She hated Salem—the memories, the nightmares, the danger—the legacy that had taken many and driven her mother mad. It was the reason she’d left. The reason her Nana had forced her to leave.
Where was she?
Rowan slipped inside and was careful to keep to the shadows. It was automatic, the pull toward the darkness, the need to disappear—old habits died hard. The room appeared empty, but she knew that in the world she inhabited—a world most people were unaware of—looks could be deceiving.
She crept toward Nana’s bed, holding her breath as she did so, eyes moving toward every corner. Her fingers grazed the stereo on the night table, and Patsy was silenced.
Rowan exhaled and turned in a full circle, taking in everything—the heavy crimson coverlet that was turned down. The robe flung across the chair at the foot of the bed. The book that lay open upon the pillow, and the reading glasses that rested alongside it.
Her hand trembled as she picked up the book, and a sad smile lifted the corners of her mouth as her fingers touched the yellowed pages. To Kill a Mockingbird. How many times had they read the book together?
She held the novel tight against her chest and tried to clamp down the fear that bubbled inside. The blood in the kitchen filled her with dread. The silence that echoed in her ear made her stomach clench.
“Nana, where are you?” she whispered softly.
Somewhere in the house a noise sounded—a footstep or scuff of a heel—and she froze. Her breath caught at the back of her throat in a painful gasp as she tried to squash her reaction. When she heard it again, sweat broke out on her forehead as the fear in her gut tripled with a sharp stab.
Carefully, Rowan put the book back just as it was and reached for her cell phone, cursing beneath her breath when she realized it was in her bag.
Which was in the foyer.
Back where the weird noises were coming from.
Shit.
Someone was out there—she sensed the energy and knew it was someone powerful. Or rather, some thing. At this point she had no idea who or what the hell it was, but she knew it didn’t belong. Not here in her Nana’s bed-and-breakfast.
Rowan exhaled and centered herself. She needed to be calm.
She crossed to the sitting area beside the stone fireplace. An iron poker rested against the hearth and she grabbed it, holding it tight as she melted into the dark corner nearest her. With her back protected, she felt more in control and had a clear view of the room.
She closed her eyes for a second, concentrated, and felt the familiar pull of energy sizzle along her fingers. There was no way she could charm or spell; her power was weak, ill-used, but it would have to do.
She heard a step echo, then another. Anger washed over her skin in a hot wave that left her teeth clenched, her fingers tight, and her resolve firm. The bastard was playing with her.
Rowan slipped out of her heels, tossed them to the side, and spread her legs as far as she could considering the constraints of her skirt. She balanced on the balls of her feet and squared her shoulders. There was a certain sort of freedom in the act, and it wouldn’t be far off to surmise that, in fact, she relished the thought of a fight.
Come on, asshole. Let’s do this.
Someone passed beyond her line of sight, then there was silence. It stretched long and thin until she wanted to scream. Rowan’s heart was nearly beating out of her chest, but her eyes never strayed from the door.
She called to the shadows, coaxing them as they slithered along her flesh and covered her body with their darkness. A small thrill shot through her as the energy around her shifted. She’d denied her gifts for so long that she’d forgotten how good it felt to use them.
Slowly the door swung open. Something big stood there a few feet beyond the frame. She couldn’t see it, but she sure as hell sensed it. She grimaced, more than a little pissed at herself for letting her powers get so rusty.
Rowan’s senses opened up, and she listened intently. She heard a scuff, like a boot scraping along the floor, and held her breath in anticipation. Who would have predicted ten hours ago she’d be hiding in her Nana’s room, gripping an iron poker from the fireplace, waiting to attack?
Back in the day, before she’d reinvented herself, it had been the norm—fighting demons and monsters. But Rowan had taken great pains to distance herself from that life—she’d gone to college and now worked at a law firm. She had a gerbil. A boyfriend. A life.
She’d traveled halfway across the country to get away from Salem, yet here she was, back in Massachusetts, with the ghosts of her past circling fast.
A tall shape came into view. Impressively huge.
Rephrase: The ghosts of her past were about to kick her ass but good.
The door creaked as it slowly slid all the way open, the hinges dry and squeaky. Her breaths fell lightly as she struggled to keep it together, and with a wave of power, she forced them to quiet.
Rowan’s eyes widened as the intruder strode into the room like he had every right to be there, and cast a long shadow along the threadbare carpet. It was a very large, very male form.