Chills & Thrills Paranormal Boxed Set

by Flynn, Connie

Keeping her feelings inside had become second nature. But in one afternoon, she'd made love with this man, almost drowned him in her panic, and let him hold her while she'd heaved her insides up. She could at least give him what he needed to hear. "Lots of regrets. About Mama and Papa . . ." She looked at him, at those ever-changing eyes that were now blue-gray beneath the muted moon. "If only I'd—"

  He put his finger over her lips. "No, cher, no. The big lesson I learned tonight was 'ifs' were driving me crazy. The future's all that counts, though I figure this isn't the time to talk about it."

  She let out a grim laugh and they lapsed into another silence. This time it was Liz who broke it. "There was one other thing, Zach."

  "What?"

  "It's hard to begin . . . with all the rest, fighting the water, thinking about my parents . . . Another thought kept running through my head, almost like"—a shiver of revulsion swept through her body—"This sounds insane—but almost like someone was talking to me."

  "A voice? What did it say?"

  Thunder rumbled overhead like a drum roll, sending shivers down Liz's spine.

  Turn back, guardian. You cannot prevail.

  "There! There!" she said. "I just heard it again."

  "That was thunder."

  "Not the thunder." She repeated the words that had run through her head. When Zach responded with an alarmed pause, she hurried to fill it. "A hallucination, that must be what it is. I was terrified, fighting for my life, and now I'm exhausted. I'm sure that's it. This kind of thing happens, doesn't it, Zach?"

  "Yeah," he replied in a flat tone. "It happens."

  His confirmation lifted her spirits a little, and she tried to kid herself into thinking he understood. She wanted to tell him of the malevolence the message carried, how it had panicked her almost as much as the pull of the water. But there'd been something slightly off in the tone of his responses, and she wondered if he wanted more discussion about their future.

  Only . . .

  In truth, his voice contained more dread than disappointment. But why wouldn't it? They were floating on a canoe in the far reaches of the swamp. No food, no water, no way to get help. Zach was a man who needed answers, and right now there were none to be found.

  She saw him pat his back pocket, unconsciously checking for his flask, and wondered if his heavy drinking was one of his regrets. Then she felt an urge so strong she couldn't resist.

  "You," she whispered into the starless night.

  "Who?"

  "It's you. I regretted not spending my life with you."

  He reached out to stroke her cheek. "Liz, oh Liz. It's not too late."

  Then he kissed her. Not a hungry kiss, not a greedy kiss. Just a soft brushing of his lips against hers, a pledge to a love that had been all but lost.

  When he gathered her against his heart, she could hear it beating, each thrum assuring her she was loved. And though it wasn't comfortable lying sideways on the rough curved surface of the craft, nothing could lure her from his arms.

  Stiff and cold and aching from exhaustion, taking heat from each other's bodies, they fell asleep.

  A thud—and the sudden certainty she was going to fall—shocked Liz awake. She grabbed for wood, then for Zach.

  He was gone.

  She shot up and saw him sprawled in front of her, bathed in subdued moonlight and grinning like a madman.

  "Land!" they cried at the same time.

  Liz jumped up.

  By then Zach was also up, staring at the terrain in front of them. He crouched down, bending to scoop up a pile of soil. Liz went to his side, taking in his view. Gray. Everything so gray. Gray soil, sparse and gray vegetation, a gray sky, a gray moon. Liz gasped.

  "This isn't Louisiana."

  "Well, it is and it isn't." He lifted his arm and let a handful of gray dirt trickle through his fingers. "Welcome to Quadray Island. Seems it does exist after all."

  Chapter Fifteen

  "No, Zach," Liz replied in horror. "We're exhausted. Our imaginations—"

  "Stop talking that imagination crap! This is exactly what your ma described on the page next to the map. Don't try to convince me it isn't, even if I don't understand French all that well."

  His shoulders sagged and his eyes dulled. He looked so weary that Liz wanted to say something encouraging, but as she scanned the island, she saw little to reassure them. Yards and yards of colorless soil, interspersed with only rusty chunks of lava rock and withered clumps of grass. Here and there she saw drooping cypress trees that were so covered with moss she wasn't sure they were still alive. And beneath the hazy sky through which the ghost moon dropped rays of baleful light, edges merged and blended to create a surrealistic landscape.

  Zach was right. This was what her mother had described.

  Turn back, Guardian. You cannot prevail.

  She shivered. Exhaustion, mild hysteria, so many explanations, but none lifted the cloak of dread that fell upon her.

  Turn back, Guardian.

  "The pirogue," she said in a thin voice. "We have the pirogue."

  "But no supplies. Worse, no water. If we find some, I doubt it would be fit to drink." He looked up grimly. "Even birds won't fly over Quadray Island. Your ma wrote that, too."

  "Really, Zach, you're spouting superstition. I can't deny this island is different, but I'm sure—"

  "Different?" He let out a choked laugh. "Take a gander, Liz. This is a wasteland in the middle of the wetlands. An anomaly of unexplainable proportions."

  "There's a scientific explanation, I'm sure." She glanced back to the canoe. "Let's pull the pirogue ashore and see what's stored there. Papa used to keep tarps and canteens beneath the seat in the bow."

  "They probably got washed away," Zach said dully. "The pole and paddles, too. Even if they aren't, we're too exhausted to row."

  "A day without water won't kill us."

  "Say that again when the sun comes up."

  He needed her strength. He'd given all of his to pull her out of the whirlpool. Now it was her turn. She closed the distance between them, and cupped his face in her hands.

  "Kiss me," she demanded. "For luck"

  Then she claimed his lips, almost brutally, wanting to affirm life and victory, and restore his sagging spirits. She ended the kiss as abruptly as she began it, then circled away and marched toward the pirogue.

  "Are you going to help me?"

  He looked a bit dazed, but he fell in behind her. Soon they had the craft far ashore and upright.

  "Well, one paddle survived," Zach said without enthusiasm.

  Liz wasn't as interested in the paddle as she was in finding water and something to shelter them. They were soaked to the skin, and a biting breeze was in the air. "There's a tarp here!"

  Yes, a tarp, wedged tightly beneath the seat. She fell to her knees and pulled, and when the cloth broke loose, something clattered to the floor of the canoe and rolled to strike her knee.

  "Water!" A small bottle, the kind people were fond of carrying around these days. Maybe there was more. She unfurled the tarp and two more bottles fell out.

  "Water, shelter," she said as cheerfully as she could manage. "What else could we hope for?"

  "Food maybe," Zach said listlessly, taking the tarp from her with one hand. With the other, he reached for his flask, deftly unscrewing the cap single-handedly before taking several gulps.

  "It's no use, Liz," he said morosely. "We'll never escape."

  She gathered up the water, then levered to her feet. What was going on? While Zach had been pessimistic about this trip from the beginning, and always more aware of the dangers than she, he'd never exhibited such a defeatist side. She bit her lip against warning him that alcohol would only dehydrate his body. He needed rest, not nagging. Rest and water.

  "Let's find a tree to break the wind, so we can sleep. Tomorrow's another day."

  "Scarlett O'Hara, I presume." His effort to shake off his funk encouraged her. He pointed at an unearthly cluster of moss-hung cypress,
made more eerie by the gray light of the moon. Not her preferred choice, but she had to agree it was the best windbreak available.

  "Okay," she said reluctantly, uncapping the first bottle of water she'd found. It was only half full, giving them two and a half bottles to last for who knew how long. They'd have to conserve.

  She wanted to drink it down, but she took only a few sips, rolling it around her mouth first to wash away the bad taste, then offered it to Zach. He pocketed his flask, and took the bottle, glancing at the remaining two she carried.

  "That's it?"

  "Afraid so."

  Like her, he took a few sparse sips, then gave the bottle back. In turn, he reached into his pant's pocket and pulled out a handful of the wrapped striped candies. "Least we'll have something to ward off hunger."

  Half a dozen at the most, not terribly nourishing, and the way Zach offered them wasn't a particularly good sign. It showed how little faith he had that they'd escape the island. But she unwrapped the damp cellophane that had protected the mint from the water and popped it in her mouth.

  A thought struck her. What if her father had crashed here, too? She unbuttoned the pocket where she'd kept his pills, relieved to find they were still there, and even more relieved when they jiggled around, apparently protected by the watertight container. The next thought that came to mind was the journal. A keepsake. Not important considering their situation, but . . .

  She unbuttoned that pocket, too, pulled out the sealed plastic bag, and lifted it. The pale light revealed no sign of water, just the journal and the gris-gris. She let out a sigh.

  "What're you doing?" Zach asked.

  "Just, uh, just . . ." she said defensively, shoving the bag into her pocket. "Nothing. I just wanted to be sure is all."

  Considering his state of mind, she expected a sarcastic reminder of what she already knew, but he simply inclined his head and kept walking.

  "When the sun comes up," she said, "we'll hunt for Papa. Maybe he made it here, too."

  "If he did, he's gone," Zach repeated impatiently. "Your pa's an expert swamper, and it didn't take him any two days to make this trip. Whenever his business, he's already finished it."

  "But his heart . . ."

  Zack breathed out a weary sigh. "Liz, don't we have enough problems without you inventing more?"

  "I just want to be certain. Indulge me, okay?"

  He sighed again. "Sure. Wouldn't dream of coming all this way, fighting off alligators and raccoons, surviving a near drowning, and not mount a wild-goose chase."

  Satisfied that his expected sarcasm was an agreement, Liz ignored his tone. They were almost to the trees, and she saw the ground beneath them was sandy. No rocks to poke their backs, and that small serendipity lifted her spirits.

  "Things will look better in the morning," she told Zack as they shook the residual water from the tarp, then laid it on the ground. They collapsed together, their sighs of relief coming out in a single sound, and she felt his hand touch hers. She slipped her fingers inside his palm and held on.

  "We better hang our wet clothes on a tree," he said, bringing a groan from Liz.

  "We can't sleep in them," he insisted. "We'll be frozen by morning."

  Every inch of her was scraped and bruised, her muscles cried out for sleep, but she saw his logic. She sat up to strip, then realized her Sketchers were water-soaked. Groaning again, she stood. "I'm not convinced this makes sense," she grumbled, spilling liquid out of her shoes. "We'll be just as cold sleeping naked."

  "Not if we roll up and share body heat." He regarded her thoughtfully for the space of a breath, then grinned. "A delicious thought crossed my mind, but tonight you couldn't be safer if I were a monk."

  He sat up and began pulling off his clothes while she stepped out of hers. The pale moonlight cast silken shadows on his defined muscles, and now he did look like a monk, celestial, otherworldly. The many aspects of this man fascinated her.

  "You going to take all night?" he asked. Quickly, she peeled off the remainder of her clothes and hung them on the tree.

  Zach watched her strip, enthralled by the graceful lines of her body, the smooth upward tilt of her small breasts, the long concave curve between her ribs and her hips. The ethereal light gave her body a silvery shimmer that made her appear like an angel. An angel in the midst of hell.

  "Hang these up, will you?" he said gruffly, handing over his shirt and jeans. The stirring between his legs unnerved him. His body was spent. How could he be having this urge? He'd heard that facing death aroused a primal need to perpetuate the species. Now he felt the truth of it.

  When she turned back for his briefs and socks, her eyes grazed the length of his body, then hesitated.

  "Get rid of those things, cher," he growled, "and come down here with me."

  He reached out his arms. She threw the items on the limbs, then practically dove onto the tarp. He pulled one side of the canvas over himself, then reached across Liz for her side. This rolled them face-to-face. His erection pulsed between them, and he moved to taste her lips.

  "You're no monk, Zach Fortier," she whispered just as their mouths touched.

  And then primal hunger exploded. He slid inside her, filled her up, riding her as she bucked uncontrollably beneath him. This was hot and rough and dirty, filled with desperation, and neither tried to subdue their urgency. Eternity passed in so little time, and when fulfillment neared, Zach had only one thought, which he whispered in her ear.

  "I love you, Liz."

  She moaned his name, then shattered. He drank in her trembles, her shudders, and surrendered to his own. When the moment was over, he held on to her, filled with emotions, filled with love. Finally she shifted and he moved over, gathering the tarp more closely around them.

  "Sleep, cher," he murmured, tucking her head on his shoulder. "Sleep."

  She fell off almost instantly, and as he heard her even breathing, Zach looked up at the gloomy sky, finding that despite his exhaustion slumber wasn't easy to come by.

  They faced death, and even now Liz hadn't said she loved him.

  * * *

  No birds twittered to greet Liz when she woke up. No bright round sun beamed down to celebrate their love. In fact the gray morning and its cold, dead silence could only be described as dreary. But as she snuggled next to Zach's warm body, her hand resting on his chest, her head touching his shoulder, she'd never felt so complete. Together they could face and overcome whatever was ahead. Together they could accomplish anything. Together they could escape this hellish island.

  And then what? Go to Chicago with him? Introduce him to all the people who thought she came from a small Pennsylvania town? Expose the truth of who she'd been? She didn't understand why that terrified her so. What had she been hiding when she'd reinvented her beginnings? She should be proud of what she'd made of herself, so what forces had driven her to lie?

  Zach rolled in agitation, turning his head from side to side. A frown creased the space between his eyebrows, and his chest rose and fell erratically. Goose bumps covered his skin, though the day was already growing warm.

  A troubled sound passed from his lips.

  She touched him and softly called his name. He didn't respond.

  "Zach," she repeated.

  "Unh!" He bolted upright. His eyes shot open and he looked around wildly, clearly unsure of where he was.

  "It's okay," she said. "You had a bad dream."

  He jerked his head toward her, his gaze unfocused. "Izzy?" He stroked her face with tender reverence. "You're safe. Thank God, you're safe."

  "Yes, I'm safe," she said, smiling reassuringly. "It was a nightmare, that's all."

  "A nightmare . . . Right." He slumped forward and wrapped his arms around his body, shivering. Spiders again, thousands, no, millions of them, and this time they'd been attacking Liz. "Christ, it seemed so real."

  "Want to talk about it?"

  "No, ma'am, I don't!" He could barely contain the shudders. The sooner he pushed it o
ut of mind, the better. "It's bad enough dreaming it all the time."

  "You've had this dream before?"

  "More times than I want to count."

  He could tell she wanted to pursue the topic, so he jumped to his feet. "We've gotta leave here right away," he said, taking his briefs off the tree.

  "Look," Liz said unexpectedly, pointing inland. "This island is actually a mountain."

  Zach looked in the direction of her finger. The futility and dread from his dream instantly reappeared in his waking life.

  "A mountain in the middle of the swamp," he said leadenly. "Now that's one for the books." He scooped her clothing off the tree limbs and threw it down to her. "Get dressed right now. We're getting out of here."

  She stared at him in dismay. "Papa . . ."

  "Liz . . ." He went to his knees on the tarp, and put his hands on her shoulders, desperately needing to make her understand. "This place . . . it's not right. The longer we stay . . ."

  "The better chance we have of finding Papa." She tilted her head, looking quite upset. But not as upset as she was going to be if they hung around too long. Why he was so certain of that he couldn't quite say. Or maybe he could.

  "You believe the legends!" Liz abruptly said, leaning away from him to shimmy into her overalls, buttoning them as she talked. "That's why you're so scared. How could you swallow that crap? I'm stunned, completely stunned."

  "Be stunned all you want," he said harshly, unwilling to waste a minute convincing her. "But take a look at the facts first. Don't you think it's weird that in the space of a day and a half you were attacked by animals twice, and we nearly drowned in a sudden whirlpool? That's more disasters than I've come across in years, and I hunt crooks for a living."

  "This is a swamp." She jerked on her shoes.

  "Yeah, and it's where we grew up. The closest you ever came to being bit by an alligator is the time you stepped on one by mistake. And it just turned tail, if you remember."

  "It was small and it wasn't mating—"

  "Damn it all, Liz! Just finish dressing and let's get out of here!"

  Zach leaped to his feet to yank on the rest of his clothing. Liz continued protesting, but since she was still getting dressed, he ignored her. He was sick of this hardheaded woman. He wanted the soft pliant girl back, and though a whisper of Liz's accusations in the cypress swamp floated through his head, he shoved it away. This was her life he was thinking about. He'd lost her once and wouldn't let it happen again.