort. He would have her as his own this night, and then sleep with her in his arms until he woke again at sunset. When he released her, she would remember nothing, and he would have the smell and the feel and the sound of her to carry him through another year or two, perhaps more.

  How pathetic his existence had become.

  But this was no time to wallow in his pigsty of sorrow. No, he had a beautiful young woman to entertain, to bring to heights of pleasure she didn’t know existed.

  She watched him without protest as he bared himself to the waist. Then he knelt beside her and unwrapped her from the layers and layers of clothing he found so annoying these days. Finally, she lay naked before him, one arm folded across her small breasts and the other hand cupped between her legs. She shivered, but asked no questions.

  He touched her with great tenderness, stroking her arms and shoulders, feeling gooseflesh rise under his fingers and small hairs brush against his palms. He eased her arms to her sides and she complied. Touching again, he moved to her neck and breasts, caressing them appreciatively, teasing the tiny buds of her nipples as they tightened until her breath caught in her throat.

  And then he kissed her.

  That’s when he realized just how much she reminded him of Rebecca. It wasn’t her appearance, but her scent and taste. So much like his long-lost love, the memories squeezed his cold, dead heart until he wanted to scream.

  But he didn’t scream.

  With his fingers buried in her hair, he held her close and took her sweet mouth, probing deeper, savoring every bit of it. After a few moments, she began to respond, to draw on his tongue, to moan softly.

  “She’s yours,” the beast whispered.

  He ignored the voice as he pulled her under him, pressing his cool flesh to her heated skin. All he wanted was to feel her body submit to his, to wrap himself around her. She writhed against him as he enjoyed more of her, allowing his fingers to slide over her virginal cleft.

  Her heartbeat thundered in his ears, loud, steady, the sweetest music.

  And the beast spoke louder now. “Take her. She will not resist.”

  “No,” he growled, closing his eyes to fight it.

  Her tiny hand came up to his face and the heat of it branded him.

  Staring into her sea-green eyes, he realized then that he wanted her with him for more than one day. He wanted her for his share of eternity, to walk the nights with him, to sleep the days away in his arms.

  She was so much like the woman he’d loved.

  “Remember the glorious taste of her soul,” the beast said. “It is yours for the taking.”

  Unable to fight both the devil and the memories, he let the chains of restraint rip through his hands and felt his fangs descend in a rush.

  Molly’s hand slid down to the front of his chest.

  Her touch felt too good. He couldn’t manage this way; the beast would soon take over.

  Carefully, but firmly, he turned her over so that she faced away from him and he drew her to the side of the bed.

  With the devil again leashed, he ran his hands down Molly’s back, admiring her pale, warm skin, her narrow waist, the indentation of her spine, the width of her hips. He reached around her to caress her soft mound, parting her swelling lips, and found her unexpectedly wet.

  Pressing his forehead between her shoulder blades, he freed himself from his breeches, aching to bury himself in her.. He would control her thoughts to alleviate the pain of her first encounter.

  She made soft noises of need and raised her buttocks, opening herself completely, trusting him.

  He entered her slowly, intoxicated by the warmth of her, savoring every response as he nuzzled her hair. When tightness became obstacle, he thrust through with a growl of delight.

  So much like Rebecca had once been.

  Sweet, lovely Rebecca. How could he be expected to resist her?

  “Now,” the beast commanded. “She is yours. Take her!”

  As her muscles began to tighten, and she gasped with approaching release, he succumbed to the beast’s demands.

  She screamed as he pierced her flesh, but not with pain.

  His arm around her waist, he held her close as her body rose against his. His brain exploded with her essence, the intense emotions—love and hate—the needs, and wants and dreams. All of it was his, spiced to perfection with her climax, and he hungered for more. He wanted all.

  His body responded as both man and beast, giving and taking.

  On and on it went, visions of a short life packed with sunshine and beauty, darkness and pain, dreams unfulfilled. He reeled with the wonder of it.

  Unable to stop, he fed and fed, until he’d gone too far. She lay still.

  Fraught with terror, he withdrew from her and gathered her onto his bed where he pressed his ear to her chest, listening, straining for any hint of a heartbeat.

  He’d snuffed out her life’s flame.

  No hope of releasing her.

  No hope of bringing her into the Darkness.

  Caught in an endless nightmare between unbearable pleasure and unimaginable pain, he held Molly’s lifeless body and rocked, cursing the beast and his miserable existence. Never again would she walk the dark path in the woods.

  Never again would he hear her whistle her haunting tune.

  Closing his eyes, he yelled against the misery.

  He could not allow one so precious within his reach again.

  He’d walk his path alone.

  Chapter One: The Illusion

  The first time Serena saw him, she thought she was hallucinating.

  He appeared suddenly as a looming apparition directly in front of her when she stepped into the street, and sent her
staggering backwards. She tripped on the curb and fell back hard, her teeth gnashing together so abruptly she thought she might lose a few.

  And then a pickup truck roared past, swerving, speeding through the space she would have simultaneously occupied if not for her strange savior.

  She searched the street and sidewalk, trying to recall exactly what he’d looked like. All she drew from her senses was tall, dark and scary.

  Sitting there, she couldn’t have sworn he’d even had eyes, or any other features. Had he been wearing a mask of some kind?

  Another car passed, slower than the truck, and tinny music grated over the empty sidewalk.

  As the realization that she’d nearly faced eternity on a lonely Santa Fe street bubbled into her brain, she pushed herself to her shaky feet and brushed off the back of her jeans. And she looked around again, studying the shadows for any hint of movement, but saw none.

  With her heart pounding, she picked up her purse, slung it over her shoulder and started home at a fast walk, listening for the sound of footsteps behind her. Once home, she locked both dead bolts, checked the back door and windows, then crawled into an ancient velvet-covered chair and curled into a protective ball.

  Had she been wrong all these years? Were there really angels of some kind? Or ghosts? Had an ethereal being just saved her life?

  And then she recalled his scent. She’d only caught a hint of it when she gasped in surprise, but it left an impact. Masculine. Leather, smoke and rosemary. And maybe mothballs. Would a guardian angel have an aroma?

  But he couldn’t have been real.

  A memory wormed its way to the surface—a dark memory she’d locked away years earlier. Sometime in college, Serena had started fantasizing about a tall, gorgeous stranger, dangerous yet attractive. He wanted her and she wanted him, but they could never touch because he existed in a shadow world, in another dimension. She’d thought of him when she was alone at night. And she’d thought of him when she walked dark alleys, hoping he was the one she felt watching her. Sometimes, he seemed so real, she could smell him, hear him, even see him if she turned her head quickly. She dreamed he’d eventually take her to his world where they’d live together for eternity.

  When she met Robert, she quit thinking about her shadow hero.

  That earlier part of life, that dream, must have subconsciously sparked her most recent lectures on the human need for dark fantasies of eternal life in order to deny death.

  As she sifted through the event on the street, analyzing memories and possibilities, Serena realized she’d probably only seen a reflection of the approaching truck, and smelled scents from nearby houses. The whole thing had been a fortunate set of coincidences that resulted in her nearly biting off the end of her tongue, but also avoiding one horrific accident.

  And she felt better.

  Until she saw him again.

  Two days later, she had been walking home from an evening seminar where she’d lectured on dark fantasies and denying death, when she caught a glimpse of him standing at the corner of a building, watching her. Although he looked rooted to the spot, she was sure he hadn’t been there one second earlier. He wore black clothing, a black cape that left him almost indistinguishable from the shadows, and a black hat, a wide-brimmed 1940s fedora, tilted low and to one side.

  Once again she couldn’t see his eyes, but this time she knew they were there. She physically felt his gaze, subtle yet definite, like the movement of water across submerged skin.

  A shiver ran down and back up her spine.

  Fighting flight instincts, she stopped, turned and stared back.

  He didn’t move, not even to take a breath, and she thought for a moment that he might be a statue like so many found in unexpected places in this city.

  The street sounds disappeared under the rush of her own blood past her eardrums as she walked toward him, forcing one foot in front of the other. She felt as if she were approaching the end of the world, and wouldn’t be able to stop until she’d peered over the edge.

  When she did stop, she stood less than three feet from the stranger, staring up into his face. He must have been at least six feet tall with broad shoulders and a square jaw. All else about him was conjecture.

  Until he nodded and said, “Dr. Brockman.”

  His voice had the fine quality of an oboe, and although he whispered, it seemed to echo through her chest like the aftereffect of a kettledrum.

  She swallowed hard and licked her dry lips. “Who are you?”

  His mouth stretched into a smile, then he bowed his head in salute. “A fantasy, I believe.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He laughed, and his laughter was even more incredible than his voice.

  Serena shuddered.

  And then she jumped when, in a sudden rush, he swept his hat from his head and bowed deeply at the waist like some hammy silent-screen actor.

  “Griffin, at your service.”

  She couldn’t respond right away. He was terribly good-looking, in a dark sort of way, much as her youthful fantasy man had been. His wavy black hair just touched his shoulders, and his features were exquisite, almost regal.

  But his eyes blew her away. He had blue eyes, so light in color, they seemed to glow as if reflecting a full moon hidden somewhere behind her.

  A wave of dizziness washed over her, and she staggered backward to keep her balance.

  As quickly as he’d appeared that first night in the street, he materialized at her side, clutching her arm. “My dear, are you all right?”

  She looked up at him. “Who the hell are you? And how do you know my name?”

  He chuckled. “Well put.”

  “Huh?”

  She was usually more articulate than “huh,” but felt as if she’d stepped into a thick purple fog she couldn’t explain.

  “Now, now,” he said, patting her arm, “don’t worry. I won’t hurt you.” Then he leaned close and whispered, “Unless you ask me to.”

  They walked toward her house, alone on the street, her boot’s heels thudding on sidewalk. Although she was terrified, it wasn’t for the usual reasons. She didn’t expect him to drag her into a dark alley, rape and kill her, or even to take her purse. Something deeper, more primal, drove her fear. She knew, somehow, that her world would never be the same.

  “Would you like to sit and talk?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “Are you having trouble hearing me? Or is English not your native tongue?”

  Serena pushed herself free from him and shook her head to loosen her thoughts.

  How had they reached her front porch?

  She eased into one of the wicker chairs, and it squeaked under her weight.

  Silent, he did the same, settling into the chair to her right, crossing one leg over the other, then placing his hat on his knee.

  She sat there, shaking like a leaf in a spring gale; he looked like he awaited delivery of a mint julep.

  “Who are you?” she asked again.

  “As I’ve already stated, I’m Griffin.”

  “Just Griffin?”

  “Just Griffin. And you are Serena Brockman—psychologist, orator and writer, born in Atlanta and living in Santa Fe, thirty-two years old.”

  “I know who I am,” she said, anger surging at the one-sided feel of the whole encounter. “How do you know all that?”

  “I attended your lecture.”

  “I didn’t say anything about my age or where I was born. And you weren’t at the lecture.”

  His eyebrows lifted in innocence, and he smiled. “I tend to listen from doorways.”

  “Why?”

  “Unfortunately, my appearance causes difficulties.”

  Her senses seeming to have returned, she studied him more carefully. He watched her with unearthly intensity. Her body warmed in response, but she wasn’t sure why. Perhaps it was the sensuous quality of his gaze.

  Pale skin gave his fine features the look of marble, then as she stared, his face morphe
d into something feral.

  She blinked hard, found his original appearance restored, and decided that her system must be on overload.

  “Look, Griffin,” she said as she got up from her chair, “I think you should leave.”

  He rose in front of her and stood very close to her, as if they were intimate. “Do you really want me to?”

  Time stopped, and the air around her disappeared. For some reason, she couldn’t lie, couldn’t breathe and couldn’t send him away. She met his unblinking gaze and shook her head.

  “No.”

  He smiled again. “Good.” He stepped back to a reasonable distance. “Do you plan to invite me in?”

  Every cell in her body screamed, “No!” She’d grown up in cities and knew the stories, the horror stories. If he stepped over her threshold, past the deadbolts, she had no defenses. She didn’t own a handgun.

  “Yes,” she said.

  Holding his hat at his side, he followed her into the house.

  “It’s quite charming.”

  She walked around the living room, turning on lamps, taking comfort in the light. Griffin followed her, switching off all but two of the lamps.

  “What are you doing?”

  He shrugged. “I’m sorry, but my eyes are unable to tolerate bright lights.”

  “Oh.”

  He stopped directly in front of her, smiling wickedly, as if eyeing dessert.

  She backed away, toward the safety of her kitchen. “Would you like some tea or something?”

  “Something, perhaps,” he said.

  “If you want to wait here,” she said, motioning nonchalantly over her shoulder.

  But he didn’t wait. In the kitchen, he leaned against the tile counter and watched her fill the kettle, place it on the stove and juggle a mug from the cupboard, which escaped her grasp. In a blurred movement, he scooped up the mug just inches from the floor and handed it to her.

  “Holy shit,” she said, again less eloquent than usual. “How did you do that?”

  “I have wonderful reflexes.”

  “No joke.” She placed the mug on the counter beside the stove, drew in a deep breath for courage, and then turned to face him.