Ocean views, rolling acres and a legacy of ritualistic murder
American Declan Meyers suddenly owns a crumbling Welsh estate with a deadly history. Itâs a bequest from the father he never knewâthe man his mother ran from for years. But while Stonecliff could be the answer to Declanâs money problems, heâll never be able to sell it with a parapsychologist poking around, fuelling ghostly rumors.
Dr. Carly Evans is determined to investigate the paranormal energy that radiates from Stonecliff like a fever. Even Declan canât deny having seenâ¦things. Glowing red eyes. Charred corpses. The evil cannot be ignored.
The uneasy truce between ghost hunter and heir flares into an irresistible attraction. Declan and Carlyâs night of passion leaves them totally vulnerable. Not just to each other, but to dark forces obsessed with an ancient rite of bloodshed.
Prologue
Rain fell in sheets like a veil from the night sky as Declan pulled into the parking lot behind the three-story building where he lived. A dull throb curved across his forehead from one temple to the other, squeezing his head like it was caught in a vise.
Shit, it had been a long day. Heâd spent the bulk of it tracking down a womanâs daughter whom sheâd given up for adoption nearly forty years ago, only to discover the girl had died in a car wreck at fifteen. He dreaded the conversation waiting for him tomorrow morning.
Of course, the cherry on his shit-sundae of a day had to be going to his stepfatherâs to deal with his younger brotherâs latest escapade. This time Josh had totaled his car, which heâd been driving without insurance. No surprise, since he couldnât hold down a job to save his life. At least no one had been hurt.
Allen, Declanâs stepfatherâJoshâs fatherâhad looked worn-out, as if heâd aged ten years in just a few months. Ever since Declanâs mother had died four months ago. Allen was still grieving. Hell, they all were. None of them needed Joshâs crap. He was nearly twenty-two years old. Too old to be pulling this kind of shit.
With Josh living under his roof, Allen was exhausted and worried sick about what heâd get into next. Declan had thought about having his brother come live with him to give Allen a break, but Josh had already fucked up Declanâs life, and he was still scrambling to put the pieces back together. Besides, he wasnât home enough to make sure Josh didnât get into more trouble. Allen, at least, was retired.
But Declan still had to clean up this latest messâeven if he didnât have a clue where to start. A part of him wondered if he shouldnât this time, if he should just leave his brother to deal with the consequences on his own. And he might have. After Josh nearly destroyed the private investigation business Declan had worked so hard to build, he hadnât been feeling terribly sympathetic toward his brother. But he had Allen and his younger sister Katie to think about. They couldnât handle losing their son and brother so soon after losing their wife and mother.
âTomorrow,â Declan muttered. Heâd deal with it all tomorrow. For now, he was dead on his feet and half-starved. A cold beer, leftover pizza and mindless hours flaked out in front of the TV sounded perfect.
He pushed open his car door, grabbed his computer bag from the backseat then dashed across the parking lot and along the side of the building to the front door. The overhang protected him from the downpour, but in the short distance between his car and the building, rain had soaked the front of his jeans and his hair.
He shoved back the dripping tressesâhe needed a haircut badlyâand dug through the front flap of his computer bag for his key card to the security door.
His fingers closed around thin plastic just as a strange prickle crawled over his skin. He tensed and turned to peer out into the darkness. He couldnât see anything past the pouring rain, but an invisible weight pressed between his shoulders as if he were being watched.
Stupid. He was tired from a long dayâand those dreams that had him up through the night sure as hell hadnât helped. Black water. Fire. Glowing red eyes. He shivered.
Beer. Pizza. Bed.
He turned back to the door as a tall man with white hair and a pale face materialized from the shadows like a ghost. Declanâs heart lodged in his throat. He jerked backward nearly stumbling over his own feet.
âWhat the hell?
âDeclan Meyers?â the man asked. He had an English accent and Declan recognized his voice immediately. âIâm Hugh Warlow.â
âI know who you are,â Declan snapped. His face burned. He must have looked like a complete asshole nearly falling over himself like that. He was keyed up, overtired and he sure as hell hadnât expected this man to turn up at his door. âThere are laws against stalking, you know?â