Erotica Harem

Setting: I really enjoyed the descriptions in this chapter. The last part you set the mood perfectly. Great job.

Characters: Marc didn’t do anything out of character. He seems to come to some realizations about the things he senses.

Referencing: If I caught something it’s in the line by line.

Plot: There’s a murder which is a big deal in a small town. Marc and his grandmother sense something amiss. Marc goes into to town to the bookstore. When he comes out, his Watcher has shown up again. It’s made clear that it’s different than Ian’s presence. Which is good…

Grammar: There were some suggestions I gave you in the line by line.

Just my personal opinion: I think you’re chapters are improving grammar wise. I think your plot has always been strong and continues to be so. I’m sorry I don’t have many suggestions for you this time around. I guess that’s a good thing.
Again, I really liked the mood you set at the end of the chapter. I feel that’s the strongest of your writing yet.
I look forward to more.

Sephina

Line by Line:


Marc had just removinged Molly’s bridle when his cell phone chirped. He pulled it from his jacket pocket and saw the word HANNA displayed on the screen.

“Hey, grandma, what’s up?”

“Sweetie, can you come to the house before you leave for town?”

He heard something odd in her voice. “Sure. Let me finish with Molly and I’ll be right in.”

He decided to allow the horse to wander around the fenced yard. She enjoyed nibbling the remaining tufts of late-summer grass and would return to the stable on her own.

“I’ll be back in a few hours, gorgeous.” He reached up to kiss the mare’s velvety nose, loving how she smelled of clean straw and salty sea air.

The horse watched him with soft, brown eyes that glittered in the afternoon sun. She nuzzled him, rubbing her long face against his cheek. And with a quick snort, she turned and trotted along the wooden fence bordering the ocean cliff.




“What’s up?” Marc asked as he came through the kitchen door.

“Shhhh!” Hanna said, pointing toward the small television on the counter. “They found a body.”

“A what?” He focused on the screen.

“And that’s all the information we have at this time,” said a reporter that Marc recognized from a Portland news station. She and the county sheriff watched as two deputies zipped up a green body bag lying on the beach.

Hanna switched off the TV. “Can you believe it? A murder in Cedar Cove?”

“Do they know who it was?”

“No, only that a body – a male, maybe seventeen, with no I.D – washed up on the beach north of town. Probably another runaway headed south to California.”

“Why call it murder?” Marc asked. “Maybe he was sleeping slept on the beach when the tide came in, and he drowned.”

“That’s what I thought. But before you came in, the coroner was saying how the body appeared to be drained of blood. Now that is interesting… He would know more after a proper autopsy.”

“Shark attack, then,” Marc added, though something told him that had not been the case.

“I don’t think so. The only marks on that poor boy were gashes on his throat. Who could do such a thing?” Hanna looked from the darkened TV screen to Marc.

“I don’t know, grandma." He shook his head and peered out the kitchen window. "But during my ride, I got a feeling that something bad is about to go down.”

"You know, I woke up with a similar notion. I didn't know what to make of it ... until now."

"Well, I’m thinking we should call Amelia to come over and stay for a few days."

“Now, Marc,” she admonished him with a smile. “Don’t you start that again. She and I will be spending plenty of time together next week at her cabin in the mountains. You’re only a phone call away, plus I have my Little Friends if anyone should try anything.”

“I know,” he grinned. Her Little Friends were the firearms she kept within easy reach throughout the house. Interesting…Though it might seem quirky to others, Hanna had been an expert marksman for much of her life, and she held permits for her weapons. “I’ll be back in a little while. Ring me if you need anything.”




During the drive into town, Marc could not get the image of the green body bag out of his mind, or the premonition he'd gotten while on the beach with Molly.

Though he had yet to put it all together, he knew there was a connection between today’s events and his strange experiences upon returning to the Cove in August. Two months had passed since he'd dealt with those lingering feelings of imminent disaster and his 'Watcher' on the cliffs.

To Marc's relief, those occurrences came to an abrupt end when Ian came into his life. At first, he even thought Ian could have been behind it all. But after their first night together, Marc realized the sheer impossibility of such a thing. He almost convinced himself that those episodes were his imagination working overtime, resulting from the stress of Hanna's illness. He recalled how thankful he was when everything settled down, and how did his best to put it out of mind.

But with the discovery of the body this morning, he felt that same sense of dread, of impending doom trying to claw its way to the surface. He knew it was only a matter of time before his Watcher made another appearance. Ian’s return tomorrow would not come soon enough. Marc needed him now more than ever.


* * * t erbe?

Despite the late afternoon hour, Cedar Cove’s grassy town square was the scene of brisk commerce. News of the alleged murder didn’t seem to affect the tourists attending the last day of AutumnFest, the annual harvest celebration. Marc walked past several tents and tables, watching as merchants hawked everything from candles, jewelry and dream catchers to crystals, runes and other New Age paraphernalia.

Though tempted to linger among the traders, Marc needed something a bit more cerebral to take his mind off the day’s puzzling events. He knew the Bookend would do the trick. The quaint bookstore at the ocean-end of the two-block main street had always been one of his favorite places in the Cove. He spent countless hours there during his childhood, devouring classic literature as well as the science fiction and dark fantasy to which he’d become addicted during his first year of junior high school.

Homer Winston, the Bookend’s original proprietor, founded the shop after being wounded in Japan’s attack on Pearl Harbor in 1941. He ran the store right up until his death last winter. Marc remembered how the news of Winston’s passing hit him hard. This would be his first visit to the shop since then.

The kind bookseller befriended Marc when he discovered their mutual interest in the magic of speculative fiction. Winston had known Marc’s grandmother and her late husband, and as a result he became something of a surrogate grandfather to Marc. They enjoyed many afternoons together, discussing in detail the plots and intriguing twists of their favorite yarns. Marc found it a rich and wonderful learning experience.

Having been away from the Cove for quite some time, Marc feared the Bookend’s new owners – Winston’s twin granddaughters from Seattle – might have converted the old place into one of those modern espresso bar/music-video dens. For this reason, he approached the shop with hesitation, taking his time and preparing himself for the worst.

Once he stood before the worn stone façade, he gazed up at the address – 333 Ocean Walk – etched into a polished copper plate. With his hand on the brass doorknob, he took a deep breath and pushed.

Relief washed over him the instant he stepped across the threshold. The familiar melody of the ancient silver bell over the door greeted him like an old friend. Aside from track lighting and new carpet runners, the place appeared unchanged. He saw the same sturdy bookcases fashioned of polished oak lined every wall to the ceiling, while their smaller counterparts stood in neat rows in the center of the large ground-floor room. The same furniture – substantial chairs upholstered in dark green leather, two matching sofas with solid cherry wood tables and small, green-shaded lamps – still faced the rustic hearth dominating the back wall.

As was the norm, even during summer evenings, a cheerful blaze crackled in the stone fireplace, checking the sea’s dampness at the door and filling the shop with a welcoming warmth.

And the smells – the unmistakable fragrance of books, of age, of knowledge – all permeated the place just as he remembered. mmm…. book smell… Marc looked around and the sweetest memories of time spent here washed over him like summer wind, his vivid recollections warming him as sure as the heat from the fire. The Bookend exuded the atmosphere of a personal study, inviting all who entered to browse and relax and to make themselves at home. He'd always considered the act of reading for pleasure an experience to be savored, and this little bookshop by the sea proved to be the perfect haven for such a diversion.

Yes, Marc thought, I’ve come home and precious little has changed. Should this be in italics?

An attractive blond woman who appeared close to Marc’s age sat on a stool behind the cash register. Though focused on an enormous buyer’s catalog before her, she looked up and smiled when she noticed Marc.

“Evening,” she said, while adjusting her rimless glasses. “Can I help you find anything?”

“Nah, I used to spend a lot of time here when I was a kid. Just thought I’d drop by and have a look around.”

“Well, welcome back.” She hefted a steaming mug. “I just brewed a fresh pot of Earl Grey there on the table by the fire. It’s hot and strong. Help yourself.”

At least it’s not cappuccino. Marc returned the smile. “Thanks, I think I’ll just check out the stacks up top.”

She nodded and returned to her reading.

Climbing the staircase to the loft, Marc felt like a fourteen-year-old boy again. He imagined that a glance over his shoulder would reveal Homer Winston seated behind the long polished counter, scribbling in his journal or flipping the dog-eared pages of a cherished novel. The thought conjured a wistful smile and made Marc feel more than a little sad.

With a sigh, he continued on to the second floor and headed for the “Bs.” He wanted to pick up a copy of Ray Bradbury’s Something Wicked This Way Comes. He hadn’t read the classic since high school, and he looked forward to rediscovering its hidden charm. Marc was amazed how well the author recalled being a small-town boy in 1950s America.

Though rows of graphic novels and books-on-tape now covered the entire rear wall, it pleased him that the upper level remained devoted to science fiction, fantasy and horror. He lingered among the rows, skimming the colorful spines of new volumes as well as those of old favorites he recognized.

Once he secured the Bradbury paperback, he decided to breeze over to the Horror aisle for quick perusal. There were several promising authors he’d been turned on to; in particular one Poppy Z. Brite from New Orleans. He admired her work. She wrote for herself, doing it with guts and finesse and not giving a damn about what anyone thought of the subject matter. Her fresh and ferocious, to-the-marrow approach intrigued Marc. He considered their individual writing styles to be quite similar.

After choosing an anthology of short horror tales, he moved to a large chair nestled between two tall arched windows. He took a moment to appreciate the spectacular view of the sea shimmering with golden fire in the distance, and then sank down into the thick cushions. The waning afternoon sun filled the room with amber light, warming his back as he slipped into one of Brite’s tales called Wormwood.


* * *

"Damn it," Marc said under his breath when a glance at his watch revealed he'd been at it for almost two hours. As he gathered his belongings, he saw that the sun was nothing more than fading coppery smear on the distant horizon and fog licked at the windows.

He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed Hanna's number.

"Are you OK, grandma?" he asked, doing his best not to sound panicked.

He signed with relief when she said she'd been working in her studio. "I'll be home in less than twenty minutes," he told her.

Marc rushed down the stairs and stepped up to the counter with the Bradbury book. He pulled a Visa from his wallet, paid for the paperback and headed for the door. He'd intended to say something to the clerk about how much he admired her grandfather, but he knew such pleasantries would have to wait.

The instant he stepped out into the cool evening air, he felt the presence waiting for him. “Fuck,” he hissed. “Not now.”

Despite the compulsion to get home, he stopped in the wash of golden light spilling from the shop windows. He listened, smelling rain that would soon follow. He cleared his mind, opening himself up in hopes of drawing the presence to him.

Nothing corporeal moved along the empty street, yet Marc felt it – felt him – moving somewhere in the gathering darkness.

As he began to walk, his boots slicing through the Pacific mists crawling along the damp ground like translucent snakes, black and white images of Jack the Ripper stalking some unfortunate prostitute flickered across Marc’s consciousness.

He chuckled at his grim choice of villains, and then frowned when he thought of the dead boy on the beach. He quickened his pace toward the side-street where he'd parked his Jeep.

Dulled by the fog, the saffron glow of antique gas lamps atop iron poles offered little in the way of actual illumination. The darkened storefronts and bare branches of the dogwoods were nothing more than vague representations of themselves. It would be quite easy to remain concealed in a soup such as this.

Then, from within the rep: darkness, there came a faint throbbing like a great heartbeat. Just below the threshold of audible sound, Marc felt a concentration of invisible power, much like that which radiated from Ian. He looked back, thinking he might see his lover coming toward him, but there was only the vacant street and rep: darkened windows.

Reaching the end of the block, he rounded the corner and almost expected a cold hand to clamp onto his shoulder. But to his relief, the Jeep’s profile materialized out of the mist. Once he reached the vehicle, he jammed his right hand into the pocket of his Levis for the keys – and froze.

Just as it happened on the cliffs two months ago, Marc knew someone was watchinged him. And they were close. His heart began to pound. He glanced over his shoulder. Nothing.

Several seconds passed, and then a realization sliced into him like the stinging prick of a fine laser: the presence he sensed wasn’t Ian, and it wasn't behind him.

He swallowed hard, forcing himself to look over the top of his Jeep. Across the street, within the shadows of a recessed doorway, a faint silhouette stood unmoving, waiting. Though hazy and indistinct in the swirling fog, Marc knew the stranger could see him quite well. A spider-like chill rippled down his spine when he understood that the power emanating from this faceless specter was the exact opposite of what he felt from Ian. Instead of a calm peacefulness, there was destructive chaos and a ravenous hunger

Marc felt the first tinge of actual fear. Like the Keys deer snared by his headlights, he couldn’t move, could not even draw breath.

Stop it, man, his voice echoed inside his mind. Get a fucking grip and do … something!

Just as he sensed the figure gathering its strength and preparing to spring from the shadows, the patter of rapid footsteps on concrete shattered the silence.

“Mr. McDaniel!” a shrill voice cut through the mist.

Marc tore his gaze away from the apparition across the street and looked toward the source of the offending clamor. Appearing out of the fog like some angelic wraith, the clerk from the bookstore came toward him, brandishing some potent talisman before her.

“Your credit card,” she said, breathing hard. “You left it on the counter. I thought you’d probably be back, but I’m about to close up for the night.”

With his jaw clenched tight, Marc forced a smile and reached for the card. “Hey, thanks.” He tried his best not to sound pissed. “I, uh, I really appreciate you bringing it out.” He glanced across the street.

“No problem,” she said. “You have a good night. And be careful ... storm’s coming.”

Indifferent to his lack of attention, she turned away and melted back into the darkness.

"A fair maiden should beware on such nights ..."

The whisper floated on currents of swirling mist as Marc dashed across the street to the shadowy vestibule. Of course, he found it empty, and he sensed no one nearby. Looking in both directions, he saw the street once more vacant and quiet.

“Goddammit,” he shouted. “Here I am. Either show yourself, or leave me the fuck alone." He paused and listened. “Just as I thought.”

Irritated, Marc stalked back to his Jeep and tossed the plastic bag containing his new book onto the passenger seat. He slipped the Visa into his pocket and fired up the engine. After turning on his low beams, the flick of a toggle brought up the fog lights. The deep yellow glow penetrated the smoky mist. He sat there for several seconds, reaching out with his intuition. He felt nothing out of the ordinary. The stranger, it seemed, had moved on.

Marc shook his head, his gut twisting in a mixture of disappointment and anger. At a crawl, he pulled away from the curb and set off toward home.

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