New York Times bestselling author Christine Feehan has had over thirty novels published and has thrilled legions of fans with her seductive Dark Carpathian tales. She has received numerous honours throughout her career, including being a nominee for the Romance Writers of America RITA and receiving a Career Achievement Award from Romantic Times, and has been published in multiple languages.
Visit Christine Feehan online:
www.christinefeehan.com
www.facebook.com/christinefeehanauthor
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Praise for Christine Feehan:
‘After Bram Stoker, Anne Rice and Joss Whedon, Feehan is the person most credited with popularizing the neck gripper’
Time magazine
‘The queen of paranormal romance’
USA Today
‘Feehan has a knack for bringing vampiric Carpathians to vivid, virile life in her Dark Carpathian novels’
Publishers Weekly
‘The amazingly prolific author’s ability to create captivating and adrenaline-raising worlds is unsurpassed’
Romantic Times
By Christine Feehan
Torpedo Ink series:
Judgment Road
Vengeance Road
Vendetta Road
Desolation Road
Reckless Road
Shadow series:
Shadow Rider
Shadow Reaper
Shadow Keeper
Shadow Warrior
Shadow Flight
Shadow Storm
‘Dark’ Carpathian series:
Dark Prince
Dark Desire
Dark Gold
Dark Magic
Dark Challenge
Dark Fire
Dark Legend
Dark Guardian
Dark Symphony
Dark Melody
Dark Destiny
Dark Secret
Dark Demon
Dark Celebration
Dark Possession
Dark Curse
Dark Slayer
Dark Peril
Dark Predator
Dark Storm
Dark Lycan
Dark Wolf
Dark Blood
Dark Ghost
Dark Promises
Dark Carousel
Dark Legacy
Dark Sentinel
Dark Illusion
Dark Nights
Darkest at Dawn
(omnibus)
Sea Haven series:
Water Bound
Spirit Bound
Air Bound
Earth Bound
Fire Bound
Bound Together
GhostWalker series:
Shadow Game
Mind Game
Night Game
Conspiracy Game
Deadly Game
Predatory Game
Murder Game
Street Game
Ruthless Game
Samurai Game
Viper Game
Spider Game
Power Game
Covert Game
Toxic Game
Lethal Game
Lightning Game
Drake Sisters series:
Oceans of Fire
Dangerous Tides
Safe Harbour
Turbulent Sea
Hidden Currents
Magic Before
Christmas
Leopard People series:
Fever
Burning Wild
Wild Fire
Savage Nature
Leopard’s Prey
Cat’s Lair
Wild Cat
Leopard’s Fury
Leopard’s Blood
Leopard’s Run
Leopard’s Wrath
Leopard’s Rage
The Scarletti Curse
Lair of the Lion
Copyright
Published by Piatkus
ISBN: 978-0-349-42841-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2021 by Christine Feehan
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Piatkus
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
About the Author
Praise for Christine Feehan
Also by Christine Feehan
Copyright
Dedication
For My Readers
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
For Abbie Thomason,
a true inspiration for this story.
Happy Birthday!
FOR MY READERS
Be sure to go to christinefeehan.com/members/ to sign up for my PRIVATE book announcement list and download the free ebook of Dark Desserts, a collection of yummy desserts. Join my community and get firsthand news, enter the book discussions, ask your questions and chat with me. Please feel free to email me at [email protected]. I would love to hear from you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
As with any book, there are so many people to thank. Brian, for competing with me during power hours. Domini, for always editing, no matter how many times I ask her to go over the same book before we send it for additional editing. Thank you to Mehriban (Mary) Schulz for your help, invaluable information and inspiration in this story as well. Denise, for staying up nights and letting me write while she does the brunt of the business I never want to do. Thanks to Denise and Abbie for all the additional information I needed for the locations, and the sheriff and deputies who were willing to talk to me about various crimes scenes. I can’t thank all of you enough.
I combined real and fictional locations in this book. There is no town of Knightly or Twin Devils to climb. I also need to thank Mr. Knightly, the courageous rooster who guards his ladies night and day from all predators, for the inspiration for the name of my town.
I have a great love of the Eastern Sierras. It’s a beautiful place unlike any other.
CHAPTER ONE
Mommy, Daddy’s doing the bad thing again.
The child’s voice very clearly said the words she’d said to her mother when she was four years old. When she was five. When she was seven.
Stella Harrison knew she was dreaming, but she still couldn’t fight her way to the surface. This was the fifth night in a row she’d had the dream, and the camera had widened the lens just a little more, as it had every night, so she saw additional pieces of the hideous nightmare she couldn’t stop. The man fishing. He wore denim bibbed overalls tucked into high olive-colored waders. A blue c
ap was pulled low over his eyes so she couldn’t see his face. There were boulders among the heavy reeds and plants that grew thick along the shore, creeping out into the lake. He’d made his way through the boulders to get out from under the shade of several trees.
She tried to warn him. Yelling. Calling out. Don’t cast. Don’t do it. Every night she saw his line go into the same spot. That little darker area that rippled in rings like a little round pool, so inviting. The fisherman always did the same exact thing, like a programmed robot. Stepping forward, casting, the lure hitting perfectly, sinking into the middle of that inky spot, dropping beneath the water into the depths below.
The camera switched then and she could see beneath the water. It should have been tranquil. Peaceful. Fish swimming. Not the man in the wet suit, waiting for that hook, waiting to tug and enter into some kind of terrible game with the fisherman above the surface. The fight for the fish became a real life-and-death battle, with the fisherman lured farther and farther from the safety of the shore and into the reeds and rocks— closer to the threat that lurked beneath the water.
The mythical fish appeared to be fighting. He seemed big, and well worth the exhausting battle. The fisherman paid less and less attention to his surroundings as he reeled the fish nearer to him and realized he was close to winning his prize.
Without warning, the killer beneath the water rose up right in front of the unsuspecting fisherman, slamming him backward so that his waders couldn’t find traction on the muddy floor of the lake. The fisherman hit his head hard on the boulder behind him and went down. Immediately the killer caught his legs and yanked hard, dragging him under the water and holding him there while the fisherman thrashed and fought, weak from the vicious blow to his head from the boulder.
Stella could only watch, horrified, as the killer calmly finished the scene by dragging the body to the surface for just a few moments so he could pull the bottom of the wader along a boulder. The killer then pulled the fisherman back into the water and tangled him in his own fishing line just below the waterline in the reeds and plants close to the shore. The killer calmly swam off as if nothing had happened.
The lens of the camera snapped shut and everything went black.
STELLA WOKE FIGHTING a tangle of sheets, sweat dripping, hair damp. She sat up abruptly, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. Rubbing, scrubbing her palms down her face over and over. Trying to erase the nightmare. Not again. It had been years. Years. She’d made a new life for herself. New friends. A place. A home.
Now the nightmare was back and recurring. This was the fifth time she’d had it. Five times in a row. It wasn’t like she lived in a big city. Usually if murder was happening, everyone would know, especially in a small town. But this killer was brilliant. He was absolutely brilliant and that was why he was going to get away with it— unless she brought attention to the murders. Even then, she wasn’t certain he would get caught.
She hadn’t realized she was rocking herself back and forth, trying to self-soothe. She forced herself to stop. She hadn’t done that in years either. All those terrible habits she had developed as a child, that came back as a teen, she’d managed to overcome. Now she found they were sneaking back into her life.
There was no going back to sleep even though it was still dark outside. She’d planned to sleep in. She had few days off even though the season was winding down. She owned the Sunrise Lake Resort and had for several years, turning it around from a dismal, failing business to one that not only made large profits but helped out the local businesses as well. She loved the resort, loved everything about it, even the hard work. Especially that. She thrived on solving problems, and those problems changed hourly, keeping her mind constantly active. She needed that, and first managing, and then owning, Sunrise Lake provided it.
When the owner had decided it was time to retire four years earlier, he sold the resort to her. They’d kept the transaction quiet and he continued to stay the first year as if he owned it. Over time, his visits became less and less frequent. She renovated the main house but kept a special cabin for him so he had a place whenever he came back.
The property was beautiful, high in the mountains surrounding a good portion of Sunrise Lake. Knightly, the nearest town, was located an hour’s drive below on a fairly winding highway. The town was small, but that just made the community close-knit.
Stella had made good friends there. She liked living in the backcountry. She felt grounded, connected, alive there. There were all kinds of things to do, from skiing to backpacking to climbing. She fit there. She wasn’t throwing it all away on a few nightmares. That would be so foolish. It was just that the nightmares were so vivid, and now they were recurring, becoming more detailed.
It wasn’t like there was even a body— yet. She shivered. There was going to be. She knew it. She just knew there would be. Somewhere, a fisherman was going to be murdered in the next two days. There would be no way to prove that he was murdered. She had to stop thinking about it or she was going to go insane.
She rolled out of bed and headed straight for her shower. She had overseen the renovations to the main house herself, paying particular attention to the bathroom and kitchen. She loved to cook, and more than anything, after a long day of work, she wanted to know she had plenty of hot water for showers and baths. Her spacious bathroom was a work of art.
The standalone tub was deep, and the shower larger. She liked space in her shower and lots of jets coming at her from all sides since she was often sore from the work she did, or from climbing, skiing, backpacking or any of the other outdoor activities she chose to do. Even dancing with her friends sometimes went on all night. Her shower was perfect for her.
She’d designed the renovations of the main house for two people, although she didn’t believe she would ever have a significant other in her life. She was too closed off. She didn’t share her past with anyone, not even her closest friends. She didn’t really date. The minute anyone started to get too close, she backed off.
The hot water poured over her as she washed her thick blonde hair. Her hair was the one thing she was a little vain about. She didn’t wear it down often, but it was almost silver in color, thanks to her Finnish grandparents on her mother’s side. She had inherited that light, light hair color from them, along with her crystal-blue eyes. The thickness of her hair and the darker lashes were a gift from her father’s side of the family. He was originally from Argentina. Her mother had met him in college in San Diego, where both had attended school. Her father was from a wealthy Argentinian family. Between her two parents, she had been lucky to get amazing genetics.
The hot water helped to dispel the last of the nightmare and the bile in her stomach. Unfortunately, uneasiness persisted. She just wasn’t certain what to do. She’d had those dreams only twice before, and both times reality had ended up being worse than her nightmares. Sighing, she squeezed as much water out of her hair as possible before winding a towel around the mass, and then dried her body off slowly with a warm towel.
Dressing in her favorite pair of jeans and a comfortable tee, she pulled on a sweater and her boots before braiding her hair. She didn’t dry it if she could help it, and since she rarely wore makeup or dressed up when she actually had a day off, she was ready to go in minutes.
“Bailey, I can’t believe you’re still sleeping. Get up, you lazy animal.” She put her hands on her hips and tried to look stern as she regarded the large Airedale still curled up in his dog bed right beside her bed.
Bailey’s eyes opened and he looked at her and then around the room, noting the darkness, as if to say she was out of her mind for getting up so early. Heaving a sigh, the dog got to his feet and followed her through the spacious house to the front door. On the porch, she hesitated at the door. She had stopped locking her door or setting the alarm some time ago, but lately, that crawling feeling down her spine was back. The churning in her stomach started all over again. Bailey waited patiently for her to make up her mind.
Stella knew it was ridiculous to stand in front of her door like a loon. She made decisions all the time. It was just that giving in to her fears was like going backward, and she’d promised herself she would never do that. She stood there indecisively, staring at the thick, carved door for another full minute before making up her mind.
Locking the door, she set the alarm, furious with herself that she’d given in to the nightmares and unrelenting terror that could consume her when she was asleep. Fear crept up on her unawares, and slowly but surely took over until she was caught up in things best left alone. If she was going to actually acknowledge that a murder was going to take place in her beloved Sierras, no one was going to help with investigations this time. The killer would make it look like an accident. She didn’t have dreams unless the murderer was a serial killer, which meant he would kill again. Accidents happened all the time in the Sierras.
There would be no gossip, no whispers or rumors. Before, she’d hated that, the way everywhere she went, murder had been the topic of conversation. Now, if she wanted to stop a killer, she would have to ask the right questions herself. Several of her friends were involved with Search and Rescue. She knew the medical examiner. Maybe she could figure out a reason to ask questions that would make sense and at the same time raise suspicion that the death wasn’t an accident.
Stella deliberately avoided the marina and walked in the dark to reach the family pier. This dock was not one the original owners drove their boat to— they used the marina’s piers for that. This one was private, one to enjoy the sunrises and sunsets, just as she was doing now. The dock had been positioned perfectly to catch the beauty of the mountains mirrored in the lake as the sun rose or set. She never got tired of the view.
She was so familiar with the layout of the grounds that she barely needed the small penlight as she maneuvered the narrow path that took her away from the main buildings, the small grocery store, the bait shop, the collection of cabins and the play areas designated for children and game areas for adults.
The trail took her behind the campsites and RV sites to an even narrower path that led through a pile of boulders and into a heavily forested area. Once through the trees, she was back to the shoreline. It seemed like a ridiculous place to put a pier, but she liked the peace when she needed it most— like now. Tourists didn’t know the way to reach the pier, and that meant precious solitude when she had a few hours— or a day to herself.
Murder at Sunrise Lake Page 1
