Its mouth hovered directly above, its breath warming her skin. With a deep swallow and a shaky hand, her fingers trailed through wet leaves until she found the switch on the spotlight.

It illuminated the monster’s face, which was even closer than expected, and her heart nearly stopped. It growled, a deep rolling in its throat, and offered an intimate view of its tongue and ridged pallet through strings of saliva that decorated many deadly teeth. Teeth that would devour her at any moment.

Closing its mouth, it sniffed her hair, a low vibration humming in the back of its throat. She closed her eyes, her heart sinking in preparation. It smelled of musk and moisture, as the whole forest around her smelled. Another sound from its throat, though not a growl, demanded her attention. She couldn’t pinpoint what it was—something akin to a hiss.

In the brief moment she met the animal’s eyes, something changed. Strange, how out-of-place these eyes were, how unlike the rest of its features. True they were colossal and mysterious, but nothing close to frightening. They seemed curious of her, and their color was a deep, rich brown ringed by golden honey. Luminous as large glass marbles, they reflected the light like an animal’s, but they almost seemed human. These eyes knew something, held secrets captive.

She rose to her elbows but the beast moved closer, making her crawl backwards like a crab until a tree blocked her from going any farther. She held its eyes, held her bravery. A sixth sense tugged at her, telling her this massive and terrifying creature wouldn’t kill her. “What…are you?” she breathed.

Another rumble escaped its throat, and just as it backed away, allowing her life, a burst of fire shot from her left. The blast from Eustace’s shotgun still echoed through the trees, even as the beast was suddenly nowhere to be found. It howled from a distance away, probably shot through.

“Come on,” Eustace said, pulling her to her feet. “Now we’ve really pissed it off.” They ran, Eustace pulling her along as though he was younger than she.

And all she could wonder as she repeatedly looked behind them was whether the monster would survive the unfair gunshot.

Chapter 3

Regina Washington—with a narrowed, cautious stare—poured Brian Dane another cup of steaming coffee, then returned her hand to her ample hip. She may not be able to refuse service here, but that didn’t mean she didn’t wish it. And oh, how she wished it for this sandy-haired ladies’ man. “Is that good for now?” she asked.

“It’s always good when it comes from you,” Brian replied.

She glared. Apparently women were going for the scruffy look these days. She’d even seen women her own age, thirty years his elder, be fooled by it. It was something she would never understand.

While filling his mug with creamer, he winked his famous wink. It wasn’t enough creamer, though, since no amount would better this coffee. The Hemlock Diner was the only place serving coffee around here, but it was still a wonder folks came in to drink it. Oregonians may need their coffee just the same as they needed air, but Regina didn’t think this black, gritty stuff could really be considered coffee. She’d tried to better it, but never had enough time or money. And it didn’t matter anyway, because people still ordered it.

Aside from being a coffee-crazed Oregonian, Brian ordered it because of Nicole. Usually, he had only two things on his mind: women and cars. He wasn’t just interested in the coffee; he was interested in getting glimpses of Nicole Eastwood from every angle. Nicole was Regina’s best waitress and, rumor had it, before she’d come to Hemlock Veils she’d tried to make it in acting. Regina had even heard she’d changed her last name to sound more like a movie star.

Regardless of her objection to Brian’s foul mind, Regina’s job was to keep the customers coming, even at fifteen minutes to midnight—near closing time. If it was up to her, the Hemlock Diner would close at ten p.m., but when someone like Mr. Henry Clayton owns the place, you do as he says. Mr. Clayton owned nearly every place in Hemlock Veils, even though he stayed out of most. Never had she seen him out and about with the rest of the folks in this close-knit town, and tonight was no different. He was probably in that mansion of his, sleeping in a big bed made of silk.

Mr. Clayton did make his appearance in the diner every morning, though, and only in the morning. Regina looked over Brian’s grease-ball hair and eyed Mr. Clayton’s corner booth now, darkened, empty, and polished for sunrise. It stayed vacant for him all the time, as though he’d walk through that midnight door and join the rest of them in talk of town gossip.

But that would never happen. It would be only in the morning, his suit darkened by the shadows rising sunlight created as he sat in that booth and sipped on Regina’s sorry excuse for a cup of coffee while keeping his nose in the Portland Newspaper. He might fool other folks, but Regina knew he paid the paper no mind. He came to keep an ear out. Whether to make sure his shoddy diner was running the way he saw fit or to keep up on Hemlock Veils residents, she didn’t know.

Because Mr. Clayton never said a word. Regina guessed, from doing the math, he had to be in his forties by now, though that just didn’t seem right. He didn’t look a day older than he had ten years ago, when he’d first shown up in town. And what a looker he was—fifty times more so than the young and naïve Brian Dane. Mr. Clayton was the very definition of tall, dark, and handsome. He was huge really, reminding Regina of one of the gigantic trees in this forest. But that man had classic charm: somehow rugged and suave at the same time, and always dressed in fancy suits. And though Mr. Clayton had come to this town young, his soul was older than most—even older than Eustace Bathgate, who’d been here longest. Everyone knew Mr. Clayton was in charge, whether due to his arrogance or the way one didn’t speak to him unless spoken to.

At this moment, listening to Brian going on and on, Regina wished she could command that kind of respect. Or, in Mr. Clayton’s case, fear.

Fear aside though, some folks came to the diner in the early hours just to satisfy their curiosity about the richest man in Hemlock. But as soon as his traditional half-hour passed, he was off to Portland to run a business no one in town knew a lick about. Then he’d come back by nightfall and disappear into his mansion, with Arne Randolph as his only companion. Arne was Mr. Clayton’s driver, butler, and personal assistant all wrapped into one. He’d lived here as long as Regina could remember, since she’d moved here with her mama forty years ago. Only then, the mansion—and even Arne Randolph—had belonged to Mr. Clayton’s father, Mr. Henry Clayton Senior. When Regina was just a girl, she’d seen the older Mr. Clayton only a few times; it seemed being a recluse was a trait passed from father to son.

Hell, no one even knew Henry Sr. had had a son until he’d passed away ten years ago and Henry Jr. came to town, taking over everything his father had owned. It was strange the way they owned the town but had no part in it. Mr. Clayton let things run the way the residents wanted them run, even let Sheriff Taggart take the reins. Yet still, the unspoken air about this place said they all answered to Mr. Clayton.

Those invisible reins took hold of Regina especially, since one of the only things he insisted on in this town was keeping the Hemlock Diner open until midnight. Why, she didn’t know. He’d never been in that late himself. Maybe he wanted someplace for his fellow Hemlock residents to converse, to stay out of trouble. The residents, including her, might be intimidated by Mr. Clayton, but she did get the inkling he had their best interests at heart. She would never forget the one afternoon, five years ago, when Mr. Clayton came into the empty diner. Regina had been the only one working and she’d stood there half-frozen when he entered, the bell jingling behind him.