She parked next to an old Chevy pickup—could it belong to Ceejay’s cousin?—grabbed her stuff and headed out back toward the carriage house. Praying their dog Sweet Pea wouldn’t sense her presence and start barking, she tiptoed along the path from the gate to the door. All she had to go by was the scant light of the new moon.

So far, so good. Sweet Pea remained blissfully quiet. She dropped her bag on the concrete and rifled through the pockets of her purse for the key she’d stashed there. “Ah-hah. Got you.” She fumbled a few times in the darkness, trying to insert it into the lock. Finally she got the key in the right way, turned it, reached for the knob and pushed, just as light flooded the interior. The door was yanked from her grasp so suddenly she fell inside, right into a naked man—a naked man wielding a gun.

“Aaah!” She squealed and scrambled back to regain her footing, staring in shock at the wild man before her. Shaggy blond hair hung down to his shoulders, and an untrimmed, tangled mess of a beard hid most of his face. Panic-filled brilliant blue eyes were riveted on her with a haunted look that stole her breath.

As a child, Barbara Longley moved frequently, learning early on how to entertain herself with stories. Adulthood didn’t tame her peripatetic ways: she has lived on an Appalachian commune, taught on an Indian reservation, and traveled the country from coast to coast. After having children of her own, she decided to try staying put, choosing Minnesota as her home. By day, she puts her master’s degree in special education to use teaching elementary school. By night, she explores all things mythical, paranormal, and newsworthy, channeling what she learns into her writing.