Jen Christie - House Of Shadows

“If this is our nirvana, then I’ve died happy, Penrose.”

The world had turned inside out. She was staring at candles that burned under the water. They were a different kind of fire.

She looked up at Keat. He was a different kind of man. Not a dark twin to Carrick. And what if this really was her brief nirvana? What if this was the only happiness she could grasp? Wouldn’t Carrick want it for her? Of course he would. Carrick himself said, “Fire has no choice but grab its moment, whatever moment it’s given, and burn.”

A different century. A different kind of fire. A different man, one she couldn’t help but to burn for. Was this the moment she’d been given? It was. She turned to Keat and said, “Take me to bed now.”

“My pleasure,” he replied and reached down for her.

JEN CHRISTIEis a writer who has a passion for reading and writing Gothic romances. Jen lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with her husband and three daughters. She has a love of history and her secret desire is to stop and read every roadside historical marker she drives by.

House of Shadows

Jen Christie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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I dedicate this book to my sister Penny, who taught me that life is full of second chances, and they are always worth taking.

Contents

Cover

Introduction “If this is our nirvana, then I’ve died happy, Penrose.” The world had turned inside out. She was staring at candles that burned under the water. They were a different kind of fire. She looked up at Keat. He was a different kind of man. Not a dark twin to Carrick. And what if this really was her brief nirvana? What if this was the only happiness she could grasp? Wouldn’t Carrick want it for her? Of course he would. Carrick himself said, “Fire has no choice but grab its moment, whatever moment it’s given, and burn.” A different century. A different kind of fire. A different man, one she couldn’t help but to burn for. Was this the moment she’d been given? It was. She turned to Keat and said, “Take me to bed now.” “My pleasure,” he replied and reached down for her.

About the Author JEN CHRISTIE is a writer who has a passion for reading and writing Gothic romances. Jen lives in St. Augustine, Florida, with her husband and three daughters. She has a love of history and her secret desire is to stop and read every roadside historical marker she drives by.

Title Page House of Shadows Jen Christie www.millsandboon.co.uk

Dedication I dedicate this book to my sister Penny, who taught me that life is full of second chances, and they are always worth taking.

Prologue

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Part Two

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Extract

Copyright

Prologue

The grandfather clock tolled, echoing on and on. The sound reverberated in the tunnel until Penrose fell to the floor, covered her ears and buried her head in her skirts. The chimes came from everywhere at once, from all around her and even from within her own mind.

She couldn’t think, couldn’t move. She could only endure. Dust and plaster rained down and pelted her body. Please, she wished, let it be a dream. But she knew it wasn’t. A dream doesn’t hit you with plaster hard enough to hurt. Long, agonizing moments passed. It was as if time ceased.

Quietness returned slowly. The rumbling grew less ferocious until finally the ground was still, and the clock fell silent. Only then did she lift her head and take a breath. Dust filled her nostrils. Coughing, wiping her eyes and face, she called out in a panicked voice, “C.J.?”

He didn’t answer. The only sound was a lone splatter of plaster falling to the floor somewhere in the darkness. She must find C.J. and see if he was okay, but it was too dangerous to crawl around without light.

Remembering that there were candles in the hallway, she began inching toward the door. She planned to grab a candle and hopefully find Carrick so that they could hunt for C.J. together. When she reached the door, she fumbled with the latch until it opened. The house was dark and quiet. Still on all fours, she took a deep, shaky breath and called, “C.J.? Carrick, are you here?”

No answer. She crawled out, stood up and brushed herself off, making sure she wasn’t injured. Her hands traveled the length of her torso, but the lack of pain did nothing to reassure her that she was all right. She was not all right.

The air in the foyer was cold—too cold for August in Charleston. The house felt different. It smelled odd, of lemons and lavender. Something was wrong. She knew it in her bones.

“C.J.?” Desperation turned her voice harsh. “Carrick? Please! Answer me.”

Still nothing.

Her eyes adjusted to the light, and she saw the grandfather clock standing against the wall. Standing. Not toppled over as she’d witnessed moments before. She looked around wildly. The table that normally held the candles wasn’t there anymore. The chandelier hung still and straight as if it hadn’t even moved, let alone swung wildly while the earth shook.

But what took the breath right from her lungs were the paintings. They were different—with odd, angular images in them. The more she looked around, the more uneasy she became. Yes, something was very, very wrong.

“Carrick?” she called again, taking minute, untrusting steps toward the great room, her hands pressing the air in disbelief. “Carrick! C.J.? Please?” she kept repeating in a whiny, almost begging manner. She held a last bit of hope that the world would right itself, and she’d see the familiar features of Arundell. Her Arundell. Not this twisted imitation.

When she entered the large parlor, she saw moonlight and shadows dancing around the room, revealing a dark doppelgänger of the room she knew and loved. The cold air around her made it scarier and even less familiar.

Yes, the bones of the room were the same. The same lofty ceiling, the same shape of the windows, even the familiar gouges in the doorway that marked the heights of the Arundell boys. But the essence had changed.

Everything had changed. She tried to reconcile the two different versions of her home—one familiar and one not—but she couldn’t. It simply wasn’t Arundell Manor.

Yet it was.

She went to the window and looked out. The world outside glimmered bright and white beneath the moon.

Bright and white. Snow.

No peaceful pond with a lazy oak tree beside it. No familiar road winding through the Charleston countryside straight to the front doors of her home. Only bare land covered in white stretched all the way to the horizon. Stepping away from the window as if it burned her, she found herself gasping for breath. She wanted to scream, to wail and cry for help, but she had no voice.