Page 72 of Tempest at Annabel's Lighthouse
“Nothing,” Abel said. “Stay here.” He shoved his arms into his slicker. It wasn’t raining. Perhaps he wore it to protect againstsparks and flames. Abel hesitated, seeming to debate within himself, before turning and pushing his face close to hers. His icy eyes reflected a hardness in them. “Donotleave the lighthouse,” he told her.
Rebecca simply nodded. She wanted to saybe careful, but the words stuck in her throat.
“Tell Edgar what’s going on.” And with that, the door slammed behind Abel.
Rebecca opened it and rushed outside. Black smoke billowed over the treetops, suffocated the sky and the fresh air. Abel and the boy raced to a sturdy wagon and climbed aboard. Even as Abel took his seat, the boy had already whipped the two horses into action. They were stocky breeds, not meant for speed, but they would reserve Abel and the boy’s energy to fight the stamp mill fire.
Movement behind Rebecca drew her attention. Edgar approached the doorway, a question etched on his face.
“The stamp mill is on fire.” Rebecca’s explanation brought a darkness to Edgar’s expression.
“They’ll blame you for this.” His statement made Rebecca go cold.
Her incredulous stare was returned with frankness. “Hilliard will say you started the fire. He will say you’re out to destroy him.”
“Whatever reason would I have to do that!” Rebecca cried in utter disbelief. It made no sense! Did her father think she was the devil himself, bent on wickedness?
“Because ofher,” Edgar spat. He looked beyond Rebecca. “He’ll think it’s because of her. She bewitched him just like she did everyone else. He’ll say she’s bewitched you too.”
“Who? Who has bewitched me?” Rebecca didn’t feel bewitched, but then maybe that was why her memories had been stolen from her. Maybe that was why, in the depths of her heart, she knew she would die if something happened to Abel tonight, and yet she could not grasp whether she loved him at all.
Edgar gave the side of the lighthouse an angry slap. He reared back and brought his hand down a second time, ignoring how a corner of one of the bricks sliced into his callused hand, drawing blood.
“Annabel!” he said between gritted teeth. “We will never be free of her.”
28
SHEA
Can ever dissever my soul from the soul of the beautiful Annabel Lee...
Annabel Lee
ANNABEL’S LIGHTHOUSE
PRESENT DAY
FINGERTIPS AS LIGHT AS THE TOUCHof a wispy feather traced along Shea’s neck. They were warm as they trailed down to her shoulder, and then in an instant they shifted. A frightening cold, so cold that it burned her skin. Nails speared her skin like icicles, and Shea lay there frozen. An oppressive weight held her down. She tried to suck in air, but it was as though something had closed off her airway, blocking the passage to her lungs. She was drowning. She was drowning, and she couldn’t break free...
Shea shot bolt upright in bed. Her T-shirt clung to her, soaked through with sweat. Rivulets of sweat trailed down her face. She flipped off the covers and leapt from where she’d been sleeping—no, where she’d been having a night terror.
The dream had been so real! So terrifying! One moment she had been enveloped in the sensation of love and warmth, and the next it was as if someone had thrown her into the depths of Lake Superior and then stood by to watch as Shea fought for her last breath.
Annabel.
Shea shook the webs from her fuzzy mind. No. A ghost couldn’t induce a vision. She couldn’t influence Shea’s mind like that or twist her thoughts. But then the mind could conjure many strange things while in a dream. The vision was still vivid in Shea’s mind, only this time, as she replayed it, she saw herself in Annabel’s place, with Pete standing on the shore.
No. No.
Pete would never have stood on the shore like that. Pete would have plunged into the waves to rescue her. He would have battled the freezing temperatures. He would have drank the entire lake if need be. That was Pete; he took care of what was necessary. For her.
Was that not romantic enough?
Shea whimpered as her conflicted emotions sent a wave of guilt through her. She spun from the bed and yanked her curls back from her face, tying them into a knot where they would hold for a bit until she could find a hair tie.
She sought refuge in the kitchen, snatching a cold Coke from Holt’s “icebox.” The vintage word for refrigerator now soured on her tongue. Holt. Holt had disappeared to Canada like a guilty man on the run.
But guilty of what? He had tried tosavePete, hadn’t he? He’d been the one to call the EMTs and to summon her.
