Shadow Love

By Nadirah Foxx

Vampire fangs, vials of dragon’s blood, and tarot cards. Just a few of the oddities found at Vanpeer’s—a metaphysical gift shop found in the French Quarter. But when the owner, Twilight Vanpeer, uncrates an obsidian mirror she’s unprepared for the secrets it unlocks. The sudden arrival of a tall handsome stranger, Dwade Marks, jostles Twilight’s life. Suddenly, she’s dealing with memories that make no sense. But bad dreams aren’t that serious when that’s all they are. Hers, unfortunately, contain an awareness that needs to stay hidden. Adding to the weirdness is the fact Twilight is torn between two men—Dwade and her lifelong best friend, Preston Montgomery. One man is the key to her past while the other holds her future. Things get out of hand quickly when someone starts killing women who look like Twilight. Both men are suspicious but only one can hold her heart. Twilight has serious choices to make—own up to her past or bury it deep. One option appeases the gods while the other speaks to the shadow found in all of us.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nadirah Foxx
• Release date: Oct 30, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463685136

Book preview

Prologue

This thing of darkness I acknowledge mine.

—William Shakespeare

Mirrors are now the bane of my existence. The not-so innocent objects draw people in, encouraging them to look deep into their depths. It’s an act no one should ever do. Mirrors want to suck us in, capture our…

Too soon, too soon.

I need to back up. Start from the beginning. Right after I cover up the mirror vying for my attention.

Chapter One

The word 'belief' is a difficult thing for me. I don't believe. I must have a reason for a certain hypothesis. Either I know a thing, and then I know it - I don't need to believe it.

—Carl Jung

Some things are guaranteed in life. Birth. Taxes. Death. Especially death. The Grim Reaper stole my parents from me one rainy night. I haven’t forgotten how that force took the light from my life and made me an orphan. Over time, the pain has become more bearable, but it doesn’t erase my culpability.

It’s not like we didn’t receive warnings. Mama had her premonitions. My grandmother, a voodoo priestess and a direct descendant of the famous Marie Laveau, shared the same dread. We all did our best not to do anything unusual. Except me.

I don’t go about my life fearing every little thing that bumps, slithers, or moans in the night. I place my trust in tangible things. If I can see it, sniff it, or in some way sense it, I’m prone to believe it. I’ve been that way all my life with everything. Well, almost everything. I draw the exception with names.

There’s this hidden, intrinsic power in a person’s name. A handle can bless you or strengthen you. It can give you the will to reach for a higher destiny; be a better version of yourself. But those same letters strung together differently can curse you. Weaken you. Make you want to stay in the shadows. Give up the fight. Or at least make you consider it.

Take my name for instance.

Twilight Vanpeer.

Who does that to a child? New-agey parents that’s who. The hour of my birth inspired my parents—who had solid, strong names—to pin the outlandish name on me. 

I do realize it could have been worse. I could have been born at midnight, during an eclipse, or even at the break of dawn.

Of course, a moniker like Twilight made me a victim of ridicule. I was an eleven-year-old suffering from every joke possible when the book bearing my name came out. Instead of lurking in the shadows, though, I learned to fight.

My propensity toward violence came in handy for another poor soul with a regrettable name. When I was a kid, my family lived with Papa’s folks in the Garden District. That’s where I met my best friend who happened to be born a Montgomery—a designation suggesting haughtiness, refinery, and plain old snobbery. Somewhere in the convoluted thinking of the wealthy, Rebecca and Woodrow Montgomery thought naming a son Preston Richard was doing him a favor. Only thing it did was get his ass kicked. Daily.

And then he met me. Damn lucky for Preston. He was a scrawny kid wearing plaid shirts and thick-lensed glasses. Everything about him screamed nerd—from his high IQ, his stilted manner of speech, and even the way he ambled about. Poor kid had a bum leg; some sort of accident at birth. Despite his comical appearance, I liked the little geek and defended him. In doing so, Preston and I grew close and became the best of friends.

We were inseparable right through elementary and even into high school. I picked up another misfit by tenth grade when my family moved to Algiers—a ginger named Ginnifer Lafon. The girl had her own sense of style, did what she liked, and dared anyone to say a bad thing about her. We hit it off right away, but Ginnifer and Preston never meshed.

Eventually, Preston left us behind for LSU down in Baton Rouge. Regardless of the distance, the two of us kept in constant contact, emailing and texting each other like we still lived in N’awlins together. Ginnifer went three hours away to a technical college in Alexandria to complete a two-year program in fashion design.

And me?

I didn’t go off to college. I wanted to, but my parents died in a car crash when I was seventeen. With Mama Delle’s help, I took over running Vanpeer’s, my parents’ quirky mystical arts shop on St. Anne’s Street.

About a year ago, my grandmama stopped coming with me to the French Quarter shop daily. She sat me down and explained some things.

Twilight, ya a grown ass woman of twenty-three. Mama Delle said over her cup of tea. Ya don’t need me following ya ta work every day.

I thought you liked coming to the shop with me.

I do, but I have my own business ta tend ta. Can’t keep trustin’ my affairs ta others. She set her cup on the counter. Second, ya need ta sell the house in Algiers. It’s too big for ya, and ya too far from work. Get ya self sumpin’ closer.

So I followed her advice, and sold my parents’ five-bedroom, historic home. I took some of the proceeds and bought myself a townhouse on North Rampart Street—an eight-minute walk from the shop, easing my need for a car during the week. On weekends, I drive back to Algiers to spend time with my grandmama.

The shop bell chimes, and I check the clock on my desk. It’s too early for customers, probably just a delivery. I poke my head out of the office. If I don’t need to sign for it, just leave it on the counter.

You might want to look at it first. The male voice is familiar.

Can’t be him.

I set the notepad and pen down and walk out of the back room. As I round the corner, I see him. The years have definitely been good. Gone are the hideous plaid shirts and boxy pants. He’s traded the glasses for contacts. Even the dark buzz cut is a thing of the past.

Prest?

He spreads his muscular arms wide, and I jump into them. Hey, Twyla. It’s good to see you too.

I hug him tightly. It’s been two years since we last saw each other. Every time I asked Preston when he was coming home, he gave me an excuse—exams, job, fatigue, etcetera. I offered to come to Baton Rouge, but he wouldn’t dream of me closing up the shop just to see him.

When did you get in?

Late last night, he says and steps back. His gaze sweeps over my floor-length black lace dress worn over leggings. You’re looking real good.

My cheeks warm as a smile dances across my full crimson lips. Back at cha. Where are you staying? Your parents’ house?

Preston shakes his head vehemently. No. I have a place near Tulane.

Nice. We need to hang out tonight, I say and unlock the register. I’m usually done around eight.

His shoulders slump forward. The posture reminds me of the geeky version of my best friend. Twyla, can’t you just shut it down today? We haven’t seen each other in a long time. I was hoping we’d have brunch and catch up.

Strange. Preston has never wanted me to close the shop. I wish I could, but I have a big sale going on today.

Preston sags against the counter, frowning.

When I reach across the glass-covered surface to touch his arm, I notice the plywood box addressed to the shop. The return label is missing. Odd. Did you bring this in with you?

Nope. It was here when I walked in.

I don’t recall hearing the door chime before Preston showed up. I pick up a pair of scissors, pull the box closer, and pry off the lid. The scent of Aspen wood tickles my nose as I push my hands into the mound of excelsior. My fingers stop on a slick, cold object. Carefully, I lift out a black mirror encased in a wooden stand. Vanpeer’s is notorious for getting all sorts of weird items—so-called vampire boxes, fairy ornaments, and even vampire elixir—so this item shouldn’t trouble me, but it does. I swear it has a pulse. A shiver snakes down my spine, and I place the mirror on the counter.

The new item mesmerizes me, taking over my focus, and I forget about the store. Foreign images—pyramids of stone, a plumed headdress made of bright green-gold feathers, and strange statues—flood my mind. I try to look away, but I can’t tear my eyes from the glass. Then, the faint image of a man’s face appears. He has long, golden hair and blue eyes so dark they look like a midnight sky.

Twyla!

The sound of someone shouting my name grabs my attention. Huh?

You realize I’ve been calling you for like a minute? Preston reaches across the counter for the mirror. Want me to put it on a display?

No! Put it down! I snap as my eyes are drawn toward the item. On some odd level, the images I saw feel familiar, but I can’t explain it. Instead, I move the mirror out of Preston’s reach and return it to the box.

He leans over the counter and asks, You okay, Twyla?

I close the lid and tuck the small crate beneath my arm. I’m fine. Watch things for me while I put this in the back. If you want to, you can hang out here, and then we’ll grab lunch.

͠

Thankfully, the sale keeps my mind off the mirror. Whenever there was a lull in the action, however, my thoughts drifted to it sitting on my desk. As long as the mirror remains in my office, I’m calm. The thought of someone else holding it—gazing into it—infuriates me, and I can’t explain why.

Twyla, did you hear me? Preston stands in front of the register. His eyebrows knit together, and his head tilts to the side.

I didn’t even realize he was still here. That damned mirror has turned into a major distraction. What?

I was asking where you want to go for lunch. He leans over the counter. How about we go to Muriel’s? My treat.

Muriel’s on Jackson Square is a lot fancier than what I’d choose. Preston, I don’t have time for that. Besides, it’s too pricey and too rich for my stomach this time of day.

You can order a salad. Come on. I miss talking to my girl. Indulge me.

My gaze flickers to the ceiling. It’s quiet right now. Maybe I should take advantage of the lull. Traffic always picks up after lunch. It might be a while before I get another meal.

Okay, but if it’s crowded—

It won’t be. I’ve already made reservations.

͠

Our short walk to the nineteenth-century building, a throwback to old world elegance and charm, was uneventful. Almost immediately we’re seated at a small table in the green room. Pictures from the 1800s hang over my head.

A petite dark-skinned woman with cute braids hanging down her back comes over. Welcome to Muriel’s. My name is Sheila. Can I get you started with a cocktail?

Preston doesn’t hesitate. Yes. I’ll have a Bloody Mary made with Grey Goose.

And you, miss?

A glass of house white. Drinking alcohol at lunch is unusual for me, but it might help. I’ve been off ever since that mirror arrived.

I’ll be right back with your drinks.

As soon as she leaves, Preston drawls, I think I’m going to do the chicken and sausage étouffée. How ‘bout you?

Probably just the po’ boy. I place the menu on the table.

Preston makes a face like I just cursed his mother. You need more than a sandwich and fries. You said yourself you’ll be busy later.

The server returns with our drinks. Ready to order?

We are, Preston proclaims. I’ll have the chicken and sausage étouffée with the house salad. She’ll have the duck and Chaurice hash.

My jaw drops. Preston knows I hate when he orders for me. I don’t like being treated like some southern damsel waiting for a well-bred gentleman to come to my rescue.

Excellent choices. I’ll get your order in, Sheila says and hurries off to the kitchen.

I lift my glass but change my mind. What was that?

What was what?

I don’t need you to order for me, Prest. I do fine placing my own damn orders. Suddenly, I’m having second thoughts about this meal. I should have taken the crate and gone home for lunch.

He reaches across the table. Twyla, calm down. It’s just food. You worked this morning. I also remember you have a tendency to think coffee and beignets make a good breakfast.

Glancing down at my lap, I admit, Actually, I only had coffee today.

There you go. He sits back in his chair. I’m just taking care of my girl, nothing more.

That’s the second time Preston’s called me his girl. Should I say something about it?

Let’s just enjoy lunch, he admonishes. We haven’t seen each other in a long time. I’ve missed you.

Same here. I’m being foolish. This is Preston. Goofy, geeky, a man like my brother. Preston Montgomery. Nothing to be concerned about.

Chapter Two

Unfortunately there can be no doubt that man is, on the whole, less good than he imagines himself or wants to be.

—Carl Jung

I’m trying my best to relax with Preston, but no matter what I do, I just can’t. My clothes seem too tight. There’s an itch that won’t stop. But worse than the physical discomfort is the series of questions nagging at me from left to right. Even the succulent, garlicky potatoes fried in butter—a favorite of mine—don’t distract me.

So your emails said you were transferring to Tulane. I thought you were studying finance. There I said it. Tulane is not a school people studying finance go to. Now maybe I can enjoy the Chaurice sausage, duck, and poached eggs covered in hollandaise sauce.

Preston’s self-indulgent laughter, however, doesn’t put my soul at ease. My stomach forms a huge knot.

Twyla, remember I’m a scientist. Those are the only numbers I’m interested in. Besides, I’m working on a master’s degree. Tulane has what I need to finish up.

I thought… Never mind. Obviously, I got it wrong, I say as I rub my forehead. It’s an easy mistake. Preston changed his major a few times, but I figured he was done with college. Once a geek, always a geek I guess. Poor guy can’t stay out of a classroom.

My friend spears a plump shrimp with a fork. Besides, I had to leave LSU.

I tilt my head to the side. Had to?

He exhales. Bad break up.

I keep my mouth shut but shoot him a questioning stare.

Preston places the food in his mouth and talks around the morsel. I didn’t tell you about Marjorie.

No, Preston didn’t. Strange because we usually share everything, but I decide not to let the oversight bother me. What about her? Was she some whacked-out bitch or something?

Exactly. He places another bite of food in his mouth without elaborating.

Oh, hell no. He doesn’t get to drop a bombshell like that and not say anything else. Preston Richard Montgomery, spill it.

His eyebrows go up at my mentioning his full name, but he doesn’t speak. Instead, he pushes the food around his plate before reaching for his Bloody Mary. After a long swig, he says, I met Marjorie at a fraternity party. She was a serious charmer, and I fell for her. Much later, I learned she was insanely jealous of other women. All I had to do was mention a girl’s name, and she’d get upset.

That’s what happens when you spend all your formative years locked in your room with a textbook. Preston dated no one in high school. Poor guy even missed out on prom because he couldn’t work up the nerve to ask a girl. I hoped he’d meet a good woman when he entered college. So much for that.

Is that why you never came home to see me? I ask, reaching for my wine glass.

It hurt my heart when Preston said he couldn’t take the time away from college. I thought I was important to him—like family. But knowing how Preston feels about his parents, I guess he relegated me to the family zone. Out of touch, out of mind I suppose. While he was in Baton Rouge, I tried to reach out to his parents. They always shrugged me off with the feeble claim that he didn’t communicate with them much. Same with me.

Yeah, he admits and takes another drink of his cocktail. Marjorie wasn’t a fan of the idea, but that was my fault. I let it slip one day that I wanted to see you, and that’s when we had our first huge fight. It took me a week to get back in her good graces.

Why would Preston put up with someone like that? I joke, That bitch must have had a magical pussy for you to stay with her.

Preston’s head jerks back, and a vague smile pops up on his face. She got the job done.

I couldn’t help but laugh—a little too loudly. The other diners turn their gaze toward us. I drop my head and try to compose myself. A few seconds pass before I say, I’m sorry, Prest. Continue.

Marjorie and I had a terrible fight before the semester was up. I’d had it with her misguided jealousy. It didn’t matter how much she claimed to love me. Losing my dignity wasn’t worth her love. I just couldn’t do it anymore, so I broke it off.

Good for you. I’m glad to hear my friend possesses a set of balls after all.

Naturally, Marjorie didn’t see it that way. She turned into a stalker, leaving hateful notes on my apartment door. She even cloned my phone. Preston drains his glass, flags down the server, and gestures for another one. I asked Marjorie to stop, but she wouldn’t. Shit got worse when she showed up at my place with a gun.

I gasp.

Preston nods. Nothing happened, but that was the proverbial line in the sand. I called the police.

And? Preston’s story has me so intrigued I give up on my meal.

"The detective told me it might be best if I left town. You know—out of sight, out of mind? So, I packed up my shit and came home. Fortunately, I was able to use