Grim Shadows

TWENTY

“MY FATHER CALLS THEM Mori specters,” she said. “Shades of death. I suppose they look a bit like ghosts made of smoke and shadow. I don’t know if they are actual ghosts or demons or something else entirely.” The ointment was cool on her fingers. She gently spread it over the rest of Lowe’s burn. “I inherited them from my mother.”

“That was the curse she spoke of when Aida channeled her spirit?”

Hadley nodded. “Once she died, they started showing up. Whenever I’d have temper tantrums, they’d float up from floorboards and attack the cause of my anger. They like to use nearby objects to inflict damage. Glass, wood, metal—whatever they can manipulate. When I called them up to attack the griffin, that was the first time I’d seen them attack something directly.”

“I knew it,” he whispered.

She kept her eyes down and cut a square of gauze with a pair of scissors. “My father says my mother never knew anything about their origins. They just started appearing to her one day after a trip my parents made to Egypt, apparently. He said it must’ve been some bizarre mummy’s curse. I never saw them until they started appearing to me. They’re fueled by negative emotions. When I’m very angry, they are difficult to control. It’s hard to explain. They . . .”

She sat back on her heels, reaching for the right words.

“They don’t speak or communicate with me in any way,” she finally said. “But it’s as though they can pick out my thoughts and act on that information. And I can feel their energy. They’re hungry, I guess you’d say. To be blunt, they want to hurt people. And if I loosened their leash and let them go wild, they wouldn’t stop until they’d killed.”

He didn’t ask her how she’d tested this theory, and she was grateful for that. “So you have some control over them? Oww.” He flinched and hissed as she covered the ointment with gauze.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “And yes, a little. I didn’t send them out specifically to pull that chandelier down, if that’s what you’re thinking. They are, well, I like to think of them as bounty hunters. My mind gives them the target name, and they do whatever they must to bring down the target.”

“Are they here now?”

She shook her head. “Remember how Aida told us she had to summon my mother across the veil? I don’t know for certain, but I feel like they live in another place, and they only come here when they catch scent of my emotional state.”

“And these specters are the reason for your touching phobia.”

Her hand stilled. “When I was thirteen, a family named Price lived next door to my father. Mrs. Price’s cousin moved in with them. The man wasn’t right in the head. He’d been arrested for crimes related to the molestation of children, but beat the charges on a technicality.”

Lowe watched her without comment, so she continued.

“My father was having our downstairs floors polished. The doors were open for ventilation. Mr. Price’s cousin walked into the house without anyone noticing, right as I was getting out of the bathtub upstairs.” She took a deep breath and plunged through the rest of the story before she lost her nerve. “He pinned me to the floor. I was terrified. The Mori came so fast. He was horrible and crazy and I was frightened. Before I knew what was happening, the Mori caused his footing to slip on the wet tile as he was struggling to hold me down. His head smashed against the porcelain tub. He died almost instantly.”

“Oh, Hadley,” he whispered, his face twisting up in sympathy.

“To be clear, he never managed to do anything but hold me down. Had I been a normal girl, I suppose it would’ve played out differently. But it didn’t, and the death was ruled accidental. My father wasn’t angry, nor the Prices.”

“And they damn well shouldn’t have been,” he snapped. The strength of his anger took her aback. “If a man like that lived next door to us, while Astrid was living in the house?” He shook his head. “I guarantee you it wouldn’t be for long. And neither Winter nor I would be feeling any sort of remorse. Neither should you.”

She tried to explain. “I’m not sorry I did it. It’s just that my brain mixed up the fear I felt at the time with the guilt that came later. And I logically understand why, I suppose. But understanding something and changing it are two different things.”

“Asking for help isn’t weakness.”

“It’s more a matter of trust. Not just trust in someone else, but in myself.”

“Maybe fixing one also repairs the other,” he said with a soft smile.

“Perhaps.” Neither one of them said anything for a long moment. She snipped off a longer strip of gauze and wound it around his arm to hold everything in place.

“And you’re the only person who sees them?” he asked.

“Pardon?”

“The Mori.”

“Every once in a while, I run across someone else who can. One of my maids could. She quit after she saw them—was terrified out of her mind. My father used to see them, before the blindness. Oh, and Oliver Ginn saw them at the dinner party.”

He growled. “Moneypants?”

“He seems to believe they’re a kind of trickster spirit created by Set.”

“The Egyptian god?”

She nodded. “Apparently there’s a myth that Set harvested a group of soul shadows to wreak havoc in the underworld.”

“Sheuts.”

“You’ve heard about this myth?”

“Not just a pretty face, you know,” he said, and her eyes involuntarily flicked over his muscled chest. She looked away and busied herself with taping up her bandaging while he continued. “The Nubi workers at the site used to tell stories of spirits that would change into black dogs to trick wandering strangers into losing their way in the desert. Some said they were made out of shadow. Called them Sheuts.”

“So Oliver might be on to something?”

“Oliver,” he said, as if it were a bad word. “You’re talking to him about this? What is he to you, Hadley?”

“And I might ask what Ruby is to you.” Now finished with the bandage, she pushed herself up to stand.

“I already told you.”

She threw the roll of tape down in frustration. “You told me you were going to take her dancing, and then you used her name for my disguise in front of Mr. Trotter. Probably half of what you tell me is a lie—how am I supposed to separate fact from fiction when it comes to you?”

His hand grabbed hers. She jumped and tried to pull away, but his grip was like steel. “Let go! You’re hurting me.” He wasn’t, really, but panic had a way of scrambling things in her head.

“Goddammit! Stop struggling and listen to me for one second.”

The exasperation in his voice startled her. She stilled, her breath coming fast and hard.

“You’re right,” he said, lessening the intensity of his grip. “I’m a liar, and we both know it. But even if I weren’t, I’d never be an upstanding man. My family are immigrants. I grew up poor. I’m not part of your circle of society and never will be, no matter how much money and power we have.”

“Money and power don’t make a man trustworthy.”

“And not everything I say is a lie. Let’s make a deal, you and me, ja?” His voice softened. “Remember when we stood in the courtyard by the gazing pool? I told you the truth about my injury. No one else—only you. And I said I was worried that women would find this hand repellent, and you told me the right woman wouldn’t care. Do you remember?”

“Yes.”

He pulled her closer. “See, I’ve got this funny idea in my head that you might be that right woman. Someone who won’t reject me when I touch her.”

Raw emotion tightened her throat.

“See this hand?” He gently squeezed her fingers, drawing her attention to the scarred skin where his missing finger once was. “Just like I told you the truth that night about my injury, from now on, whenever I hold your hand with this one, you can trust what I’m telling you is the truth. I promise to give you that. Do you believe me?”

Hadley’s heart drummed inside her breast. She lifted her gaze to his. “I can try. I want to.”

“That’s all I’m asking.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles, sending a chill up her arm. Blue eyes squinted up at her with disarming intensity. “Now, let me prove it. I’m holding your hand, so tell me what truths you need from me right now. You need to know that I won’t tell anyone about your secrets? I won’t tell a soul. But you already knew that, or you wouldn’t have confessed.”

“You aren’t afraid of me, now that you know?”

“Afraid of whatever it is you call up? Abso-goddamn-lute-ly. Every man’s afraid of the unknown. But I’m not afraid of you, and that’s the difference. What else, Hadley?” He pulled her closer, until her legs brushed against his. “You brought up Ruby. You want to know about her? Because there’s nothing to tell. I’m not interested in renewing anything with Ruby, which is partly why I haven’t answered her calls. But mostly, I haven’t had time. Seems lately I’ve spent most of my days with you, and I’ve spent most of my nights thinking about the days.”

“Lowe.” She tried to say something more, but nothing came out.

A second later, he let go of her hand, only to wrangle her around the waist, pulling her down to sit sideways on his lap. His chest was a warm brick wall against her shoulder. So much bare skin. A little shiver of panic raced through her as one hand slid around her back and settled on her hip. The other tilted her chin toward his face.

His voice was low and firm. “I understand why you’re uncomfortable with other people touching you, but you can’t be that way with me, and that’s all there is to it. Because when I told you in the car that it didn’t matter if you weren’t interested in me, I lied. It does matter. It matters a lot.” He slowly released her chin. “Did you lie to me when you said you never wanted to kiss me again?”

Her gaze dropped to his chest as she whispered, “Yes. I lied.”

The muffled noise from the yawning city outside her windows sounded far away as she listened to his breath. Movement stirred against her thigh. But with her nerves stretched tight, it took her several moments to comprehend what was happening—plenty of time for him to gentlemanly move away or shift positions. He clearly had no intention of doing so.

Good God.

Her face heated in embarrassment, but that quickly changed into something else when her nipples stiffened into hard points. Her hands lay in her lap. She clenched them, fingernails biting into her palms, as she pressed her thighs together, praying he wouldn’t touch her.

Praying he would.

He brushed a slow touch along the curve of her shoulder and spoke in a deep, rough voice. “You’ve made yourself a fine little island, not getting close to people, haven’t you? But you can’t survive like that forever. I think I’m going to have to send out a rescue boat and haul you back onto the mainland.”

“Lowe.”

He nuzzled his nose into her hair and inhaled. “This is what’s going to happen. You’re going to kiss me. And I’m going to touch you.”

“I—”

“Nuh-uh-uh,” he warned. “I’m in charge now, Miss Bacall. Here, hold my hand again so you can be sure I’m not lying . . .” He forced open one of her fists and threaded three long fingers between hers. “This hand only, that’s all I’ll use. We won’t move from this chair, and I promise not to touch any skin. I’ll only touch you over your clothes. That’s all. Nothing more. Agreed?”

“Over my clothes?”

“Yes.”

“Where?” she whispered, and immediately regretted the question.

He whispered back, lips brushing her ear. “Wherever I choose. Yes?”

Her heart galloped inside her chest. “Yes.”

“Good.” His lips grazed hers. “Now, kiss me like you did on the wharf.”

She hesitated, but only for a moment.

A carnival of current jolted through her center when their mouths met. Lips pressed against lips. Closed. Firm. A tentative investigation that soon opened to something deeper. Not rough and breathless like their last kiss. A slow-moving, rolling one that tasted of scotch—but sent a hotter flame through her belly than the liquor had. She was lightheaded and stupid within seconds, melting against him.

His fingers untwined from hers. She pulled out of the kiss.

“Now, now,” he chastised. “If you stop kissing me, my promise goes out the window.”

How absurd. She was not playing these games with—

He clamped a hand around her bare arm and slid it upward, into her sleeve. “Will you kiss me, or shall I touch your bare skin like this?”

No-no-no-no! She anxiously pressed wet lips to his to stop him.

“Good girl,” he whispered into her mouth before swiping his tongue over hers. His hand abandoned the skin of her arm and moved to the safety of her waist. But it didn’t linger there long. She felt its warmth tracing a slow line down over her hip, and up again. Up further, brailling over her side.

Old, critical words from George resurfaced, and for a moment she worried he’d feel her ribs and think her too skinny. But there was no hesitation in his touch. No recoil or pause in his kiss. He touched her like he enjoyed what he found, and when his fingers curved over a breast, all her old worries dropped away.

“Mmm,” he said against her lips. “A nice palmful. Just enough.” His thumb found the hard peak of her nipple. Pleasure shot through her. She gasped. He groaned, pushing his erection into her hip. A joyful sort of carnal amusement weighted his voice. “Feels good, does it? Let’s try the other. Put your arm around my neck.” As she did, he pinched a nipple, worrying it back and forth through the fabric of her dress. Her legs wantonly parted like the Red Sea in front of Moses. She nearly fell off his lap.

“C’mere,” he whispered, shuffling her around to face him.

“Your burn,” she protested.

“Hush, Nurse Bacall.” He pulled one leg across his lap until she straddled him like she was riding his motorcycle, dress rucked up around her thighs. Only, instead of a cold metal bar threatening the vee between her legs, the tented bulge of his erection loomed between them. A very significant bulge. The academic part of her wanted to reach between them and run her hand over it for analysis.

Shocked at the thought, she looked away and circled his neck with her arms to keep herself in check. Dear lord, his body was hot. “Lowe—”

“Rule still stands. No skin. I just need to feel this.” He helped himself to two handfuls of her backside, kneading her flesh with abandon. “Lush.” He wiggled her cheeks in his hands. “Best ass I’ve ever seen in my life. Goddamn, you feel incredible.”

It felt incredible to her, too. All her muscles had turned to jelly.

“What’ve you got back here? More peacock feathers?” He craned his neck over her shoulder and lifted her dress before she could protest. “Purple. Are those grape vines?”

She reached back to pull her dress down. “Don’t make fun.”

“Believe me, I’m not. I’ve fantasized about your fancy lingerie since the first night I met you.” He swept his hands up and down her back while he nipped at her neck, just under her ear. She groaned in surprise, and that was distraction enough to overlook his straying hand until it was now already under the front of her dress, sliding over her stocking.

“Oh, God,” she murmured.

“No skin,” he assured her, sounding almost gleeful with victory as he came to the rubber garter clamp holding up the top of her stocking. He slowed there and walked his fingers up the narrow garter, chuckling low when she meeped in distress. Then he found what he’d been hunting. Over her tap pants, he cupped her and slid a finger over the silk between her legs.

She lifted off his lap and cried out, her back bowing as she shuddered in pleasure. He kept a steady arm around her waist, holding her in place.

“Soaking wet. My, my,” he whispered, slowing rubbing the damp fabric back and forth over her clitoris. “Right here?”

Her head fell against his shoulder. “Yes.”

“Mmm. I feel it through the silk. Think you’re almost as hard as I am.”

Good God. No one had ever talked to her so candidly. A shaky inhalation was her answer.

“Want to know a secret?” he whispered, changing the direction of his fingers, side to side. “I stroke myself to sleep every night thinking of you.”

His words sent an electric bolt of pleasure through her center. She rested her brow against his. “God . . . Lowe.”

“You feel marvelous. So damn marvelous.” Fingertips slid farther back, and even with the barrier of her tap pants limiting his explorations, he did his best to dip into the wetness pooling at her center. Nice, but not as nice as what he’d been doing.

“Please don’t stop.”

“Yes, ma’am, so sorry,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, but returning to his previous ministrations and rubbing her sensitive bud. “I couldn’t help myself. Better?”

He knew it was. She bowed her head, cheek against cheek, and moaned.

It had been so long since she’d been touched this way. So very long.

And it felt so spectacular and new that she wondered if she’d ever been touched at all—everything in the past was a dream and this was her new reality. The standard by which any other touch should be measured.

“Tell me how it feels,” he demanded.

“So good” was all she could manage, but he made a pleased noise in the back of his throat, as if it were exactly what he wanted to hear. So she repeated it like a mantra between hard breaths until—

What was that noise?

The door. The door!

“No, no, no!” She jumped off his lap to pull her dress down before moving in front of the chair, as if she could block the view of a six-and-a-half-foot-tall Scandinavian with no shirt and an enormous erection.

Keys jingled as an elderly woman with white hair stepped into the apartment. She looked up and stopped dead in her tracks, eyes big as dinner plates.

Hadley straightened her posture and pasted on a smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Wentworth.”