House Of Shadows

He whispered, “I need to decide what part of this arm is inconsequential. Of course, it’s all perfect in the flesh, but I eliminate what’s not necessary, and decide what is essential.”

His hand stretched out to grasp hers. He lifted her arm high above her head and stepped closer, bringing the scent of pinewood shavings with him. “The question is, what is it that allows you to raise your arm like this?”

“Muscles,” she replied in a whisper.

“Of course. And tendons, too. The delicate interplay between them, when to pull and when to push, that’s what matters most. That’s what fascinates me.” He leaned forward and looked into her eyes. “The real question, the one we’re not asking, is what gives the signal to these muscles, what tells them to move?”

He let go of her arm and tapped her temple. “This does. Right in here. That is something we’ll never, ever be able to replicate. But I want to.”

He was so close she could count his eyelashes. He kept speaking, but she heard nothing save for the pounding in her heart. Her nipples tightened, and the sensation unnerved her. Her cheeks burned, and she tried to step back to gather her wits. She felt fear and excitement, a potent combination. He was unlike any man she’d ever known and she wasn’t sure what to say.

He pulled away, a cold look settling over his features. “Did the agency tell you what your duties would be?”

“A little bit,” she said, turning away, trying to hide the flash of shame because there was no agency. Mrs. Capshaw would be the end of her, she just knew it.

He pointed out a simple desk, off to the side. “Part of the time, you’ll work there. Taking notes. Sketching for me. The rest of your time will be spent helping me tool the components. I struggle to see those small details, which is what caused the problem I have to begin with.”

“That sounds fine,” she said. She looked again at the wooden figures, remembering how mysterious and lifelike they looked from outside the window. There was no life in them now. They looked defeated, slumped. Ropes bound them to the chairs and held them upright. They had no faces, no features. The wood had been whittled and etched away to reveal the essence of a human body. Arms, legs, hands.

Yet they were beautiful. It was as if whittling them down hadn’t made them less—it made them more. It brought out their essence. She walked toward them and gingerly touched one on the shoulder, half expecting it to turn and look at her. “What are they?” she asked in a hushed tone, afraid of his answer, knowing full well how silly she was being. But there was definitely something curious about this man.

“Mannequins. My earliest attempts. I keep them because I have a fondness for them. They remind me that progress is possible. Why? Did you think I used them for another purpose?”

“I wasn’t sure.”

* * *

It was too hot. Carrick stood at the door, lingering and scraping his boot absentmindedly back and forth over the gravel. Her hands didn’t flutter. That was the first thing he noticed. Some of the others that came here stood trembling, their hands fluttering like trapped butterflies as they stared up at the mechanical man—Harris. Hell, even he thought of him as Harris now.

But her? He saw it. Interest. She looked afraid, yes. But for one brief instant, he saw the spark of wonder. Plus, she named him. That had to be a good sign. She might be the one to help him for the long, hard haul that he knew lay ahead.

Her gasp when she first saw the mechanical man was the single most heavenly sound he’d ever heard. They both saw the same thing in his invention—potential—he knew it in his bones. Of course, he’d become too excited, got too close and scared her. Scared her. Scaring people was something he was far too good at.

Even with that painful disappointment, his spirits were still riding high because she just might work out. Her intellect was apparent. Other assistants worked methodically but without vigor, and he felt the burden of constantly explaining task after task to someone who didn’t care to learn the concepts or take leaps of initiative. He held out hope that she might work out just fine.

“How long have you been designing the mechanical man?” she asked, turning to look at him with those blue, blue eyes, and he found himself struggling to pay attention to her words.

“Six years.”

“Six years?” Her perfect lips made an O of surprise. “That’s a long time to remain committed to something that still hasn’t born results.”

“The results? The end?” He laughed. “What’s that? Every morning when I go to bed, I have to restrain my mind from dwelling on my project. I would think of it all day, every single moment, if I could.”

* * *

Penrose returned to her desk and began working again, but the uneasy, flighty feeling in her chest lingered. The feeling was strange, excitement and fear mingled together. He was exciting to be around, but he was a volatile person. And mysterious. Her stomach twisted at the memory of his hand on her shoulder.

He paced the room while he spoke. She took notes. Scribbling furiously, she did her best to keep up with him. His ideas were explosions of brilliance, and as he spoke, she slipped into a kind of trance, channeling his words directly onto the paper.

He spoke of the function of the mechanical man, of ways to solve the dilemma with the gears, of the possible need to retool some of them and the supreme need for flexibility of design.

It was revealing to hear his thoughts aloud and easy to take measure of his mind. He had an organized way of thinking, linear and clear. His ideas were concise and simple to understand, and her pen flew across the paper. At times, he paced the floor or hesitated before speaking. She waited, pen in the air, and as soon as his words began to flow once again her scratchings on the paper renewed.

He came and stood behind her. After discussing the particularly difficult redesign of a gear, he put his hand on her shoulder and asked, “Did that make sense? I think if we change the ratio, the output will be stronger.”

A twist of nervousness tightened within her. She looked up at him, her eyes wide. The sight of him—tall and regal, with his white hair framing his handsome face—affected her, making her breath heavy.

“Yes,” she said, nodding as if she understood perfectly. But the only thing she understood was his hand and those long elegant fingers resting on her shoulder.

She couldn’t breathe. More than anything she wanted to rest her cheek on that hand, to feel it caress her skin. Never before had she reacted in such a way. Something strange was happening.

Somehow, her pen kept moving, danced across the paper and finished the last sentence. The realization that she wanted more of that touch made her hand shake and her script wobbly.

He had such passion. A singular-minded obsession. She wondered what it would it be like if he lavished that passion on her.

The thought flamed her cheeks, and she pulled away from him, turning her head. Instantly, his hand disappeared from her shoulder. She wanted to face him and say something, but what could she say? Nothing at all.

Stepping away, he continued speaking, pacing the floor. And she continued writing as if nothing had passed between them.

She wrote so much her fingers hurt, and the tips of them became stained with ink. It felt like an instant later the grandfather clock tolled the midnight hour. Time seemed to speed up when she was with him.

She stretched her tired, achy fingers, waiting for the chimes to stop and Carrick to start lecturing again. But as soon as the clock fell silent, another sound rang out.

It was the sound of crashing noises coming from outside, and the second she heard them, a terrible sense of foreboding settled over her.

* * *

As soon as Carrick heard the crashing sounds coming from outside the workshop he was up and out the door. He didn’t know what he was expecting—C.J. maybe, up to some antics—but when he went outside only the summer breeze greeted him. He looked around. Nothing.

He heard the faint sound of a woman’s gasp. It was light and breathy with an air of surprise and something else, something he couldn’t name.

He looked in the direction of the sound and saw a woman standing just outside the circle of light that came from the window. She wore all white and had a sheen of yellow hair that trailed just below her shoulders.

An angel. That was his first thought. She floated out there in the darkness, hovering with a strange look of fear and longing on her face. Such longing.

She couldn’t be a ghost. No such thing. “Hey,” said Carrick sharply. “What are you doing out here?”

Instead of replying, she shook her head slowly and began to back away.

“Hey!” he called again, louder now.

The woman began backing away, the shadows swallowing her. “Stop!” he said, “Don’t go. Tell me who you are.”

Penrose came and stood right behind him, her body pressed against his.

“What is it?” she asked, craning to see outside. “No!” she shouted, surprising him so much that he startled. “Go away!” The tone of her voice was frightened. More than frightened.

“Do you know that woman?” Carrick asked.

The woman turned to Penrose, and something passed between them. He felt it like a bolt of lightning.

The woman outside looked angry, beyond angry. Her posture was rigid. She lifted her hand and pointed at Penrose. For a moment, it looked as if the blonde were about to speak, but she shook her head again and, in a swirl of white skirts, turned and fled.

Some primal instinct flared inside of him, and he took off running after her. No one should be on the property. He didn’t know what she was up to, but he fully intended to find out.

“No, Carrick!” screamed Penrose. “Don’t follow her!”

He paid Penrose no attention. “Stop!” he shouted to the woman. It was dark. He had trouble enough seeing at night, let alone running through the trees.

He heard her crashing through the woods, and this made her easier to follow. He loped along behind her, his long legs closing the distance between them. Her crashing sounds were getting louder by the second. Once he caught her, he would get to the bottom of this little mystery.

* * *

A heavy, oppressive feeling settled in Penrose’s chest. As soon as she saw the woman, she knew her ruse was up. Her breath died in her chest at that moment. So did the little feeling of hope that finally she had started to feel. She should’ve known the scheme would end badly.

Anytime she tried to get ahead, something came along and set her back. Now Carrick was out there, chasing that woman, that beautiful, perfect woman who by all rights should be standing right where Penrose stood.

Now alone in the quiet workshop, feeling numb, Penrose looked around her. The budding hope that had begun to grow inside of her was already dying. She looked around, trying to memorize everything in the room because she knew she would be leaving. Carrick would show up any minute, yell at her and kick her out. She’d never see the workshop or Harris again. Or Carrick. Her reaction surprised her.

In one quick fix, she had thought she could solve her problems. But she’d only made them worse.

She noticed that her fingers were stained with ink, and she went to the table, picked up a rag and began wiping the stains away. Minutes dragged by, and when the clock gonged again—one in the morning—the door swung open.

Carrick filled the doorway. He looked wild. His white hair stood on edge.

Penrose’s hands stilled and fell to her side. The rag dropped to the floor.

He stared at her long and hard, his shoulders squared, and he took great, heaving breaths.

She wasn’t sure how to react. She was too afraid to say anything, to reveal anything at all. Perhaps he hadn’t caught up with her.

But one look at his face told her he had, indeed. More than caught up with her, she realized, noticing the angry set of his lips. He’d spoken with her.

In three strides, he crossed the room. She barely had time to gather her breath before he loomed over her, his beautiful, angry features hovering right above her face. “What trickery are you up to, Penny?”

He knew. It was over. A horrid wrenching twisted in her gut, but something else was there, too, some wild, fluttery, panicked sensation. A painful feeling of loss and shame. She didn’t want him to think badly of her. “I’m sorry,” she blurted out. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I never intended...”

He shook his head slowly. “The conversation I just had with that woman,” he said, walking around her. “And the things I’ve learned about you.” He stopped, leaned forward and took her chin in his hand, forcing her to look into his strange eyes. Angry eyes that seemed to swirl with dark colors. “It seems you weren’t honest with me, were you?”

“No,” she whispered, too flustered to come to any self-defense of her behavior. She felt the hole that she’d dug widening beneath her feet, and the blackness threatening to swallow her up. If only she could look away from his eyes, but his hand at her chin was no longer gentle. It held her tight.

“What game you play, I don’t know,” he said. “But you will not win it. This I guarantee you—you will not win it. You came and looked me in the eyes, and deceived me.” He leaned close. She smelled the woods on him and the scent of summer blooms. “I know your secret. And I wager there are even more to find out, and, trust me, I’ll find every single one.”

Penrose knew what he was talking about. He was talking about her. About the blonde. “Please, you’re scaring me,” she said. Her words came out too soft, too weak. “Where did she go?” she asked him.

His chest pressed against hers, and he made no accommodation for her at all. She was forced to hold her breath. He said, “Do you care where she went? Do you really care as long as she’s not here?” He stepped even closer, forcing her tighter against the table. “And why is she here, Penny? Do you know that?”

“I needed a job,” she whispered her confession. Her eyes met his, imploring him to have sympathy. “I was hungry. I didn’t know...” Her voice trailed off.

“She gave me the impression you knew a great many things, Penny. And that you weren’t so innocent, that you committed a crime against her, and now she suffers for it,” he said. “Her words, not mine.”

His demeanor was decidedly very, very different, and she didn’t know what to make of it. Mrs. Capshaw be damned to hell. “I’ll leave,” she whispered.

He chuckled, and the threat behind it gave her shivers. “You’ll do no such thing. You made your bed—now you’ll lie in it.” Lifting her chin higher, he leaned closer until his lips touched her ear. “Or you can lie in mine, if you prefer,” he said. “In fact, she mentioned something of the sort.”

Not one word came to her lips. Not one. She could only breathe, but even that was a struggle—little gasps that caused her breasts to push against his chest. “I’m sorry,” she finally whispered.

“Are you?” With his other hand, he traced up the side of her torso. Higher and higher, skimming over her breast, her shoulders, until his long fingers caressed the back of her neck and edged into her upswept hair.

Yes, his demeanor had changed so very much. Whatever the woman had said, she unleashed a new man in Carrick.

Penrose closed her eyes, unsure if this was even real. But her body told her it was real, very real, for it throbbed with life and feeling.

With his other hand, he traced a thumb over her lips, and she whimpered.

“Perhaps she wasn’t lying.” His voice, now at her ear, smooth and cajoling, seemed to be speaking right into her soul. “Are you afraid of me?” His voice was so, so low.

With his thumb on her lips, she couldn’t speak. She shook her head no. But she was trapped and could only stand there, enduring the feel of him.

He removed his thumb. “Let me repeat my question. Are you afraid?”

She couldn’t keep lying to him. Oh, she wanted to, but her pounding heart wouldn’t let her think of an excuse. “Yes,” she said, nodding. It was everything about him. His sharp, strange beauty. His odd ways. The way he frightened her.

But it was too late to say anything. His fingers guided her to look at him and then his mouth descended onto hers, deceptively soft.

She stilled, hardly believing what was happening. But it was happening.

He drew her closer, enveloping her, holding her against him. His kiss turned hard and demanding. Anger lurked underneath. She knew it from the way his lips slashed, hot and accusing, over hers.

It wasn’t merely anger. It was more than that. Something almost dangerous. Seductive.

Sinking, melting, she surrendered to the feeling. He tugged at her lips, coaxing her mouth to open and then his tongue thrust inside, claiming her. Triumphant.

Heat spread between her legs. An odd sound escaped her mouth, and a shiver swept over her. Her whole body shook from it, surprising her.

Her reaction seemed to inflame Carrick. A rumble came from his throat, and his kiss grew bolder, hungrier. All night long, his touch had been measured and precise. Incremental. Now it turned wild. Uncontrolled. His hands swept up her skirt hungrily, grabbing fistfuls of fabric, digging for her body beneath. When he found it, he growled and pressed against her, and she felt his hardness through the folds of her skirt. It made a pulse of pleasure beat between her legs.

From deep inside, an unrestrained, breathy shudder swept over her body. She whimpered and pressed farther into his kiss, overwhelmed with wanting him.

He stilled. Through her dress, she felt his hands clench angrily. “Dammit,” he said harshly. “I can’t do this.” He stepped away from her. “I’m sorry,” he said, avoiding her gaze, already turning away from her. “It’s too damned complicated. More than that. God, it’s so much more than that.”

Reaching out and putting a hand on his chest, she leaned up and tried to kiss him. “Please.” She didn’t want it to stop.

“You are young and foolish,” he said in a measured voice.

Taken aback, she stared at him hard before she said, “And you have no heart.”

“Now you know the truth of it. My real affliction. Let’s get back to work and forget this ever happened.”

Chapter 4

Penrose went to bed agitated, filled with thoughts of his touch. Her lips were still numb from his kiss. Her body still betrayed her attraction to him. She lay on the bed, certain that she wouldn’t be able to sleep and that images and memories of Carrick would haunt her. She snuggled deep under the covers, trying to block out the sun.

She had finally settled in and let out a long sigh, when a sound came from behind the walls. The noise continued for a moment, and then it stilled, too, almost as if whoever or whatever made the noise realized she was listening.

A sharp zing of terror shot up her spine. She held her breath, not breathing, waiting for the sound to begin again. It did. Slow, halting little noises. Self-aware noises, as if the need to be quiet was paramount. No. This wouldn’t do. She simply had to find out what caused the sounds.

She sighed in an exaggerated manner and made rustling noises from the bed. She slipped quietly from the bed, her feet hitting the floor softer than a mouse’s, and then she padded with delicate footsteps to the wall. Leaning close, she pressed her ear to the wall. And that was when she saw it.

The morning sun slanted just right over the wood, illuminating all the imperfections and she saw a minute gap between two of the boards. Tracing her eyes along the gap, she saw hinges that were hidden so well in the pattern of the wood that she’d never have seen them if she weren’t looking for them. They were painted white to match. Once she found the hinges, the outline of the secret door was easy to spot.

She dug her fingernails into the gap and pulled. Nothing. Following a hunch, she placed her palms on the wood, and pressed quick and hard. She was rewarded with the sound of a click, and the door sprung open.

The pale face of a child appeared. Violet eyes, big as dinner plates, stared into her very soul. She careened backward, struck by a shock stronger than lightning. Down she went, landing in an awkward, crab-like position, gasping, staring into the wide and shocked amethyst eyes of a child.

Three or four breaths passed before the child broke her gaze, spun around and began to scurry into the tunnel.

Her heart pounded so hard that she should have fainted, but anger rose up hard. Swiftly, she dived forward, plunged her arm into the hold and grabbed the child by the ear. A yowl came from the tunnel, and she pulled with all her might until the body of the child—a boy—came tumbling out and lay on the floor. Wide eyes—he looked just as shocked as she felt—stared into hers. The boy lay panting. Eight years old, she guessed. Pale like Carrick, white hair and bright skin.

“Who are you?” She sounded possessed, her words strangled.

No answer. She twisted her grip on his ear. “Tell me, child.”

“C.J.,” he spit out. His little face twisted in anger. “Now leave off.”

“No. I’ll not leave off.” She said. “Who? What?” Her thoughts were tumbling as she struggled to understand exactly what she was seeing. “What in God’s name are you doing crawling around in the walls?”

“I live in there.” He threw the words out. Almost boastfully. “It’s where I belong.”

“No one belongs hidden in the walls. No one.” She let go of his ear. Her hands were shaking. “Who are you?”

“I told you my name is C.J. For Carrick, Junior. Son of the great inventor.” His tone was biting. “Only I’m not his son. No matter what my ma said.”

“Don’t be so hateful,” she hissed. “And what do you mean by your ma said?”

“I mean when she was alive. That’s what I mean. She died. Last summer. That’s why I came here to live.”

“I’m sorry she died. But this is madness! A child living in the walls!”

He looked away and slid his foot from side to side across the floor. “It happens. Life isn’t all roses.”

She agreed with him on that point. “No, C.J., it’s not. But how come...” She struggled for words. “Why aren’t you in a bedroom? In the house?” A horrible thought came to her. “Does he make you stay there?”

He laughed bitterly, a sound no child should ever make. “He didn’t make me go in there. But he sure doesn’t mind.”

“You shouldn’t be so hateful toward your father,” she said. “Surely he must care for you.” But she doubted her words even as she said them.

“That’s what you think.”

“Hey, now,” she said, trying to be friendly. She put her hand on his shoulder, and she noticed with some relief that it had finally stopped shaking.

“Stop!” He pushed her hand away, his entire body curling from her touch.

“Okay, okay,” she replied. “I’m sorry. Listen, it’s strange to crawl about in the walls. Maybe I should talk to Carrick. You need to be out of the walls. For your safety.”

His look turned sly and challenging. “Go right ahead. Miss Penny. Yes, I know your name.” His chest puffed up. “I’m none of his concern. I’m no one’s concern but my own. Least of all yours.” He darted away, quicker than a rifle shot, diving right back into the tunnel.

Though the thought of entering the dark space made her shudder, she dropped to her knees and raced behind him through the little door. Light shone from behind her and lit the way ahead. Once she crawled in, the space opened up, and she was able to stand, though just barely. The walls were tight at her shoulders. The space unnerved her, and she considered turning around but didn’t. “C.J?” she called out. “Come back. Please. I can help.” She wasn’t quite sure how, but she’d at least try. She crept forward until she saw a wall ahead, and just before the wall, the floor opened up into a hole.

Here she stopped, looked over and saw a wooden ladder fastened to the wall. Rough ridges were gouged into the floor. Markings, she realized, so that in the dark the child would know where the hole was, and he wouldn’t fall through it. Peering down the hole, she was afraid and yet mesmerized by it. She wouldn’t dare descend into those depths. Ever.