Chapter 1- The Fog Gathers - Sunday, August 1, 2 AM
Ethan Blackwood sat in his stifling rental car in the parking lot of Big Jerry’s Fuel and Feed on the outskirts of Ashford, Iowa a haunted man. His fingers had clutched the steering wheel so tightly they left deep indentations in the leather. Ethan had to force a long, ragged breath out of his lungs just to will his muscles to let go. He looked down at the dashboard clock again. 2 AM. A familiar knot of dread tightening in his stomach. How had he possibly let himself get this far behind schedule again?
He should have just pulled off the highway two hours ago and checked into that sketchy roadside motel he saw. But, he had been terrified to stop. He knew what would have happened to him trying to settle down alone in a dark, silent room. The claustrophobia and the crushing weight of hopelessness would roll in. Instead, he drove straight through the night out of pure, desperate survival, keeping the needle at seventy just to force his brain to move faster than his anxiety.
This wasn’t his first time passing through Ashford, but it was the first time he had arrived so late at night. Everything else in the county had long since closed, making this neon-lit oasis his only hope.
He forced himself to let go of the steering wheel, and slowly got out of the car, walking into Big Jerry’s. The first thing Ethan noticed was that several of the fluorescent lights in the ceiling were buzzing. They flickered severely out of sync, a strobe-like rhythm so violent that if he were writing a Yelp review, he’d feel obligated to post a warning for anyone with a seizure condition.
There were no other customers, and only one person working. She sat cross-legged right on top of the laminate counter in an oversized gray hoodie, a paperback book balanced in one hand and a steaming paper cup of coffee in the other.
The massive sweatshirt completely swallowed her frame, making her look smaller than she probably was. She almost looked like a grey ghost of some sort. Ethan guessed she was somewhere in her late twenties, maybe a year or two younger than him, standing barely five feet tall.
She certainly wasn’t going out of her way to impress anyone, but Ethan found something compelling about her immediately. She possessed a quiet, absolute comfort in her own skin, entirely unconcerned with what a late-night traveler might think of her. She had piercing dark brown eyes, and her chestnut-brown hair was gathered into a low, loose ponytail at the nape of her neck, with several unruly strands escaping to partially cover her face. A small silver compass hung from a fine chain around her neck. It was such a unique piece, Ethan immediately wondered what the story behind it was.
A black cat sat next to her on the counter giving Ethan a stern look. Ethan approached the counter, clearing his throat. “I need twenty bucks on pump three.” He absently reached over towards the cat, she immediately headbutted his knuckles, closing her eyes in sheer ecstasy as his fingers found the exact sweet spot behind her ears.
The woman in the hoodie looked up, her dark eyes tracking him with curiosity, Ethan stood six-foot-two with wide shoulders that tapered down into a lean, swimmer's torso; he wore a faded Cleveland Guardians T-shirt that hung cleanly off his athletic frame. He carried the deep tan of someone who spent a lot of time outdoors, and she noticed his hands were heavily callused. His dark hair curled wildly, defying any attempt to style it. But what really caught her attention was his blue-gray eyes. They were warm, endlessly curious, and almost incapable of hiding what he was feeling.
“Queenie usually doesn’t like people. She tends to get scratchy.”
Ethan gave a slight bow to Queenie, “Well thank you for allowing me to pet you, your majesty. She work here too?” Queenie purred, rubbing herself against Ethan’s hand once more before hopping off the counter.
“No, she’s one of my roommates. She must have followed me here tonight,” The woman slid off the counter with a surprising, fluid grace to punch the numbers into the register, leaving her book and coffee behind. Ethan looked down, his stomach doing a sudden, violent drop as he recognized the cover art instantly. Beneath the Highland Sky. Of course it was.
She caught him staring and arched a sharp eyebrow, leaning against the counter. “You have a problem with my book choice?”
“I guess that depends. What do you think of it?”
She shrugged, tapping a short tapered fingernail with chipped black polish against the spine. “The dialogue is a little rough to read sometimes, and the ending is so cliché. And don’t even get me started on that opening line. 'Ewan McWhorter was born wielding a sword under the Highland Sky...' What is that even supposed to mean? Did he come out of the womb wielding a broadsword? I'm sure Mother McWhorter wasn’t particularly thrilled about that.”
She had recited it exactly right, word for word, without having to glance down at the pages once. He managed to choke out, “I think it’s supposed to be a metaphor.”
“I don’t think the writer would have any clue what a metaphor was if this is his idea of fine literature,” she countered easily, a tiny, amused smirk playing on her lips. “But it’s a fun read if you like the whole Scottish Romantasy thing.”
He asked, “Do you like that kind of thing?”
“I guess. It sure beats staring at the fluorescent bulbs waiting for the sun to come up.”
“Can I see it for a second?”
She eyed him suspiciously. “Why?”
“I am not going to steal it. I promise.”
She hesitated momentarily before she handed it over, curious as to what he had in mind. He flipped it to the back cover, locating the About the Author page, and handed it back to her, pointing at the text.
She read it out loud, still not entirely catching his drift:
Ethan Blackwood is the internationally bestselling author of Beneath the Highland Sky, The Inn at Glenmorrow, and The Piper of Blackrook Moor. Renowned for weaving intricate magical lore with sweeping, high-stakes romances and atmospheric settings, Blackwood’s novels have captured the hearts of readers worldwide and been translated into more than twenty languages.
He lives somewhere considerably less romantic than the worlds he builds, usually under a heavy fog of coffee and impending deadlines.”
She commented, “He sounds about as phony as his romance stories.”
But then, she finally put it together. She looked at the picture, then at Ethan. Then she looked back at the picture. The man in the jacket photo was draped in moody shadows and dressed much more stylishly than the man currently standing in front of her. Dark jeans, a crisp blue button-up, and a slightly faded tweed sports coat, but it was undeniably the same guy.
Her jaw dropped momentarily before she quickly tried to regain her composure. “Is that supposed to be you? That picture barely looks like you. Was it taken in the dark?”
“HarperCollins really embellished it,” Ethan admitted, giving her a sheepish smile. “They wanted to sell the whole idea of the mysterious Ethan Blackwood, brooding writer of romantasy novels set in the Scottish Highlands.”
“I always thought you would have an accent.”.
“I get that a lot. And I do have an accent. I am a proud son of Yellow Springs, Ohio.”
“You know what I mean! A real accent! A Scottish accent!”
“Sorry to be such a disappointment.”
A small smile cracked through her defensive shell, “So, how did you end up in Ashford? You must have gotten incredibly lost. How many of these books have you written now?”
“Five in this series, six total. The new one is just hitting bookstores now, actually.” He glanced over at the candy offerings displayed on the counter. “I can never decide. What’s your favorite candy?”
“Sour gummy worms. The cheap kind in the big bag.” She held up a finger, forcing Ethan to notice the chipped black nail polish again. “But only if they've been sitting in the back of the shelf long enough to get real stale. The more rubbery the better.” She caught the doubtful look on Ethan’s face and smirked. “Don’t knock it 'til you’ve tried it, Bard!”
“Bard? Just jumping right in there with the nicknames, I see.”
He reached his hand deep into the very back of the metal rack to find the oldest, most neglected bag of sour gummy worms on the shelf. He set them on the counter. “These are for you.”
She blinked, genuinely surprised by the gesture. “Oh. Thanks.”
“It’s a bribe. Hopefully it will make you feel better about my metaphors, lame dialogue, and cliché endings. That way, when you tell the story of tonight to your friends, you can at least say he bought you stale candy and left a decent tip.”
A faint blush crept up her cheeks. “I guess I put my foot in my mouth there.”
He shrugged. “I have heard far worse from my own moms. You should hear what my mom said about my last book.”
“What did she say?”
“She said…and I quote, ‘Could you have a little less brooding in the fog? The book would be a hundred pages shorter!’ ”
They both laughed about that.
“I like your mom already!”
He paid for the gas and the candy, then slid an extra twenty-dollar bill across the counter. “And a tip, as promised!”
She smiled, smoothly pocketing the cash. “So, seriously, what brings you to town?”
“Book signing. I’ll be at Prairie Sky Books later today.”
“Is that an invitation?”
“My publisher insists I have to bring in the customers, one at a time, if necessary! Just make sure you save me some sour gummy worms. I hear the stale ones are the best ones.”
With a final wave, Ethan turned and headed out into the cool night air.
She watched him go through the glass doors, shaking her head with a quiet laugh. “Probably should have gotten a picture with him. No one’s going to believe this. Not in this dump.”
She picked up the paperback, flipping back to the About the Author page to stare at the brooding, shadowed portrait that barely resembled the rumpled, warm-eyed man who had just bought her stale candy. She didn’t even realize she was smiling when she closed the cover. Queenie hopped back on the counter and made a mewing sound at the book.