Page 34 of Safe in Shadow
The sickening sense of mingled evil and dread washed over him again.
Why? What evil had he done to Cynthia?
Something in his mind told him that was not right—otherwise, why would he be speaking to Cynthia after he was dead and in this miserable mockery of life?
But he had. He remembered clearly standing behind the fresh-faced, rosy-cheeked beauty and hissing endlessly.
About what?
The dread and sickening feelings returned, but no clear memories came with them.
Could only women hear him? Various occupants of the house over the years had glimpsed him, yet no one had ever fully “seen” him. Well, none that had remained. None that had attempted to befriend him, like Grace.
What they had done was so much more than friendly...
Words crept out of him in a despairing, barely audible hiss. “It doesn’t work.”
Grace’s eyebrows arched. “Well, I’m guessing it kinda does, because I could hear you. Barely.”
He said nothing, surprise removing any concrete thoughts, however small. He couldn’t explain the tangle of memories in his head, anyway.
How had he hurt Cynthia when he was dead? Had he hurt her? Why was Cynthia so connected to the single word in his mind? Evil. Why, when he could not even remember his name, could he remember the seething, all-consuming hatred of her?
Where had James gone? Why couldn’t his brother hear his warnings about... Aboutwhatexactly?
Thoughts were slippery. They fell through what was left of his fingers, and they were only shadows anyway.
Grace. Grace had been slippery, deliciously warm, living, pulsing, and slippery.
Grace didn’t fall through his fingers.
He wrapped his fingers over her wrist, engulfing it, locking her to him. “Everything shatters. You’re solid,” he hissed. “Let me hold?”
He could hear her gulp. “Yeah. Yeah, okay.”
GRACE TRIED NOT TOpanic. How could shadows seem so hard?
Well, last night, he seemed pretty hard, didn’t he?
God, this is so messed up. How can he be so House of Horrors one second and make me so wet the next?
She hated to admit it, but the terror that she’d felt was fleeting, and his possessive grip on her arm and the memories of last night and her erotic dreams pushed desire to the front.
Not that we can act on it now.
Grace scooted closer. “I can sit here as long as you want,” she whispered.
THE LONGER THEY SATin silence, steam clouding them, the more solid he became. The spindly, scattered figure that seemed like pain personified shrank to a man-sized shape, and this time, the black paled further and further until there were shades of black and gray.
Discernible eyes.
Features.
A handsome face, with hard, haggard angles, cheekbones and jawline connected with gaunt hollows.
She could even see individual strands of black hair forming—of course, it might not actually be black, but when your friend (lover?) is grayscale, you get what you get.
The hair was long and limp, falling over one side of his neck and halfway over his face.
