Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
Emery
Morning arrives slowly in a town this gray.
Light seeps through the flimsy curtains of my room in the Applewood Inn.
It’s more of a suggestion that morning is here, than a declaration.
The radiator clicks and sighs. Faint scents of lavender detergent and fresh coffee brewing somewhere in the house make my nose twitch.
I sit up and untangle my boobs from the straps of the tank top I slept in last night.
Never fails, one of the girls always tries to make a run for it.
The bag of fudge sitting on the nightstand tempts me with the sweet scent of maple-sugary goodness.
Fudge for breakfast is regret waiting to happen, but I’m traveling, so it doesn’t count, right?
I reach for the white paper bag and something cold shifts on my sternum.
The iron key pendant.
It’s heavier than it looks. I pick it up and stare at it, the links of the silver chain gently rasping against my fingers. My skin still tingles where Declan’s fingers brushed my hair aside to slip the chain on. Figures my body would obsess over what I didn’t authorize it to.
Somewhere downstairs, cutlery clinks, a door thumps, voices murmur, then fade. The halls had been silent last night when I returned to the inn after Declan walked me here, broody as a bodyguard assigned to protect a pop star from her own scandals.
I drop the pendant and reach for the bag of fudge again.
Several new aches complain. My shoulder where I’d ricocheted off Declan’s chest, my feet, and my left knee all have thoughts about how I spent my night.
I rub my fingertip, expecting it to hurt from where I’d stabbed myself with the nail.
It doesn’t. No dried blood or anything. Should it have healed so fast?
Maybe it seemed worse than it was because it’d been so sudden and unexpected.
Or maybe Declan’s sinful mouth has healing properties.
This town is making me lose my mind.
I pop a piece of fudge into my mouth, letting the buttery maple sugar melt before crunching down on the walnuts.
My tripod, bag of equipment, and laptop wait silently across the room on the desk, little reminders of work I should be doing.
Reviewing my footage. Recording a “field notes” segment before all the wacky details of last night start to fade.
Instead, I wind the iron key’s chain around my finger until it bites into my skin.
Declan clearly doesn’t like me. That much is obvious. He looks at me like I’m a pesky intruder, not a person. Yet, he went out of his way to give me this pendant, saying it would keep me safe.
Safe from what, though?
Either he truly believes the Hollow’s legends, which makes him both superstitious and weirdly earnest. Or he’s part of some town-wide con, putting on a show to thrill the tourists hoping to discover something spooky while visiting.
Except…he doesn’t strike me as the type who’d waste time on smoke and mirrors. He’s too serious. Too honest in his disdain.
Could he actually believe in the Weeping Widow and the Ironbound Rider?
Never attribute to the paranormal that which can be explained by insanity. Maybe the grumpy tattoo artist with pecs of steel is just nuts.
I need an unbiased opinion. I swipe my phone off the nightstand and thumb to Wren’s name.
She answers almost immediately, filling the screen with her sheet-masked face, messy bun with her bangs wrapped in one giant curler, and a green sweatshirt with an illustration of Medusa and “Petrify the Patriarchy” written underneath.
“Well, hello there, my favorite little ghoul chaser,” she teases, the mask muffling her words just a bit. “You look like you slept in a cemetery.”
I snort-laugh. “You’re not far off.”
“How’s the quaint little inn?”
“Not bad.” I shrug and glance at the window, then angle the phone toward it. “Crowsbridge Hollow refuses to acknowledge it’s morning, though. The fog’s relentless.”
She squints, then nods. “Nice atmosphere.”
“Yeah, a real trip.”
“Hang on a sec.” She steps away from the phone. In the background water runs, then the clink of glass bottles tapping against the counter. A few seconds later, the screen blurs and shakes. I close my eyes to avoid motion sickness.
“Okay!” Wren’s fresh, glowing face fills the screen.
“Ooo, you look all glowy. Which mask was that?” I really need to start taking my skincare more seriously.
“The Honey-Bee Moisturized. I sent one with you in your cosmetic case.”
“I’ll have to try it tonight,” I say, even though we both know I’ll probably forget.
“So, spill. What’s got your forehead all wrinkly this early in the morning?”
I rub my finger between my eyebrows. “I didn’t see anything.
But I felt a presence and heard…” I frown harder and force my brain to replay last night’s events.
“Something? Like the creak of a leather saddle. Hooves hitting the ground? I could’ve sworn there was a horse in the cemetery with me, but I didn’t see a damn thing. Just some weirdly shaped fog.”
It sounds so insignificant now.
“Wooo, sounds creep-tastic. Did you get video?” She grabs a giant black-and-silver water bottle and sucks on the long straw.
“I haven’t reviewed it yet, but yes.”
“There’s something else…” Her eyes narrow and she tilts her head as if she can scour my brain for information through the screen.
“Well, right as the spooktacular show got started, Declan arrived to save me from an invisible horse and the big, bronze statue.”
“Declaaan.” She stretches the name like taffy, eyebrows bouncing. “The grumpy tattoo artist who wouldn’t let you interview him?”
“That’s the one.” I toy with the key pendant, buying myself a second.
“How did he know you were there?”
I shrug. “His apartment isn’t far away. Maybe he saw me?”
“Whoa. Hold up.” Wren leans closer to her phone, eyes wide with interest. “How do you know where his apartment is?”
“Uh…” She’s never going to stop hounding me for details.
“I brought this nail for protection…in my pocket…and it kinda stabbed me while he was walking me back to the inn…so he asked me to come up to his apartment and he gave me this pendant, iron key, thingie to protect me while I’m here investigating…
” The words stumble out of me in a choppy mess.
Wren sets her water bottle down with a soft clink, eyebrows climbing. “He gave you protection jewelry?”
“Well, he seems to think it’s for protection.” I tug the key up by its chain, then let it drop against my chest. “And it’s safer than carrying the nail around.”
“That’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever heard. I man you barely know gave you a necklace to protect you while you’re ghost hunting in his spooky little town?” She claps her hands together and grins so wide her dimples show. “The romance movie script is writing itself.”
“Cool it,” I scold, pointing at the screen. “Trust me, there’s no romance going on. He thinks I’m an idiot.”
“Ugh.” She squeezes her eyes shut, practically vibrating with glee. “Classic enemies to lovers.”
I groan, dragging my hand down my face. “Stop.”
“Seriously, he must like you a little. He’s not gifting necklaces to every tourist who rocks through town, is he?”
“I don’t think so. He sells them in the shop or something.”
“Admit it. You like him.” She purses her lips like a pleading child. “You need some romance in your life, Emery. You haven’t been on a date since Valentine’s Day when that dude brought a guitar with him to dinner.”
“Ick, don’t remind me. That was so bad, I should have applied for victim compensation.”
Her grin grows devilish. “Aw, come on, you have to applaud the effort. It could’ve been romantic.”
“Yeah, if he didn’t spend the entire night playing his original songs.” I pause for dramatic effect. “About how he’s still in love with his ex.”
“What I’m trying to say is, you deserve something fun.” She tilts her head and sends me a stern stare. “That isn’t work.”
“Work is fun for me.”
“You need a fling with a hot, brooding guy,” she insists. “A frolic in his sheets, if you will.”
“I don’t frolic.”
“I’m aware.” Her tone borders on lecturing. “You deserve some orgasms that don’t come courtesy of a rechargeable device.”
“Why? At least my devices deliver every time.” I lift my chin, indignant that I have to defend my WeVibe’s honor. “Besides, Declan’s too hot to be good in bed. No organic orgasms to be had there.”
Based on his finger-sucking abilities, that’s probably a big, fat lie.
“Emery, I say this with love.” Her tone’s serious instead of teasing this time. “But I’ve known you for a long time, and I can tell when you’re full of shit.”
“Fine. He’s probably the hottest man I’ve ever laid eyes on,” I blurt in an embarrassed rush of honesty. “Happy now?”
A sly smile curves her lips. “You need to send me a picture.”
“He won’t answer any of my questions, you really think he’ll let me snap a photo?”
“What’s the name of his tattoo shop again?” She turns away from her phone and taps her fingers on her laptop.
“House of Ink and Iron.”
A few seconds later, her eyebrows shoot up. “Oh wow! His artwork is really beautiful. Talented guy.” She slides her mischievous gaze toward me again. “If you can’t coax some orgasms from him, definitely get some ink.”
I roll my eyes but my stomach flutters with anxiety. I couldn’t sit still long enough to let Declan do something as intimate as tattoo my skin. Could I? I glance at my ink-free arms. I’ve always wanted to get a crow or feather somewhere.
“I’ll think about it,” I answer.
Wren hoots with laughter. “That’s my girl. Now, tell me, what’s the plan for today?”
“Library,” I say, forcing my thoughts away from Declan’s rough fingers grazing my body while his needle permanently marks my skin.
“I want to look through old newspapers, any relevant town records. Check missing person stories. There’s been more than one disappearance in this town. Someone has to have written about it.”
“If anyone can squeeze a confession from a filing cabinet, it’s you,” Wren encourages.
“Thanks.”
“Text me if you find anything exciting.” She wiggles her eyebrows. “And if you have any more encounters with Declan.”
“I’m going to try to interview him again.”
“Good. Film it. And send me whatever you got last night so I can start going through it.”
“All right.”
We disconnect and I grab my laptop, sitting at the small desk against the wall to upload the files she needs.
A knock on my door startles me away from my work. “Breakfast!” someone calls out.
Please let that include coffee. I hurry and open the door.
The woman who’d checked me in yesterday morning stands there, holding a grease-stained paper bag and a paper cup with a white lid and steam curling from the top.
“Good morning, Mrs. Applewood,” I greet.
“You hadn’t been downstairs yet. I didn’t want you to miss out. I baked these this morning. They’re maple apple crumb muffins.”
My mouth waters. “Sounds heavenly.” My hand shoots out, all but snatching the bag out of the elderly woman’s hand. “Thank you so much.”
“No problem, dear.” She hands me the coffee. “I saw Mr. Sterling walked you back last night…”
Does the woman ever sleep? She was spying on me after midnight and up early baking muffins? I need to get my act together. “He did.”
She raises an eyebrow like she’s waiting for a detailed report.
Now’s my chance to gather information. “Do you know Declan…I mean Mr. Sterling well?”
“Oh yes.” She beams. “The Sterlings were one of the first families in Crowsbridge Hollow.”
I perk up, clutching the warm bag of muffins in one hand while casually taking a sip of coffee. “Really? How far back are we talking?”
The wrinkles around her eyes deepen and she tilts her head as if flipping through her mental filing cabinet.
“Generations. His people built the old houses on the ridge before the mills closed. They were hardworking folk. Still have an estate down by the river.” Sadness clouds her expression.
“Sterlings stay very…attached to the Hollow.”
Attached to the Hollow. “Attached how?” I ask.
“Every family has their stories.” Her eyes are keen despite her grandmotherly smile. “Declan carries his on his skin.”
“Yes, his tattoos are stunning. So…interesting.”
She stares at me for a beat. “Yes.”
“Are his parents still here?” Maybe Declan’s mom will be a better person to interview about the Hollow’s legends. Moms always like me. Well, except for my own.
Mrs. Applewood’s eyes snap shut, and she wheezes in a pained breath. “No.”
I almost press but the sudden shift in her expression stops me cold. This isn’t retirement in a sunny climate she’s talking about. It’s loss.
He’s an orphan too.
My gaze drops to the pendant pressing against my chest. Heat prickles the back of my neck.
“Ah, I see you have one of his pendants. Good. That’s good.” She nods absently. “Make sure you wear it while you’re visiting.”
“Why?”
She reaches out and pats my arm. “Enjoy the muffins, dear. Are you still planning to visit the library today? They open at nine. Get there early if you want to poke through the archives. Mr. Baxter is particular about who handles the files.”
“Thank you,” I manage, but my brain’s stuck on her words.
The Sterlings were one of the first families.
Declan carries his stories on his skin.
She’s the third person in town who seems to believe iron will somehow protect me.
I shift the coffee and muffin bag into one hand to close the door, then lean my back against it. My fingers tighten around the iron key.
Which do I believe more—that a piece of old iron will protect me, or that I’m even in danger?
And if I am in danger, why does Declan Sterling—who was a stranger to me two days ago—think I’m worth protecting?