by Raquel Lyon
Also by Raquel Lyon
Dragonblood
Box of Secrets
Dead Men Walking
Mountain of Lies
Standalone
Foxblood: The Trilogy
DRAGONBLOOD
Box of Secrets
Raquel Lyon
Synopsis
Piper has learnt three things:
Never trust your parents.
The supernatural world exists.
Watch out for Wednesdays.
Six months after her father’s disappearance, Piper takes delivery of a mysterious box, and soon afterwards, a weird-looking boy begins to stalk her.
A hidden letter and a chance meeting lead her to new friends who want to help.
But to get answers, Piper must leave the world she thought to be real behind, and accept that her new friends are not the only ones with secrets; her father kept the biggest one of all.
This book was written, produced, and edited in the UK, where some spelling, grammar, and word usage will vary from US English.
Copyright 2016 @ Raquel Lyon
Cover image by Ravven.com
License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter One
PIPER HATED WEDNESDAYS. No one ever wanted to buy anything on a Wednesday. On a Wednesday, she could stare at the door all day, and the Victorian bell hanging above it would never chime. It would simply dangle from its spring, goading her, laughing at her. No customers for you today. She wondered why she even bothered to open the old shop, midweek, but if she wasn’t staring at these walls, she’d be staring at the ones in the flat upstairs, and when you thought about it, one wall was pretty much the same as any other.
Usually, there were three walls to stare at, and she knew every inch of every one of them as well as she knew her own face. She should. She’d dusted each painting, plate, sconce, and mirror covering every available space more times than she cared to remember. Today, though, there was an extra wall. The shop window had transformed into a mosaic of grey.
Tired of looking at blank lines, Piper slammed her pen down, scraped back the wooden stool behind the counter, and walked over to the window. She still had three thousand words of her essay to write, but for some reason, they wouldn’t flow. It didn’t matter. There was no rush to finish her work. Long, empty days had ensured she was well ahead with her studies.
Close up, the grey wall stirred with life. Outside the square-paned window, the air was heavy with fog. Scarce pedestrians disturbed the swirls as they went about their business. Fog wasn’t unusual in Fosswell. The small town lay in a valley below the encircling hills, and in the winter months, people were used to grey skies and low-lying mist.
Two yellow beams of light shone through the grey as a dark shape pulled up at the other side of the road, and the four o’clock bus spilled out its daily load of students. A twinge of jealousy nipped at Piper’s heart. Six months ago, she used to be one of them, but that was before her life altered course.
Every day, she wished it could be different.
Out of the blurry haze, a tall figure caught her eye. It was the shape of his top hat that intrigued her. Piper knew eccentric people existed, but she’d never met one in person—unless you counted old Mrs Huckabee who ran the laundrette.
The man’s silhouette sharpened and his features became clearer as he walked across the street and headed for the shop. Surely he wasn’t coming in? A customer? On a Wednesday? No way. Perhaps he was new in town and needed directions? Piper hurried back behind the counter, sat down quickly, and pretended to be busy. With a weak smile, she looked up as the bell sprang to life.
“Good afternoon,” the man said. “Is this Hayhurst Antiques?”
“Um... Sorry, did you miss the sign? I know it’s foggy...” She left her sentence unfinished. If she quit with the snark, she might just get a sale.
“Of course. How remiss of me. My apologies. I was informed this store may be interested in purchasing an item of mine.”
Ah, so not a customer, Piper thought. How typical that he was looking for her to part with money instead of offering some much-needed cash. “I see. What is it?”
The man unbuttoned his long overcoat and withdrew from its depths a brown paper-wrapped package tied with string. He laid it carefully on the counter, released the bow, and peeled down the paper, smoothing out the creases against the counter top. Inside the wrapping lay a small, wooden box, and with both thumb and forefinger tips each pressing a corner, the man pushed it towards her.
The box was around four inches square, Oriental in style, and of unquestionable quality, despite the years of grime masking its beauty. “It’s rather dirty,” Piper pointed out.
The man smiled. “But no less desirable.”
Piper studied him as she pretended to assess the box. He was quite handsome for a weirdo. Slightly older than she was, his darker-than-dark hair fell as far as his chin, and partially covered eyes as black as a prawn’s. She couldn’t place his accent. He had to be rich, gentry of some kind, maybe? Who else still spoke as he did, in the past hundred years? But if he were a rich toff, why was he in her shop selling something? And why was he staring at her so intently?
“I admit it’s very nice. Why are you selling it?” she asked.
The man’s eye twitched. “It belonged to my grandfather. He passed away. I’m clearing his possessions.”
A classic scenario—and yet something in his tone didn’t ring true. His clothes, his eyes, his whole demeanour screamed shifty, but despite her reservations, Piper remained courteous.
“My condolences. How much did you want for it?”
“I have no idea of its worth, only that it is unique. Perhaps you could make me an offer?”
Piper noted the carved, dark wood and inlaid brass decorations. She had no idea what amount to suggest. Too little and he might be offended. Too much and she would be throwing good money away. Valuations were her father’s department. If he had been there, he would know exactly what to give for the box. Sadly, he wasn’t. He hadn’t been there for six months. Wishing she’d listened to him more, she ran a fingertip across the brass lock. “Do you have the key?”
“Unfortunately, no. It has been... mislaid.”
“I’m afra
id that decreases its value.”
“Understandably.”
A memory of her father reading an auction catalogue flashed into Piper’s head, and she remembered a similar box being listed. So much for this one being unique. Now, what was the guide price? One hundred... two?
“I am in somewhat of a hurry,” the man said, tapping his gloved fingers on the counter. “How about we say... forty?”
“Oh, um, sure.” If she’d remembered correctly, forty would be a bargain. She opened the counter drawer and located the cash tin amongst the clutter. “I only have a fifty,” she said. “Take it anyway. I’m sure it’s worth more.” She held out the note and looked up, but the man was busy staring into the drawer, lines creasing the space between his eyebrows. Piper pushed the drawer shut and waggled the note to get his attention.
It worked. Taking the note from her fingers, the man inclined his head in silent gratitude, and exited the shop.
When the door closed, Piper ran to the window and watched him disappear into the fog. She sighed, unsure as to whether what had just happened really had.
Next door, Mr Pilling, the florist, was taking his stock inside for the day. He saw her and waved. Piper waved back before returning to the counter. She might as well call it a day, too. Antique shops weren’t known for a sudden rush of last-minute trade.
Carefully, she placed the box on the shelf behind her, screwed up the paper for the bin, and gathered her work together. But as she hitched her bag onto her shoulder, readying to leave, she turned back and opened the drawer.
What was it the man had taken an interest in? She scanned the contents: pens, scissors, a receipt book, a bunch of old keys, a tin of half-used boot polish nestled in a scrunched-up, cleaning rag. It was just a bunch of junk. Then her eyes landed on a creased up letter. Was it the letter the man had been puzzling over? The letter that had appeared along with some other items her father had acquired a few days before he disappeared? Plucking it from the depths, she stuffed it into her pocket. She’d never read it, or even given it much thought, over the following months. She had wondered why her father had kept it, but she’d never got the chance to ask him. One day, he was there and the next he was gone. No explanation. Nothing. She’d returned home from college to an empty shop, with the door left flapping in the breeze. It was a day she’d never forget. A day that changed her life.
It was a Wednesday.
Chapter Two
RIXTON HAD BEEN SURPRISED by the girl’s presence. She wasn’t whom he’d been expecting. He’d been told to deliver the package to a man, and that the man would know the importance of the item. Finding a girl at the address he’d been given was a complication, but one he hoped he’d averted with his quick ingenuity to sell the box rather than merely hand it over. At least, when he returned, he’d be able to say he’d done his job—as long as he made it back.
Glancing nervously around him, he picked up the pace. Travelling to the Third dimension was not one of his favourite activities. In fact, it wasn’t one of anyone he knew’s favourite activities. If it hadn’t been for the pledge he’d made to his childhood friend, he wouldn’t have made the treacherous journey at all, and he couldn’t wait to return to the safety of his home. His only hope was that the delivery was now in safe hands, as he’d been promised. It was a huge risk with the potential for disaster where humans were involved. They had a tendency to be stupid and unpredictable, and that made him nervous of the outcome. How others of his kind had managed to integrate into human society and remain unnoticed was beyond him. The mere thought made him shudder.
Upon entering a small building, a cat brushed past his leg and vanished into the evening air. The old woman behind the counter gave him a cursory nod and stared at him over her half-moon glasses as he handed her the useless, human money the girl had given to him and passed through to the back room.
Chapter Three
SCRAPING THE LAST OF THE cold rice pudding from the can and licking the spoon, Piper thought back to when she was a young girl and how she used to mix strawberry jam into it to make it pink. Back then, food had been fun; now it just staved away the hunger. Her father’s absence had not only brought questions but poverty too—not that they’d ever been rich. Home was a few small rooms above the shop. They weren’t much, but they still came with a price, and how her father had ever managed to pay the bills from the meagre income the shop provided was a mystery to her. She’d been trying not to think of how they must be mounting in his absence, but any day now, she expected red-printed letters to start flooding through the letter box, and for her to be turned out into the street.
Ignoring her stomach’s grumbling to be further filled, she threw the can into the rubbish bin, the spoon into the sink, and pulled the letter from her pocket.
The name on the envelope simply read Rodigan. It meant nothing to her. Sliding her fingers under the flap, she pulled the paper from inside, noting with interest that the top corner had been torn away—the corner which, on any other letter, would have held an address—then smoothed out the rest of the sheet to begin reading.
My Dear Rodigan,
Words cannot express my gratitude for your continued service over the years. However, time runs quickly and soon circumstances will force a change in our arrangement. You must understand that, come November, my jewel will need to be returned. I thank you for the protection of it, but I must insist that it is back with me on the seventeenth.
Instructions will be sent shortly. In the meantime, I send you the enclosed item. It is just as precious, and would be in your best interests to afford it the same care.
Aemylia.
Piper ran her fingers over the words. The script was old-fashioned, the paper thick and grainy, and as she continued to touch it, an indentation caught her curiosity. Holding the letter up to the light, she squinted through the writing, but couldn’t make out any discernible shape. It was probably nothing, but she had to know. She reached into her bag to search for a pencil and paper, and then, turning the letter over, she placed the plain paper over it and rubbed the side of the pencil lead gently across it. Gradually, a shape revealed itself. It was a key—too small to be a house key and quite old fashioned in design. Had the key been in the letter when her father acquired the package, or was it safe with the strangely named Rodigan? And what was her visitor’s interest in the letter, if any? Perhaps, he was a jewel thief, and knew there was a safe containing a huge diamond, somewhere? Or maybe her father had been kidnapped because somebody thought he knew where the key was, and they were, at this moment, torturing him to find out its whereabouts? Piper’s mind whirled with wild scenarios until her head hurt. She had to stop letting her imagination run away with her.
Attempting to shake the stupid thoughts from her head, she poured a glass of orange juice, and was taking a sip, when a knock on the door made her jump.
“It’s only me.” A head of strawberry-blonde curls appeared around the door. “How are you doing?”
“Oh, hi, Maddie. Come in.”
“Any news?”
“No. Detective Newton said he’d call if there were any developments, but I haven’t heard from him in almost two weeks, and I don’t know what else to do.”
“That sucks. I was hoping you’d have something to tell me. We really miss you in class.” Maddie glanced over to the electric fire and then back to Piper. “You know, it’s freezing in here. Is that thing broken?”
“Not that I know. I haven’t tried it.”
“Aren’t you cold?”
“I don’t really feel the cold... or the heat for that matter. I guess I was lucky to be born with a good thermostatic control.” Piper laughed for the first time in days. Her best friend didn’t visit as often as she would have liked. Not that she blamed her. The rest of Piper’s college friends no longer spoke to her at all. In the beginning, they were sympathetic, intrigued by her father’s disappearance and full of questions. But when she had no answers, they stopped asking, before deserting her entirely whe
n she had to leave college and continue her course by correspondence. Piper had serious doubts they missed her at all, and she was eternally grateful to Maddie that she had stuck around.
“I brought you something,” Maddie said, reaching into her bag and placing a book on the table before sitting down. “I know you don’t get a chance to visit the college library often, and Professor Miller said this was great reference material. I’ve finished with it, and I don’t have to return it until next week, so I thought you could use it.”
“Thanks.” Piper smiled. “I’ll take a look.”
Maddie lowered her eyes and ran a nervous finger over the tabletop. “Um... A few of us are going to the club tonight. I wondered if you might like to come?”
“Despots?” Piper needn’t have asked for confirmation. Fosswell only had one club, but it was very popular with the students from the local university.
“Ah-huh.”
Piper chewed over the invitation. An evening away from the flat sounded like heaven, even if it was only to stare into a glass instead of at walls, but she couldn’t. “I don’t think so.”
“Aw, please. We used to have so much fun.”
“Some other time, maybe.”
“When? You’ve been making excuses, for weeks.”
“I know, but what if Dad comes home and I’m not here?”
“He’s been gone for six months, Piper. Do you honestly think he’ll choose the few hours you decide to go out to suddenly turn up on the doorstep?”
“It could happen.”
“And I could wake up tomorrow lying next to the man of my dreams... though I doubt it. I think you have to face the fact that he may not be coming home at all.”
“He wouldn’t do that to me. He’s disappeared before, and he always comes back.”
“Yes, within a few days or a week—and that’s after leaving you a note to say where he was going. He didn’t leave you a note this time, did he?”
