Total pages in book: 63
Estimated words: 59151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 59151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 296(@200wpm)___ 237(@250wpm)___ 197(@300wpm)
In the shadowy back corner is a locked door. It’s made out of thick, scarred wood, as if the surface had been burnt and attacked over time. I don’t want to know what’s behind it. I don’t even want to go near it. But I pull up my big girl panties and search the old ring of ornate keys for a match. As much as I try to be quiet, the keys clink and scrape. Not that it matters—there’s no one here but me. I remind myself of this fact over and over again. However, my shoulders rise higher and higher with each passing moment.
There are six keys. I try them all, testing them against the rock-solid lock. Until finally I am left with only one. Every fiber of my being is praying that it won’t work. Meaning my job here is done and I can haul ass back home.
Click.
But no. The key turns and the sound of the lock releasing echoes around the room. I’ve heard screams that were quieter. My throat is so damn tight it’s hard to breathe.
Nope. I can’t do it. Jen can fire me for all I care. No way am I turning the handle and opening the door to see what’s inside. I’ve never been a big believer in the unknown. But the bad vibes or whatever the hell they are rolling off of this door are too intense to be denied. I don’t want to know what’s back there. What I do know that I’m doing is getting out of here. Right now.
Having made the decision, my sense of relief is mighty.
A calm and reasonable person would take their time in the low lighting. Be careful not to trip over anything. But each step I take away from that door is faster than the last. The urge to vacate this place is now the only thing I am feeling.
As I near the staircase, a low, menacing growl comes from somewhere behind me. Next comes slow, shuffling footsteps.
This cannot be fucking happening. My thick thighs rub together beneath my skirt as I bolt for the staircase. Blood pounds a hectic beat behind my ears. Forget locking the house. I just flee. Up the stairs and out the door and through the garden and onto the street. And my car is right there—it’s all going to be okay.
But two strong arms, like bands of steel, wrap around me from behind. There’s a stinging pain in the side of my neck. Some deep, animal instinct tells me it’s sharp, predatory teeth stabbing through my skin. I struggle and writhe; however, there’s nothing I can do. My scream echoes down the empty street and into the uncaring night. No one is coming to save me.
The attack goes on and on, draining me of my strength, robbing me of my life. It doesn’t hurt exactly, at least after the first sharp sting, but it sure as hell isn’t pleasant feeling my life’s blood drain away.
Dark spots float before my eyes as my heartbeat slows to next to nothing. I feel myself being lowered to the ground. The asphalt is cold and rough against my back, and yet my mind is peaceful. Is this what dying feels like?
A cool hand grabs hold of my chin and a disinterested blue gaze in a gaunt face looks me over. His lean features seem to be filling out before my eyes. A hint of color returns to his ashen skin. His teeth are white, even for California, but what’s bizarre is the length and sharpness of his canines. Animals have teeth like that. And other things known for biting people and drinking blood do, too.
Things I don’t want to name because they’re impossible, and don’t exist, and oh God.
“Everything is fine,” he says, meeting my gaze.
And it’s true. I should be terrified, but for some reason I’m not, and I don’t understand why.
If I have to die, at least I’m doing so in the presence of beauty. Because he is breathtaking. Longish dark hair and white skin with a sharp jawline, angular cheekbones, and a high forehead. He looks like a Hollywood hero, and his suit is obviously vintage. I can tell by the wide lapels and baggy pants. It’s as if he just stepped out of an old black-and-white movie. Something with James Dean or Jimmy Stewart, like my grandmother used to watch when I was a child.
For a long moment, he looks up. No idea if he’s staring at the streetlight, the jet plane passing overhead, or even the blinking light from a satellite high in the night sky. But his gaze is thoughtful when he turns back to me. He looks over my face and figure with renewed interest.
“I don’t know this world,” he says, as if to himself. Then he strokes my cheek with the pad of his thumb, before winding a lock of my hair around his finger. “And you remind me of someone. What’s your name?”