were. This side street in Castle Bay, California, was crowded with too many cars and pedestrians. She couldn’t have a meltdown here. Someone would see her, and then what?
Letting her head fall against the seat back, Maggie blew out a breath. She didn’t know what to do. Call the police was her first thought, but she pooh-poohed that one right away. What could she possibly report? Yes, Joe was dead, but there was no body. And the thing that had killed him was gone, too. Besides, did she really want to call the police and open the conversation with, Hello, I just killed a monster. Who do I talk to ?
Good for one free ticket to a luxurious stay at the nearest rubber room.
“Go get a mocha, Maggie. Starbucks. Where we head during a rough day. Yep. Mocha. Maybe a doughnut,” she told herself firmly. “Then go home. Where nothing weird ever happens.”
Good plan.
She grabbed the steering wheel with her still-glowing fingers and it snapped in two. She wanted to cry. “That’s just great. Great.”
Then, carefully holding on to what was left of her steering wheel, she fired up the engine and got the hell outta Dodge.
Culhane entered the small, old home with a blur of movement that would have been undetected by any human. If there’d been one around. But he knew the moment he shifted that he was alone in the place.
His long black hair fell to his shoulders, and he swung it back and out of his way as he moved silently through the house, cataloging every room in his mind.
There was a creative spirit alive in the room where canvases leaned against an easel and droplets of paint splashed the walls. He looked through the stacked paintings, feeding his curiosity. Most of them centered on the sea or the lighthouse. Misty wisps of fog crowded around fishing boats that looked like toys dropped into a sea so big it could swallow them. There was life here. And talent in good measure. But then, he’d expected no less.
He moved on. The next room was where she slept and dreamed. Her scent surrounded him as he noted the clothing dropped on the floors and chairs, as if she’d simply been too busy to pick them up. Sunlight filtered through the lacy curtains hanging at the windows as he left her room, her scent following him, tempting him. It seeped into his mind, his soul, and stirred something Culhane deliberately ignored.
He walked on, opening doors, exploring rooms that were empty yet pulsed with the memories of lives lived. Now she was imprinted on this place. She lived here. The one who had been foretold. The one he’d waited centuries for. Finally, today, it had begun. He’d felt the burst of power and sensed Maggie Donovan take her first step into his world.
He was tall, even for a Fenian, standing almost six feet, five inches. His legs were long, his arms muscular and the harsh planes of his face rarely twisted into a smile. He’d lived too long, fought too hard to find much worth smiling about.
And now, when the time of change had finally arrived, he would be forced to deal with a human woman to accomplish his goals.
“Human,” he muttered darkly, his gaze sweeping over the small rooms, crowded with what those of her kind no doubt believed to be necessities. Soft chairs, warm rugs, pillows on beds and in her kitchen, food enough to feed a clan of warriors.
Culhane prowled the house again, this time looking for hints into what kind of woman Maggie Donovan had become. He would need all the information he could gather for when he faced her to tell her of her destiny.
Maggie was supposed to be at the local hardware store, painting an idyllic holiday scene on the wide front windows. Yes, all that training and studying in art school had really paid off. Her hand-painted displays of clearance signs, going-out-of-business placards and Christmas scenes were the best in the state.
But at the moment she simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with painting smiling snowmen, dancing elves and holiday wreaths. Besides, she
Letting her head fall against the seat back, Maggie blew out a breath. She didn’t know what to do. Call the police was her first thought, but she pooh-poohed that one right away. What could she possibly report? Yes, Joe was dead, but there was no body. And the thing that had killed him was gone, too. Besides, did she really want to call the police and open the conversation with, Hello, I just killed a monster. Who do I talk to ?
Good for one free ticket to a luxurious stay at the nearest rubber room.
“Go get a mocha, Maggie. Starbucks. Where we head during a rough day. Yep. Mocha. Maybe a doughnut,” she told herself firmly. “Then go home. Where nothing weird ever happens.”
Good plan.
She grabbed the steering wheel with her still-glowing fingers and it snapped in two. She wanted to cry. “That’s just great. Great.”
Then, carefully holding on to what was left of her steering wheel, she fired up the engine and got the hell outta Dodge.
Culhane entered the small, old home with a blur of movement that would have been undetected by any human. If there’d been one around. But he knew the moment he shifted that he was alone in the place.
His long black hair fell to his shoulders, and he swung it back and out of his way as he moved silently through the house, cataloging every room in his mind.
There was a creative spirit alive in the room where canvases leaned against an easel and droplets of paint splashed the walls. He looked through the stacked paintings, feeding his curiosity. Most of them centered on the sea or the lighthouse. Misty wisps of fog crowded around fishing boats that looked like toys dropped into a sea so big it could swallow them. There was life here. And talent in good measure. But then, he’d expected no less.
He moved on. The next room was where she slept and dreamed. Her scent surrounded him as he noted the clothing dropped on the floors and chairs, as if she’d simply been too busy to pick them up. Sunlight filtered through the lacy curtains hanging at the windows as he left her room, her scent following him, tempting him. It seeped into his mind, his soul, and stirred something Culhane deliberately ignored.
He walked on, opening doors, exploring rooms that were empty yet pulsed with the memories of lives lived. Now she was imprinted on this place. She lived here. The one who had been foretold. The one he’d waited centuries for. Finally, today, it had begun. He’d felt the burst of power and sensed Maggie Donovan take her first step into his world.
He was tall, even for a Fenian, standing almost six feet, five inches. His legs were long, his arms muscular and the harsh planes of his face rarely twisted into a smile. He’d lived too long, fought too hard to find much worth smiling about.
And now, when the time of change had finally arrived, he would be forced to deal with a human woman to accomplish his goals.
“Human,” he muttered darkly, his gaze sweeping over the small rooms, crowded with what those of her kind no doubt believed to be necessities. Soft chairs, warm rugs, pillows on beds and in her kitchen, food enough to feed a clan of warriors.
Culhane prowled the house again, this time looking for hints into what kind of woman Maggie Donovan had become. He would need all the information he could gather for when he faced her to tell her of her destiny.
Maggie was supposed to be at the local hardware store, painting an idyllic holiday scene on the wide front windows. Yes, all that training and studying in art school had really paid off. Her hand-painted displays of clearance signs, going-out-of-business placards and Christmas scenes were the best in the state.
But at the moment she simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with painting smiling snowmen, dancing elves and holiday wreaths. Besides, she
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