Coyle and Fang: Curse of Shadows (Coyle and Fang Adventure Series Book 1) by Robert III (great books for teens .txt) 📗

being led into a devious plot? Could she trust anyone here? Could she trust Fang? Could she trust a vampire?

Someone watches me.

Her eyes opened underwater and fixated on a dark silhouette. She shot out of the water, eyes flashing around the room before settling in the corner. Shadows from the cabinet danced in the candlelight.

She was alone.

She rubbed her face, silently cursed and closed her eyes. Seeing things in the dark was not uncommon, the consequence of having dark scars in her life, her mind always pulled away from what was real, stretching into the fringes of madness. But for once, her imagination came to fruition: a living shadow named Fang had emerged from the dark and pleaded for help.

A pleading vampire wasn’t something she had heard of before. And they hadn’t necessarily agreed to terms. But Fang had promised to keep in touch.

She opened her eyes into slits, scanning the room again. No, she was alone. She stretched and reached to the tray of chocolates, slipping one into her mouth. Strawberries and cream. A soft moan escaped her lips. She didn’t want to leave this place. Wherever she was, whatever job they asked of her, she would make sure to remain close friends with them.

The men who picked her up had told her this was a government operation. A government-owned building. But she knew better. Fang had briefly mentioned a group calling themselves Templars, and their rings proved it. Besides, she knew wealth when she saw it, and this was not a government operation. She was inside private mansion belonging to someone with great wealth and influence.

She picked another truffle from the plate. Honey nougat with a touch of lavender. A glance at the clock showed over an hour had passed. She pulled herself out of the tub and wiped the mirror. Her gaze hovered on the long, jagged, pink scar down the center of her body, but she turned her eyes away. She grabbed a brush for her hair and pulled out the tangles before wrapping herself in a thick, heated towel.

She blew out the candles and walked into the bedroom. This one room alone had cost more to furnish than she would make in five years. But what kind of money could provide all this? Shipping. Oil. Gold. Textiles. Real Estate. Old money. All valid explanations. Yet these Templars were a secret organization. Did they pool their money together? And what would they want with a washed-out constable with a temper, who couldn’t sleep peacefully before the nightmares took her?

She let the towel fall away and picked up the violin. They must have given this to her. As a gift? As a bribe?

Her fingers fell into place and she played an easy melody, background noise while she thought. Her eyes searched the room. There was plenty of food, well-tailored clothes, and hot baths. All of this was a temporary comfort. Besides, this is not what she wanted for the rest of her life.

She preferred solving riddles, untying knots, and shedding new light on crime scenes. Each case studied and solved, and then on to the next one. And the next, and the next. Knowing humanity, there would never be a shortage of ugly crimes to solve.

She stopped playing and ran her fingers through her hair as she thought of the future. After she found Ronan, she would sit at her desk, with a steady supply of chocolates at hand, and pore through files of evidence, solving crimes until she was an older woman. That sounded like happiness. She’d lost the opportunity; but now, she may have another. She shook her head and studied the wooden sculptured ceiling tiles, trying to guess where they were from. Franciscan church, late seventeenth century. The furniture was more recent, early Edwardian. Rug, Persian, ninth century? Tenth century. She caught herself in the mirror, her eyes sliding down the scar he gave her.

She stopped playing and set the violin back into its case before lying in bed. Her fingers touched the space where her collarbones met. The skin was bumpy from his suture marks. She traced the scar down past her belly button, where it stopped. She frowned. Fang had said she was created by this organization. Created for a specific purpose.

Was she, Coyle, made as well? Did she have a specific purpose?

Four years since his cruelty.

A lump grew in her chest, and her shoulders tensed. She pressed her fingers into her eyes. She’d spent her time as a constable learning the law, dealing with criminals, all to become a detective. She had no idea how that would happen now. Not a clue. She sighed and closed her eyes to think. Just a few more ideas, hopes, and prayers before she would fall asleep.

***

She breathed him in...

Ronan wore the cologne she had given him for his birthday. His strong arm wrapped around her shoulder. Light showers soaked into the sidewalk, reflecting the orange glow from the electric streetlamps. His warm breath on her neck gave her butterflies.

“Let’s go to your apartment,” he whispered. “I have a hankering to pierce you.”

She slapped his arm. “Look at you! Don’t be a brute, Ronan. Just because you put a ring on my finger doesn’t mean you get to ‘pierce’ me before our wedding.” But her smile was as mischievous as his.

“Oh, it’s not like we haven’t before, sweetie.” He pressed his lips into her neck the way he always did, ingratiating her lust. His kiss lingered, sending her to another place entirely, far away from the cold San Francisco fog and into the warm weightlessness of passion. This was her favorite place. Heart to heart. Skin to skin.

She pulled away, whispering, “Let’s go, then. I’m ready to be pierced. Gently.”

Someone knocked on a door. She looked around, but no one was there. The knocking persisted.

Coyle shot up and grabbed her chest, panting, her eyes wide with terror. The pillows and comforter were scattered on the bed and floor, and sun poured in from the windows.