Shadows Fall

by Denise A. Agnew

  “Roarke?”

  No answer.

  A soft moaning came from his bedroom. A breathy, heated moaning that reminded her of sweaty, deep, frantic sex. Heat flushed her face, and her loins throbbed. God, was he in there having sex?

  Anger surged and she hurried down the hall to his room. She threw open his bedroom door. Two naked bodies writhed on the bed. Roarke lay between a woman’s thighs, his naked form so arrestingly masculine, she couldn’t look away. She forgot to feel anything but admiration. Muscles in his shoulders, arms, and back bulged and moved as he held himself above the woman. Her legs came up, her ankles twined high on his back. His hips pumped, hard buttocks flexing as he thrust inside the woman slowly. Her moans of ecstasy rose. He grunted, his satisfaction keeping pace. The woman clutched the bed sheets, making fists as she held on. Arousal moistened Melissa’s loins. She couldn’t look away. She marched to the side of the bed to see Roarke’s bed partner.

  It was Melissa herself, eyes closed, head thrown back, lips parted as she arched into him. Surprise and stark need pounded Melissa. She couldn’t feel his thrusts, but her body ached with unfulfilled need. Satisfaction hovered and teased but Melissa knew it wouldn’t climax. She tore away from the scene as frustration built.

  Inside the living room once more, she noticed the place had altered. Above the fireplace the television had grown obscenely large. Snifters of brandy lay everywhere, filled to the brim. The scent overwhelmed her and made her head swim. An AK-47 sat on the coffee table, as did a military style belt with water bottle and other military-related items. What in the world? On the floor a pair of dress blues—Marine style—lay in a puddle. Nothing else in the room seemed out of place.

  The television flipped on and an older woman, maybe in her sixties, appeared on the screen. Ringlets of short platinum blonde hair curved around her pretty face. She recognized the woman from the limited contact she’d had with her in the new age store.

  Roarke’s mother.

  Her eyes changed from blue to black—black holes that sucked Melissa into a whirlpool. She couldn’t look away. “Melissa Allan,” the woman whispered, her voice low and haunting, “why won’t you help me?”

  “Help you?” Melissa asked. “How?”

  The woman grabbed handfuls of hair on both sides of her head, eyes wild and frightening. “Didn’t you hear me crying? Why don’t you help me?”

  Guilt speared Melissa. “Where are you?”

  “You’re too worried about yourself. Your shop. Your mother, your father, your pathetic life to care about me.”

  Anger replaced guilt. Melissa walked right up to the enormous television and stared up at the fierce expression on the woman. “I don’t know who you are or what you want. Just tell me what you want!”

  “Help me, Melissa. Come find me.”

  Frustration returned. “Where?”

  “I’m down here in the deep. Down in the dark.”

  “Where?” Melissa clenched her fists. “I don’t understand.”

  “You heard me moaning. How could you ignore me? They took me away. Down deep here in the dark, dark, dark.”

  The television flashed off and a horrible scream blasted Melissa’s ears. She put her hands over her ears and swung around in fright. The whole room vibrated with the sound. When it stopped and Melissa lowered her hands, she heard the crying. Sobbing. Pitiful sobbing that reminded her of what she’d heard the other night in the apartment.

  “Where are you? I don’t understand!” Melissa demanded an answer. “Where are you?”

  The sobbing continued. “Help Roarke. Help him. He needs you, Melissa. Help him.”

  Melissa jerked free from the nightmare and sat up with a gasp. The room was dim. “Oh, jeez.”

  She rubbed her face with both hands, amazed at the freshness and clarity of the dream. With what she’d already sensed about this place, maybe Roarke’s mother was trying to give her a message—one Melissa didn’t want to believe. Perhaps, just perhaps, Mrs. O’Bannion was dead. A glance at her wristwatch showed she’d slept for an hour. She hadn’t experienced a full-fledged nightmare like that in forever.

  She swung her feet off the bed, grabbed the sweats Roarke had left on the chair, and headed for the guest bathroom. A shower would erase the ridiculousness of the dream. She splashed her face with water and patted it dry with a thick towel. She’d need to go to the store today and get some facial cleanser. Her skin would riot if she didn’t have her usual routine, and so would her hair. Roarke had offered to drive her to the store, so she’d better take the offer. Who knew how many days she’d be at his apartment.

  After stripping and stepping into the shower, she savored the spray. She soaped away the day and felt much better. The dream, though, haunted her. She tossed around the idea of telling Roarke about it. Well, the part about his mother anyway. No way would she tell him about the wild erotic part where they did the nasty. He body flushed at the memory.

  As the water drizzled over her nakedness, she imagined Roarke’s hands replacing the droplets. Big hands. She’d never had a sex dream that exciting or realistic. She closed her eyes and remembered. The thought of him inside her, moving and thrusting—

  God. Ridiculous. Well, it was. She wasn’t going to do the two-backed beast with Roarke, as much as her unconscious seemed to want it. Nope. No plans for that. Sure, the man had a body to die for, at least what she’d seen of it. Through his clothes, she could tell he had great muscles, and pressed up against his frame, she’d certainly felt every solid inch.

  She couldn’t afford to get worked up over his hunk quotient. Sure, the man had muscles out the yin yang, and if she ever had the chance to see if he looked as good in her dream ... oh, man. Now that would blow her away. Still, no use thinking about his undoubtedly delicious bod.

  She finished the shower and turned off the controls. Beyond the drip, drip of water she heard a noise that didn’t belong. She stopped toweling water from her body. What the hell was that? A whining? No. It was as if someone was in the damned bathroom with her and mumbled. She couldn’t make out the words. The mumbling turned into singing—some sort of lullaby or other softly worded song she’d never heard before. It sounded old. Far away.

  She opened the frosted glass shower door and peered into the bathroom. No one there. She’d closed the door in case Roarke came back, but she’d forgotten to lock it. Apprehension replaced caution. She left the shower and padded across the bathroom. Her hand went around the doorknob and the icy cold of the metal surprised her. After she engaged the lock, she drew back to the center of the bathroom. The singing continued. Maybe someone had moved into the apartment on the other side of Roarke, and he didn’t know about it. It might also explain the sobbing she’d heard the other day. She rubbed her arms as the temperature dropped. She put on her bra and panties and hurried into the sweats. The sweats were so big that they swam on her, so she rolled up the sleeves and cuffs as best she could.

  “Not exactly a fashion icon, Melissa,” she said.

  The mumbling became louder, and the jumble of incoherent words made her wonder if someone had broken into the apartment. She looked around the bathroom for something she could use for a weapon. Nothing. She opened the bathroom door and listened. The mumbling had vanished. She shrugged and returned to the bedroom. At least the nap and shower had refreshed her brain.

  God, she needed fresh air or something—anything to get her out of this place and clean her mind of the nightmare. After she went into the bedroom and put on her shoes and socks, she heard the lock on the front door click. She walked back into the living room as the condo door opened and in walked Roarke. His face showed a myriad of emotions. She hadn’t seen one of them on his face before. Shock. Uncertainty. Even ... fear. Because of his expression, her own apprehension rose, feral and dark.

  Her question came on instinct. “What happened?”

  He glanced up, closed the door and engaged all the locks. “Nothing. The electrician fixed everything. We’re good to go. Di
d you need to go into town to get something to wear in case you’re stuck here a while?”

  She’d seen men do this before—disengage and pretend there wasn’t a damned thing wrong when there was a hole the size of Mars in the street. She wouldn’t press him with questions. Perhaps he’d fess up. She’d wait to tell him about the dream.

  “Sure.” She knew she looked like hell on wheels, but what could she do? “Let’s go.”

  For a second he hesitated, and she saw it—a clearing and openness that removed the stunned look in his eyes. But his gaze shuttered and returned to a military coldness she’d seen too many times in her father’s eyes. Maybe some of the shiny would rub off, and she would lose this odd attraction to him that ranged too close to infatuation. She wouldn’t desire him that much once she saw more of his rough edges. Good.

  Despite all that, a disappointment grew inside her as she returned to the bedroom to grab her purse.

  Chapter 11

  Tuesday morning, Roarke stared at his bed and wondered what it would have been like to wake up with Melissa next to him. The sheets looked too straight, too neat. Rumpled and ripped off the bed. Yeah. That would have been nice. Not that he expected anyone to be there, but he was acutely aware of Melissa in the guest bedroom. He heard the shower in the guest bedroom running.

  Last evening had proved awkward as hell after he’d taken her shopping, and he blamed no one but himself. After his mind-boggling experience in the basement yesterday, he’d returned to the apartment feeling as if someone had siphoned his energy away. Covering his state of mind when he’d walked back into his apartment had taken everything he owned. Yet it hadn’t worked. Melissa had been too perceptive when she’d asked him if everything was all right. Thankfully she’d left him alone and hadn’t pressed. He didn’t even believe in what he’d experienced in the basement yesterday. Supernatural explanations weren’t the answer. No, he must have deeper, more disturbing problems. Yesterday proved that.

  Sunlight streamed under the dark blue curtains, and he groaned. Time to get his ass in gear and work out. He normally slept naked, but he’d worn a pair of boxers in case he'd had a reason to wander into the kitchen last night. He didn’t want to run into his houseguest without a stitch of clothing. He grunted. Now there was a thought. What would she do? Would Melissa run and scream? Not likely. Blush? Maybe. Either way, he didn’t flash female guests. He dressed in shorts and sweatshirt for his work out.

  Again a nagging need to understand what had happened to his mother pressed down upon him. He opened the dresser drawer where he’d stuffed her journal and read another entry. This one was from two months after she’d moved into her condo.

  My ex called today to see how I was doing. If I was taking my medication. God, I wanted to yell at him. Yes, fuck you very much. I am taking my meds. Like a good little girl. Like the dutiful ex-wife. He doesn’t honestly care about me. He wants to appear as if he does. To anyone who might happen to notice. Even to that bitch of a young woman he plans to marry in the future. Oh, yeah. I can hear it in his voice. He traded up for a new model when he dropped me. Wonder how long she’ll stay young enough for him. Well, he’ll get the sex he wanted.

  Roarke stopped reading and winced. Damn, the bitterness and anger came through loud and clear. He pondered his mother’s last statement and wondered what she’d meant about the sex. He didn’t think about his parents that way—hell, no. But it came to him that maybe her medications had meant she hadn’t cared to sleep with his father anymore. That was probably what she meant.

  Much has happened lately. Roarke called and he’s fine. But he’s always fine, thank goodness. I’m so pleased he doesn’t have to take some damned medication to regulate his moods. Please don’t let my baby boy get this stuff ... this crazy that seems to hit at least one person in a generation in our family.

  Yesterday I heard the crying here in this apartment. Crazy crying. Like a woman was dying from pain or grief or despair. I have no idea.

  Roarke had to stop reading. The things he was learning reading the journal sometimes surprised him and often disturbed him on a level he didn’t understand. And he hated not understanding. He snapped the journal closed and tossed it on his dresser.

  He’d made it more than halfway with his work out, lying on the bench doing leg presses when a knock came on his door.

  “Roarke?” Melissa’s voice asked through the door.

  He sat up and then went to the door. When he opened it, he caught her slightly shocked expression. Her gaze swept him, and he thought he saw pure female admiration flashing over her features. Pleasure caught him unawares. Did she like what she saw? A sweaty man just out of bed, tousled and a mess? She’d slicked back her wet hair, wore no makeup that he could see, and had dressed in a red sweater and jeans she’d bought on their shopping trip last night.

  “Hey,” he said. “Good morning. I’m doing my workout.”

  “Do you always work out first thing in the morning?” A smile touched her mouth, though he saw caution in the expression.

  She looked so damned delicious he barely stopped himself from leaning forward and planting a kiss on her mouth. She also looked tired and pissed, and that worried him. “Not if I have more pleasant things to do.”

  He heard the husky sound in his voice, and as he devoured her with a look, her cheeks turned pink. His loins stirred in reaction. He wanted to wipe away the concern and stress he saw on her face. Damn, he’d never wanted to do that with another woman before.

  She lowered her gaze a moment and placed one hand on the doorjamb. “Sorry to bother you, but my insurance company returned my calls. The city said it’s safe to come back to the shop after one. Could you drop me off at my place this morning?”

  She seemed almost eager to get away, and he couldn’t say he blamed her. He also couldn’t say he liked it. “Sure. I’ll finish up here and we can go whenever you want.”

  It didn’t take him long to shower and get ready. He found her standing at the breakfast bar. She declined breakfast but she’d already brewed coffee. He left the carafe as is; he’d consume java when he returned. That’s when his gaze fell on the paper, which she’d placed on the kitchen counter. The headlines made him take a second look. First was the mention of the gas explosion downtown. Second was speculation that snared his attention.

  “Explosion the work of occultists?” Roarke sneered. “They’ve got to be kidding.”

  She slid onto a stool at the breakfast bar, her eyes alight with something near anger. “That’s not the worst of it. Read the bigger article in the middle.”

  He did as ordered, and the more he read, the heavier his disbelief.

  Halloween Comes To Simple Early

  After the explosion and fire of the Dunlop building from a gas leak yesterday, local Simple residents ventured opinions far and wide as to the cause of the misfortune. October started off with a bang when break-ins plagued the town and continued to rattle confidence in the sheriff’s department’s ability to keep area residents safe. Break-ins aren’t the only problem. The murder rate skyrocketed as the month began with two men who shot each other on Bedlam Road due to road rage.

  Sources in the sheriff's department, who declined to reveal their identities, said the situation in Simple is odd. They pointed to the rise in crime in Simple over the last month.

  Many are saying Simple is going to the dogs, or more explicitly, to the devil. Rumor has it that Melissa Allan, owner of the new age store on the bottom floor of the Cartwright building, put a spell on the town. The idea is spreading rapidly to those most disenchanted with the idea of a new age store in this town that has grown staunchly conservative over the years. Reverend Favis Stillwell of the New United Frontier Church called WKNN radio last night during the annual Spook ‘Em Paranormal Broadcast and told show host Clint Tama that only renunciation of Halloween and the devil would save Simple from the fires of damnation. This reporter contacted the reverend and asked his feelings on Melissa Allan’s store, which has served the
area around a year. He stated that while he didn’t approve of such a store, it was a free country and Ms. Allan had a right to the store. He did say if the townspeople didn’t care for her store they could vote with their dollars or any other means to show Ms. Allan that occultism wasn’t right for Simple.

  Anger crawled upward through Roarke. “Shit. Is this for real?”

  A glance at Melissa caught the dissatisfaction on her face. “Unfortunately, yes. You’re lucky I didn’t rip the paper to shreds. What a bunch of ... of ...”

  “Peckerwoods.”

  She chuckled. “Appropriate. I’ll add wankers to that.” She sipped her coffee and swept back a lock of damp hair. “My cell phone was ringing off the hook earlier, and it was reporters wanting interviews. One from the Simple paper and one from a Denver paper. I said no way. I’m not getting sucked into their ridiculous ... stuff.”

  Again she swept back her hair, and the weariness in her expression called to a need deep within him—a need to shelter and comfort, and that disturbed him on a whole new level. Damn it. She was a grown woman and could take care of herself. Unfortunately, his instincts—his physical desires—didn’t give a damn. He wanted to sink his face into her glossy hair, to inhale her powder scent and feminine taste. He didn’t think she’d allow him another kiss, even though he’d already succeeded twice, the last time against his better judgment.

  “Other than the colorful vernacular, I don’t think there’s a damned thing we can do,” he said.

  “No, but it would feel good to tell the idiots out there trying to force me to leave the community that—” She stopped, expression horrified. She lowered her mug to the counter with a thump. “You don’t think someone fire bombed that store and tried to blame it on me?”

  “It says here it was a gas leak.”

  “Do we know that for sure?”

  “No, but why would the authorities lie?”