His
Cemetery Doll
There's a woman in the graveyard.
Conall Mackay never
put stock in ghost stories. Not even after thirteen years serving as the
cemetery keeper in the village of Whitetail Knoll. But things change. Now, his
daughter is dreaming of a figure among the tombstones. The grounds are overrun
by dark thorns almost faster than Con can clear them. White fog and gray
ribbons creep up on him in the night, and a voiceless beauty beckons him from
the darkest corners of the graves.
When the world he
knows starts to unravel, Conall might finally be forced to believe.
Excerpt:
He
hadn't slept long before he heard sounds from down in the kitchen below.
"Shyla!"
he called gruffly. "Weren't you heading into town?"
No
answer came from below, but the sounds of pots clanging told him his daughter
toyed about down there. Perhaps she'd decided not to leave him after all and
taken it into her head to now re-organize the house, since he'd so clearly
wanted her to stay out of the cemetery. With a low groan, Conall rolled out of
bed and stepped out into the hall.
"Shyla!"
he called again, coming to the head of the stairs. If she had stayed home, she
could at least do it without making a lot of noise.
"Shyla,
I—"
He
staggered then, as the hallway dimmed. Afternoon light flickered strangely, lightning
cracking a dismal sky outside, and in the space of time afterward everything
else darkened. Conall darted a glance around him as the house fell into shadow.
From
the top of the stairwell, he saw the first whispering tendrils of white fog.
The
heat of adrenaline shot through his limbs. Conall stumbled back into his
bedroom, even as the fog pursued. His gaze shot to the window as the last gray
light of day faded away and eerie darkness replaced it, like an eclipse sliding
over the sun.
More
cold mists veiled the glass, dancing and floating. Trembling overtook him as he
spun to find another escape.
He
froze, finding himself face-to-face with the broken mask of the cemetery doll.
"You—"
he gasped. His breath came out white as the fog enveloped them both, leaving a
space of mere inches between them, so he could still see her expressionless
face. Gray ribbons wound and curled through the air around him.
"Who
are you?" he asked.
The
doll stared up at him. He sensed her searching, looking into his eyes even though
hers remained covered. She held him there with her unseen gaze, until her cool,
cold hand came up to touch his bare chest.
Conall
let out a low breath. He closed his eyes, and a shudder of strange ease rippled
through his body. The cool pads of her fingers ran down his sternum, to his
navel. The silky ribbons brushed along his side.
Then
he noticed her other hand. She lifted it up, to her own chest, and she held
something tightly in her fingers: Shyla's stuffed dog.
"I
made that...for my daughter," he
whispered. The woman with the broken mask tilted her head down toward the small
toy, studying it. For a fraction of a second, her fingers appeared to tighten
around it. She returned her gaze to him, then, and the toy fell from her grip
into the fog, forgotten.
"Wait—"
he said, but she brought her other hand up to his chest to join the first, and
he recognized eagerness in the way she pressed her icy skin against his. Her
face tilted to him, and then came her lips again, ivory and flawless.
"I—"
Conall breathed. "I...don't understand..."
Her
fingers slid up, around his neck, but he pulled away.
"No,
this...this can't real. I'm asleep. I must be."
Gray
ribbons danced, pulling him back to her, and she stroked his face. He sucked in
a breath at her touch and found his own hand coming up to brush hers.
"You're
so cold," he said. "Like stone...but..."
Her
cool touch thrilled him; it made his skin tingle and the heat of his own body
sing. Her perfect flesh did, in fact, prove soft under his hands, as if the
contact with his worn calluses infused cold ivory with yearning. She caressed
his cheek, and Conall leaned into it. Before he could stop himself, he bowed
his head to her and kissed her frozen lips.
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