Chasing Shadows (A Shadow Chronicles Novel)

by Christina Moore

  We moved together toward the door and I led him back outside. We stopped next to his truck and I turned to face him. “I have to say, it’s going to take some getting used to, having help around here—having someone else living on the property other than myself. Hopefully you and I will get along famously and there won’t be any problems.”

  Mark grinned as he opened the driver’s side door. “Hopefully, indeed. And I have to admit that I’m looking forward to a nice, quiet life.”

  I laughed and moved away from the vehicle so he could get into it. “You won’t think it so quiet when you’ve got horses neighing, cows mooing, pigs squealing and chickens clucking at odd hours.”

  He flashed me a wry grin as he climbed into the truck and shut the door. “Better than exploding bombs and machine-gun fire,” he said. “Be seeing you, Ms. Caldwell, and thanks.”

  “You’re welcome, Mark,” I replied. “See you later.”

  Mark nodded and started his truck, then with a last nod and a wave, he backed down the driveway. I watched until he had pulled out into the road and drove away, feeling suddenly forlorn without him there. I shook myself after a moment for being silly and turned back for the barn. There was nothing to be morose about, because Mark would be back soon.

  *****

  When he did return about ninety minutes later, I had just finished clearing out the last of the stalls and was preparing to clear out the pigs’ indoor habitat. I stood sharply when I sensed not just one, but two supernatural presences when the red Dodge Ram pulled back into the driveway, its bed loaded with boxes. Mark nodded at me as I walked out of the barn to greet him, my eyes roaming around casually to locate where the other life-force was coming from. When I looked back at my new hired hand he was climbing out of his truck, and was followed by a beautiful black, gray, and white Siberian Husky with ice blue eyes that belied intelligence far beyond the canine norm. When Angel held my gaze, I realized that she was the other supe—Mark’s dog was a shapeshifter.

  I shook my head, wondering just what I had done to deserve all these complications in my life all in one day. I hushed Moe and Cissy as I approached the new arrivals, as they had begun barking madly at Angel. With a quick flick of her eyes at me, she trotted over to the kennel and stuck her nose through the fence so my Chihuahuas could smell her.

  “Beautiful dog,” I said to Mark. “How long have you had her?”

  He glanced at the dogs’ getting-to-know-you session. “I’ve had Angel since I came home. My mother got her for me, thought I could use the companionship.”

  I again wondered briefly about his mother, but dismissed the thought quickly as I had more pressing matters on my mind. “She get her from a shelter or a breeder?”

  “Actually, Mom said she started wandering the neighborhood right before I got back from Afghanistan. Nobody was claiming her, so she took her in. Not unusual, though, ‘cause we’ve always had a dog, and Mom’s a sucker for a pretty face.”

  Just then Angel turned away from Moe and Cissy and walked back over to stand at Mark’s side, nosing his leg until he bent to scratch her behind the ears. I couldn’t help thinking, Yeah, that’s right—keep playing the game, sister, wondering just what in the world her game actually was. I definitely meant to find out.

  “You know, I’ve always thought dogs were among the most intelligent of domestic animals,” I said lightly. “They can be taught to do so many things, and their eyes are so expressive. I swear sometimes that Moe and Cissy are trying to talk to me when they look at me. Makes me wish they really could talk to me, so I would know what they were thinking.”

  Angel looked up at me then, and I knew that she was aware I was trying to convey the message that I wanted to talk to her—in human form—as soon as it was feasible. As my bondmate, Mark’s safety and well-being were of my utmost concern, and if there was something going on with this shapeshifter, I needed to know what it was and what the hell it had to do with Mark.

  I offered to help Mark haul his belongings up to the apartment and he accepted with a smile. We made small talk as we made several trips back and forth; he asked me about my dogs and the other animals on the farm, mentioning that he recognized Herugrim’s name from The Lord of the Rings. I told him that all four of my horses had names from Tolkien’s masterpiece because he’d actually modeled the elves loosely around the ancient Celts, and since Herugrim’s great-grandsire was named Celtic Thunder I was simply keeping up with tradition…sort of. The sire and dam I currently had were named after swords and their twin sons were named after horses from the trilogy.

  “Actually, this was Hadhafang’s last year for breeding,” I informed him as we were carrying the last of the boxes up. “She’s twenty now and to have any more would be too much stress on her body.”

  “You gonna keep her?” Mark asked, setting his box down and taking the one I carried from me.

  “I’ve actually been considering donating her to a children’s farm. There’s a special one in Connecticut that caters to children with serious illnesses,” I said. “She can be ridden for another few years and the children would get so much enjoyment out of her. She’s got the perfect temperament to be around children.”

  “That’s real nice of you,” Mark commented. “What about the others?”

  I shrugged. “Hasufeld I’m selling in the spring, and Herugrim I’m considering selling to another breeder who wants to breed champions of his own, so that Brego can take his place here. Means I’ll have to get me another good mare, but that won’t be too difficult.” With a sigh, I reluctantly fished the apartment key from my pocket and handed it to him, then turned for the door. “I’ll leave you to get settled, since there’s still a little more to get done in the barn.”

  “Hey, when do I get started? Tomorrow?”

  I nodded. “Up at seven to feed and water. The cows and horses get turned out at nine, pigs let out into their pen and chickens into theirs at the same time, all get brought in at dusk. Water and food in the troughs once the animals are inside. The horses get a good brushing each night. The pigs’ outdoor pen is cleared of manure every morning before they’re let out, and all the indoor stalls are cleared after the animals are let out. The chicken coop I also clean daily after the birds are outside. Eggs are collected each morning after the chickens are let out for the day—keeps ‘em from pecking at you when you pick up their eggs. Stalls are completely mucked once a week, and so is the birdhouse. Every other day, I ride and check the fences. And one day next week I’m going to be harvesting my last cut of hay. Friday I’ll also be heading to Tractor Supply for feed.”

  Mark nodded as I spoke. “Sounds like tomorrow’s gonna be a busy day.”

  “Indeed it will, Mark,” I said, opening the door. “Better get plenty of sleep.”

  I descended the stairs and went back to work, trying to keep my mind off of the man walking around above my head. I kept reminding myself that there was plenty of time to get to know one another and sort out the truth, but I couldn’t help wondering about his origins, whether or not he knew he was different, and why in the world he had a shapeshifter for a pet. Thinking about Angel made me wonder what her agenda was, why she was pretending to be this docile canine when she was definitely much more than that. What was she up to?

  As if responding to my thoughts, Angel walked up to the open gate of the pigpen and sat on her haunches, watching me. I stopped and leaned on the pitchfork as I returned the dog’s steady gaze.

  “Why are you here?” I murmured aloud. “Does it have something to do with Mark being a dhunphyr?”

  Though I had been mostly speaking to myself, Angel had still heard me, and at my last she nodded slowly. I felt my eyes widen a fraction. Not because she had understood me—I knew full well shapeshifters could understand human speech in animal form—but because she had responded at all. I stood straighter as I looked down on her.

  “You’ve known the whole time, haven’t you?” Another nod. “We’re gonna talk, Angel, or whatever your name is. B
ecause that man up there is important to me, and I won’t have him harmed, is that understood? If whatever you’re about is about hurting him, in any way, make no mistake—you will regret it.”

  Back to Top

  Three

  Angel barked once and stood, turning abruptly and darting out of the pen. She ran for the open tack room door and I could hear her padding up the stairs, where she scratched on the door to the apartment and Mark let her in a moment later. I resisted the urge to follow her, knowing that I had no real excuse for going back up right now.

  With a groan, I set about finishing my task, as I still had the chicken coop to clean. As I worked, my mind was abuzz with thoughts about Mark and what Angel was really up to, as well as how I needed to find a way to get out of tracking down my alter ego or falsify my attempts to find her, because I certainly couldn’t tell Diarmid that I was the one writing the books.

  Or could I, I wondered? Despite the fact that I had disowned him, and eschewed the fact that I was half vampire by having as little as possible to do with anyone from that world, the fact remained that Diarmid Mackenna was my father, and he loved me…as much as a sociopathic, egomaniacal murderer loves anyone. He valued me above his other “children” because I was of his own flesh and blood, and even after I had told him how much I hated him, he still professed to love me. I was still his favorite even though I refused to return his calls or his letters, even though the only time I saw him was when he forced me to by showing up at my door.

  I’d run out of my Coming of Age ceremony in a fit of rage because it was either leave or kill the bastard, and I knew there was no way I could win a fight against him—and believe me, I’d wanted to try. But I’m no fool. At the time he’d already been alive for over five hundred years and I was only fifty, and even though many years had passed since then, his being over half a millennium older than I meant he would be extremely difficult for me to kill. Plus, he was my father, and I don’t think that even in the grip of righteous anger I could have committed patricide.

  I’d sworn off the vampire world and I’d sworn off human blood, and for twenty years I roamed the world seeking peace—and an escape from the horror that had been revealed to me. Diarmid had followed, had attempted to convince me of his sorrow and his regret. I believed not a word. After I bought my land and set up my farm in 1846, once he saw the lifestyle I was planning to lead he backed off, but he still sent me a gift every year on my birthday and at Christmas, and he would pop up for a visit on occasion—though I hadn’t actually set eyes on my father in almost two years. I had reason to wonder whether he would actually strike at me for being “the betrayer of vampire kind” when I supposedly meant so much to him.

  Then again, Diarmid was always trying to make himself look good to the Ancients. I could only hope that if he ever found out, his love for me (as twisted as it was) was stronger than his ambition to be one of them.

  By the time I finished clearing the indoor pig pen and had cleaned out the chicken coop, it was starting to get dark. Normally I’d have finished long before now, but Vangie and Mark (especially the latter) had proven to be major distractions. I quickly shooed the chickens into the coop for the night, making sure they had water and food inside before latching the door. I then turned my attention to the pigs, and was just getting the last of them inside when Mark came down from his apartment, followed closely by Angel. I tried not to let my wariness of the dog show on my face, and in truth it wasn’t all that difficult: One look at Mark and I found myself smiling.

  I also tried to ignore the singing of my nerves as he drew nearer, but that task wasn’t as easy. “Are you, uh, getting yourself settled in alright up there?” I asked.

  Mark smiled at me. “Yeah, getting there, except I forgot to stop and buy some food. I got nothin’ to eat up there and I’m kinda starving.”

  “I’m hungry myself,” I admitted as I closed the gate that let the pigs outside and then eased myself out of their indoor pen. “But I’ve got cows and horses to get in yet. I kind of got behind schedule today.”

  Mark glanced out at the slowly darkening sky. “Well since I’m probably to blame for that, why don’t you let me help you—I gotta learn how to round ‘em up anyway, right?”

  I grinned. “Alright, why don’t you? But I think your dog should stay here in the barn. I’m afraid a strange dog might frighten the horses, and Angus is touchy enough without the added anxiety.”

  His eyebrows rose. “Angus?”

  I nodded. “My bull,” I said. “All the cattle are Holsteins because they make the best dairy cows. I harvest the girls’ milk when they’ve calved and it lasts me a long while. But bulls of all cattle breeds are notoriously temperamental. He’s not going to like having a stranger out in the pasture as it is, and the dog would just make it worse.”

  Mark nodded and we headed out into the paddock, with Angel watching from the open doorway of the barn, where he had told her to stay. We came to the first pasture where the horses were and though they approached warily after I whistled, once they were near and had had a chance to smell Mark, they came quietly along, the two of us taking a halter in each hand and leading the four of them back to the barn. After stowing each away in their stall we made for the second pasture, and I kept my eye on Angus as I walked slowly across the grass to the first of the cows. Mark followed, also keeping his eye on the bull as he approached another. Again we both took a halter in each hand, guiding four of the cows back to their home.

  As we were making our last trip into the pasture, Mark asked me, “Should I go for the cow or the bull?”

  I looked over at Angus as we approached the gate of the second pasture. Now that four of his girls were gone he was a little more alert, and he lumbered over to the remaining cow’s side as we entered his domain, his eyes on Mark.

  “Cow,” I said. “But let me take Angus’ halter first. We’re gonna let him smell your hand just like the others, like the horses.”

  “You’re the boss,” Mark replied quietly, his eyes on Angus. I shook my head as it occurred to me to think that they were having a typical testosterone-induced staring contest, each wondering which man would look away first.

  I approached the bull as slowly as I always did with my hands in plain sight, my voice low and soothing as I spoke to him. His gaze flickered between me and Mark and he stamped his feet a few times, but thankfully Angus didn’t make any aggressive moves. I reached him and put my hand on his halter, still talking soothingly, as I gestured for Mark to approach.

  My new employee came over slowly, and out of the corner of my eye I noticed he was mimicking my hands-out approach. “Hey there, Angus,” Mark said when he reached my side.

  “Give me your hand,” I said, and with one hand on the bull’s halter, I reached for Mark’s and held it under Angus’ nose. “Always approach Angus slowly—if you run at him he may believe you’re an aggressor and he’ll most likely charge. Obviously not a situation you want to be in. Talk to him in a calm voice when you come close and try not to show any fear. If you’re around long enough he’ll get used to you, but it’s always wise to be cautious around a bull.”

  “I’m a Marine, Ms. Caldwell,” Mark said as he carefully turned his hand to scratch Angus lightly on the nose. “Fear is not a word in my vocabulary.”

  “Hmph,” was my only reply. I then gestured for him to take the cow’s halter so we could get the animals inside.

  Once the last of the animals were tucked away in their stalls and I had made sure—with Mark’s help—that they all had food and water, I turned to him and said, “Thank you for your help.”

  He smiled. “You’re welcome. But didn’t you say something about brushing them down once they were inside?”

  “Well, aren’t you an avid listener?” I mused. “Yes, Mr. Singleton, indeed I did. Why don’t we do that, and then we can close up for the night and each of us get our dinner.”

  I went into the tack room and retrieved two curry brushes. When I came out, I tossed one
to Mark as I walked toward Hasufeld’s stall. He caught the brush and walked over to Brego’s, who was right next to his brother. The two yearlings were a rare pair of twins, though they were fraternal as most equine twins were. After watching me work for a moment or two, Mark started running the comb along the young stallion’s neck.

  “By the way,” Mark said, “I was wondering…you want to have dinner with me? I wouldn’t mind buying the boss some dinner my first night on the job.”

  I was so surprised by the offer that for a moment I went still, then found myself grinning foolishly. To hide it, I made sure to keep my face turned away as I moved on to Hadhafang.

  “Sure, I’d like to have dinner together. But why don’t you just let me cook something?” I offered. “I have fresh eggs from the chickens and I promise I make a mean omelet.”

  Chancing a glance in his direction, I found him with his eyes on me, his expression curious—challenging even.

  “Is that so?” he mused, patting Brego’s neck and then moving over to Herugrim. He looked the aging stallion in the eyes before he set to work with the brush. When he had finished he leaned against the gate to Herugrim’s stall and crossed his arms over his chest. “I do like a good omelet, Ms. Caldwell, but no one’s has ever compared to my mother’s. Be hard to even come close to that. Top it? Not a chance.”

  “Well now, Mr. Singleton, I do think them are fightin’ words,” I said casually as I gave Hadhafang a pat on the neck and stepped out of her stall, adding silently, Guess no one ever told you never to challenge a vampire, kid.

  After returning the brushes to the tack room, I closed the back doors of the barn. I then walked with Mark to the front end of the barn and after turning the lights off, shut those doors as well. Angel followed us as she had been throughout the last half hour or so, watching and staying out of the way—though a couple of times she had come close and Mark had had to shoo her away. This was all for the sake of keeping up appearances, of course. She had to keep acting like a dog would act or Mark would get suspicious. I suppose I had to give her points for the incredible performance—after all, she’d been at this for a year, so she had to have the act down pat to fool a trained soldier.