Searching for Shadows, page 1
searching for shadows
redwood coast rescue
book five
Tonya Burrows
contents
I. Shadows
The Shadow Stalker
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
II. Light
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Epilogue
Also by Tonya Burrows
part one
shadows
the shadow stalker
In shadows so deep, the Stalker hides.
Fear his presence where moonlight dies.
Beware his bunker, hidden and dark,
Where he preys on souls, leaving his mark.
In woods so still, his hunt begins,
Fear his presence, where moonlight thins.
One by one, his tally grows,
For in the shadows, his secret shows.
chapter one
Veronica Martens stood in her empty kitchen, the stainless steel refrigerator door hanging open. Pale light cast eerie shadows on the white countertops and hardwood floors.
The fridge was almost empty.
An empty fridge meant she had to leave the house.
Her heart lodged in her throat, and she looked over her shoulder toward the front door of her small seaside cabin. That door was as terrifying as the entrance to a deep, dark, endless cave, and she had no interest in exploring what lay on the other side.
But she needed to eat.
She closed the fridge with a soft thud and glanced toward her phone on the kitchen counter. She could call Dad. He’d send groceries. All she had to do was ask…
Except the ask always came with questions and concerns, and she didn’t want to admit just how difficult it was for her to leave the house. He wouldn’t understand the crippling anxiety that gripped her every time she stepped outside, and he’d only worry. He already worried about her too much.
Besides, she couldn’t keep relying on him. She was a grown-ass woman and could take care of herself.
Not for the first time, she wished she had Wi-Fi. Her cell phone worked for calls in the cabin, but internet access was spotty unless she stepped outside. But Wi-Fi meant she had to interact with a stranger. Maybe even invite them into her home to have it installed, and the idea of inviting a man—because it would probably be a man—into her sanctuary gave her heart palpitations.
No.
She could live without Wi-Fi. She didn’t need to order groceries for delivery. She could go into town like a normal person.
Taking a deep breath, she grabbed her keys and headed towards the door. She could do this. It was just a quick trip to the grocery store. Nothing to be scared of.
As she reached for the doorknob, her palms began to sweat. The impulse to bolt back into the safety of her house was nearly overwhelming, but she steeled herself, drawing on the remnants of her Air Force pilot’s resolve. With trembling hands, she turned the knob and pushed the door open, taking a single step onto the porch.
The wind whispered through the trees, rustling leaves, and all she could think of was a predator hiding in the foliage, stalking its prey. The wind brought with it scents that should be comforting— damp earth, salted waves—but instead, it made her insides quake. She scanned back and forth between the dark woods to the left of her cabin and the rugged cliff that dramatically dropped into the restless expanse of the Pacific on the right. The vast horizon, painted with bright oranges and pinks from the setting sun, taunted her. Reminded her how she used to soar through open skies, fearless and free.
Would she ever be fearless again?
Probably not.
The suffocating presence of anxiety lurked like a bogeyman just out of sight, threatening a panic attack.
She couldn’t breathe.
Heart pounding, she retreated into the house, slammed the door shut, and locked it with all three deadbolts. The final snick of the last lock sliding home eased the tension in her chest, calming her nerves. She leaned her back against the door, taking deep breaths to steady herself.
Her phone rang.
Dad.
Goddammit.
The man had a sixth sense when it came to her panic attacks. Somehow, he always knew. And he always called.
She drew one last steadying breath and answered. “Hi, Dad.”
Shit, her voice came out fainter than she’d hoped, and of course he noticed instantly.
“Sweetheart, are you all right?”
He lived nearly ten hours away in Seattle, but she could picture the worried lines creasing his brow as if he stood right in front of her. Arthur Martens was a good man, a loving father who had always been there for her, even when she had pushed him away. And yet she couldn’t stop pushing him away.
“I’m fine,” she lied.
“No, you’re not. I can hear it in your voice. What’s wrong?”
Dammit. “I just... I’m out of groceries.”
“Ah,” Arthur said. “Well, don’t worry about it. I’ll send a delivery out to you.”
“Thank you.” Her gaze strayed to the wine rack in a nook under the kitchen counter, where only one bottle remained.
She shouldn’t say it.
She didn’t need it.
“And I need more wine.”
“Veronica.” His tone was stern, but under it, concern bled through. She could almost see him shaking his head, his thinning salt-and-pepper hair catching the light. “You know that’s not the solution. Your mom—”
“Please, Dad. I don’t need a lecture. I just need some wine. I have a glass or two with dinner. It’s not a big deal. I’m not like mom.”
He exhaled, and she heard his disappointment loud and clear.
“Okay,” he relented after a long moment of silence. “But if I’m going to get you wine, we need to talk about Connelly.”
Shit. She’d walked right into that one. “There’s nothing more to say about him.”
“God, you’re stubborn.”
“I get it from you.”
“Not one of my better qualities.” He paused for a beat. “Forgive him, Vee. He didn’t mean any harm.”
“Absolutely not.” Her jaw clenched, as it always did at the mention of Connelly Davis. “Forget the wine. I don’t want to talk about him.”
“Veronica, please—”
“Goodbye, Dad. Thanks for the groceries.” She hung up on him and tossed the phone aside. It immediately rang again. She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to ward off the headache that threatened to engulf her.
She needed to clear her mind.
To forget about Connelly.
Her mom.
Her dad’s disappointment.
Forget about everything…
She scrambled to her feet and lunged for the wine rack, grabbing the last bottle and uncorking it with a satisfying pop. She poured herself a generous glass, savoring the rich aroma of blackberries and dark chocolate that filled her senses. The cool liquid burned down her throat, easing the insistent ache in her chest. She took another long drink, relishing in the numbing sensation, and wandered over to the sliding door, peering out over her unused deck to the ocean and endless sky beyond. A storm was brewing over the mountain to the south, darkening the sky.
At one time, she had soared through those temperamental skies, pushing the limits of her aircraft. She touched the cool glass of the door and could almost feel the thrill of defying gravity again.
The familiar ache for freedom swelled in her chest.
But that was a lifetime ago.
She wasn’t that woman anymore, and now staring out at the unobtainable world just made her angry. She closed the blinds, finished her glass, and went back to the bottle on the counter to pour another.
And another.
And another.
And suddenly, the bottle was almost gone, and the world grew soft and fuzzy around the edges.
She stumbled over to the couch, collapsed onto the cushions, and exhaled a deep breath. This was better. She didn’t have to think about the sky, or going outside, or Dad, or Connelly. Here, in the safety of her home, she could close her eyes and let the alcohol wash away her troubles.
“Cheers,” she murmured, raising the glass to the empty room before taking a deep drink.
As she finished off the glass, her inhibitions slipped comfortably away. She kicked off her shoes and stretched out on the couch, enjoying the cool leather against her skin. Her mind was hazy, her thoughts jumbled and disjointed. She turned on the TV, but the screen swam before her eyes, so she gave up trying to watch it. Instead, she allowed her mind to wander, letting it drift into places she couldn’t visit while sober.<
She closed her eyes and thought about the last time she had been with a man. Voluntarily, at least. She couldn’t think of the actual last time when three men she thought were friends had drugged her and—
No.
No.
She stopped that thought before it could fully form. If she let it take root, she wouldn’t be able to do this. And she needed it. Her body was on fire. She was desperate for something, anything, to take the edge off.
It had been years since she had felt the loving touch of another human being. The thought of someone else’s hands on her skin, someone else’s lips on her neck, made her pulse race with a mix of anticipation and fear.
But it wasn’t really someone else, she reminded herself.
It was only her own touch. Her own imagination.
She shifted on the couch, her fingers trailing down her chest, teasing the swell of her breasts. She imagined someone else’s hands there, rough and calloused, kneading and pinching. She moaned and pressed her thighs together as a thrill ran down her spine.
God, it had been so long.
She imagined being touched. She thought about the feel of a man’s hands on her skin and the way his lips would taste. She thought about the way his body would feel as he laid above her, pressing her into the mattress, his warmth seeping into her.
What would he look like? She pictured him tall and strong. His hair would be dark, his eyes darker still. Eyes to get lost in. His arms would be thick with muscle, and his body would be covered in dark hair…
Her hand drifted lower, over her flat belly and down to the waistband of her sweatpants. Her breathing grew ragged as she slid her fingers underneath the fabric and traced the outline of her panties. Pressure built inside her, the ache swirling in her belly.
Connelly’s face flashed in her mind, making her jolt and open her eyes.
No, not him. He was the last person she wanted to see, but since reappearing in her life a few months ago, he was constantly on her mind.
She should stop.
She was losing control.
She traced the outline of her panties again, then slipped her hand underneath and wiped her fingers experimentally into her sex.
She couldn’t stop.
She bit her lip to stifle a moan. God, it had been way too long. She pressed her fingers deeper, sliding them in and out of her tightness, her body already shuddering as the pressure built. She worked herself faster, stroking her inner walls as a gasp of pleasure escaped her lips. Her mind filled with images of her fantasy man—not Connelly. It could never be him. It was his fault her life was a mess. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t have had to quit flying. If it weren’t for him, she wouldn’t be here, drunk, alone, and finger-fucking herself—
The pressure eased, the orgasm slipping away.
No. Dammit. She had to focus.
She closed her eyes again and tried to imagine a different man. Someone as different from Connelly as possible, with blond hair and light eyes. Someone sweet and gentle with none of the baggage, like that lawyer she sometimes saw at Redwood Coast Rescue when she still left the house. Cal Holden. Yeah, he was a safe fantasy man because it would never, ever happen in real life.
She imagined hands teasing her nipples, imagined lips sucking her breasts, imagined a tongue swirling around her navel. She groaned as the pressure built inside her again, her body begging for release. She pressed on her clit—
But it was no use. Her mind was filled with Connelly. His smile. His laugh.
And then his face blurred and split into three. Three leering, laughing faces she could never forget, no matter how much she drank.
And fear once again took her in a chokehold.
She couldn’t do this.
Her fingers stilled, and she pulled her hand out of her sweatpants, resting her head back on the couch. She stared at the ceiling, willing her heart to slow down.
She needed to not think about them.
She needed to not think about Connelly.
Veronica shoved to her feet, the room spinning around her. She gripped the couch as the wine rushed through her head. “Shit.”
She was drunk.
She stumbled to the kitchen and exchanged the nearly empty bottle of wine for a bottle of water that she drained in a few gulps.
Of course she was drunk. She had to be to think about sex. But, even wasted, she couldn’t do it without seeing their faces. Those three fucking faces always haunting her.
Ugh, why was it so fucking hot in here?
She was suffocating and leaned over the sink to crank open the window. Cool air rushed in over her exposed skin. She leaned against the counter, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and listened to the waves pound on the cliffs below the cabin.
After a few minutes, her heart slowed, and she opened her eyes again. Nothing had changed. She was still drunk, still aching, still scared.
She might as well finish her wine.
She reached into the fridge again for the wine and shoved the door shut with her foot. She considered just drinking it straight from the bottle, but that was too much like her mother for comfort. As long as she used a glass, she wasn’t an alcoholic, right?
As she poured another glass, she heard a noise outside the window.
She froze.
The waves continued to crash against the shore, and thunder rumbled in the distance, but otherwise, everything was silent. She listened for a moment, heard her breath and heart hammering.
She was being paranoid. There was no one out there, just the wind in the trees, the brewing storm, and the waves crashing below.
She was safe.
She took a deep breath and walked back into the living room.
Safe.
She was safe.
She had to be safe.
She could stay here, alone, in her own head, in her own life. She didn’t have to go out. She didn’t have to find anyone to share that life with. She didn’t have to be anyone special.
Because she was safe here.
Veronica collapsed back onto the couch and cuddled one of the pillows to her chest, but she still couldn’t shake the feeling of being watched. She closed her eyes and told herself to calm down.
She was safe.
She repeated it like a mantra.
She was safe.
She was safe.
She. Was. Safe.
chapter two
The woods seemed to absorb all light, casting an eerie darkness that clung to the gnarled branches overhead. Shadows danced on the forest floor as a chilling breeze, the last gasp of a stubborn winter, whispered through the leaves.
The Shadow Stalker stood in that darkness, shrouded by a thicket of brambles and undergrowth.
Waiting.
Watching.
The thorns caught at his clothes and bit at his skin, but this was the perfect vantage point to watch her.
Veronica Martens.
His muse.
Every night he would sit in silence, observing her through the binoculars that rested against his weathered coat. He would breathe in the scent of pine and damp soil and dream about the day he could have her.
She had become the Shadow Stalker’s favorite pastime.
Of course, he wasn’t the real Shadow Stalker of legend who lured unsuspecting victims into his bunker to suck out their souls. That was just a fairy tale.
The Shadow Stalker name was a mantle, passed down from one predator to another for centuries. The current Stalker was more dangerous than the myth, because he didn’t actually hide in the night. The Stalker blended in. The Stalker had a life and friends and nobody suspected his dark side, even as they whispered fearfully about his deeds.
And the myth lived on.
It was a tradition older than the woods themselves, and he had been chosen to carry it on. He was proud of that legacy. Someday soon, the current Stalker would retire. The name would finally pass to him and people would whisper about him, too. He’d even had a bunker ready, one he’d found abandoned up on Murder Mountain during a hunting trip. He’d spent months preparing it, readying it for his first victim. When he finally took her, it was beautiful.
