groaned and pulled the covers over her head. Despite the heavy duvet and blankets cocooned around her, she shivered. The temperature in the room had dropped since she’d gone to sleep. And what the hell was that smell? She wrinkled her nose at the thick, mossy stink seeping through the sheets with the cold. Pushing back the blankets, she sat up and froze. Her stomach dropped.
A huge shape lumbered between her bed and the fireplace, blotting out the glow of the coals like an eclipse.
With wide, staring eyes, her gaze traveled the length of the massive shadow, from the hem of a long coat, to broad, masculine shoulders, to the outline of a wide-brimmed hat.
A man. There was a man in her room!
A scream burned up the back of her throat and lodged there. She couldn’t move. She couldn’t speak. She could scarcely breathe.
Instead, she stared into the black void where a face should have been. Then, like tiny beacons from hell, two red eyes appeared.
Chapter Four
Brynn stared into the glowing eyes like a bird caught in the thrall of a snake. Hate and rage emanated from the man-shaped thing, a tangible force wrapping around her and squeezing the breath from her lungs.
Run!
But she couldn’t move. Every muscle had seized under the burning red glare.
A dream. Some rational part of her brain tried desperately to convince the rest of her. It had to be a dream. She squeezed her eyes shut and started to count.
One, two…
When she opened her eyes it would be gone—
…three, four, five…
—and she would laugh at how crazy real it seemed.
…six, seven…
Whatever she thought she saw was probably just stress.
…eight, nine…
Some remnant of her nightmare.
…ten.
She opened her eyes. The shadow loomed beside her bed, black delight radiating like a living pulse from its murky form.
She tried to swallow, but her throat had shriveled. Icy sweat coated her skin. Drawing a trembling breath, she eased her hand out from beneath the blankets, eyes locked with the two glowing orbs, afraid that breaking contact, even for a moment, would somehow allow the thing to pounce. Her fumbling fingers bumped the porcelain lamp, sending it teetering sideways.
No, no, no. Please don’t break.
She grabbed the shade and caught the lamp before it went over, then pressed the switch. Brilliant light flooded the darkness. She squinted against the sudden glare. When she turned back to the shadow man, he was gone.
“What the hell?” She kicked free of the blankets and slid from the bed. Frigid air wrapped around her like a shroud, seeping through her thin shorts and T-shirt. Goose bumps stippled her skin.
Where did he go? He couldn’t have just vanished.
She hurried to the door. Locked, just as she’d left it. She turned the latch, pulled back the door and poked her head into the hall. Darkness spread out on either side of her like black curtains, leaving her unable to see anything past the faint pool of light spilling from her room. She shut the door and turned the lock once more.
So what exactly had she seen?
Had there been a man in her room? A man with glowing red eyes? Not likely. So what did that leave? A ghost? Of course not. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Whatever she’d seen, the real question was, where did it go?
She glanced around the bedroom, her gaze falling on the wardrobe. No way. She didn’t actually believe someone was hiding in her closet, did she? Of course not. Still, she crossed the room, closed her trembling fingers around the brass handles and yanked both doors wide.
Ha! Empty. Just like she knew it would be.
Oh, yeah? Then why is your heart ready to burst out of your chest, and your legs like rubber?
She closed the doors and leaned back against them. She was being ridiculous. She must have imagined…
Bathroom!
Brynn hurried to the en suite, pushed open the door and slid her hand up the wall until her fingers found the switch. The small space filled with light.
Nothing.
She looked behind the bathtub, then behind the door.
No one. She was completely alone.
* * *
A sharp jab just below his left kidney dragged Reece up through layers of sleep. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shifted on the lumpy mattress and rolled onto his side, willing himself to drift off again before he woke fully.
Dull stabbing bloomed at his hip.
“Bloody hell.” That blasted spring was like a medieval torture device especially designed to drive him mad. With a muttered curse, he threw back his thin blankets and glanced at the clock next to his bed. Five-twenty. Well, he’d managed ten minutes longer than yesterday. He should be glad for that, at least.
He padded across the cold wood floor and snagged his jeans from the chair next to the window. As he tugged them on, he peered out into the pre-dawn darkness. Stonecliff stood out like a black lump against the brightening sky. Stark and austere, in its day the manor’s stone walls, peaked windows and sheer size had made it a work of gothic grandeur. Some might still see it that way despite its aging facade, but not him.
He hated that house. He shouldn’t. There were no voices here, no apparitions. Stonecliff was the one place he could let down his carefully trained guards and only silence greeted him. But the quiet was unnatural, like the swelling pressure that built in his head just before his ears popped.
Goose bumps studded his skin and his insides tightened. There was something wrong with this place. Malevolence hovered like a dark cloud. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear there was a presence here. There wasn’t, of course. He’d know if there were.
Reece tugged a long-sleeved T-shirt over his head. What the hell did it matter? He should be glad of the peace for a change. It was the only good thing to come out of this mess.
He left the cell-like bedroom, clicked on the lamp next to the worn settee and crossed to the kitchenette. The L-shaped bank of cupboards didn’t offer much in the way of meal preparation. Three square meals provided at the main house were among the perks of working at Stonecliff. Still, the toaster oven, half-sized fridge and coffee maker left him with enough options he could avoid Mrs. Voyle’s cooking for the most part.
The kitchen opened to the rest of the flat. Not that there was much more. A settee with fraying orange flower-patterned fabric, a couple of scratched faux-wood tables and a black-and-white telly all that furnished the small space.
He missed his own flat, quiet and filled with his things. He wasn’t a rich man, but he’d created a comfortable den for himself. There were times when the voices would come, the figures would appear, but he could usually hold them at bay. And when he couldn’t, there was no one to see anyway.
Reece took the coffee tin from the cupboard, ready to begin his morning ritual, but set it down on the counter instead. Frustration hummed beneath his skin, leaving him restless, edgy. Agreeing to this ridiculous plan, he’d merely traded one prison cell for another.
How in the hell had he wound up in this mess? But he already knew the answer. He hadn’t really believed he could lie and cheat people and get away with it, had he? The wheel of karma turned slowly, but it turned all the same. Now, here he was, at last paying for the things he’d done. Caught in some crazy scheme with a man driven half-mad by