The Lost Enchantress Read Free Page B

the barking hadn’t drawn any closer. The scent of burning wood was nearer. He closed his eyes and sniffed. Hickory, and much nearer.
    He glanced around and saw smoke curling from the chimney of the house behind him. The lights in the house were on, the curtains open, and from where he stood he could see children scurrying about as a plump woman cleared dishes from the table. An equally plump man, his necktie loosened, newspaper clamped beneath one arm, appeared at the front window and peered into the darkness, frowning.
    Hazard stood still, trusting his dark hair and clothing to render him one with the shadows. He had every right to be there, but he liked complications even less than he liked surprises. Having the police summoned to investigate a suspicious stranger lurking about would be a tedious complication of the sort he preferred to avoid. It would require talking to others and explaining himself, two things he generally abhorred doing. He waited patiently as the man surveyed the street in both directions and apparently satisfied that all was well with his little piece of the world, returned to his comfy chair by the fireplace, giving his wife’s round bottom a little love pat in passing.
    The simple gesture set off a strong and unexpected twinge of yearning, and Hazard quickly turned away, cursing under his breath. God, he had no stomach for domestic bliss. And if he had ever yearned for a plump wife and comfy chair of his own, he’d long since gotten over it. Irritated with his little dip into sentimentality, he shifted his full attention back to the matter at hand, the reason he was out there freezing his ass off, his purpose in coming to Providence in the first place.
    The quiet street, located on the city’s genteel east side, was lined with stately elm trees and painstakingly restored older homes. Older, that is, by American standards. Age was relative, after all. And the past had a way of losing its allure when you’d accumulated enough of it. He should know.
    Not that he permitted his own past to burden him overmuch. Most of the time it existed only as shadows and ghosts, hazy memories of memories locked deep inside him, as deep as he could bury them. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—allow anything he’d once thought or felt or was interfere with what he was now.
    A hunter.
    First, last and only.
    It wasn’t always so. Once he’d been something more. Something better. But that was ages ago. Once he’d been a loyal son, a passionate lover, a good man. Once he’d fought for a cause greater than himself and been glad for the privilege.
    Now all he cared about was the hunt. It was, quite literally, his life. It dominated his every waking thought, and at night it filled what passed for dreams. And, if the hairs that had lifted at the back of his neck the instant he got out of the car were to be trusted, it might soon be over.
    If his sources—and his gut—were correct, the hunt would end there, at 128 Sycamore Street, in the gracious Victorian-style home with its ample front porch and beguiling turret and who knew what dark secrets locked inside.
    Even now a subtle but unmistakable current of excitement told him that this was it, that this house held the key to success. He wasn’t sure how—yet—but he had faith it would provide the missing piece of a centuries-old puzzle. He’d followed enough false leads and blind alleys to have learned not to get his hopes up so early in the game, but for reasons he couldn’t fathom, tonight, for the first time in a long time, he couldn’t stop himself from hoping. He couldn’t suppress the thrill of knowing the prize was in sight and all that remained to do was make it his own.
    He’d intentionally arrived early for his appointment with Ms. Darden of East Side Realty. He’d wanted to be alone when he saw the house for the first time. He knew his limitations and that he would need time and silence if he was to pick up on any sense of connection with the old house.