Struck

By Clarissa Johal

Caught in a terrible storm, Gwynneth is struck by lightning. She wakes in the hospital with a vague memory of a mysterious stranger. Following her release, the stranger visits her at will and offers Gwynneth a gift. One that will stay the hands of death. She is uncertain whether Julian is a saviour or something sinister, for as he shares more of this gift, his price becomes deadly.
Struck by lightning, claimed by shadows.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Clarissa Johal
• Release date: Jun 1, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311163479

Clarissa Johal

Clarissa Johal is the best-selling author of paranormal novels, THE LIGHTHOUSE, WHISPERS IN THE WOOD, POPPY, THE ISLAND, VOICES, STRUCK, and BETWEEN. When she's not listening to the ghosts in her head, she's swinging from a trapeze or taking pictures of gargoyles. She shares her life with her family and every stray animal that darkens their doorstep.*Member of the Authors Guild

Book preview

Chapter One

"Why you need to run off to work now is beyond me. There’s a big storm coming in, Gwynneth. The old people can take care of themselves. They’re not children."

I know they’re not children. Gwynneth dropped to the floor to check under the couch for her shoes. But they get upset, Seth. Unsuccessful, she stood and caught him arching a dark eyebrow. They do! And confused. Loud noises— she searched for the right word —agitate them. You don’t know some of them like I do.

You’re not the only one who works there, he murmured. Seth peeked inside the oven. My cake’s almost done. It tastes better when it’s warm, and it’ll be cold by the time you get back. He took in her determination and sighed. Fine. But we’re still on for Scrabble tonight. You promised.

Did you put my shoes away?

In the hall closet.

Be back in an hour. Save me a piece of cake. I’ll warm it up in the microwave.

It’ll take you an hour just to drive there. Traffic, remember? He cleared the plates from the kitchen table. It’s your turn to do these, by the way.

"I’ll do them before I go to bed, I promise, if you can stand to have them sitting in the sink that long."

Oh, ha-ha. Yes, Gwynneth, I can stand to have them in the sink that long.

Leaving the apartment complex, she was greeted by a rumble of thunder. Gwynneth turned up the collar of her jacket and ran to her car dodging the people who hurried down the sidewalk.

That was the one thing that took getting used to in the city. The crowds. Growing up in the country there were fewer people and more space. Gwynneth missed long walks in the forest. A little over six months ago, she’d moved from a small town in Oregon to San Francisco. Seth had helped her pick up the pieces of a broken relationship and assured her that a change of scenery would be the best medicine. She’d spent the first month crying into the desserts he made, but over time her heart had healed.

Starting up her little rust bucket of a Volkswagen, she merged slowly into traffic. She slammed her brakes to avoid a Jaguar and ten more cars behind it. One of these days I’m going to cause a pile-up and be sued into oblivion. Then I’ll have to move back to Oregon. Gwynneth felt lucky to have Seth’s old roommate’s job, but living in the city was expensive.

Gwynneth tapped the gas pedal and crept into traffic with her tailpipe between her legs. Stupid city. Stupid traffic. Stupid rain.

Thunder rumbled overhead, as if amused by her plight.

The retirement home was far from the hustle and bustle of the city, presumably so the residents had some peace and quiet. Personally, Gwynneth felt the proximity was so family wouldn’t have to think about who they dropped off. Except on the weekends. Homestead was hopping with visitors on the weekends. Well, it wasn’t, actually. But it should have been. There was nothing worse than trying to explain to a resident why a loved one couldn’t find the time.

Gwynneth greeted her co-worker with a smile. Fenton, how’s it going lucky charm?

What the heck are you doing here, pixie-girl? You should be at home with that sexy roommate of yours. Fenton popped a piece of gum in his mouth and began to fold up the wrapper origami-style.

She chuckled. She’d been friends with Seth since grade school. He was good-looking, in a broody kind of way. But he was like a brother to her.

Fenton set his origami swan on the reception counter beside four others. He stretched his muscular frame. One thing Gwynneth could say about Fenton was, in spite of the fact that he wasn’t the slightest bit interested in her or any woman, he did make for some nice eye candy. Kind of like a redheaded Greek sculpture and GQ model all rolled into one.

He yawned. "Keep me awake, Gwennie. There’s only so much Family Circle you can thumb through before it starts to mess with your head. He ruffled the water drops from her hair. You need some gel in this mess of yours. I’ll bring you some."

Just last week, Gwynneth had her long hair cut spiky short, opting for a city girl hairstyle. She ran her fingers through it self-consciously.

It suits you, gel or no gel, now you really look like a pixie with those big green eyes of yours. He stood back and assessed her further. But girl, you need to go clothes shopping. Tie-dye is so yesterday. Oregon is hanging off you like wool on a sheep.

They don’t raise sheep there, Fenton. I keep telling you, they raise trees.

Okay, then sawdust off…a tree limb. That doesn’t sound nearly as clever, Gwennie. You ruined my clever. He sighed dramatically. "And this rain is going to ruin my hair if it doesn’t let up before my relief shift comes in." He smoothed his red hair and sauntered over to the window.

You’re right. Rain would totally ruin your buzz cut.

Cheeky.

I am, actually. She caught a glimpse of her butt in the reception room mirror. Seth cooks constantly. It’s like an obsession or something. I’m starting to wonder at what point I won’t be able to zip up my jeans.

Your butt is just fine, Gwennie. If I were straight, I’d pinch it. And there could be worse obsessions, trust me.

I know, I know. I’m not complaining. Seth loved to cook, and he loved to cook fattening foods. Gwynneth had no idea how he kept himself so trim, except he was a freak when it came to running every morning. Maybe I need to take up running. She eyed her butt critically. Anyway, I’m going to check on Hannah…Mrs. Engel. She hates storms and loud noises. And I know her family wouldn’t dream of visiting or anything.

Ohh, honey. Fenton gave her a sympathetic look.

Gwynneth’s heart skipped a beat. She sank into a chair. What? Crap. When?

Mrs. Engel died last night. After you left.

But I was just talking to her yesterday. She was fine, we were talking about— She tried to remember what they had been talking about. Hannah seemed agitated, but she’d been telling Gwynneth one of her stories. Hannah had so many stories. Stories of her childhood in Germany, and of the food her mother used to cook. It was enough to make Gwynneth’s mouth water. Her first kiss. She was telling me about her first kiss.

Mrs. Engel kissed someone?

Of course she did, you dork. She has four children.

She never told me about her first kiss. In fact, she never talked much at all. Except to you, I guess. He shrugged. I figured she only spoke German.

Gwynneth felt like she’d been punched in the gut. God, I can’t believe she’s gone.

It’s a retirement home. Get used to it, he said with a sigh. Sometimes, it’s best to keep things casual. Not that I’m talking about being a robot like John the Automaton. But…you know.

John keeps the place spotless, Gwynneth said. John had a reputation for being a little lackluster. Some of the employees thought he was doing public service, and had fried his brain on drugs. Personally, Gwynneth had her doubts, but the jury was still out as to what his thing was. Most of the workers at the retirement home had things going on. Most of the residents had things too, but they were old. He never complains about the employee break room either, she added, and that place is a hot mess.

I’m not picking on John, girl. Calm down.

I know you’re not. Where did they take her?

Skyview. Her physician signed the paperwork this morning.

Can I see her?

Fenton gave her an incredulous look. Now why would you want to do that? She’s gone. Seeing that Gwynneth was struggling to hold it together, he recanted. You’re a nice girl, Gwennie. You just keep being you, and forget all us jaded city bitches. He picked up one of his origami swans and tossed it toward the window. You want me to call them?

Yes. For some reason, Gwynneth felt lost. She had no experience working with the elderly and could only boast a degree in Art History, but Hannah had been her friend. Somehow, they had clicked.

"Well, hell-o, Fenton said into the phone. This is Fenton Callahan. I’m one of the CNAs over at Homestead. I’m calling about a Mrs. Hannah Engel, who would have come in as deceased this morning." He drummed a pencil on a pile of papers.

The sound merged with the drumming from the rain outside, and Gwynneth’s thoughts wandered back to when she’d first met Hannah. It had been raining then, too.

"You must be Mrs. Engel."

The older woman sat alone in her room and stared out the window at the rainy sky. The pale light washed over her face, illuminating her wrinkles. Her long gray hair trailed down her back in a thick braid. A blue dress buttoned up to the neck hung loosely from her slight form. A pair of worn slippers sat beside her bare feet. Her toenails had been painted pink. She looked at Gwynneth warily and returned her attention to the window.

Gwynneth’s task, as a new hire, was to get the woman to mingle with the other residents. The staff told her that Mrs. Engel kept to herself and not to expect much, but Gwynneth was determined. She held out her hand. My name’s Gwen. I just started here this morning.

One of our caregivers wanted to pay her last respects. Can she drop by this evening? Fenton’s conversation briefly broke through Gwynneth’s thoughts.

"They told me you’re not much of a chatterbox. Gwynneth pulled up a chair and sat. We don’t have to talk. I brought some paper and pencils. Opening one of the large note pads she had been given, she stared at the lined paper. I used to draw…paint, actually, she added quietly. This isn’t the best paper for drawing, but… She looked up with a sigh and gave Mrs. Engel a small smile. What should we draw?"

The funeral isn’t until tomorrow? I think she wanted a little private time, so that would be perfect.

The first tendrils of shock over Hannah’s death began to seep in and she blinked back the prick of tears.

She can? Well, aren’t you a sweetheart? Fenton turned up the charm. Let me know if I can do anything for you…Dante, is it?

Gwynneth noticed the flirty lilt in his voice and raised her eyebrows.

Thank you so much, Dante. I like your name. He gave her an, I can’t help myself look they both knew was a crock. Fenton hung up. You have an hour before they close up for the evening, Gwennie. And that’s if you skedaddle over there, pronto.

She nodded. I will. How far is it?

Not far. Maybe forty minutes, if you drive like a maniac. He grinned at her double take. There’s a shortcut. Twenty minutes, tops. Just hop on the dirt road behind our building and follow it all the way out until you see a big yellow mansion. And I do mean mansion. That place has got Addams family written all over it. If they were hopped up on Prozac, that is. He glanced out the window. You sure you want to go out in this weather?

I’m sure. Gwynneth grabbed her jacket and slipped it on. Can you call Seth and tell him what happened? My cell isn’t charged up. Tell him I’ll be home as soon as I can.

Your cell is never charged up. Fenton straightened her collar. And yes, I’ll call Seth for you. And yes, he continued, I’ll behave myself. What did you two roomies have planned for this evening?

Scrabble. And he’s probably eating dessert alone as I speak. She pinched his lips shut with her fingers. No wisecracks.

Me? he squeaked, his blue eyes wide. Never.

She opened the front door, bracing herself against a gust of wind and icy rain.

Careful out there. Fenton winked. You don’t want to ruin dessert.

Gwynneth rolled her eyes. You’re too much, Fenton.

Gwynneth started her car and wiped the rainwater from her steering wheel. She circled the building until she saw the dirt road Fenton mentioned. A dirt road that was now beyond muddy. A jolt of lighting split the sky. Great. She turned on the radio and tried to find some music to distract herself. The only station she could get was the news. She switched it off in disgust. Empty acres of soaked field yawned as far as she could see. Angry-looking clouds relentlessly dumped sheets of rain. She drove down the road, her car jostling. Worn to begin with, the windshield wipers grated in protest. Hopefully, I won’t drive into a pothole. That would be the icing on my soggy cake. Thunder reverberated and vibrated throughout her core.

After what seemed like forever, Gwynneth spotted a huge, yellow Victorian looming in the distance. Surrounded by a fence, the mansion stood out like a sore thumb. She drove up the muddy road and stopped. Skyview Funeral Home, in large wrought-iron letters, topped the very important-looking front gate…which was closed.

Spying an intercom, Gwynneth rolled down her window and pushed the buzzer.

After several moments, a male baritone voice answered. I’m sorry. We’re closed for the evening.

Um…this is Gwen. Gwynneth Reese. I work over at Homestead. Fenton Callahan called a little while ago?

After several moments, the gate slowly swung open. Gwynneth looked up at the mansion with trepidation. Fenton was right. This place would give the Addams family a run for their money, aside from the fact that it’s painted a god-awful bright yellow. She drove through and parked by the front door. Turning up the lapels of her jacket, she made a dash for the front door.

It was locked.

Great. Another gate to pass, she muttered. She knocked as loud as she dared. After all, she reminded herself, they probably wanted to go home and kick back in a hot bath. Which sounded like a great idea.

The door was finally opened by a tall man who looked to be in his late twenties. He wore an expensive-looking black suit. His tie, unfortunately, matched the garish yellow of the house.

Gwynneth held out her hand. Hi. I’m Gwen.

So you said, he replied. His dark goatee looked as if it had been painted carefully on his chin. He assessed her for a brief second before he turned on a shiny heel.

Gwynneth stood awkwardly. Maybe he saves his best manners for the dead, she thought dryly. Or maybe he’s just an asshole.

I really appreciate this. She shut the door behind her. I didn’t really know Hannah’s family. I wouldn’t feel comfortable inviting myself to the funeral. Liar, her brain scolded. She knew them. They’d visited Hannah twice and that was all she needed to see. I just wanted to…say goodbye, I guess.

Poppy’s finishing her up for tomorrow, he said, dismissing her ramblings. All the way down the stairs. Last door on the left. He gestured towards the door with a neatly manicured hand.

Thanks. She followed his gaze to the puddle she’d made on the wood floor. Sorry. It’s raining outside.

He glared at her. Whatever.

She watched as Mr. Compassion sauntered down the hallway into the darkness. Gwynneth heard a door shut. I’ll have to remember to tell Fenton he’s probably barking up the wrong tree. Handsome, but kind of an asshole. She hung her jacket on one of the mahogany coat racks flanking the foyer. Just pay your respects and leave, she murmured. Opening the door that led downstairs, she felt for a light switch. Finding none, she walked carefully down the stairwell. As she made her way down the hallway, she heard talking coming from one of the rooms.

Now you’re just being rude. You look fine. Stop being so persnickety.

She peeked inside. A young woman sporting a red ponytail was gesturing with a make-up brush as she spoke. That wouldn’t have been out of the ordinary, except for the fact she was speaking to a corpse. And it wasn’t just any corpse…it was Hannah. Oh, good god. Gwynneth’s vision tunneled before everything went black.

Hey! Hey there. A light drawl entered her subconscious.

She can’t sleep here.

She’s not sleeping, Dante. She passed out, duh. Why do you have to be such an asshole?

Gwynneth opened her eyes. Red hair blazed against the light.

Well, hello. Red ponytail sat back on her heels and smiled. She would have looked like a model in any other surroundings.

Lit by florescent overhead lights, the stark room contained a single stainless steel sink and table. It was the same room Gwynneth had walked into moments ago, except now, she was acquainting herself with its concrete floor. A sheet had been pulled over Hannah’s body. She focused again on her attendant.

You’ve never seen a dead body before? Earnest blue eyes made the question less ridiculous than it sounded.

No.

You can sit as long as you need. She patted Gwynneth on the arm. I’ll just finish up, and then you can have your time. My name’s Poppy, by the way. She held out her hand.

She shook it, trying not to think where Poppy’s hand had been only moments ago.

This is Dante. He’s an asshole, but he grows on you like most of them do.

Dante had donned a long, dark overcoat. He scowled back at her as she scrambled to her feet. Dante is…an interesting name.

My parents were professors of Medieval Literature.

I’m sure they were, Gwynneth thought.

Be nice, Dante. Poppy picked up her make-up brush again. Beige powder dusted her pink mini-dress. The dress had little white flowers scattered across the hem. It looked completely out of place in the somberness of the surroundings.

Gwynneth steeled herself as Poppy made a move to pull back the sheet.

Do you want to wait in the hall until I’m done? I don’t mind staying later while you pay your last respects, but I need to get this make-up finished. This job is anything but nine-to-five.

I-I don’t want to take up your time—

Everyone else does. Why not? Dante grumbled.

He’s just grumpy because he had to stay late, Poppy said. People don’t die just to inconvenience you, Dante.

Oh yes, they do.

He doesn’t mean it.

Gwynneth caught Dante’s glare. I’ll pay my respects while you finish up. Thank you.

"Calm down. It’s not going to smudge, if that’s what