House Of Shadows. Jen Christie
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“If this is our nirvana, then I’ve died happy, Penrose.”
The world had turned inside out. She was staring at candles that burned under the water. They were a different kind of fire.
She looked up at Keat. He was a different kind of man. Not a dark twin to Carrick. And what if this really was her brief nirvana? What if this was the only happiness she could grasp? Wouldn’t Carrick want it for her? Of course he would. Carrick himself said, “Fire has no choice but grab its moment, whatever moment it’s given, and burn.”
A different century. A different kind of fire. A different man, one she couldn’t help but to burn for. Was this the moment she’d been given? It was. She turned to Keat and said, “Take me to bed now.”
“My pleasure,” he replied and reached down for her.
JEN CHRISTIE is a writer who has a passion for reading and writing Gothic romances. Jen lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with her husband and three daughters. She has a love of history and her secret desire is to stop and read every roadside historical marker she drives by.
House of Shadows
Jen Christie
I dedicate this book to my sister Penny, who taught me that life is full of second chances, and they are always worth taking.
Contents
The grandfather clock tolled, echoing on and on. The sound reverberated in the tunnel until Penrose fell to the floor, covered her ears and buried her head in her skirts. The chimes came from everywhere at once, from all around her and even from within her own mind.
She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. She could only endure. Dust and plaster rained down and pelted her body. Please, she wished, let it be a dream. But she knew it wasn’t. A dream doesn’t hit you with plaster hard enough to hurt. Long, agonizing moments passed. It was as if time ceased.
Quietness returned slowly. The rumbling grew less ferocious until finally the ground was still, and the clock fell silent. Only then did she lift her head and take a breath. Dust filled her nostrils. Coughing, wiping her eyes and face, she called out in a panicked voice, “C.J.?”
He didn’t answer. The only sound was a lone splatter of plaster falling to the floor somewhere in the darkness. She must find C.J. and see if he was okay, but it was too dangerous to crawl around without light.
Remembering that there were candles in the hallway, she began inching toward the door. She planned to grab a candle and hopefully find Carrick so that they could hunt for C.J. together. When she reached the door, she fumbled with the latch until it opened. The house was dark and quiet. Still on all fours, she took a deep, shaky breath and called, “C.J.? Carrick, are you here?”
No answer. She crawled out, stood up and brushed herself off, making sure she wasn’t injured. Her hands traveled the length of her torso, but the lack of pain did nothing to reassure her that she was all right. She was not all right.
The air in the foyer was cold—too cold for August in Charleston. The house felt different. It smelled odd, of lemons and lavender. Something was wrong. She knew it in her bones.
“C.J.?” Desperation turned her voice harsh. “Carrick? Please! Answer me.”
Still nothing.
Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the grandfather clock standing against the wall. Standing. Not toppled