Comes The Dark Part 27

About the Author.

Celia Ashley lives in rural Lehigh County, Pennsylvania, an area rich in history and beauty and from which she has drawn inspiration for many of her tales. She is the mother of three grown sons, as well as the companion of five cats. When not writing, she is a garden enthusiast and spends time painting in a variety of mediums. Published in historical romance under the pen names Alyssa Deane and Robin Maderich, she has most recently taken to writing spicy contemporary paranormal romance as Celia Ashley, for which she has received enthusiastic reviews. Please visit the author at www.celiaashley.com, find her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter.

Be sure to read the first book in the series, Dark Tides, followed by Storm Surge. Each gripping tale is set in the fictional coastal town of Alcina Cove and is a standalone novel.

Dark Tides

The depths of the ocean hide more secrets than one...

When a man without a memory washes up outside her lonely seaside cottage, Meg can't explain the connection she feels to him. She should be afraid, suspicious, even angry that he would disturb her hard-won peace. But something about Caleb Hunter calls to her. On instinct, Meg asks this stranger into her home, her life-into the place left vacant by her dead husband, who drowned at sea a year to the day before Caleb appeared.

But something isn't right. Half-buried memories begin to haunt Meg's dreams, Caleb seems to know things he can't possibly know, and there are signs that someone else is watching them, someone with a heart as cold as the sea...

Chapter 1.

Swiping a handful of sodden hair from his eyes, Caleb Hunter scrambled upright, stepping away from the water purling around his bare feet. An expanse of sand stretched as far as he could see into a soaking fog, although beyond the crest of dune in front of him, a slate-roofed, decrepit white Victorian rose out of the s.h.i.+mmering haze. The house didn't look at all familiar. Neither did the beach. Nothing did, no matter what direction he turned.

With a deep, painful breath, Caleb considered what he did know. His name, for one. Good. He thought he might be thirty-five or thirty-six years old. Somehow, he knew he stood six-foot-one, he had brown eyes, and his nearly black hair badly needed tr.i.m.m.i.n.g. At this point, it needed a great deal more than that, plastered with salt and sand and a bit of debris hanging in front of his eyes. Yanking a piece of seaweed from above his brow, he tossed the vegetation down, tracking its descent past the length of his naked body. He pivoted in a slow, searching circle. Not a st.i.tch of clothing lay in the sand.

After a moment, he lifted his hands, turning them palm up and finding them well-formed, calloused across the pad of flesh below his fingers. The skin of his fingertips had wrinkled from long immersion, and fine sand had embedded in the bend of each joint. Salt and sand encrusted the hair on his chafed arms. A black, ugly bruise throbbed on his right forearm. When he flexed his hand, the injury burned deep into the muscle. More sand coated his torso and his groin, clumped in the hair on his legs, and grated in places more private. He planted his feet apart and bent to brush the sand away, discovering this only made the situation worse.

Dismayed by his lack of recollection, as well as his lack of garments, Caleb closed his eyes and pushed both hands through his hair. Clasping his fingers behind his neck, he frowned when he located a hard knot of tender flesh at the base of his skull. Something had struck him there. He remembered that.

No, not something. Someone. Someone had tried to kill him.

s.h.i.+t.

That fragment of recall brought no further revelation, but his skin crawled in reaction to a danger he couldn't fathom, and he checked again to make certain no one else occupied the stretch of beach. Shredding fog revealed a woman approaching him from a short distance. Walking with her head down, she bent every now and then to collect small items from the water's edge. Not knowing what else to do, Caleb sat in the sand once more, pulling his knees up close to his chin and wrapping his arms around his legs. After ascertaining he'd tucked everything neatly out of view, he waited.

She stopped little more than a dozen feet from him, bending to pluck at a polished stone to deposit with the array of minuscule treasures on her palm. The wind fluttered the length of a dark blue shawl from her shoulders, dragging the fringed edge in the sand. Tan trousers, rolled to the knee, exposed the curve of her calf and slender feet washed by the surge of the tide as she crouched. Caleb lifted his gaze again to her face. Even at that distance, he could see her eyes were quite green and staring straight into his.

Clutching her treasure trove against her breast, the woman straightened. Her lips moved in speech, words drowned by the low growl of the tide. Caleb cleared his parched throat, uncertain what to say as the woman continued to stare at him with an unreadable expression. After a moment, she dropped the items from her fingers into a heap on the sand and backed away, placing one bare foot behind the other, gaze never leaving his face until she turned on her heel and started an awkward run across the s.h.i.+fting sand. The blue shawl flew from her shoulders.

Leaping to his feet, Caleb darted forward and s.n.a.t.c.hed up the garment, draping the soft wool around his waist. He tugged the folds to cover as much of his hip area as he could. Scooping the woman's discarded treasure into his hand, he went after her, following her toward the white house. Already a good distance ahead of him, she leaped up the long flight of wooden steps from the beach two at a time, crossing a seaside garden to a porch, where she yanked open the door and disappeared inside. Caleb paused in uncertainty. He hadn't meant to alarm her, and she appeared frightened, not merely startled. Nevertheless, if he didn't speak to her, he had no hope of receiving any answers to his many questions.

Girding his determination, as well as his grip on her shawl, he set his own bare feet to the first step and climbed to a brick pathway that led through the garden. At the porch, he paused again, studying the length of the covered area, the blank face of each window for any sign she peered out at him. He found only the milky reflection on gla.s.s of the fogged-in sea.

He walked across the porch and halted in front of the door. "h.e.l.lo?" he called, listening hard.

She responded in a m.u.f.fled demand through the solid wood. "Who are you?"

"I'm sorry if I startled you."

Silence.

"My name is Caleb Hunter," he said with a crazy expectation she would throw open the door and announce him welcome, perhaps apologize for not recognizing him in his present state. Instead, he heard nothing. The door remained closed.

"I need help." He waited. "I thought I would return your shawl to you, but...but I have a specific need of it at the moment."

"Keep it," he heard her say. The fact she had spoken again gave him a glimmer of hope.

"I don't know where I am," he persisted. "I don't know who I am," he added, frowning down at the worn boards of the porch floor. Aloud, the statement sounded ludicrous. The brief flare of fear surging through him at his own words held no humor at all.

"What do you mean, you don't know who you are?"

The door creaked open. A security chain stretched taut in the s.p.a.ce between frame and door. Her leaf-green eyes regarded him intently from behind a fringe of honey-colored bangs.

"I don't remember much of anything specific," he said. "I believe I was. .h.i.t on the head and...and maybe I washed up onto the beach from the ocean. I'm not sure. My name is about all I do remember with any certainty. Is the name Caleb Hunter familiar to you?"

"No," she said. "I don't know anyone by that name."

The door shut again. Scoured by the salt winds, the light blue paint had peeled away in places to show the bare, weathered wood beneath. A moment later, the door opened again, enough for her to toss something out at him. He bent and picked up a crumpled pair of pants. Light blue fabric, heavy and faded with wear. Jeans, they were called. He remembered that. They looked like they would fit him.

Turning his back, Caleb dropped the sh.e.l.ls, stones, and bits of sea gla.s.s onto the lacquered surface of a nearby wicker chair. He set the shawl beside them and hastened into the jeans, grimacing as sand abraded his flesh. If the woman still stood in the doorway watching him struggle with the pants, she gave no indication. He glanced over his shoulder. Through the narrow opening, he saw nothing.

"What was that in your hand?"

At her question, he slowly pivoted to face the door, feeling more naked now than he had in her shawl. Talking to her half-dressed, wearing nothing but a pair of borrowed blue jeans, he contemplated picking up the shawl and draping it across his shoulders. Instead, he seized it from the floor where it had fallen and placed it beside her rescued treasure. The door opened a little more and her face appeared.

"Your things," he said by way of explanation. "I never meant to frighten you, to make you drop what you'd been gathering."

She frowned at the sh.e.l.ls and oddments he had placed on the chair before turning her gaze to meet his. Slow to speak, she studied him a moment. "Thank you."

The door closed again.

Caleb moved to another chair and sat down. He leaned forward, elbows on thighs, hands folded together between his knees. The s.h.i.+fting of his body renewed pain in every muscle and tendon. Reaching up, he fingered the back of his head to trace again the contours of the vicious lump. He remembered a flurry of fists, grunting blows, and male voices raised in harsh invective, but he didn't recall the words. Was one of those voices his? Could have been. Yes, it could have been his voice. He remembered...nothing. Nothing else.

d.a.m.n it.

Once more, the door opened. The woman stepped onto the porch holding out a T-s.h.i.+rt. Gratefully, he took it, then slipped the garment over his head. It smelled as if it had been left sitting in a drawer. Not that it mattered.

"Your husband's?" he asked, not certain from what part of his brain such a question came.

She nodded.

"Is he here?"

"He's dead," she said.

"Oh." Caleb ran his hand through his salt-encrusted hair. "I'm sorry."

"So am I."

She moved to the chair where her shawl lay and bent to pick up the items he had deposited there. Brus.h.i.+ng the sand and crushed sh.e.l.l from the seat into her hand as well, she walked to the porch railing and sprinkled them into the garden below, permitting them to flow through a loose fist. Her eyes closed as she did this, as if something ritualistic existed in the execution of her action. He wondered what had happened to her husband, if maybe she did this in his memory.

"His s.h.i.+p went down in a storm."

He started, meeting her eyes. Her direct gaze made him s.h.i.+ver.

"That's what you were thinking, wasn't it?" she said, brus.h.i.+ng her hands clean. "You were wondering how he died."

Caleb s.h.i.+vered again within the confines of a dead man's s.h.i.+rt. "Yes," he admitted, "I was."

She nodded, her longs bangs swinging forward. "A year ago today," she told him quietly.

Today. Caleb said nothing.

She moved back across the porch, stopping before the chair opposite him where she gathered up the shawl and sat, holding the garment balled against her stomach. With her feet tucked around the outside of the legs of the chair, knees angled together, she appeared innocent and vulnerable. Caleb's stomach churned. He shoved a fist against his abdomen in an effort to control the response.

"I dream about him most nights," she confided in a voice barely above a whisper, her eyes intent on his own. "But not always. This morning, though, on the anniversary of his death, I dreamed about someone else. I didn't realize it until I saw you on the beach. I'm fairly certain I dreamed of you."

Stunned by her speech, Caleb sat back hard against the chair frame. His breath exploded as the knot at the base of his skull met wood, causing him to jerk forward again, bright pinpoints of light dancing before his eyes.

He couldn't remember the fundamental particulars about himself and his life, but he knew what dreams were without requiring an explanation. What she said made no sense to him. None at all. Unless- "What do you mean? Do you know me?" he asked again. Perhaps she didn't know his name, but she might recall having seen him somewhere. Something. Anything.

She raised her eyes from a fierce contemplation of the air between them. After a moment of consideration, she shook her head. He licked his dry, salty lips as he s.h.i.+fted on the seat, frowning at the pain wracking his body. Observing his movements, she reached into her pocket and drew out a narrow black object, holding it on her palm. From somewhere in the recesses of murky recognition, he recognized a cell phone. "What are you doing?"

"Calling the police," she said.

Don't let her. Don't let her. Don't let her.

The force of the voice in his head caused him to gasp, recognizing without understanding that an instinct for preservation spoke to him. "Don't," he said and added "please" more sedately at the widening of her eyes.

She displayed no further consternation at his command, just c.o.c.ked her head to the side, her gaze turning contemplative as if studying him. Even so, he could see the pulse beating beneath her jaw, the momentary suspension of her respiration.

"Why not?" she asked after a moment, still holding the phone at the ready in her hand.

He tried to dredge up a reply she would find suitable. He couldn't imagine where to begin. "G.o.d, I don't know," he answered, lowering his head into his hand, shoving fingers deep into his tangled hair. "I don't. I don't know. I...I don't know."

He heard a short, decisive inhalation and looked up in time to witness her returning the phone to her pocket. Fingers curled loosely, she lowered her right hand into her left across her stomach. "Don't you want to go to the hospital?"

"Why?"

"Aren't you hurt?"

She waited for his reply. Caleb didn't believe he'd ever seen eyes so green, though he couldn't recall for certain. He straightened in the chair, folding his hands in his lap. "What makes you think I'm hurt?"

Blowing out a breath, she stood, tucking the sand-spattered shawl against her abdomen. "You can hardly move," she said. "And the wound to your head-"

"How do you know I have a head wound?"

Her mouth twisted in wry amus.e.m.e.nt. "I could say I dreamed it, but I didn't. You told me you thought you'd been hit on the head. Even if you hadn't, you wince every time you touch the back of your skull. That and the fact you can't remember who you are are fairly good indicators of some sort of head trauma. Which," she added, "is why you should have a doctor check you out. Even if you don't want the police involved, I could call an ambulance or, well, I suppose I could drive you to the hospital myself."

Possessing a certain amount of defiance in her expression, she did not look away from him. Her stance s.h.i.+fted, and her hand lifted to a.s.sist him in rising. He wondered at her trust in a stranger, standing so close to him with her hand extended, as if she had no idea how easily he could overpower her if he had the inclination. He could remember nothing about his past life. For all he knew, he could be a nasty sort of person, a dangerous man. After all, someone had tried to kill him, hadn't they? Somebody must have had good reason for that.

"Not yet," he whispered. His aversion to the possibility of questions, of a need for answers he could not provide, worried him. Was he taking a foolish risk, not getting medical help? Still, he didn't think his injuries were life threatening. He felt no weakness, no disorientation beyond his inability to recall.

"You could be bleeding internally. You could have a skull fracture."

He rubbed his eyes, sand grating across his lids. "Are you suggesting I might die?"

"I don't know," she said. "I'm not a doctor."

Through the slats of the porch railing, he saw the sea, the fog lifting above the waves. Possibly, he'd walked to the beach from somewhere else and collapsed here, but that didn't seem likely. In fact, he knew better. The sensation of plunging into the ocean, tumbling through the cold, salty tides, though not quite memory, had the resonation of truth.

"I know a doctor who will come to the house. I've had him here before. He is...well, discreet. At least he can check you out, and if he feels you need to go to a hospital, you will. If not, well, that's up to you then."

Up to him. What would he do if this doctor p.r.o.nounced him well enough to avoid treatment? How would he even begin to know what steps to take next? Avoiding thought of all the unimaginable possibilities, he nodded at her. "Fine," he said. "Let him come."

She walked to the far side of the porch, talking into the instrument she'd pulled back out of her pocket, glancing at him over her shoulder as she spoke. After a few minutes, she returned. "He'll be here shortly. You may as well wait inside."

He eyed her with bewilderment. "You're not afraid to have me in your house?"

"Should I be?"

"I don't know."

"I do." She held out her hand again. Swallowing, he slipped his fingers into hers and allowed her to pull him up from his seat with surprising strength. Standing before her, he smelled the sea in her hair, the fresh air, and a faint suffusion of citrus. The top of her head barely came up to his collarbone. A feeling of protectiveness stole over him, making him frown.

"Are you sure you don't know me?" Because it sure as h.e.l.l feels like I know you.

"Positive," she said. "And by the way, my name is Meg. Meg Donovan." Clutching the shawl in her fist, she headed inside, leaving the door standing wide. Confounded, Caleb followed her into the house, the inside of his borrowed pants chafing like sandpaper over thighs and calves and along the tender flesh of his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es. He trailed her from the back door into the kitchen, where she indicated he should sit in a chair she slid from the table. She pulled back the curtains to allow more light into the room and walked behind him across worn linoleum to take a gla.s.s down from a cabinet. Outside the window, he saw the sun had broken through the fog, golden light reflecting in a s.h.i.+mmer on the pale blue ceiling of the porch. She opened the refrigerator and rummaged around inside before returning to stand beside him.

"Here," Meg said, handing him a gla.s.s of something orange. Orange juice. Yes, he remembered that. "Drink it slowly. Are you warm enough? I can get you a blanket if you need one. Sometimes shock-"