“Not soon enough,” he said as he offered her his arm.
She pressed her breast against his bicep. “I’ll make it up to you.”
“Promise?”
“With all my heart. I promise to love you forever.”
His smile melted her heart. “That wasn’t the promise I was looking for, but I’m still going to hold you to it.”
* * *
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Other C.O.R.E. Titles Available by Kristine Mason
Shadow of Perception (Book 2 C.O.R.E. Shadow Trilogy)
Shadow of Vengeance (Book 3 C.O.R.E. Shadow Trilogy)
Ultimate Kill (Book 1 Ultimate C.O.R.E.
Ultimate Fear (Book 2 Ultimate C.O.R.E.)
Ultimate Prey (Book 3 Ultimate C.O.R.E.)
Perfectly Twisted (Book 1 C.O.R.E. Above the Law)
Perfectly Toxic (Book 1 C.O.R.E. Above the Law)
Perfectly Tortured (Book 1 C.O.R.E. Above the Law)
Want more Celeste and John? Check out Celeste Files: Psychic C.O.R.E.
Celeste Files: Unlocked (Book 1 Psychic C.O.R.E.)
Celeste Files: Unjust (Book 2 Psychic C.O.R.E.)
Celeste Files: Unforgotten (Book 3 Psychic C.O.R.E.)
Celeste Files: Poisoned (Book 4 Psychic C.O.R.E.)
About Kristine Mason
Kristine Mason is the bestselling author of the popular romantic suspense trilogies, C.O.R.E. Shadow, Ultimate C.O.R.E. and C.O.R.E. Above the Law. She is currently working on her next C.O.R.E. series, along with more Psychic C.O.R.E. novels.
Although Kristine has published a few contemporary romance novels, she focuses most of her energy on her romantic suspense stories, which she loves for their blend of dark mystery/suspense and sexy romance. She is fascinated with what makes people afraid, and is famous for her depraved villains whose crimes present massive obstacles for her heroes and heroines to overcome.
Kristine has a degree in journalism from The Ohio State University and lives in Northeast Ohio with her husband, four kids, and adorable mutt. If she’s not writing, she’s chauffeuring kids, gardening, or collecting gnomes. Oh, and she makes a mean chocolate chip cookie, too!
THE STORM & THE DARKNESS
by Sarah M. Cradit
* * *
1- ANA
“All I’m saying is, Deliverance was based on a true story.”
For the past hour, Nicolas had been trying to talk her into coming home to New Orleans. Ana rifled through the fridge, looking for something easy to cook.
“Mhm,” she said, agreeing with him as she often did when he was rambling on about something idiotic.
“Anywhere that doesn’t have cell service might as well be Iceland,” Nicolas added.
Ana laughed. “They have cell phones in Iceland.”
He dropped his voice low. “I’m talking about the parts without cell service, Ana. Dark places. Places where you can’t even pronounce the name of the village you’re in because it has sixteen consonants and no vowel, and there are more active volcanoes than people.”
“The more worked up you get, the less you make sense.” Ana sighed. “Anyway, how’s everything at home?”
Nicolas gave an exaggerated yawn through the phone. “Your father is fine, your stepmother is fine, Adrienne is fine, blah blah blah. Would you like to hear about the weather? I could give you the score of the Saints game, if you’re so inclined.”
“You act like those things aren’t important.”
“They’re not,” he said simply. Silence on his end for a moment and then he added, “And if you did care so much about how the family is doing, you wouldn’t have abandoned us.”
“Stop being an ass,” Ana retorted lightly, but she knew he could hear the slight reprimand in her voice. Nicolas had a way of finding the line and stepping over it. Normally she enjoyed the parry, but the circumstances were different now. Of course, Nicolas had no way of knowing that because, for the first time in her life, she had kept something from him. Quarter-life crisis, she told him when she revealed her plans to move to Maine. He had known better, though, seeing right through her lie and allowing her to her keep lying because he loved her. She didn’t know what stopped her from telling him.
That’s a lie. I know why.
She knew it hurt him that she was lying. It hurt her to do it. He was not just her cousin, but also her closest friend. Telling herself he probably kept things from her all the time didn’t help. The thought was hollow because she knew better.
“Have you shown anyone your parlor trick yet?” he asked with a snicker.
“You know I haven’t. They already dislike me. I don’t need them also thinking I’m a freak of nature.”
“Not a freak of nature, darling. Just a Deschanel.”
Ana was not the only Deschanel with a special talent, but she might be the only one who wished she didn’t have one. It was more of a curse than a blessing.
“How did your family escape it then?” she asked. Not only was Nicolas born without special abilities—benign, the other Deschanels liked to call it—his father and four sisters had also been benign.
“Heathens,” he said casually, as if that explained his special status.
“There are plenty of powerful heathens in this family,” she laughed. “But I suppose you do set that bar rather high.”
After dinner, runny chili from an only slightly rusted can, she wandered out to her front porch, which faced Casco Bay, an inlet of the Atlantic Ocean. She shielded her eyes from the vibrant orange hues of the setting sun, and looked out across the sparkling water. From where her house sat, on the eastern shore, she could not see the mainland, but she could make out traces of smaller, barren islands to the east. Alex told her in the winter the view would disappear completely, and the island would be shrouded in blinding fog. She wondered again if she had done the right thing in coming there.
What was my father thinking when he bought this place? It had been a gift to her mother, Catherine, who died giving birth to Ana. Yet another failure. A healer who killed her own mother.
Ana caught the view of a fishing trawler in her peripheral, off to the west. Her gaze shifted from the sunset to the man captaining the vessel. He had come back to shore every day at the same time, all week. Alex told her some of the fishermen told time by the sun. She wondered if Finnegan St. Andrews was one of them.
As Finn eased alongside the small pier, a young boy hopped off and started tethering heavy ropes to a series of poles. Moments later, Finn joined him, and helped to finish securing the boat. Together they carried large metal-framed traps from the boat to the storage shed at the dock’s upper end.
After placing several of the live lobster into an ice chest for the child, Finn watched him scamper up the beach, toward a path leading to the main road.
Finn stretched his strong shoulders as if shrugging off a tremendous burden. As his arms came down, he put his hand over his eyes to shield them from the sun. He caught sight of Ana on her porch, and waved. She waved back.
This was a daily tradition during the seven days she had been on the island. Finn was the closest thing she had to a friend, next to Alex, but they had never actually met. She knew it would be simple enough to introduce herself. Especially since she might not even have to say much, as everyone in town already seemed to know everything about her.
She wouldn’t, though. Waving was safer.
Ana set a bowl of milk on the porch next to an old comforter. Cocoa would not be back until later in the evening, most likely. Ana wondered if the cat had been someone’s pet once, for she immediately warmed to human affection.
Ana never had any pets of her own back home. Growing up, her stepmother, Barbara, had been allergic to almost everything, and then when Ana left home, her focus on education left little room for anything else. After four years in undergraduate studies, she then immersed her
self another four for her double masters. She would have continued as a student forever, if her favorite professor hadn’t offered her a job teaching English at Tulane. It was an unlikely career choice for an introvert, but it made her happy to feel useful.
Then she left. Left the job, her family, her hometown, Nicolas; all of it.
She hadn’t known anything about Summer Island, Maine before her arrival a week earlier. Never had even seen a picture of the old home inherited from her mother. All she knew—and all that mattered—was its distance from New Orleans, both in geography and similarity.
The recorded population of Summer Island was 250, but Alex told her it was actually 204 if you subtracted the families who only had weekend or summer homes. Although it was a diminutive 2.2 square miles in size, the town was relatively self-sufficient, having most of the basics. The key service they seemed to be missing was a medical facility but, surprisingly, there was a veterinary clinic. The vet was one of her neighbors, the lobster fisherman’s brother, in fact, but his standoffish behavior made Ana think twice about striking up a conversation. Meeting friendly new people was hard enough.
Geographically, Summer Island was the furthest human-inhabited island east from the mainland, a sixty-minute ride on the Casco Bay Ferry Lines to Portland. Alex said there were a handful of folks who commuted daily into Portland, but the restaurants, bars, post office, grocery store, and other businesses were all run by islanders.
“It makes it easier in the winter,” he told her. “That way people don’t miss work when it snows.”
“People actually miss work?”
“Aye. The ferries close down for a spell each winter, sometimes more’n once.”
“So how do you get off the island if there is an emergency?”
He shrugged. “Ya don’t.”
Alex didn’t seem the least bit concerned about that potential, but the thought unsettled her. Ana took living in a big city for granted, being near everything she could possibly need. Every bit of information he eagerly shared left her with a dozen more questions, all unasked. She disliked feeling silly, or being perceived as an outsider, and her lack of knowledge caused both.
As caretaker, Alex Whitman knew the house better than anyone. The conditions of his charge had brought him out once a week for the past twenty years, and he had done his job unfailingly. By the time Ana arrived, he had already winterized the house. He was excited to show her how he had covered the exterior faucets, turned off some of the valves, and other cold-weather details Ana had never worried about in New Orleans. His eyes widened and his hands took to the air animatedly as he proudly described the amount of care and caution he put into his job. He was thorough and passionate, and it was clear the old four-bedroom Victorian had been in good hands all these years, despite having no permanent mistress.
His enthusiasm was catching, if not strange. He was so excited about his job, Ana wondered what he did for fun. She smiled and made a mental note to assure her father their money had not gone to waste.
Alex was middle-aged; in his forties or fifties, Ana guessed. There was nothing remarkable about him, from his growing baldness to his nondescript nose, mouth, and chin. She would not have been able to pull him out of a crowd if they were back in New Orleans. The only thing that stood out to Ana were his eyes: they were a radiant blue and flashed with intensity when he talked, as if he channeled every drop of his emotion through them.
“I have overseer duties for yer father’s house and about ten o’er homes on the island. Summer folk. Ya know, they say coastal Maine is the new Cape Cod,” he told her, beaming. There was no end to the things he had to say about the island and the homes he looked after, but about his personal life he would only reveal that he lived alone.
“Actually it’s my house,” she corrected him. Of course they thought it was her father’s. His office paid the bills, and it wasn’t as if Ana had bothered to visit.
“Well, I reckon I stand corrected,” Alex apologized with a blush.
Though he was peculiar, Ana appreciated him, though she didn’t realize how much until after she had been on the island for a week. Her routine had become to venture into town daily, exploring before heading home with groceries. She noticed everyone took the time to wave at each other, or flash a welcoming smile to their fellow islanders. Many stopped to chitchat, and share stories about their children, or the weather. With dark clouds looming on the horizon, everyone’s thoughts turned to the timing of the first big storm. Ana felt as if she was watching one large, ongoing family reunion. Her heart ached for New Orleans, and her own people.
Initially, she tried to embrace her new home with enthusiasm, waving at the same people she saw waving at others. But they did not wave back, and most of them dropped their eyes, pretending not to see her overtures. No matter where she went—the grocery store, the library, restaurants—her reception was the same. The lack of returned smiles, and downturned eyes, left a sinking feeling in her stomach. She was unwelcome here.
When she told Alex about her experiences, a blush rose in his cheeks and his normal animation transformed to a nervous fidget. “Miss Deschanel—”
“Alex, you can call me Ana.” With a laugh, she added, “You might be my only friend here.”
“O’right, Ana then. Forgive me for just coming out and sayin’ it, but everyone knows who ya are.”
“What does that mean?” Her eyes narrowed. It was not possible anyone here knew anything about the reason she had left New Orleans. She had told no one.
“Your father, Miss,” Alex said with a guilty look. “It’s just, being locals and all and not having the money that yer family has… it sometimes rubs people the wrong way when outsiders see their town as a vacation home. It isn’t to say... I mean... that, you know, yer family has done nothing wrong, exactly... oh geez, listen to me...”
He kept rambling and stumbling over his own words to correct himself, but Ana got the general idea. Ana’s father was Augustus Deschanel, of the Deschanel Media Group, and there were very few people who didn’t know that name. He was a local legend in New Orleans for having started his media business on money he earned from a summer job, which was a remarkable accomplishment since he came from a family of millionaires who could have funded it without a second thought. Augustus wanted to do it alone, though, and the business turned into an international empire within ten years. I wanted to prove that the talent brings the money, and not the other way around, he was famous for saying. While the people of New Orleans were proud of Augustus for his humble start and work ethic, the rest of the world saw him as yet another money-hungry businessman. It never occurred to her the islanders might have a derogatory opinion of the distant family who owned the stately house on the bend of Heron Hollow Road.
As Alex showed her how to use the generator—Trust me, you’ll use it, he had said—he assured her he would talk to people and that things would get better. “They’re good folk,” he kept saying. “Truly they mean no harm.”
Ana thought then of Nicolas. Her father. Her students at Tulane. Of late nights in the Quarter, the singing of cicadas, and the sun’s fiery orange rise over the Mississippi River’s banks. The homesickness caused a sinking flutter in her chest as she realized all she had left behind.
How long am I going to do this? When will things be fixed? How will I even know when it is time to go back?
“As long as it takes,” she whispered, and waved at Alex as he drove away.
* * *
2- NICOLAS
It was difficult to startle Nicolas Deschanel; he was not easily unnerved. He had been through more craziness in thirty years than most see in an entire lifetime, and for the most part, remained calm no matter what storm brewed around him.
He lived alone at Ophélie, a stately old family plantation an hour’s drive along the river, west of New Orleans. There was not much left of it anymore. Predominantly, the Big House, a giant Greek Revival monster with columns running roof to base. Beyond the primary residence, mos
t buildings had fallen into disrepair, including the old slave cabins overlooking the miles of oil fields and swampland which backed the property. He’d never lived anywhere else, unless you counted his random, extended disappearances over the years. Even his modest apartment on Chartes was only used as a convenient place to flop after a night of carousing along Bourbon Street.
In counterpoint to its current owner, the plantation was old, and lonely. Nicolas Deschanel was exactly the opposite of old and lonely. Or, at least, that’s what he’d want you to believe.
He was loud, foul-mouthed, and obnoxious, spending most of his time surrounding himself with others like him. He loved the French Quarter, and still spent many nights enjoying its debauchery and enticements. Slender of build, but he could drink as much as someone double his size. Though fair of face, the first thing people noticed when they met the Deschanel heir was his overwhelming personality. At thirty years of age, Nicolas was still, always, the life of the party.
He was unmarried, and never planned to be otherwise. It did not take more than a few nights—a few weeks at most—before he would tire of a girl. Not seeing a need to confine himself to a set type, he had sampled a broad variety of ladies: sexy, smart, dimwitted, adventurous, boring. There always came a point where Nicolas realized the specific charms of the specific girl were no longer so specific or charming.
When Nicolas was not out socializing, partying, or womanizing, he appreciated the quiet and seclusion of Ophélie, not to mention Condoleezza’s talent in the kitchen. Nic’s now deceased father had favored the daughters born with the maid over his true successor, and so breaking with tradition had willed the estate to them. Thwarting her father’s wishes, Adrienne righted that wrong, content to live with her husband, Oz, in the Garden District. She said she didn’t want the same upbringing for her own children, but Nicolas didn’t see what was so bad about it, really.
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