Reach for You

by Pat Esden

  Look for me at midnight. When the darkness and Devil’s hour make you fear, open your eyes to the flooding moonlight and the sting of the stars. For it is then, I reach for you, come to you. Visit you in your bed.

  —Malphic, Warlord of Blackspire

  DON’T MISS

  A Hold on Me

  Annie Freemont grew up on the road, immersed in the romance of rare things, cultivating an eye for artifacts and a spirit for bargaining. It’s a freewheeling life she loves and plans to continue—until her dad’s illness forces her to return to Moonhill, their ancestral home on the coast of Maine. There she meets Chase, the dangerously seductive young groundskeeper. With his dark good looks and powerful presence, Chase has an air of mystery that Annie is irresistibly drawn to. But she also senses that behind his penetrating eyes are secrets she can’t even begin to imagine. Secrets that hold the key to the past, to Annie’s own longings—and to all of their futures . . .

  Beyond Your Touch

  Annie Freemont knows this isn’t the right time to get involved with a man like Chase. After years of distrust, she’s finally drawing close to her estranged family, and he’s an employee on their estate in Maine. But there’s something about the enigmatic Chase that she can’t resist. And she’s not the only woman. Annie fears a seductive stranger who is key to safely freeing her mother is also obsessed with him. As plans transform into action and time for a treacherous journey into a strange world draws near, every move Annie makes will test the one bond she’s trusted with her secrets, her desires—and her heart.

  Available where books are sold.

  Enjoy the following excerpt from

  A Hold on Me

  CHAPTER 1

  There are things darker than night, darker than the souls of wicked men or a woman of unchained passions. Believe me, for I have known them well.

  —Josette Savoy Abrams

  Beach Rose House, Bar Harbor, Maine

  Most people went to church to save their souls, but not Dad and I. We went there to see the priest about treasure.

  It was a cold day in February and the church was an abandoned stone chapel on a back road near our home in Vermont. With its gloomy stained-glass windows and carvings of gargoyles under its sagging eaves, the chapel was exactly the kind of place where antique pickers like Dad and me could find the weird treasures and the gothic furniture our customers loved to buy. And, as luck would have it, the bishop had given the local priest permission to sell the entire contents as he saw fit.

  The priest glanced once more at the grungy pews and the statue of St. Anthony with its chipped fingers and peeling paint. “Now that you’ve seen everything, are you still interested?”

  Dad gave my shoulder a squeeze. “What do you think, Annie?”

  “Ah—” I let my voice crack as if my jitteriness were nerves instead of excitement, then I met the priest’s eyes. “One price for everything, right?”

  “For all the contents. That doesn’t include anything that’s part of the structure. No windows, attached light fixtures, doors, none of those sorts of things.” His tone left no room for debate.

  Dad looked down, scratching his elbow while I took a scrap of paper and a pen from the turned-up sleeve of my bulky sweater. I jotted down the offer he and I had covertly agreed on when the priest had turned away for a moment, then handed it to the priest.

  The priest’s brow furrowed as he studied the paper. He ran a finger under his collar, cleared his throat, and finally glanced at Dad. “Perhaps you should look at this before we agree?”

  Dad waved off his suggestion. “This was her idea. The offer is hers to make.”

  “All right, then,” the priest said. “We have a deal.”

  I counted out a thin stack of hundreds and gave them to him. In turn, he passed Dad the church keys, all neatly labeled. The truth was, he wasn’t the sort of person who would have ever believed a twenty-year-old girl with ripped jeans and a stud in her nose could know the first thing about valuing antiques—as Dad and I had hoped.

  “Sorry I can’t stay and help,” he said, “but I have to get back to St. Mary’s in time for Mass. When you’re finished taking what you want, leave the keys in the box outside the door. I hope you find enough to make this worth your effort.”

  “I hope so too,” Dad said, without cracking a smile. But, as soon as the priest went out the front door, he did a little victory dance and gave me a kiss on the cheek. “Perfectly played. If I’d given him an offer that low, he’d have thought I was up to something for sure.”

  Every inch of me tingled with anticipation. “So, where do you want to begin?” I asked.

  Dad jangled the keys. “It appears the priest neglected to give us one very specific key. The one to the only room he didn’t take us into or even mention. I don’t know about you, but that makes me curious.”

  “The sacristy?” I said.

  “That would be the one. Did you notice how he fidgeted with his collar, too?”

  “I figured he thought everything was junk—that he was nervous I’d offered too much and that you’d back out.”

  “That’s possible. But don’t ever underestimate your opponent. There could be something else behind his uneasiness. Perhaps he hid something in the sacristy, something of value he hoped the diocese would forget. Priests are men, after all. They come in all shades of honesty, like the rest of us.” He stroked his chin, a sure sign that he was about to launch into one of his home-brewed tales. “You remember the story about my wicked great-uncle Harmon and the Canary Island sirens? He always claimed to be a spiritual man, forthright and faithful to his wife. . . .”

  I loved listening to Dad’s crazy stories. But, as he began an abridged version of a tale that easily could have gone on for an hour, the word faithful sent my mind veering in a different direction—to me and Taj and a matinee of Romeo and Juliet, to his practiced fingers slipping under my skirt, up my inner thighs. The rush of desire. His words hot and moist against my neck: “Oh, baby, c’mon. I want you so bad.”

  Men come in all shades of honesty for sure.

  Shoving Taj from my mind, I smiled at Dad and cut him off. “I’m going to run out to the car and get the tool bag.”

  “Don’t forget the thermos and flask,” he called after me. Dad most always kept a thermos filled with coffee in our ’68 Mercedes. He loved his cup of joe and it had become our tradition to toast successful deals by lacing a cup with a bit of brandy from his flask.

  When I returned from the car, I found Dad crouched in front of the sacristy door, studying the keyhole. I set the flask and thermos on a pew, got the screwdriver and stiff wire he used for picking locks out of the tool bag, and gave them to him.

  As I watched him work, sunlight crept in through the stained-glass window behind us, smearing the back of his old leather flight jacket with purple and blue. He glanced over his shoulder at me, the colored light now bruising his face. His eyes glistened with excitement. “What do you think we’ll find inside—hidden treasure or a glorified broom closet?”

  I hugged myself against a sudden chill. Either way the sacristy was bound to be windowless and dark, as black as a cellar or the space under a bed, black like death. I forced a smile. “Treasure,” I said, because I really did hope we’d find something valuable.

  “Well, we’ll soon know for sure.” Dad turned back to his work.

  He pivoted the screwdriver and the lock clicked. Throwing me a triumphant grin, he reached for the latch, readying to open the door—

  Suddenly, a thin, man-shaped shadow appeared on the wall next to the door, slithered toward Dad, and vanished.

  I whirled around.

  “What the heck?” I said, scouring the pews and aisles to make sure the priest hadn’t returned. But there was no one in the church besides us. No one who could have caused the shadow. I turned back toward Dad. “I could have sworn—”

  My voice died in my throat.

  Dad was staring at me in a way I’d never seen him do before,
his eyes dark and vacant.

  I took a step back. “Dad?”

  His tongue grazed his lips as if he was lost in thought.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  He didn’t say a word. He just kept staring at me.

  Trembling, I lowered my gaze to avoid his deadpan eyes. Dad’s expression was exactly how he described the faces of the sleepwalkers in the creepiest of all the stories he’d ever made up. But this wasn’t one of his tales. This was real. And I didn’t have the faintest idea what I should do.

  My stomach twitched from nerves as I made myself glance up. I couldn’t just pretend nothing was wrong. I had to do something.

  To my surprise, he appeared normal. The familiar sparkle had returned to his eyes, and he was grinning.

  He chuckled. “What’s wrong with you? You look like you’ve seen the Devil.”

  Totally baffled by his transformations, I could only gape.

  He shrugged halfheartedly like he was done trying to figure out what was going on with me, then cocked his head at the sacristy door. “Be a good girl and lend me that flashlight of yours, so we can see what we’ve got in here.”

  “Uh—sure.” My voice stuttered a little as I fished my flashlight out of my jeans hip pocket and handed it to him.

  He gave me a quick wink, then opened the door and headed into the sacristy.

  As I watched him disappear into the pitch-black room, I shook my head. What was I thinking? Slithering shadows. Sleepwalkers. That was ridiculous. There was nothing wrong with Dad. It was me. Me and my childish fear of the dark. Plus, I was overtired and had stupidly got myself worked up about Taj again. I hadn’t eaten all day and had drunk way too many coffees; enough to keep me awake for a week. No wonder I was imagining things.

  Giving myself a mental shake, I inched closer to the door.

  Dad’s voice echoed out. “Broken cups and napkins.” He laughed. “Not even enough for a bad garage sale.”

  I blew out a relieved breath.

  There was definitely nothing wrong with Dad.

  © Jeff Weeks Photography

  PAT ESDEN would love to say she spent her childhood in intellectual pursuits. The truth is she was fonder of exploring abandoned houses and old cemeteries. When not out on her own adventures, she can be found in her northern Vermont home writing stories about brave, smart women and the men who capture their hearts. An antique-dealing florist by trade, she’s also a member of Science Fiction & Fantasy Writers of America, Romance Writers of America, and the League of Vermont Writers. Her short stories have appeared in a number of publications, including Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show, the Mythopoeic Society’s Mythic Circle literary magazine, and George H. Scithers’s anthology Cat Tales.

  You can find Pat online at:

  PatEsden.com

  Facebook.com/PatEsdenAuthor

  Twitter @PatEsden

  PatEsden.blogspot.com