Shadow Lover

by Anne Stuart

  “Even when they read trash?” Warren snapped.

  Carolyn drained her wineglass. She had a splitting headache, but there was no way she was leaving Sally alone without her protection. Warren had a tendency to upset her, and the unexpected stimulant of her prodigal son would no doubt take its toll as well. She’d been going downhill steadily since last fall—Carolyn dreaded the thought that something might accelerate the inevitable process.

  “Depends on what you define as trash, Uncle,” Alex said smoothly. “I like reading horror novels, myself.”

  “You would,” Carolyn muttered. Indeed, the teenage Alex had been reading Stephen King when he disappeared. Once more, the stranger had done his homework.

  “Tell me, Alex, do you have any plans now that you’ve finally returned to the bosom of your family?” Warren demanded.

  “Warren!” Sally’s voice held a distinct warning note.

  “I’m not quizzing him about his past,” her brother said impatiently. “Though I admit I’m curious. There’s no reason not to ask him what he plans to do now, is there?”

  “He doesn’t have to answer anything he doesn’t want to. It’s wonderful just to have him back.”

  Alex met Carolyn’s eyes across the table, between the bickering siblings. The light was a soft glow of candlelight, and for a moment she let herself be drawn in by the sheer intensity of his eyes, the rich, disturbing promise of his mouth. “Are they always like this?” he asked with just the right note of amusement.

  Carolyn was not amused. “Don’t you remember?”

  He rose, towering over the table and stretching with lazy, unconscious grace. No true MacDowell would ever stretch, Carolyn thought, surreptitiously moving her cramped muscles. They were all too well-bred, too carefully instilled with polite behavior.

  “They used to argue about me,” he said.

  “They still do.”

  Sally looked up mid-tirade, her faded eyes troubled. “I’m sorry, darling. You shouldn’t have to listen to us two old buzzards fighting on your first night back.”

  “Don’t call me old,” Warren snapped. “You’re ten years older than I am.”

  “And dying to boot,” Sally snapped back. “You’re old, I’m antique.” She wheeled her chair away from the table. “You go along now, the pair of you. And Carolyn, send Mrs. Hathaway in to help me, would you? I’m quite tired.”

  “You don’t need the nurse tonight,” Carolyn protested. “I can help you—”

  “I wouldn’t think of it, dearest,” Sally said fondly. “What’s the use of having a private nurse on call if I don’t use her? Besides, I’m having a bit of . . . discomfort. She can give me a shot.”

  Sally never admitted to pain. A MacDowell never did. She probably referred to her long, hard labor to bring forth the two-week-overdue Alexander MacDowell as a slight twinge. According to family legend, she’d spent two weeks in a private hospital, refusing all visitors until she emerged with her infant son.

  “If that’s what you want,” Carolyn said reluctantly, knowing when she was beaten. She wouldn’t stay with Sally until she slept, but no force on this earth could make her spend the rest of the evening in Alex’s company. “I’m tired as well. If you don’t mind, I’ll just head for bed.”

  “Carolyn, you can’t leave Alex alone on his first night back!” Sally protested.

  “Warren’s here.” It sounded rude, almost a refusal, and Carolyn had never refused Sally any of the small requests she’d made of her over the years.

  “You and I both know that Warren is a pest who’ll start cross-examining Alex the moment he gets a chance. Now, don’t glare at me, Warren, I know you can hear me, and I have no qualms saying it to your face. Carolyn will keep you both company and make sure you leave Alex alone.”

  “You want her to spy on me, is that it?” Warren demanded huffily.

  “I want you to behave yourself,” Sally said, her voice fading. “I just wish I felt well enough to throw a party—”

  Carolyn felt sick horror fill her at the very thought. “Don’t worry about parties, Aunt Sally,” she said swiftly. “Just concentrate on getting better.”

  “Don’t be absurd, child. I’m not going to get any better and we both know it.”

  “I don’t know any such thing—”

  “Keep your fantasies if it makes you feel better,” Sally said with a weak wave of her hand. “At least Alex can face the truth.”

  It shouldn’t have hurt, Carolyn thought, allowing no expression to cross her face. She’d worked that all out years ago. She stood quite still as the imposter moved past her to take Sally’s hand in his strong, tanned one. Sally loved her, she knew that. There was no reason to feel bereft, abandoned.

  “Get some rest, Mother,” the liar said softly, leaning down to kiss her cheek. “I’ll be here in the morning.”

  Sally sighed happily. “You don’t know how long I’ve wanted to hear someone call me Mother again. Good night, dearest.” She reached up and touched his face with a gentle caress.

  And Carolyn slipped quietly out the door.

  IT WAS A STILL, cold night, with the quarter moon hanging low in the sky. In a few days the unnatural cold would lift, the heavy wet snowfall would melt away into nothingness, and spring could once more begin its slow assault on the bleak, frozen fields of Vermont.

  But for now all was an icy silence, spreading out over the snow-shrouded landscape. The tree limbs were black against the whiteness, and in the distance the mountains hovered over them, an ancient, protective presence.

  Carolyn moved behind the house, her down coat bundled tightly around her as she walked along the neatly shoveled paths. Her booted feet made soft, crunching noises on the cold snow, and somewhere in the distance she could hear an owl cry. There were creatures out there in the darkness, wild ones who lived their lives with stunning simplicity and freedom. Someday that freedom would be hers.

  She’d never been fool enough to think she’d been free during her Boston years. Sally was the only mother she’d ever known, a calm, dispassionate figure who had always been there. If there hadn’t been much outward affection or involvement, at least Carolyn had felt Sally’s caring and stability.

  And she’d felt that caring over the years and the miles.

  She owed Sally. Not on a physical level—that debt had been paid. She owed her emotionally, for giving her someone to belong to. No one else among the mighty MacDowells had even noticed the quiet girl child growing up in tempestuous Alexander’s wake, but Sally had noticed, and watched over her, and loved her in her own way.

  And Carolyn owed her everything in return. For a few months she could put her life on hold. For a few months she could stay.

  Until Sally died.

  All the denial in the world wouldn’t change what would happen—Carolyn had learned that lesson long ago. She would mourn her deeply, but finally her life would be her own.

  She would even have money. Nothing like the huge sums that the real MacDowells would inherit. Nothing like the kind of money the imposter would be trying to con out of a dying old lady.

  It didn’t matter. It would help reclaim her tentative independence. Despite her affection for the extended MacDowell family, even including stuffy Uncle Warren, Aunt Patsy, and her diverse offspring, once Sally died her ties would be severed. Her debt of loyalty and love would be paid, and she would be completely, gloriously free.

  She supposed she should feel guilty about that, about the longing for freedom, but she couldn’t. If she could change things, give years off her life to keep Sally happy and healthy she would gladly do so. But God didn’t make those kinds of bargains, and Sally was dying. And Carolyn would be gone.

  She could see her breath in the night air, soft puffs of vapor spilling out, as she made her way down the path to the frozen pond. She used to
skate there, years ago, when the MacDowells had come to Vermont each Christmas. Before she had brought Sally here to die. She hadn’t skated in years, but Ruben saw to it that the surface was always cleared of snow. It was smooth and clean now, this last dumping already pushed to one side if anyone was silly enough to want to skate.

  Carolyn stood on the edge of the ice, staring out across the glassy surface, a sudden absurd urge rushing through her. She didn’t even own a pair of skates, though a pair would be produced almost immediately if she expressed an interest.

  She stepped out onto the ice gingerly, the tread on her flat boots keeping her from slipping. The ice was almost a foot thick, and she tried to push along against it, but her boots gave her too much traction.

  She moved to the center of the pond, gathering the stillness about her. It had been years since she’d tried to skate. It was so long ago she couldn’t even remember when she’d last worn skates.

  Yes, she could. Christmas, twenty-two years ago, when she’d been nine years old. She’d gotten new skates, and a surprisingly patient Alex had brought her out to try them. She should have known better than to trust him. She’d ended the day with a fractured wrist, courtesy of Alex’s attempts to teach her the niceties of ice hockey, and she’d never picked up her skates again.

  Even now, she could remember the cool, taunting expression on Alex’s face as Sally had blistered him, then forgiven him, as she always had. But somehow, in her memory, Alex’s face looked exactly like his imposter.

  “Done much skating lately, Carolyn?”

  His voice came across the ice on a whisper of smoke. She barely moved. She knew he would come, she realized belatedly. She knew he would follow her.

  She lifted her head to look at him across the expanse of ice and snow. He was standing at the edge of the woods, silhouetted in the moonlight, and he was dressed lightly, in a thin jacket and no gloves. He didn’t look cold.

  She huddled deeper in her down coat. “Not for twenty years,” she said.

  “You should try it again,” he said. “Maybe I’ll give you another lesson.”

  He’d been told about that, had he? She shouldn’t be surprised. “I don’t think I need any lessons from you about anything.”

  “Sure you do,” he said gently. “You need lessons in not giving a damn about anybody but yourself. You need lessons in telling people you don’t like to fuck off. You need lessons in fighting back instead of being used.”

  “Fuck off.”

  She could see his alarmingly sensuous mouth curve in a wry smile. “So maybe you don’t need lessons in that. How about learning how to stop caring? They’ll hurt you, Carolyn. Even an outsider can see that.”

  “You admit you’re an outsider?”

  “I haven’t been here in eighteen years. That hardly makes me intimate with the workings of this household. I can tell you one thing, though. You haven’t changed.”

  “Haven’t I?” she said, not moving from her spot in the center of the ice.

  He was coming toward her. His running shoes were covered with snow, and he skidded a bit on the slick ice. He seemed to enjoy it. “You’re still the little girl with her nose pressed up against the storefront window,” he said, his voice cool and unfeeling like the hard ice beneath her feet. “You still want what you can’t have.”

  He was coming too close to her, but she stood her ground, refusing to back away. “And what is it I can’t have?”

  “A real family.”

  She took a sharp intake of breath. “Is the ability to hurt people part of being a con man?” she said. “Or is it just an added gift? I’m afraid you’ve been misinformed—I have a real family. Sally.”

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Carolyn,” he said. “I never have. Are you afraid to face the truth? You never were before.”

  “I’d say your acquaintance with the truth is superficial indeed.”

  “You wound me,” he protested with mock solemnity.

  “I would sell my soul,” she said meditatively, “for the ice to crack beneath you.”

  His smile was wintry bright. “Not a good way to kill someone, I’m afraid. Someone might hear my calls for help. And chances are, you’d fall in as well.”

  “It might be worth it,” she said.

  “You want me dead?” There seemed more than casual interest in his question.

  “I want you gone where you can’t cause any more harm,” she said.

  “And you’re willing to kill me to ensure that?”

  She sighed. “Don’t flatter yourself. I need a better motive for murder.”

  She started past him, suddenly claustrophobic. He moved, blocking her way, as somehow she knew he would. “Maybe I could convince you I am who I say I am.”

  “And maybe pigs will fly, but I don’t expect either thing to happen in the near future. May I go?”

  “Am I stopping you?” He was standing uncomfortably close, but his arms were crossed over his chest, and he made no move to touch her.

  The night was bitter, and she could hardly keep from shivering inside the protecting folds of the down coat. He stood there, barely dressed, seemingly comfortable.

  “Aren’t you cold?” she asked suddenly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” he said. “I learned how to take care of myself more than eighteen years ago.”

  And on that point, at least, she believed him.

  Chapter Four

  THE DREAM CAME again that night, when it hadn’t come to her for years. She’d thought, hoped, it had gone forever, but she should have realized that the return of Alexander MacDowell would trigger her recurring nightmares and the ever-shifting memory of the night he died.

  She’d lost the ability to separate truth from her dreams. There had been a time in her early twenties, when she’d been in her final year at Bennington and the nightmares had grown to unmanageable levels, that she’d finally sought help. The therapist had suggested she write down her dreams, and then write down everything she remembered from that night, and compare the two. The effort had proven a dismal failure. She had gotten to the point where she doubted everything that she ought to remember—where reality, memory, and nightmares all blended into one psychedelic swirl. Finally she’d just learned to let go of it, refusing to think about it all. There was no way she could make sense of it, no way she could ever learn the truth of what happened that night. She wasn’t even sure she wanted to know. She just wanted to be free of the dreams.

  And she had been. Until a man claiming to be Alex MacDowell had appeared out of a freak storm and set her life on end.

  The dream started as it always had. They were in the old house in Edgartown, on Martha’s Vineyard. It was late at night, after midnight, and she was asleep in her small bedroom at the back of the house, over the kitchen—part of what used to be the servants’ rooms. But in the summer Constanza and Ruben stayed in an apartment over the garage, and the rooms had been made over into cheery little bedrooms. Carolyn slept in one of them.

  She was almost fourteen at the time. She’d heard them arguing, the sound muffled through the walls and ceiling, but they hadn’t bothered to lower their voices. Alex must have done something wicked again, she’d thought sleepily, putting the pillow over her head.

  He was the bane of her existence, a spoiled, selfish creature who was utterly wild. He drove Aunt Sally to distracted tears, he tormented his cousins, and he taunted Carolyn with a lethal combination of casual bullying and seductive charm that was far too potent for a young girl to handle. And she wasn’t sure which she hated more—the charm or the bullying.

  She heard him in the room. He was silhouetted against the moonlight flooding in her uncurtained window, and he looked taller, almost like an adult in that shadowy light. He was standing at her dresser, rummaging through her things.

  “What are you d
oing?”

  He turned at the sound of her voice, but she hadn’t managed to startle him. “I’m getting the hell out of here, Carolyn,” he’d said in a strange voice. “I need money.”

  “I don’t have any.”

  “You have this.” He held a handful of gold jewelry in one fist, and she sat up, a cry of protest strangled in her throat.

  “You can’t,” she said. “Those were presents from Aunt Sally. Listen, I’ll see if I can get you some money—”

  He shook his head. “I don’t have the time. She’ll buy you more. My mother has no problem buying love with her checkbook.” His voice was cool and bitter.

  “At least leave me the charm bracelet.” She shouldn’t have admitted that weakness. Each year Sally had added a new charm, something whimsical, charming. It had marked her years with the MacDowell family, and it was the most precious thing she owned.

  “Can’t do it. Sorry, kid. If you have any sense you’ll get the hell away from here as soon as you’re old enough. They’ll destroy you.” He sounded odd to her, distant, as if he’d already left.

  “They’re my family,” she’d protested. And immediately regretted the words.

  He came up to the bed, looming over her in the moonlight. “No, they’re not,” he said. “And be glad of it. They eat their family alive.”

  He reached out his hand and touched her face in the moonlight. “Too bad I can’t take you with me, Carolyn,” he said. “But you’re too young, and I’m not into jailbait. Take care of yourself.” And he kissed her.

  He’d never kissed her, apart from brief, dutiful pecks on her cheek when ordered to do so. This was on her mouth, but it was no Prince Charming awakening the sleeping beauty. It was rough, hurried, and completely sexual, his mouth open on hers, his arms pulling her young body against his. It was a hungry, lost kiss, and she didn’t even hesitate, putting her arms around his neck and kissing him back with all her inexpert passion.

  It seemed to go on for a breathless lifetime; it was over in a heartbeat. And he was gone, disappearing into the darkness, out of her life forever. Taking a fistful of her gold jewelry, including the only thing she’d ever cared about.