she muttered, automatically quoting one of her mother’s favorite phrases. Then she snorted. What else besides the promise of work would bring him all the way out here? She was miles from town.
Instinctively, she looked beyond him to the dark woods that flanked the field across the highway. Her skin tingled and her belly twisted in a tight little knot. The sensation had repeated itself over and over in the past few days, becoming stronger and more frequent. The sixth sense that was her legacy warned her; something bad was coming. She glanced back at the guy in her yard, watched him fold the newspaper and tuck it into his coat pocket, and she wondered if he was the source of her unease.
With a sigh, she let the curtain fall back in place. Angling on her crutches, she headed down the stairs just as his knock sounded, hard and bold. She took her time. No sense rushing. It was haste that had landed her in this mess in the first place. She’d taken a tumble down the stairs and ended up with the terrible triad: two torn ligaments and a torn meniscus in her knee. And in Jen’s opinion, they were taking their sweet time about healing, though her specialist disagreed.
“Your recovery is remarkable, Jen. I’ve never seen damage like this heal without surgery. Certainly not this quickly. It’s something for the medical journals.” His comments had made her laugh. Her capacity to heal was nothing compared to some of her relatives’. Of course, that was because they’d gone through their transitions, while Jen was still human.
Setting the rubber tips of her crutches, she leaned her weight forward and dragged open the front door. The sun was at her visitor’s back, and for a second Jen blinked against the glare. Then her pupils adjusted and she raised her gaze to meet his. She was 5’10”, and she had to tip her head back to look in his face. It was an unfamiliar experience.
Up close, she saw the dangerous edge to him. It was in the way he held himself, the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes—a blue so clear and bright she’d never seen the like—took in every nuance of his surroundings in a glance.
He wasn’t from town; she’d have recognized him if he was. In a place this small, you got to know faces if not names, particularly a face like his. He was a stranger passing through, most likely in need of cash. Her gaze slid to the rusted out clunker in the driveway. Cars weren’t her thing, but she guessed it for something American-built and decades old.
“You here about the job?” she asked, wanting him to say no, knowing he’d say—
“Yes. Name’s Daemon Alexander.” He offered his hand.
“Jen Cassaday .” She didn’t see a way around it, so she shook briefly. His palm was callused, his grip pleasantly firm. Something inside her yawned and stretched, an unwanted awareness of him as a man. As though in silent response, his grip tightened ever so slightly. She pulled her hand away as quickly as she could without seeming rude.
For weeks she’d had that ad in the paper, and he was the first person to apply. No surprise there. Everyone in town whispered about the haunted Cassaday place, and they were halfway right, except what haunted these walls wasn’t the spirits of the dead, but a different power.
Daemon Alexander either hadn’t heard the talk of hauntings , or he didn’t care.
Part of her wanted to send him on his way, but she needed the help and given the lack of applicants for the position, she couldn’t justify that course. “You have painting experience?” she asked grudgingly.
“I do.”
“It’s an old house. Some of the walls need repair and I’d like to go with plaster to match the original rather than drywall. I don’t suppose you have experience with plastering old houses?”
“I do,” he said again. Then, “You look surprised.”
“I am. It isn’t a common skill.”
“I like old things.” He sounded amused.
Still, she hesitated, though she
Instinctively, she looked beyond him to the dark woods that flanked the field across the highway. Her skin tingled and her belly twisted in a tight little knot. The sensation had repeated itself over and over in the past few days, becoming stronger and more frequent. The sixth sense that was her legacy warned her; something bad was coming. She glanced back at the guy in her yard, watched him fold the newspaper and tuck it into his coat pocket, and she wondered if he was the source of her unease.
With a sigh, she let the curtain fall back in place. Angling on her crutches, she headed down the stairs just as his knock sounded, hard and bold. She took her time. No sense rushing. It was haste that had landed her in this mess in the first place. She’d taken a tumble down the stairs and ended up with the terrible triad: two torn ligaments and a torn meniscus in her knee. And in Jen’s opinion, they were taking their sweet time about healing, though her specialist disagreed.
“Your recovery is remarkable, Jen. I’ve never seen damage like this heal without surgery. Certainly not this quickly. It’s something for the medical journals.” His comments had made her laugh. Her capacity to heal was nothing compared to some of her relatives’. Of course, that was because they’d gone through their transitions, while Jen was still human.
Setting the rubber tips of her crutches, she leaned her weight forward and dragged open the front door. The sun was at her visitor’s back, and for a second Jen blinked against the glare. Then her pupils adjusted and she raised her gaze to meet his. She was 5’10”, and she had to tip her head back to look in his face. It was an unfamiliar experience.
Up close, she saw the dangerous edge to him. It was in the way he held himself, the tightness at the corners of his mouth, the way his eyes—a blue so clear and bright she’d never seen the like—took in every nuance of his surroundings in a glance.
He wasn’t from town; she’d have recognized him if he was. In a place this small, you got to know faces if not names, particularly a face like his. He was a stranger passing through, most likely in need of cash. Her gaze slid to the rusted out clunker in the driveway. Cars weren’t her thing, but she guessed it for something American-built and decades old.
“You here about the job?” she asked, wanting him to say no, knowing he’d say—
“Yes. Name’s Daemon Alexander.” He offered his hand.
“Jen Cassaday .” She didn’t see a way around it, so she shook briefly. His palm was callused, his grip pleasantly firm. Something inside her yawned and stretched, an unwanted awareness of him as a man. As though in silent response, his grip tightened ever so slightly. She pulled her hand away as quickly as she could without seeming rude.
For weeks she’d had that ad in the paper, and he was the first person to apply. No surprise there. Everyone in town whispered about the haunted Cassaday place, and they were halfway right, except what haunted these walls wasn’t the spirits of the dead, but a different power.
Daemon Alexander either hadn’t heard the talk of hauntings , or he didn’t care.
Part of her wanted to send him on his way, but she needed the help and given the lack of applicants for the position, she couldn’t justify that course. “You have painting experience?” she asked grudgingly.
“I do.”
“It’s an old house. Some of the walls need repair and I’d like to go with plaster to match the original rather than drywall. I don’t suppose you have experience with plastering old houses?”
“I do,” he said again. Then, “You look surprised.”
“I am. It isn’t a common skill.”
“I like old things.” He sounded amused.
Still, she hesitated, though she
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