Chapter 6 – Sara
The sword descended, but I didn’t have time to move more than a few inches. Metal met with stone. The collision was a desperate roar. Sparks flew as the sword was dragged back. “Run!” I heard the shout in my head, but my movements were stiff and disjointed.
“Wait,” I muttered, frowning at the screen. “They don’t have standard units of measurement there.”
Pushing my glasses up my nose, I stretched my neck, made a quick edit to the manuscript, and kept typing.
I would figure out how to convert inches to fantasy later.
The words came to me in a rush. I saw the scene unfolding just like a movie in my mind.
The heroine didn’t get a break. I put her through hell, and it was only the fifth chapter.
Unlike a rom com, I needed to write three books.
How was the poor thing going to survive all that turmoil?
I grinned.
She would.
She was as much alive to me as a real friend. I spent another hour with her before my bladder screamed in protest. Saving the manuscript, I closed the Word Document and rose. Shadows stretched across the floor. I blinked, peering at the windows.
Mama mia!
It was dusk. I’d written all day. Granted, the fall shortened the days, but still.
I’d missed lunch. The full glass of water sat beside the cool cup of coffee that I’d also forgotten to finish.
After using the bathroom, I wandered to the kitchen, where another glass of water sat on the counter.
I didn’t remember pouring that one, but I must have, because I knew how important proper hydration was.
I took the glass and drained it, hoping that I hadn’t set myself up for a headache by forgetting to drink, and made a quick sandwich while my mind reviewed the sequence of events in the story.
My fingers itched to return to the keyboard, but I forced myself to go sit outside.
Having a successful writing marathon only worked when I took care of myself. Otherwise, I risked burning out.
I fished my phone out of my pocket and took it off airplane mode. Notifications bubbled across the screen. Chewing on the ham and cheese on rye, I flicked through them.
“Mother trucker….” I scowled at the missed call log.
Rob had called. Again. There was no force on earth that would make me call my ex back, though.
A manager at a financial firm, he’d been a decent boyfriend.
Sure, he liked to kick back at the local watering hole and drink too many sickly-sweet margaritas with his coworkers, but we didn’t have any major issues.
Until I caught him banging an associate from his firm on his kitchen table.
Witnessing that had been a blessing in disguise.
The betrayal hurt like hell, but it opened my eyes to what kind of future we would have had if I’d said yes.
No amount of money would ever tempt me into that life.
I swiped the missed call away, promptly deleted the voicemail, and blocked the number.
It had been three months, but he still hadn’t gotten the hint that I didn’t want his explanation.
Watching his pale ass flex as he thrust into the hussy who sounded like she was auditioning to be an adult entertainer had sufficiently explained where he and I stood.
Eventually, he would stop harassing me. I just had to hang on a bit longer.
Adjusting my glasses, I made a video teaser by scanning the backyard with my phone camera and then putting a hook for the scene I’d just written over it and adding a trending audio clip.
I didn’t like making these this early in the writing process, but I felt good about this scene’s hook.
Plus, I needed to keep some semblance of life on my social media accounts while I was buried in my writing cave.
Once that was uploaded to my social media accounts, I shot off a text to my parents and checked in with them.
The sandwich and another glass of water were gone by then, so I sat back in the Adirondack chair to stare over the lake. Waves kissed the rocky shoreline. Soon, they would freeze, but for now their song lulled me. A yawn cracked through my lips.
I needed to go to bed.
But I wanted to keep writing. It wasn’t work. The Muses compelled me, and instead of tracking a word count, I poured myself into the story. It was completely different than anything I’d written before.
“Tomorrow,” I promised myself.
Tugging the blanket around my shoulders, I shivered.
The small hairs on the back of my neck rose, and my skin tingled.
There was nothing out here, but my imagination was on fire.
The haunting melody of the lake rose to join the keen sound of the wind.
Trees rustled around the property. The dried twigs that already lost their leaves clacked, and the crisp scent of chilled earth carried on the breeze.
If the moon had been out, I might have taken a stroll through the yard.
But the dark made every nerve ending scream to run.
Determined not to let the otherworldly feeling drive me into the house, I rose slowly and took measured steps back inside.
I locked the sliding glass door and put the wooden dowel in the groove.
The front door was locked and chained, as was the door to the garage.
Yet the eerie feeling of being watched didn’t dissipate.
“I’m being ridiculous,” I grunted.
It was just the book I was writing. Fiction juxtaposed reality. A woman whose past was forgotten and magical abilities were a secret was training in a gladiatorial prison, while the prince of shadows watched over her, pretending to be a human general.
That was why I thought I heard a creak on the front porch as I wandered upstairs with a glass of red wine. My heart beat fast as I curled into bed with a paperback, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that I wasn’t alone.
“A writer is never alone,” I breathed, snuggling under the covers.
I was here, at the lake house, with my characters to keep me company. No one else. The shadows shifting across the window were in my head. I could have risen to close the blinds, but I yawned and leaned back against the pillows. I liked to look out at the lake beyond the panes of glass.
Trying to read turned into deeper yawns. I went to brush my teeth but stopped to check the window.
“See, silly Sara, no one is up here.”
The crescent moon, who’d finally made an appearance, smiled down at me.
Shutting off the lamp and setting my glasses on the nightstand, I burrowed into bed and let the book come alive before my eyes.
It might be career suicide, since my rom coms had a decent following, but I knew my diehard readers would follow me.
Plus…life was too short not to write the story that was thumping like a living thing in my heart.
***
I woke up with a start.
The room was too quiet. The walls themselves seemed to hold their breath, waiting for my brain to catch up. There was a shift in the dark. Shadows rustled, but in here! Not outside. I gasped. Dreams molded with the night, and I could have sworn there had been someone sitting on the end of my bed.
Grabbing my glasses, I blinked into the dark.
The shape was gone.
I reached out and ran my fingers over the duvet. It might have been warm in one spot. Or maybe my mind was playing tricks on me.
I decided to go downstairs for water. And to have a look around.
The house was empty.
“You’re just being silly, little authoress,” I grunted to myself.
Furthermore, the chain was on the door. No one could have broken in, nor left. They couldn’t restring the chain after closing and locking the door from outside. I had to be the only one in here.
My body refused to listen. It thrummed in warning, convinced I hadn’t been alone.
“It’s just my book,” I whispered.
A shiver raced through me, and my ears strained to catch a ghostly breath in the dark. Since I was well and truly awake now, I decided to turn on the lamp and write another chapter even though it was midnight.