Shivers Box Set: Darkening Around MeLegacy of DarknessThe Devil's EyeBlack Rose (Shivers (Harlequin E))

by Barbara J. Hancock

  Charlie inhaled and grimaced. A sour, rotting stink laced the air, mingling with brine blowing in off the sea.

  “It’s The Devil’s Eye,” Martin said, and shifted back uneasily.

  The hair bristled along Charlie’s neck. He couldn’t shake the feeling someone was watching them.

  He glanced up at the ridge half-expecting to see the witch standing just as he’d imagined, gripping the remains of some animal in one hand, a ring of blood smeared around her mouth. “I need to go home. My mum will be looking for me for my tea.”

  “Deevers, you wanker. You’re shit-scared with all of us here. There’s no bloody way you’d have come by yourself.” Martin’s smug smile split his round, freckled face.

  “I did, too,” Charlie ground out. “I’ve seen what she does in these woods. That’s why I want to leave. You’d want to as well if you’d seen what I did.”

  Robbie pushed his silver-framed glasses up his nose with his fingertip. “Maybe we should go. It’s getting late, and our parents will be looking for us.”

  “If you really came here, prove it,” Martin sneered, ignoring Robbie. “Show us where you were, where she was.”

  Charlie’s heart beat harder, the spit in his mouth drying. The cold prickle creeping along his skin intensified. He was suddenly certain they were no longer alone in the woods.

  He wanted to go home, but he didn’t want to lose face in front of his mates. Martin would never let him live it down. “Fine. I’ll show you exactly where I saw her.”

  The sooner he did, the sooner he could get the hell out of there. He crunched through dead leaves littered over the forest floor. As he neared the ridge, that horrible stench, like rotting garbage, intensified. The bog, Martin had said, and he had to be right. What else could it be?

  As he climbed the steep, rocky slope, he glanced back at his mates. They watched him with wide eyes, faces pale. Except Martin. He stood with his arms folded over his thick chest, head tilted and a smirk stretched across his face, as if convinced Charlie would back out at any moment.

  Stupid Martin. He’d show him who was shit-scared.

  Charlie continued up, grabbing saplings to pull himself along. He should have told them he’d seen the witch at the bottom of the ridge, then he wouldn’t—

  The wind blew, and he froze, heart jumping into his throat. Voices. He was certain he could hear whispered voices, their words impossible to understand. He whipped his head side to side, scanning the thick cluster of trees surrounding him for the source. Nothing.

  “Do you hear that?” he called down.

  Dev and Robbie frowned, shaking their heads, but Martin stepped forward. “I don’t hear anything. Now, get moving.”

  Had to be the wind. But why hadn’t the whispers stopped when the wind died? Instead, they were growing louder. How much farther to the top? He looked up and his breath lodged in his throat.

  A dark shadow stood at the top of the ridge, less than ten feet from him.

  Black fear coated Charlie like oil. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t breathe.

  “Holy shit, do you see that?” Dev’s shrill, almost girlish scream exploded in the quiet, shattering the paralysis gripping Charlie’s limbs. He turned and started running down the rocky hill. He didn’t care what Buldger called him.

  The rubber soles of his trainers slipped on wet leaves and moss. He fell face-first, slapping hard against the lumpy ground and sliding down the sharp slope. Air rushed from his lungs in a whoosh. He threw his hands forward to protect his face and head. Something sharp jabbed his hip, but the stabbing pain barely registered as he slid down the rest of the hill. When he finally rolled to a stop, his gaze locked on milky eyes in a bloated, dirty face.

  He screamed and scrambled back, unable to look away from the dead man staring back at him.

  “Are you all right?” Robbie asked, coming up behind him, his voice breathless as if he’d been running. “What is that?”

  Charlie swallowed, but didn’t speak. He couldn’t. Somewhere during his tumble down the hill his voice had vanished, along with his ability to truly grasp what he was looking at.

  A glistening pinkish-gray worm slithered from the dead man’s nostril and plopped to the ground. Charlie’s stomach lurched. He turned and puked, until his insides were empty and his throat raw. When the dry heaves tapered off, he glanced at the top of the ridge. Whoever had been up there was gone.

  Charlie turned to his two mates standing over the rotting corpse. “Where’s Buldger?”

  “He ran,” Dev said, then pointed at the mangled midsection of the body. “I bet that’s James’s hired man who vanished. Looks like someone’s been eating him.”

  Chapter One

  Brynn was no stranger to bad days, even worse than this one, but by God, today certainly ranked in the top five.

  She peered up through the sleet-streaked windshield at the large Tudor building before her. Yellow light glowed from leaded windows like beacons in the late afternoon gloom. A wooden sign mounted over the door with the words Iron Kettle Pub swayed in the wind, the grinding squeal from the hinges audible even inside her rental car.

  She didn’t want to go in, but she didn’t have a choice. She was lost and needed directions. She glanced at the folded instructions on the passenger seat. Accurate directions.

  Or maybe she should find her way to the nearest hotel and call it a day. She could always start over again tomorrow. Just the idea of a clean hotel room, door locked against the world, while she crawled into a warm bed and pulled the covers over her head drained some of the tension gripping her neck and shoulders.

  You’re only putting off the inevitable.

  She let out a slow sigh and rubbed her tired eyes with her fingertips. What was she even doing here? She should turn this car around and head back to the airport.

  Of course, that would mean crossing the suspension bridge back to the mainland again. Images of huge steel girders poking through the mist like pointed teeth, thick cables swaying in the wind and dark churning water flashed through her mind. Her stomach jumped.

  Forget it. She’d stay and deal with her newfound family. Better to face a potentially murderous father who hadn’t bothered with her in almost twenty-five years, than face that bridge twice in one day.

  She snatched up the directions, opened the car door and slid out. Sleet slapped her face, stinging her bare skin like frozen needles. The tangy smell of the sea flooded her nostrils.

  She pulled her coat tighter around her middle, ducked her head against the wet wind and hurried across the gravel parking lot. As she weaved between several cars, her foot sank ankle-deep in a frigid mix of water and slush, soaking through her leather boot and coating her skin in liquid ice.

  “Shit.” She yanked her foot from the puddle and looked down at the sopping mess. Even the hem of her pants was wet. Just perfect.

  First, seven hours on a flight from Chicago to Manchester, eating rubbery chicken and watching some craptacular movie with singing cheerleaders—while the old lady in the seat behind her hit the back of her chair whenever she tried to recline—followed by a two-hour drive to the Isle of Anglesey and a near nervous breakdown while crossing the bridge from the mainland. And now this.

  Maybe it was an omen. As if fate was warning her to get back in her car and drive as far away from here as possible.

  Or maybe she’d just stepped in a puddle.

  She drew a deep breath, squared her shoulders and marched to the pub with as much dignity as she could while her foot slopped in her boot. Once inside, soft light and warm air heavy with the mixed scents of wood smoke, fried food and alcohol wrapped around her. The pub looked exactly like an English—or Welsh, as was the case—pub should. Wide, plank floors, gleaming wooden tables and plush burgundy benches at the booths, even a fire crackling in a huge stone hearth.

  Two elderly couples shared a table in the center of the room. A middle-aged woman and her teenaged daughter sat in one of the booths running along the far wall, and
three more men were perched at the L-shaped bar.

  The door swung shut behind Brynn, closing out the frigid afternoon, and all eyes turned to her.

  “Come in out of the cold,” a woman called from behind the bar, her loud voice deep with a smoker’s rasp, oddly incongruent to her melodious accent. “What can I get to warm you?”

  “Oh…um…nothing, thanks.” Brynn pasted on a fake smile that made her cheeks ache, and crossed to the bar. “I was hoping someone could tell me if my directions were correct.”

  “Lost, are you?”

  One of the men at the bar snorted, but Brynn didn’t turn to see who. The weight of the stares pressing against her back was uncomfortable enough, no need to make eye contact, too. Her smile stretched wider, tighter.

  The woman put her hands on her ample hips, and shot the man a hard glare. Her orange sweater clung to her round belly, tweed pants hanging loose on thin legs. She looked a little like an orange standing on two sticks.

  “Where is it you’re trying to go?”

  Brynn set the printed email on the bar and smoothed out the creases. “Stonecliff House, do you know it?”

  Silence, except for the crack and pop from the fireplace fell over the pub. The woman’s brown eyes rounded in her puffy face.

  “Why on Earth would you want to go there? You’ve not taken a job there, have you?”

  Oh, this is promising.

  “I’m visiting my father.”

  The woman’s gaze narrowed on Brynn’s face as if searching for something, then popped wide. “You’re the other one. Meris’s daughter. What can you be thinking, coming back here?”

  Her horrified awe fed Brynn’s swelling anxiety. “You knew Meris?”

  “I did. She was a friend of mine.” Tough, her deadpan expression belied her words. “I’m Dylis Paskin.”

  If she thought offering her name would make her recognizable to Brynn, she was mistaken. Brynn hadn’t had contact with her mother since she was three, and her parents had supposedly died in a car accident. Of course, now she knew there’d been no accident. That her father had been alive all these years, and while her mother might be dead now, the woman had been very much alive when she’d turned Brynn over to her grandparents.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” Brynn said, keeping her smile fixed in place, then tapped the directions with her fingertip. “So, can you tell me how to get there?”

  A loud bang cut through the quiet. Brynn jumped and jerked her head up as a huge man hauling a large wooden crate emerged from a door behind the bar. His hair, a tangled mass of light gray curls, stood out at odd angles.

  “Why’s it so bloody quiet in here?” he boomed, bending to set the crate down. When he straightened, his warm hazel eyes locked with hers and he flashed a wide smile. His weathered face was ruddy, as though he’d spent a lifetime in the sun and wind.

  “This is my husband, Stephen,” Dylis said, flatly. “This is Meris’s girl.”

  “Brynn James,” she offered, pushing her directions toward the couple. Maybe they’d take the hint.

  “Back after all these years?” He and his wife exchanged a glance. “I should have realized. You have her look.”

  Brynn managed not to snort. The man was obviously being polite. While Brynn had no real memory of Meris, she’d seen enough photos to know she didn’t look at all like her, except maybe her hair color. But even then, Meris’s hair had been a vivid flame-red while Brynn’s looked more like watered-down copper.

  “I’m actually looking for directions—”

  “She’s on her way to Stonecliff,” Dylis cut in.

  Stephen’s wiry brows drew together. “Why in the world would you want to go there? You’d be better off staying at the inn here in the village. Hell, we’ve a room you can rent.”

  What was so wrong at Stonecliff that virtual strangers were offering to let her stay with them? Had she not been exhausted and standing there with one frozen foot, she might have given in to the apprehension tickling the base of her skull and taken them up on their offer. But right then, even if the house was filled with psychotic circus clowns, she didn’t care. So long as there was a hot shower and warm bed. “That’s very kind of you, but if you could just look at these directions and tell me if they’re right, I’d appreciate it.”

  “Oh, I can do better than that.” A wide smile lit Dylis’s round face. “I can give you your own guide. Isn’t that right, Reece? I’m sure he’d appreciate a lift.”

  Dylis turned to one of the men at the bar, and Brynn did the same.

  An older man, white hair curling out of his ears, sat next to her watching the entire scene unfold unabashedly. He flashed a crooked grin. “Not me, love.”

  He leaned back, giving her a full view of a younger man hunched over the bar. His shaggy black hair fell into his face, hiding his expression while he focused on turning his nearly empty beer glass and leaving crescent-moon marks on the cardboard mat.

  Yeah, right. As if she’d let some scruffy stranger into her car. Maybe people did that all the time around here, but not her. “I don’t want to cut his evening short.”

  “Nonsense.” Dylis waved her hand as though swatting away Brynn’s words. “Reece is nearly finished here, and you’d be saving him a long walk home in bad weather.”

  The man in question had yet to speak a word. Slowly, he lifted his head and glared at Brynn, greenish-blue eyes as cold as an arctic sea. His features were broad straight lines and sharp angles. Black stubble framed his scowling mouth and covered his chin. He looked edgy and dangerous and pissed off.

  She tried to swallow, but her mouth had gone dry.

  He slid off his seat, snatching a jacket from the stool next to his, and tossed a few pounds on the bar before closing the short distance between them.

  Oh, no. This couldn’t be happening. She did not want him in her car. She didn’t even know him.

  “Really, I don’t want to impose.” She grabbed her printed email from the bar and held it out to him. “Maybe you could just tell me if these are right.”

  He took the paper and scanned the text, his mouth curling into a smirk.

  “They’re perfect.” He handed the paper back to her. “Imposition it is.”

  The man looked like he should be mugging tourists in a back alley somewhere, not sitting next to her pointing the way to her destination. “I don’t even know who you are.”

  He blew out an impatient breath. “Reece Conway, groundskeeper at Stonecliff. Shall we go, or would you like to conduct a complete interview first?”

  What she’d like to do was tell him to forget it. Unfortunately, he worked for her newfound family, and apparently lived on the estate as well. Perfect. There was no way to turn him down without appearing rude. Though, why that would bother her when he was hardly making an effort at friendliness she didn’t know. Besides, the directions were correct and she still couldn’t find her way. She needed his help.

  And if he turned out to be a psychotic killer, and she wound up dead in a ditch, at least she wouldn’t be traveling anymore.

  “That won’t be necessary.”

  She turned and walked to the exit. As she pulled the door wide, Reece caught the edge above her head to hold the heavy oak open for her. Now, he was chivalrous?

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Thanks.”

  He nodded and dropped his gaze to her wet boot before meeting her eyes once more.

  “I stepped in a puddle,” she replied to his unspoken question, heat creeping into her cheeks.

  “As lost on foot as you are behind the wheel. Not terribly reassuring.”

  “You could always walk, and I could follow behind you in the car.”

  His mouth twitched. “Tempting.”

  Shaking her head, she walked outside. The sky had darkened from gray to blue twilight. Frigid air, thick with the tang of sea brine, struck her face like a slap and a shudder raced along her spine.

  She hit the remote locks, tugged the door open and rolled her eyes. Pas
senger side. That was the second time she’d done that.

  “Did you want me to drive, then?” The low rumble of Reece’s voice next to her made her jump. A faint tingle crept over her skin at having him so near.

  “Of course not. I was just…getting the door for you.”

  “Right.”

  She hurried to the other side of the car, face hot, while he sat in the passenger seat. Without so much as a glance at her traveling companion, she slid behind the wheel and slammed the door closed.

  Giving the gearshift a wiggle to make sure it was in neutral, she pushed in the clutch and turned the key. The car hummed to life. She eased her foot off the clutch, shifted into first. The car shuddered and stalled.

  Shit. Reece snorted beside her and a fresh wave of heat prickled her face. She’d blushed so many times in the past fifteen minutes he probably thought her natural skin tone was blotchy-red. “It’s been a while since I last drove a stick shift.”

  Actually, the last time she’d driven a manual transmission she’d been seventeen and her boyfriend, Jamie Carver, had offered to teach her on his mother’s Ford Escort. After twenty minutes of grinding gears and the acrid stink of burning clutch, Jamie had ended the lesson.

  She tried again and stalled shifting into first. Reece sighed loudly, tilted his head back and pinched the bridge of his nose.

  When she’d been making arrangements for her trip to Wales, it hadn’t occurred to her to specify automatic transmission when she reserved her rental, and naturally only standards were available when she arrived. One more detail she’d missed on an ever-growing list. Once she got the car moving, she was fine, but getting it going took her a couple of tries. And the sneering man next to her wasn’t helping.

  “Look,” she ground out. “This car is completely backward to me. So if you could cut me a break, and keep your mouth shut, I’d really appreciate it.”

  “I didn’t say anything.”

  “You didn’t have to,” she muttered, and turned the key.

  She gripped the gearshift, eased up on the clutch.