Remembrance: (New Adult Paranormal Romance) (Heart Lines Series Book 1)

by Heather Hildenbrand

  My hands fisted.

  A car horn blared, sending me blinking and stumbling out of the way as the vehicle careened past me and around the sharp corner. When had I walked into the street? I looked back at the hillside and found only patchy sunlight. No shadows. At least none that moved.

  A light breeze tickled the ends of my dark hair, sending it dancing around my shoulders. My palm itched with something soft and I finally opened my hand. A tuft of light gray hair caught the wind and blew away before I could catch or really inspect it. I could only stare as it blew across the road like tumbleweed.

  What the actual hell?

  That was no tumbleweed. It was a ball of fur. A wad of dog hair had just manifested in my hand. That was new.

  Holy effing hairball, I was officially crazy.

  Chapter Six

  Sam

  The bell over the front door dinged as I stumbled inside the store. Granny looked up from her spot in front of the window with eyes that said she hadn’t missed the insanity that was my life five minutes ago outside on the street. She yawned, unimpressed by the crazy—or used to it—and hopped down, sauntering off.

  “Mirabelle,” I called out, winding through the tall towers of shelving toward the register in the back of the room. Why Mirabelle decided to set this place up with a blind spot from the door to the register was beyond me. Feng Shui was not her strong suit apparently.

  Instead of the crackly voice of my boss, I heard a deep, gravelly, “Hello?”

  I stopped short as I rounded the last shelf full of incense and brass burners and caught sight of who’d just spoken.

  Not Mirabelle. Not female. Shit. My heart rate went galloping. My lips parted in anticipation of words on their way out of my throat. But my tongue had gone limp. My mouth dry.

  He was a boy. No, a guy. Around my age. Maybe a year or two older than me? But something in his eyes told me he’d seen more than his share. Strong jawline, sure-footed stance. Direct, bold. He was staring. Shit, I was staring.

  My palms felt slippery. I clenched my fists and swayed.

  Men usually made me want to run in the other direction. And this one definitely had that tall, dark, and dangerous thing going on that made it hard not to pee and scream at once. But he also managed to pin me where I stood with his chocolate eyes and short, but wild, dark hair.

  He had a tan, I saw, but it wasn’t beachy. More leathery—like he worked outside and couldn’t help getting sun-kissed in the process. And his pants were burly like he bought them for durability instead of fashion. His military-style boots and direct gaze screamed non-believer, as Mirabelle would say, when it came to the mystic arts.

  So what the heck was he doing in a place like Oracle?

  He frowned at me, and I realized I definitely should have said something by now. Still, my tongue was glued to the roof of my mouth. “Hmm,” I managed from my throat and cringed at myself.

  “I’m looking for Mirabelle,” he said, eyes narrowing, brows scrunching.

  “So am I.” The words were out before I knew they were on their way.

  The guy lifted a brow. “This is her place, right?”

  “It is,” I said with caution. I mean, her name on this place was public record but still… if he was some weird stalker, I didn’t want that to be on me later.

  “Well,” he said, straightening so he wasn’t leaning on the glass counter. “Is she here?”

  Granny meowed from the window seat, and I looked over to find her looking at me. She meowed again. When the guy didn’t react, I interpreted. “Granny says she’s not here.”

  He raised his brow again which was annoyingly attractive.

  I gestured to Granny. “Well, she’s been here longer than I have. She would know.”

  He shook his head and blew out a breath that sounded like a jerky sort of snort. I stiffened. I could disbelieve Mirabelle’s claims of otherworldly spiritual energy powers and all that crap, but no one else could. At least not to my face.

  I crossed my arms, temper drowning out fear. “Is there something I can do for you, Mr…?”

  “Alex. No Mr.,” he said, wrinkling his nose. It made him look less like a jerk when he did that and my knees felt a little wobbly again.

  “I’m Sam,” I said, trying to force some manners.

  “I just need to talk to Mirabelle. It’s important,” he added almost like one would say please.

  Almost. Not exactly.

  I eyed him. “Wait here,” I said, and slowly, more so I wouldn’t trip or collapse, I stepped around him and made my way down the short hall to Mirabelle’s office.

  Empty. No giant catch-all bag draped over the chair either.

  “She’s already gone for the day,” I announced as I stepped back into the store area. I slipped behind the glass counter. It felt better this way, with something solid between us.

  “She left before you got here,” he said, frowning again, “and didn’t lock up?”

  Who the hell frowned so perfectly like that anyway?

  “She knew I’d be here,” I said with a shrug. I didn’t bother to tell him Mirabelle probably maybe possibly would have done that even if she hadn’t known I was coming.

  “She trusts you,” he said as if this were important information.

  My patience was wearing thin. “Look, I can call her and see when she’ll be able to come in and speak to you. Is there something else I can tell her? Something more specific about what you’d like to discuss?” I tried sounding large and in charge as I said it. Confident. Sure. But mostly, I was just relieved my voice hadn’t shook. I wanted to cry. Freaking A, why did I always want to cry?

  He glanced away, and I took the opportunity to blink furiously at the tears lining my lids. When I looked back at him, he was already watching me. Awesome.

  I forced myself to hold his gaze.

  “Wait. Your name is Sam,” he said as if he’d just now processed that bit.

  “Yes.”

  “Have you lived in Half Moon Bay long?” His expression changed to something more casual but he didn’t fool me. It was forced. He was fishing. The question was for what?

  “Long enough.” Raising my chin, I stared him down despite the possibility of hyperventilation it caused me. After a moment, a warmth washed over me and I found myself studying him more closely. Tanned jawline, dark hair, sharp eyes…

  Just looking at him made me feel like myself.

  I jerked away from the thought, positive that completed the crazy. But it was there, all the same. Just lingering in the corners of my mind, growing bigger until it overtook my expression without permission. He was familiar.

  I leaned forward. “Do I know you?”

  He tilted his head, studying me in return. His eyes widened. His frown fell away and his mouth opened. “Holy…” For a split second, recognition washed over him too. But then just as quickly, the light went out and he shook his head, deep gaze skittering away. “No. We don’t— I’ve never been here before.”

  He cleared his throat and stuffed his hands into his pockets. Strange for a guy who’d been so sure of himself a second ago. But more than that, my own sense of familiarity persisted and I hated it. Hated that this stranger made me feel some sort of recognition to him. To the girl I was once. It was ridiculous.

  Something pinged in my belly but I couldn’t figure out if it was my intuition that he was lying or nausea at our prolonged conversation. “So, Mirabelle?” I prompted.

  “Right. Could you just tell her Alex Channing, consulting agent for CHAS, would like to see her?”

  “CHAS?” I repeated, brows knitting, but he didn’t offer to explain and I needed to breathe normally again.

  I scribbled it down, hating this feeling of familiarity the longer he stood here. Mostly because it was one more thing I didn’t understand. Welcome to my life. “Got it. Tell you what. Write your number down and I’ll have her call you.”

  I slid him the paper and yanked my hand back before he could accidentally make contact
. He scribbled a number—not local—and stepped back, tossing the pen onto the counter. I wondered if he’d noticed my skittishness. Probably.

  I was definitely a spaz.

  “Thanks,” he said, nodding at me and turning on his heel.

  I nodded back even though he couldn’t see me, glad I was done with verbal communication.

  I waited, unmoving, until I heard the bell ding and the door open and close. Watching from the window, I finally saw him striding across the street and climbing into a rusty antique pickup. Once he was inside it, I let myself breathe.

  Alex Channing. I repeated his name in my head, searching for some memory or scrap of recollection, but there was nothing.

  I wanted to scream. To exhale. To wring my hands and demand a reading from Mirabelle that would make sense of this. Of me. Not that I fully let myself believe in magic or anything.

  But I did believe in this: For two and a half years I’d been living in a fog of fear and paranoia with no clue as to what had changed me. No real reason why I’d become such a broken shell of the happy, carefree, outgoing girl I’d once been. Suffering from PTSD and no trauma to link it to. And for the five minutes he’d been standing in front of me, Alex Channing had brought me up and out of that space. For a few glorious minutes, despite my body’s strange response—or maybe because of it—Alex had made me forget whatever it was I’d forgotten. I wasn’t sure if that made him the good guy or something infinitely worse. But I intended to find out.

  Chapter Seven

  Alex

  Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit balls.

  Out of all the people working in all the places in all the world—and I had to walk into this shop with Samantha fucking Knight as gatekeeper. My last chance for finding a cure had just become a whole lot more complicated than I’d ever bargained for.

  Because I’d lied. I did know that girl. Sam, the hot and clearly pissed-off cashier at Oracle Herbs & Crystals was none other than Samantha Knight from Frederick Falls, Virginia. We’d met two years ago when I’d saved her from an attack of rogue hybrids and she’d lost her damned mind over the shock of it all. Sheer and utter panic that had turned spooky as shit and freaked out everyone—myself included. Then, I’d stood by and watched while her best friend had wiped her memory in order to protect the girl’s sanity.

  Even as I thought about it, I rubbed my finger absently over the small scar along my abdomen. Wiping her memory had not been my first choice; in fact, I’d told them all it wasn’t a good idea taking away a life-altering memory like that. But no one ever listened to me. And now here she was—in the one place that might actually contain answers for me. Strangely coincidental. If you believed in those sorts of things.

  Had she almost recognized me?

  I’d never seen a memory wipe fade. But I couldn’t deny the recognition I’d seen in her eyes. For a second there, I almost admitted to it. But then I remembered the lost and vacant look she’d worn the last time I’d seen her. And I definitely didn’t want to be the cause of it again. Nor could I afford for her to ID me here. If she ran back to her friends with the news of me here, my secret would get out for sure.

  So, I’d lied.

  Something I was pretty good at. Only, I’d lied horribly. Since when had the sight of a pretty face been able to rattle me like that? She’d been easy on the eyes two years ago, although a bit of a player and I’d been too wrapped up in convincing myself I was in love with her friend, but now…

  She’d grown up—physically, she was a knockout. But there was something else that hadn’t been there before. A depth and a serious sort of sadness that suggested she knew more about the world that most. I’d never seen that look on a human. Not many hunters even had that sort of wisdom. The way she looked right into me as if she could see all my secrets. It had unnerved me so much that I’d fucked it all up and stuttered some b.s. about never having met before.

  What an idiot.

  I could have given her some line about meeting once at a party or something. Anything. Never mind that Oracle smelled overwhelmingly like musty werewolf. I’d kept my cool under crazier conditions. But Sam hadn’t. So what the hell was she doing working in a place that reeked of super-naturals with clearly no recollection of her own encounter with them? Or of what she could do herself? Because Samantha Knight was capable of things. I remembered that clearly enough. I also had my own suspicions of what it had and would cost her to be capable of them again. And if she recognized me, or found out about our history, who knew what that would lead to.

  If CHAS traced me here, it was my own fault. I just hoped this Mirabelle lady could help me before that happened. In the meantime, I’d have to do my best to stay away from Sam. Women were nothing but trouble anyway. This one threatened to ruin me and she didn’t even know it.

  Chapter Eight

  Sam

  All of the cabs were booked. Homecoming and football and blah blah blah… I gave up after four cab companies all told me a ride from Oracle to my apartment would be more than an hour’s wait. I could be home and done with all six chapters of my English reading by then.

  Mirabelle never did return for her purse so before I left, I locked the door and slid the spare store key under the statue of the cat by the front door. It was the only thing we left outside and it hadn’t been stolen yet so I figured the odds were okay. It was our system.

  I’d been a little judgy and a lot worried about Mirabelle’s tendencies toward forgetfulness—but then I’d gotten to know her. And she’d gotten to know me. And I realized that her idiosyncrasies were nothing compared to mine.

  Also, Mirabelle was a staple as the town’s medicine woman. Not to mention, she could get any weird item anyone ever requested of her. I had a feeling she—and by extension, her store—was not to be messed with around here or there would be hell to pay. Like the magical version of the mafia or something. Besides, Granny was already in position at her window seat, standing guard. I waved at her and she blinked.

  With the key stowed, I pulled out my phone as I started the trek back to my apartment. It was a two-bedroom converted basement a block off campus. The paint was faded, the carpet worn, and the people who lived upstairs either smoked a lot of herb or used cannabis for air freshener. My parents had never visited or else there’s no way I would still be living there. Aunt Kiwi had helped me find it and move in last fall and she thought it was great—chilled out neighbors and all.

  No matter how I felt about the paper thin walls and closet-sized bedrooms, it got me out of the dorms where chatty girls with 100-watt smiles were always trying to be my BFF from the shower stall next to me. My paranoia usually only dealt with men and dogs—but girls weren’t excluded if they were too creepy-friendly to begin with. I was doing much better managing my anxiety at my new place on Moss Ave.

  But maybe not tonight.

  Tonight, it was chilly and a fog had blown in from the ocean, coating everything in a threat of rain and maybe murder if my paranoia could be believed. I rubbed my arms, wishing I’d brought a coat—or a new inner-tube for my beach cruiser. Rhonda had been down since before summer vacation and I’d forgotten about her until I’d returned two weeks ago.

  Damn. Mirabelle was maybe rubbing off if I was starting to forget things like that.

  I mulled that possibility over while I power-walked through the breezeway behind my building. It was a narrow lane that held the city trash bins and the occasional scooter or smart car for the students who lived nearby. Basically, an alley but I preferred not to think of it that way while I was in it.

  The moon had disappeared along with the street light glare from the nearest bulb behind me on the main road. And it was too damned quiet with this blanket of fog licking my kneecaps. A noise up ahead had me swallowing a squeak that would put every horror movie extra to shame.

  I paused at the corner and listened. The noise came again. Footsteps—shuffling and then pausing. Shuffling then pausing. I crept closer. No one hung out here ever. It was why I’d started using
this route. With no one loitering to smoke a cigarette or wait for their dog to pee, I didn’t have to worry about walking up on someone and wetting my pants from the surprise.

  Tonight was not my bladder’s lucky night.

  I swallowed, but it stuck so I moved forward with my throat half open. Hopefully it made for an easier scream this way.

  At the corner, my foot hit the single patch of grass available until you hit the campus quad two blocks up. I waited there, biting my lip. My pulse thudded in my chest as I peeked around at the stranger.

  A guy—judging from the broad shouldered-back—paced in jeans and a hoodie, his hands stuck in the pockets of his jacket and his sneakers shuffled along the narrow walk as he made a 180-turn. Pacing back toward me, the shadows danced off his cheeks and jawline. I squinted and when he got close, I tensed, ready to dart back into the shadows before he could spot me.

  My palms slicked with clammy sweat. Or fog vapor. That sounded better. My knees locked and, like a predator, he stiffened and looked right at where I stood. I tried to move, but when my brain sent the signal to my feet, nothing happened. His eyes met mine, white orbs with black irises.

  I froze.

  The signals coming from my brain changed from RUN to WHAT THE HELL as recognition dawned. My throat opened and I made a strange sort of gagging sound as I drew in a breath. Not for a scream but for a name.

  “Mason?”

  “Sam.” In the single word was packed relief, hurt, longing, familiarity, and something else I couldn’t name. The barrage of emotions washed over his face too quickly for me to latch onto just one. Not that I wanted to. I had enough of my own feelings going on to want any of his. But it was strange how easily I’d read him.