by Mae Clair
He was halfway to the chapel when he heard snickering. A glance over his shoulder blew open his worst fear—Rodney, Finn, and Troy casually following behind. The single glimpse was all it took to propel him into a panicked run. The quick pounding of feet and a vicious, “You’re dead, Camden!” convinced him to beat the pavement as hard as he could. The chapel whizzed by in a blur. Then he did the unthinkable—they wouldn’t chase him into the cemetery.
Gulping for breath, he veered from the sidewalk, backpack bouncing as he clambered up an embankment of overgrown grass. The browned husks of foxtails and nettles snagged his jeans, chickweed crunching under his sneakers like stale peanut shells. The bank was steep, the old chapel set on a hill overlooking the south end of town. Elliott was almost to the top when he risked a glance over his shoulder.
All three scrambled up the hillside, Rodney in the lead. If they caught him, there’d be no one to help, no one to see them gang up on him. At least on the sidewalk, a car might have stopped. Someone might have chased the three off if he yelled. He’d been an idiot, stupidly setting himself up for a beating.
Elliott dashed for the cemetery, certain they wouldn’t risk the monsters. Panting, he raced through the graves, haphazardly zigzagging between headstones. A weird twilight hung over the place, too many trees to let the pale autumn sun warm the ground. His breath rasped in his ears, tangled with the threats of the other boys. They’d followed him into the graveyard, gaining with every step.
“We’re gonna make you sorry you were born, shithead.”
“Should have stayed at your old school, douchebag.”
“You’re dead meat.”
Elliott neared the back of the cemetery, realized there was nowhere to go. He darted to the right, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder. It took only a second for his foot to strike air and the world to upend in freefall.
He plummeted into a pit, his backpack battering against him with the full weight of science and algebra textbooks. His teeth clacked together, triggering a jolt of pain up his jaw. His glasses were flung from his face as his hands and knees struck earth. Frantic, he groped through the dirt, one knee digging deeper into the soil.
“Holy shit.” Rodney Townsend’s voice came from somewhere high overhead.
Elliott’s fingers curled over the glasses. His head swam with the gritty musk of loam and weeds. Slowly, he came to his feet.
Rodney, Finn, and Troy were on their hands and knees, staring down at him from above.
“You dipshit,” Rodney said. “You fell in an open grave.”
Elliott choked on panic, realizing the other boy was right. There was no casket, just the empty hole in the ground, perfectly suited for a coffin.
“Freaky.” Troy grinned.
Elliott looked for a handhold, but there was nothing to support his weight. He’d once heard modern cemeteries held vaults to contain coffins, but this was a just a dirt cavity, dug in a time when bodies were buried in pine boxes. Did that mean there were bones under the soil?
New terror strangled him. “Help me out.”
Rodney laughed. “Don’t think so.”
“Hey.” Finn jutted his chin toward the pit. “Why’s an open grave back here? They stopped burying people in Hickory Chapel Cemetery long ago.”
Rodney shrugged. “Who cares? Let douche-boy hang out here for the night, and the monsters can take care of him.”
“You can’t do that.” Elliott feared he’d piss himself. In a little over an hour it would be dark. “Quit screwing around. Help me up. I’m sorry about lunch.”
“You should have thought about that before,” Troy said.
“We can’t leave him here,” Finn countered.
“Why not?” Rodney stood, dusting his hands free of dirt.
“Get serious. It’s gonna get cold once the sun goes down. People are gonna be looking for him.”
“Quit being a wuss, Carrigan. You’re starting to sound like your uncle.”
“Yeah. Cop talk.” Troy snorted. “’Fraid he’s gonna toss your butt in jail? Like mother, like son.” He snickered.
“Shut it, Troy.”
Elliott’s gaze ping-ponged between them. He didn’t know what they were talking about, just knew he wanted out. He dug his hand in his pocket and fished out his cell phone. The glass was cracked, probably shattered when he fell. His stomach sank when he pushed the power button and nothing happened.
Cold sweat broke out on the back of his neck. “My phone’s broke.”
“Bad luck,” Rodney said.
“You can’t leave me here all night.”
“You won’t last the night. Once the sun sets, you’re monster chow.”
“Yeah. Try not to wiggle when you get chomped on.” Troy flipped him the finger. The two boys walked away, trailing laughter. Only Finn Carrigan remained, staring down with a look of uncertainty.
“Please.” Elliott wet his lips, his voice passing from his throat in a tremulous whisper. “I’m afraid. The monsters…”
“Hey, Carrigan.” Rodney’s call drifted from farther away. “You coming or what?”
Without a word, Finn swiveled and darted after his friends.
Fighting tears, Elliott closed his eyes. Someone would miss him. Someone would come.
He tried the phone again, but it was shot. Shrugging the backpack from his shoulders, he stared up at the top of the pit. He stood five feet, and it was at least another two feet above. Weird that the tomb was so deep, but maybe graves were dug deeper in the old days because of foraging animals. Thinking took the edge off his fear. If he jumped high enough…
A few attempts and he knew it was impossible.
“Help!” Elliott tilted his head back and yelled as loudly as he could. “Someone—anyone—help me!” His throat grew raw after several minutes of hollering. Falling silent, he strained to hear. The scuttle of wind across dry grass twined with a faint hum of distant traffic and the rattle and clack of tree branches. No answering voice. No footsteps rushing to his aid.
Dejected, Elliott sank into a corner of the pit and hugged his knees to his chest. If he stayed still and didn’t move, maybe the monsters wouldn’t know he was there.
Maybe, maybe, maybe.
A glimmer of green on the other side of the grave snagged his attention. His breath caught.
An eye?
Slowly, he crawled forward, inching cautiously on hands and knees. Instinct told him to stay low, appear nonthreatening. If it was a monster, it was a small one. Elliott was almost on top of the thing when he realized it was a piece of glass partially buried in the dirt.
He dug it free, then wiped it clean on his sweatshirt.
Not glass. A crystal or a gem.
He held it up to the light.
It looked like an emerald.
Chapter 3
October 10, 1799
“Your father and the others are gathering provisions as we speak.” Gabriel sat next to Dinah in a ladder-back chair drawn close to the hearth. A roaring fire filled the gathering room with warmth, and a slice of late-day sunlight yawned over the rug-covered floor. On the dining table, an oval basket held an assortment of plump red apples and fat chestnuts. Someday he would have a house like this with its strong timber construction, double chimneys, and a gambrel roof. He already had plans to expand on the two-room cabin he’d built with money inherited from his parents. The only one to survive the voyage across the Atlantic, Gabriel had found himself orphaned at fifteen, alone in a new country. A newly formed country.
“Jasper will be going with me,” he added, though Dinah had probably already heard the news. Word spread fast in the village.
“I expected he would.” Her fingers stilled on the shirt she was darning. The steady back-and-forth creak of her rocker echoed beneath the sibilant hiss of the fire.
“Hiram Blum is coming, too
.”
“A capable man, they say.” She wouldn’t look at him, her gaze trained on the chaotic dance of flames in the hearth.
“Dinah.” Leaning forward, he clasped her hand. “It is best this way. We will rid the village of the beast.”
Drawing a breath, she searched his face. “Why does it have to be you? And why Jasper? I do not doubt your ability, Gabriel, or that of my brother, but there are older men, more skilled in the woods.”
“All with wives or loved ones.”
“And what am I? I had hoped there was a promise between us.” Her lashes dipped, pale as her hair. His own hair was darker blond, ash to her alabaster. She was a vision, blessed with both grace and beauty where he only had hard work to recommend him.
He could still recall the first time he saw her, the sun setting flame to the white-gold curls framing her face. He’d asked where to find the tanner, then stammered his gratitude when she’d pointed him in the right direction. Two days later, he’d introduced himself to her father as a new landowner on the outskirts of the village. He’d bought his own livestock and dutifully tended his humble acreage. Yes, he’d been young to establish himself, but he’d learned farming techniques as a child. He’d been sixteen when he’d settled in the area, waiting a full year before seeking to court Dinah. He was not a wealthy man, but nor was he poor.
He rubbed her hand, her skin chapped from scrubbing laundry and kneading dough. Someday he hoped to hire servants, so she might live in a small manner of luxury.
“Allow me this task with your blessing, Dinah. If I am successful, your father will look upon me with new regard. He will not refuse when I ask for your hand.”
“He will not refuse now.”
He wanted to believe her but suspected Atticus entertained the thought of someone flush in land and money for his youngest daughter. Fern was already wed, the wife of Oren Inghram, leaving only Dinah, Enoch, and Jasper at home. Who would cook and clean for Atticus when Dinah was married? His wife had passed, the victim of a wagon accident five summers before Atticus arrived in the village.
No, as favorable as the village elder could be at times, Atticus sought a man of means for his daughter. A homesteader capable of supporting him in his dotage and lending hired hands to aid with the chores of his household.
“I will not take the chance.” Gabriel’s future with Dinah was too important to risk with a rash proposal. “If I slay the beast, others will look to me as a hero. Your father will not be able to refuse my request for your hand.”
“You are already a hero to me.”
He smiled, then kissed her lightly. “I pray you understand why I must do this.”
Setting her sewing aside, she nodded. “Wait a moment.”
He rose with her when she stood, their fingers trailing apart. The sweep of her long skirt whispered across the floorboards as she left the room. Several moments passed before she returned with a small wooden box clasped in her hands.
“This is precious to me, Gabriel. Old and powerful.”
His gaze dropped to the container. The top had been etched with the carving of two interlocking circles, a heart laid over the center. “What is it?”
Dinah opened the box, turning it so he could see inside. A crude green gem, the size of a quarter dollar, rested in a scrap of white linen.
He looked from the stone to her face. “I don’t understand.”
“It is a protection stone. An emerald imbued with the power to cleave one soul to another. In the wrong hands, it can also destroy.”
Gabriel fidgeted, the explanation sounding much like witchcraft.
“I know what you’re thinking.” Dinah closed the lid, tucking the box close to her chest. “But there is no evil in this thing, only in the hearts of those who would possess it.”
“Are you…” He wet his lips, fearful to ask. “Do you practice—”
“Witchery?” She shook her head. “But there are traditions I cherish from my heritage. This stone was given to me by my great-grandmother on her deathbed. She chose me to guard it, requesting only that I reserve it for a man with a pure heart. I believe you are that person, Gabriel.” Carefully, she withdrew the stone from the box, then placed it in his palm. “This is my pledge to you—a pledge to bind us together. One that will keep you safe for as long as I live. It will protect you and bring you back to me. Until we are wed, I make you the stone’s guardian.”
The weight of the gem was warm against Gabriel’s skin. He did not believe in protection spells or wards, but for their future, he would do as she asked. “I will bring it back to you.” He slipped the emerald into his breeches. “And before a fortnight has passed, I will seek your hand in marriage.”
* * * *
Present Day
Jillian pulled into the parking spot behind her brownstone, already focused on unloading groceries and taking Blizzard for a walk. The husky would be pacing, alerted by the sound of her Accord off the terrace. Silencing the engine on the blue sedan, she flicked a glance in the rearview mirror as an unmarked car with flashing lights sped past. Before she could process the image, Tessa Camden popped up beside her driver’s door.
“Jillian.” Tessa pressed one hand against her lips as if restraining herself from pounding on the window. The other clutched a cell phone with a poppy-colored case. A ponytail secured her curly hair, but multiple strands had worked loose around her face, giving her an unkempt look. The frowzy wisps heightened the uptight edge in her eyes. “Have you seen Elliott?”
Jillian stepped from the car and was immediately blindsided by Tessa’s panic. She faltered backward against the door. “N-no. Not since last night. Is something wrong?”
Of course, something was wrong. The woman practically pulsated anxiety.
Wave after wave of desperation crashed over Jillian, the blast so strong she fought to breathe. She needed her safety buffer. Needed Blizzard to anchor her in reality and keep her from being swept into the maelstrom of Tessa’s turbulent emotions. Tightening her fingers on the door handle, she struggled to ground herself and sucked down air.
Tessa was immune to her distress. “He stayed after school to join the science club.” Her gaze darted left, then swung right. Across the street and back again. Anywhere that might divulge a much-needed glimpse of her missing son. “He should have been home by now. He should have been home long ago.” Biting her lip, she stared at her cell as if the answer lay there. “I tried calling and texting, but he doesn’t respond. Nothing.”
“Did you try calling the school?”
“They’re gone for the day. I told Elliott he could stay afterward, but he was supposed to be home before I got home from work. Normally, he’d go to his grandmother’s until I got home, but she’s working at her antique shop today. It was just a half hour he’d be alone. I thought…he’s so responsible for his age. What could go wrong?”
“His grandmother?” Jillian was still putting the pieces together. “You mean Imelda?”
Tessa bobbed her head. “I tried to reach my cousin, Dante, but his phone goes straight to voice mail. I thought he could help search, but he must be painting. He shuts his phone off when he’s working.”
Jillian tried to keep up with the conversation, but the funnel had been opened to Tessa’s emotions. The other woman’s steadily mounting terror bludgeoned her.
If Elliott were her child, her son…
Her stomach contracted, twisted in a merciless grip. This was every parent’s worst nightmare. A thing that stole breath and shriveled the heart.
Tessa was on the verge of hyperventilating. “I called the police and gave them Elliott’s description…all the details. They’re sending someone over to talk to me, but I thought maybe… I hoped you—” Her voice broke, tears welling in her eyes.
Jillian gripped her hand. “It’s going to be all right.” The platitude fell from her tongue, hollow words t
hat made her eyes prick with moisture. It had to be all right. “What can I do to help?” She wrapped her arm around Tessa’s shoulders, trying to block the other woman’s grief. She needed to be strong, a foundation of support. However raw her empathic nature, she couldn’t let Tessa face the trauma alone.
“I was going to drive to the school. Follow the roads he would have walked.” Tessa wiped tears from her face with shaking hands. “But I’m afraid to leave the house in case Elliott comes home, and the police are on their way. If I could only reach Dante.”
“Do you want me to go?”
Tessa gaped at her through wet lashes. “To get Dante?”
“No, I—” Jillian fumbled for words. “I meant the school.”
“I need Dante. He’ll know what to do.”
“Okay.” She couldn’t turn away from the desperation in Tessa’s voice, the heart-wrenching mixture of hope and misery in her eyes.
Blizzard would be pacing. There were perishable groceries in her car. “Do you have an address?”
Relief flooded from Tessa, gratitude so strong it nearly knocked Jillian off her feet. “I can text it to you.” They’d exchanged phone numbers for emergency purposes shortly after Tessa moved in—the single concession Jillian allowed herself. If not for Madison, she never would have offered up her number when Tessa suggested it, but the memory of her sister covered with her husband’s blood had taught her some compromises were necessary.
Tessa’s thumbs flew over the screen of her phone, tears trickling down her cheeks. Jillian heard an answering ping in her purse when the message was received. Before she could extract her phone to examine the text, Tessa’s ringtone kicked in, blaring “I Will Survive” by Gloria Gaynor.
“Oh!” Without glancing at the caller ID, Tessa hit connect, then quickly pressed the phone to her ear. “Elliott? Elliott?” Silence reigned as she listened to the caller. Within seconds, her expression changed from one of expectant urgency to staggering relief. “Oh, dear God, thank you. Thank you!”
