Into the Shadow by Christina Dodd Read Free Book Online Page A

conspicuously missing from Mount Anaya existed and intensified with every mile they drove. Finally Karen’s lover turned the bike straight up a hill, slammed down on the accelerator, and drove like a demon to the top, around a curve . . . and stopped in a narrow, hidden meadow bounded by mountains.
    He turned off the motor.
    The sudden silence was shocking.
    Karen’s ears still rang from the din that accompanied the landslide, from the roar of the bike, and now she could hear a stream babbling, a bird singing . . . sounds so normal and sweet, she wanted to weep with joy.
    The mountain hadn’t killed them. It had done its best, but she was alive. They were alive.
    She slid off the seat. Her butt still vibrated from their wild ride. Her knees wobbled alarmingly.
    She’d almost died.
    She sank to the ground. The scent of crushed grass filled her head, and for a brief moment she leaned over and kissed the ground. Smiling, she glanced up at him. ‘‘Thank you,’’ she said. ‘‘Thank you.’’
    He didn’t look at her. He sat absolutely still, almost as if they had never met.
    And in truth, they hadn’t. The nights of desperate, needy sex could hardly count as an introduction.
    Yet not even the sight of his stiff figure could stop the slow rise of her exuberance. One thought possessed her.
    She was alive.
    She got to her feet, took three steps away, and spun in a circle like a demented Julie Andrews. If she could carry a tune—which she couldn’t—she would have burst into a rousing chorus of ‘‘The Sound of Music.’’
    She felt as if she’d found Shangri-la. Here in the meadow, the sunlight was clear and pure. She ran toward the tiny stream. It cascaded off a ledge into a pool lined with smooth pebbles, then spilled down the creek bed. The water sparkled as it crossed the stones, and she knelt beside it. When she splashed water over her face, it was so cold it made her teeth clench. She was making a fool of herself, but she didn’t care.
    They were alive.
    She laughed as she realized the dust sifting down from the sky really came from her hair— the dirt from the rockfall had coated her with grit. She stripped off her coat, shook it, and tossed it aside. With both hands she scrubbed at her head, and winced at a stab of pain. Carefully she explored; something, one of the rock chips, had sliced a small cut into her scalp behind her ear. The place felt sticky, and when she pulled her hand away her fingers were carmine with drying blood.
    Yet such a small price to pay for being alive.
    She closed her eyes, bowed her head, and thanked God, then stood, prepared to deal with what would happen next.
    When she turned, he was there.
    She shouldn’t have been surprised. He always moved with deliberate stealth.
    But this time she jumped in horror.
    He was six-foot, broad at the shoulder and narrow at the hip. The same dust that coated her had settled on him, on his dark, sleek, long hair, on his wild black beard and mustache. Beneath the dirt that streaked his face his skin was toasted by the sun. Although his bone structure was vaguely exotic, maybe Eastern European, this man was Caucasian.
    And his eyes . . . his eyes were black. Not midnight blue, not sable brown, not charcoal gray. Black . So black it looked as if the pupil had swallowed the iris. Black, opaque, and shiny, like obsidian, the black glass formed in the fires of a volcano.
    She tried to stumble backward.
    He caught the front of her T-shirt in his fists and yanked her close.
    Drugs? Yes. Only drugs could cause his eyes to look like . . . that.
    Drugs . . . or she’d really died in the rockfall, and this was hell, and he was the devil.
    Yet everything here seemed so real. He seemed real. They were close, almost touching. He leaned toward her, his breath touching her face. And as she stared into those eyes, she fell into a soul so dark and tormented nothing could ease his pain. Except maybe . . . her.
    ‘‘What did you think you were doing?’’ The