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I glance up at the store’s name on the little sign above.
“It’s so cool it’s almost ridiculous,” I whisper, beyond awestruck. “No piece of furniture should have its own aura.”
I want it.
And I can’t possibly afford it.
The price tag says the desk is $3,800.
Almost more than I even earn in a month, pre-tax.
It’s not the disappointment that makes my stomach sink, though. I’m used to window-shopping, seeing something I love and knowing I can never have it before moving on with fond regret.
It’s the sudden feeling of eyes on me.
Not the usual quick, curious glances of someone realizing I’m the new girl in town.
This feels too heavy.
Too familiar.
Almost the way I used to feel when I’d stagger home to my apartment dog-tired and just know that Roger was around, watching me, hidden and inescapable.
I don’t want to turn around.
That red X sprayed on the wall bleeds into my mind.
...what if Roger’s waiting there, just waiting for me to look?
What if he’s standing on the sidewalk, staring at me with his saccharine smile, just watching with that eerie obsession I didn’t recognize until it was almost too late?
No.
He wouldn’t dare be so open.
Would he?
I don’t know if I’m scared or pissed, but I swear to God Almighty I’m going to kick him square in the nuts if I catch him creeping on me again. I swallow hard, balling up my nerves like I’m winding them up for a pitch, then make myself turn around sharply, pivoting on my heel like a soldier doing an about-face.
No Roger after all.
But I don’t know who it is.
There are two strangers, actually.
They’re standing on the other side of the road, under a thin maple tree in a sidewalk planter, the leaves starting to yellow. Even though there’s not enough foliage on the spindly branches to cast a real shadow, the pair seem to stand in their own plot of darkness.
Two tall, gaunt men wearing worn, but clean clothing that looks long out of date, thick homespun shirts and jeans with work boots.
The older man wears a wide-brimmed hat, shadowing his face and flinty eyes. There’s not much of him to see past a bearish beard in black and iron-grey that cascades down his chest, obscuring most of his face except for that creepy stare.
And his eyes are locked on me in grim fascination.
The other man is younger, clean-shaven, his black hair short and a bit messy, but he’s got a vacant look to him. Like he’s checked out of his own body and it’s still stuck on autopilot with this empty, eerie smile.
His eyes are so black, just like the older man’s.
I shiver, wrapping my arms around myself like they can hide me from the weight of those combined stares. “Um, Nora? Who the hell are they?”
“Hm?” Nora glances away from the display window. “Oh, them? That’s Ephraim Jacobin and his son, Culver. You don’t see them in town much. Surprised they’re here today.”
“O-oh,” I say. “Are those the hillfolk Lucas told me about?”
“Yep.” She leans in closer to me, dropping her voice. “They’re not as creepy as they look, I promise. Just don’t go traipsing around in the woods at night on their turf. Then they might snap you right up and sacrifice you to the elder owl gods or something.”
I snap my head up, staring at her.
That was a joke, right?
“They might—what?” My chest pulls roughly.
She doubles over, her laughter bouncing off the walls.
“Oh my God, your face, I’m—I’m sorry, D. I wasn’t serious.” Nora smiles apologetically and pushes me gently. “Lighten up, lady. Figured you were too city smart to fall for that. No, they’re harmless. They’re just hillbillies in the proper sense who don’t like townsfolk too much and keep to themselves. The rest is all silly legends and ghost stories. Our own little Roanoke mysteries, I guess.”
“Rude,” I say, wrinkling my nose.
But she’s right.
If I wasn’t already so jittery from everything else, I’d have seen right through that in an instant.
“So, you wanna tell me why they’re staring like they’ve never seen a real live woman before?”
“Because,” a voice interrupts from behind me, “you’re new in town, and it takes a while to warm up to strangers.”
Another weird inkling hits just then, urging me to look back.
This time, when I turn around, I know what I’ll find.
Ulysses Arrendell, looking like he just stepped off the cover of a men’s fashion magazine, fabulously stylish as ever. His burgundy sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and buttoned in place, his hands in the pockets of pants that look like some weird hybrid between jeans and designer dress slacks in dark grey.
Nora immediately brightens.
She’s married with kids, but the second she sees Ulysses, her cheeks flush. “Ulysses, hi! Speaking of devils we don’t usually see in town...”
“Too flattering,” he answers mildly, his emerald eyes glittering with humor. “Come now, I’m just making sure our darling new schoolteacher is settling in well.”
