“Oh, my God!” She was like a child surprised that another kid had never eaten ice cream or pizza.
Though he’d stood, feet apart, arms crossed, she grabbed his hand, pulling him down the steps that dropped from the back porch and disappeared into a layer of white silky sand.
“Shoes, shoes!” she admonished him. Hers were already gone. Apparently, as she passed through the front door, she became some kind of beach girl—barefoot, wearing linen shorts, white wine in hand.
He could barely keep up, kicking off his own sneakers—wrong shoe for the beach—and trying to get his footing in the shifting ground. But it was wonderful, warm and abrasive, hard and impossible to stand on at the same time. She didn’t stop tugging until his feet were in the water and she smiled up at him. “There, you have now touched the Atlantic. I recommend early morning swims. But stay close, we’ve had great white sightings these past years!”
She’d set him up in a room with a big fluffy bed, blue, beach-themed walls, his own bathroom, and his own space. And she’d set him free.
Donovan often found her reading—inside on the deep couch in front of what looked like a plate glass window but was actually a disturbingly fancy, nearly bullet-proof, UV protective polymer window. He’d never known such luxury. Eleri obviously took it for granted.
Some days, she read on the porch, watching the waves. Sometimes, she took the largest, lushest white towel he’d ever seen and slept on the beach in the early morning. Her freckles bloomed. Her smile returned during the days. The mornings were harder though. He asked once what she was dreaming and she only said, “Emmaline.”
Donovan was here. He was enjoying a free vacation with plenty of amazing seafood and a private beach house and a completely open schedule. Eleri was still tied down.
He’d envied her the money the first few days. It seemed she didn’t need the paycheck. She showed up at a beach house that had been closed up for months, but she clearly had staff to stock some basic food in the fridge. Her white wine had been chilled when they arrived. The sheets in his room were fresh as though elves had come and taken care of all the cleaning and airing out. He envied her the house that sat empty, just waiting for her to come vacation here. He had envied her the freedom of her money. He didn’t envy her anymore.
Donovan lived a freakish life.
He saw now that Eleri lived a haunted one.
She should envy him.
By the third morning, he felt comfortable enough to pad downstairs, fully wolf. She laughed when she saw him and opened the door for him, following him down to the beach. She ran behind him, nearly as free as he was, but he was out of her sight in no time at all.
Donovan jumped in the surf, watching as his prints disappeared. He traipsed through the tidal waves, then flat-out ran as far as he could. The beach crashing at his side was a constant rhythm, reminding him that his spot on the wave might be turbulent, but the ocean was moving along as it should.
He wound his way back, exploring the dunes, casing some of the big empty houses. Only a few people saw him, most didn’t care. They were too busy doing nothing.
He returned to find Eleri sitting on the sand, a drink in hand and floppy hat perched on her head though it was too late to send the extra freckles back. He would have been concerned about the quantity she drank if he hadn’t been able to smell that her morning mimosas had only just enough champagne in them to make them fizz. His nose told him the exotic drink she held now was ice she’d made of one dark juice and a lighter juice poured over it. The girl had a thing for creative liquids. She must have been dying on their trip through the middle of Texas.
They went on like that for five days, Donovan running on the beach in the morning, Eleri keeping up a little longer each day, but always getting left behind. Well, she was short, and he was built for up to forty plus miles per hour.
On the fifth day, when he returned, she wore the usual floppy hat. She had the usual book in hand—different every day, she read that fast—though today it sat face down at her side. Today he smelled the alcohol in the drink she held. All she said was, “I left the door open for you.”
He trotted right into the house, regretting the sand but already knowing where the broom was and the fastest way to clean it up. After changing, showering and putting on beach shorts and a T-shirt, he swept the sand carefully out the door, determined not to be a dick guest. Eleri had been generous inviting him out here. He wanted to come back some day. He wanted to stay in her good graces. He’d never been in anyone’s good graces before.
Barefoot now, he padded down to sit beside her as the day grew hotter. Thinking it might get the ball rolling, he asked, “Whatcha reading?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not going to finish it.” She turned to him, pale green eyes clear, head tipped as though she was listening to the ocean. “Westerfield called. Apparently the world doesn’t understand that we should get a full two weeks off.”
“What did he say?”
“Los Angeles this time. We fly out tomorrow morning.”
Donovan picked up a handful of sand and let it fall through his fingers, thinking that he should probably run tonight if he was going to get one more in. “Another cult?”
“Nope.” She paused a second, green eyes looking out at the crashing waves, skin perspiring happily in the heat. For that moment, she could have been a picture. “Military guy. Suspicion of a bomb attack.”
Donovan felt the information grab him in the center of his chest. “In L.A.? That could be awful.”
“Exactly. The guy is ex-special forces, though Westerfield didn’t tell me which one. And he’s in the wind.”
“And we’re supposed to find this needle in the crazy-ass haystack that is Los Angeles?” Donovan tipped his head up, wondering how that would work and looking forward to the challenge. “How?”
She bumped his shoulder with hers and grinned. “We’re gonna go do what we do. That’s how.” Then Eleri peeled her long cover-up and tossed her hat aside, revealing the racing suit she’d worn most of the week. In a second she was splashing through the waves and another second later she was under them.
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The NightShade Forensic Files
Book 1 - Under Dark Skies
Coming Soon: Book 3 - The Atlas Defect
The Vendetta Trifecta
Vengeance
Retribution
Justice
Resonance
God's Eye
Phoenix
The Shadow Constant
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A.J.’s world is strange place where patterns jump out and catch the eye, little is missed, and most of it can be recalled with a deep breath. In this world, the smell of Florida takes three weeks to fully leave the senses and the air in Dallas is so thick that the planes “sink” to the runways rather than actually landing.
For A.J., reality is always a little bit off from the norm and something usually lurks right under the surface. As a storyteller, A.J. loves irony, the unexpected, and a puzzle where all the pieces fit and make sense. Originally a scientist and a teacher, the writer says research is always a key player in the stories. AJ’s motto is “It could happen. It wouldn’t. But it could.”
A.J. has lived in Florida and Los Angeles among a handful of other places. Recent whims have brought the dark writer to Tennessee, where home is a deceptively normal-looking neighborhood just outside Nashville.
For more information:
@ajscudiere
ReadAJS
www.ReadAJS.com
[email protected]
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Also by A.J. Scudiere
Recommendations
Quotes
Want a free book
Introduction
Locard’s Exchange Principle
Forensics
The Science of Myth
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Introduction
Also by A.J. Scudiere
About the Author
The NightShade Forensic Files: Under Dark Skies (Book 1) Page 40