Ancient History (The Lost Keepers Book 1)

by AR Colbert

  Ancient History

  The Lost Keepers #1

  AR Colbert

  Ramsey Street Books

  Copyright © 2020 AR Colbert

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  ABOUT THE SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  CHAPTER 1

  I felt like I was in a movie, mustard stain on my shirt and all. Shoving the last bite of a hot dog into my mouth, I turned to my mom with a grin. “Isn’t this amazing?” I asked through a mouthful of half-chewed food.

  She quirked an eyebrow at me. “Incredible,” she said sarcastically. She dug a napkin out of her bag and passed it my way. “You’ve got a little something…” She pointed at a spot next to her lips.

  I wiped the final evidence of street food from my mouth and sighed. With arms extended fully to both sides I looked up at the sky and spun in a circle. “I can’t believe we’re really here. Just a couple of gals in the Big Apple. Doin’ our thing. Living large.”

  “Watch it!” A middle-aged man in an ill-fitting business suit barely dodged my swinging arms and scowled as he scurried past.

  “Oh! Pardon me, sir. I’m so sorry!”

  He turned back over his shoulder with his eyebrows drawn even lower and hissed for good measure. I was mortified, but it elicited a giggle from my mother.

  “Oh, Everly.”

  “I can’t help it. It just feels magical here. I don’t know what my future holds, but I’m glad New York is going to be a part of it for the next four to six years. It’s almost like it’s calling to me. I belong here.”

  “You have a very vivid imagination if you think I’m paying for six years of out-of-state tuition. Four sounds good to me.” Mom’s smile faded and she turned to me with a serious expression, though her eyes still twinkled with humor. “And by the way, that’s not the sound of the city calling to you. It’s the sound of that cab honking for you to get out of the way.”

  “Oh geez!” I hurried across the intersection with a squeal.

  I definitely had a few things to learn about life in the city. It was like a different planet from where I was raised. My backwards Oklahoma hometown had little more than a livestock feed shop and a gas station—neither of which had been updated since the early 1980s. We had more cows than people, and all the visual appeal you’d expect from a north forty farmhouse in a field of red dirt, but it was home.

  New York was a stimulus overload with flashing lights and blinking advertisements on every surface. The air was fragrant—sometimes leaving my mouth watering from the aroma of street foods and restaurants, and sometimes leaving my eyes watering from the intensity of its odors. Horns and shouts and laughter and music mixed together in a raucous symphony of noise. People brushed past in every direction, everyone in a hurry to get somewhere… or maybe nowhere, but hurrying nonetheless. Some were dressed in suits and ties like Mr. Grumpface who hissed at me, some wore sunglasses that cost more than my car, and some wore next to nothing at all. But I was definitely the only one who dressed like she was from Hibbard, Oklahoma. At least I had on my cute boots.

  But as out of place as I was, New York filled some kind of a void I’d never realized I had. It made my heart sing. The city was alive, and it made me feel more alive, as well. I was going to like it here.

  “Everly?”

  I snapped my gaze back toward my mother, who held a slight look of impatience. “Did you say something?”

  “You have got to get your head of the clouds, girl.” She shook her head. “We have to head back to Millie’s place for dinner soon.”

  “Why the rush? I just ate a hot dog the size of my forearm. I’ve got a full tank for a while.”

  “She invited her friend, Claudia, over for dinner. I told her we’d be back by six.”

  “Claudia with the son who goes to Columbia?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “I told her I’m not interested in going to Columbia. She can quit trying to lure me with cute boys.”

  “Who said he was cute?”

  “I just assumed. Otherwise, why would Millie bring him over to tempt me into switching schools?”

  Mom pulled me behind her as we navigated through a dense crowd, and continued once it cleared out again. “Hey, I don’t blame you for choosing NYU over Columbia. I would probably do the same. But it is such an accomplishment to be accepted into an Ivy League school. I think she just wants you to be sure before you decline something like that.”

  “Too late.” I shrugged. “It’s already been declined. So we can eat with Columbia Claudia and her probably cute son, but they can’t make me go there.”

  Mom shook her head and laughed. “I don’t think New York is going to know how to handle you.”

  “Well, they’ve got six years to figure it out.”

  She shot a disapproving gaze from the corners of her eyes and held up four fingers in front of me. I took her hand and pushed three of them down, pointing her index finger at a window display up ahead. Then I swung it around to a copper sign with a light patina that read Rossel & Jude. Atop the sign, swinging gently with it in the breeze, sat a pure white owl. It looked a bit like the barn owls we had back home, but there wasn’t a speck of color on its snowy-white feathers.

  “One more stop. I promise we’ll be quick.” I made puppy dog eyes at her. “Please? It looks so quirky and fun. It says it’s a small artist-run gallery, and that print in the window is fabulous. Plus—that squatty little pigeon on the sign said it’s worth a look.”

  I flashed a goofy grin at my mother. The color had drained completely from her face. She almost matched the bird.

  “Are you joking? About the owl?” She whispered. She looked seriously disturbed.

  “Of course!” I laughed. “I know it’s not a pigeon. Weird seeing it hanging out in the middle of the city though, huh? Are you lost, little guy?”

  Mom turned me back to face her. “Don’t talk to it.”

  “Okaaay… I was only kidding.”

  “Let’s get back to Millie’s.”

  “Really, though--can we pop in here for a second first? Please? I would really like to see the painting of that print in the window. I promise I won’t dilly-dally.”

  She frowned and glanced back at the owl. It seemed to be watching us. It was honestly a little creepy, but in an intriguing way. I wondered if it was part of the exhibition inside the gallery.

  “Fine. Ten minutes, tops.”

  “Thank you!”

  I grabbed her hand, which was frigid and clammy, and pulled her through the door. The gallery was wide open and sparse of furniture. Its tall ceilings revealed black ductwork suspended under a wooden ceiling, and the outer wall was exposed brick with enormous picture windows near the entrance. The rest of the walls were stark white, with no other distractions from the artwork inside.

&n
bsp; The space probably wasn’t large as far as art galleries went. It had just two main halls. One was essentially void of people other than my mom and me, but the other held a small crowd at the opposite end.

  “Oooh, I wonder what’s over there,” I said, dragging my poor mother along behind me.

  “I don’t like this,” she mumbled under her breath.

  As we neared, I noticed an extremely tall young man with broad shoulders propped up against the wall near the rest of the crowd. His skin was a sunkissed bronze, and his hair was tousled into messy perfection, the color of dark chocolate. But his eyes were what really caught my attention. They were an incredible amber, like honey flecked with gold leaf. And they were staring straight at me.

  “I wonder if he goes to Columbia,” I snickered to my mom. But she gave no witty remark in response. Her eyes were deadlocked on the boy’s, and she was practically snarling at him.

  “Mom?” I asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “We need to go, Everly. Now.”

  Just then, the crowd parted ahead to reveal the art piece everyone was fawning over. A small girl tugged on her mother’s hand and pointed at me with a tiny finger. “It’s her, Mama.”

  The child’s mother turned to me with a broad smile. “It’s a remarkable piece. Truly breathtaking. The artist captured your essence beautifully.”

  “Uh, thank you?” I glanced at my mom for help to get away from this crazy woman, but she was still too involved in the staredown with golden eyes to have noticed. The mother and child smiled warmly again as they moved toward the exit, and I stepped forward into their spot in the crowd.

  Finally, I saw the piece that had drawn everyone’s attention. Hanging on the wall in a gilded golden frame, illuminated by a small spotlight, was a four-foot tall portrait of… me.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mom?” I blindly patted the air behind me, trying to make contact. I needed another set of eyes to confirm what I saw. This couldn’t be possible.

  The painting was undeniably me. Long caramel waves of hair cascaded over the girl’s shoulders, thick and full. I absentmindedly patted down the cowlick to the left of my part as I noticed a matching tuft of hair on the girl in the painting. She even had my eyes—round and blue, except for a pie-shaped third of her left iris, which was a rich brown. Heterochromia iridum. I’d learned the term for it when I was a young girl. It was quite a mouthful for saying ‘two different colored eyes,’ but I’d never forgotten it. My memory was weird like that. I never forgot anything. In fact, my photographic memory was probably the only reason I’d been accepted into Columbia.

  But that didn’t matter right now. “Mom,” I repeated. “Are you seeing this?”

  I tilted my head and stepped closer. She… I… we? We looked determined. Fierce. The girl in the painting was the tough version of me I’d always wanted to be. Well, her expression and body language were tough, anyway. Her chin was held high, almost defiant, as she leaned forward with her forearms propped on her knees in the seat. On closer examination, I noticed she was missing my scar—the one I’d gotten below my lip when I fell off my horse and landed on a rock in the second grade. Other than that small difference, she could have been my more ferocious twin.

  The rest of the scene didn’t share the same ferocity. She wore a glimmering golden gown. The chair she sat on more closely resembled a throne. It was an ornate, oversized, high backed Victorian chair, with tufted mauve velvet cushions. I didn’t recognize the room she was in. It was vast and open, with arching leaded windows lining the wall that stretched over two stories tall. A plaque below the painting bore the artwork’s name: Deliverance.

  “Mom!”

  I had her attention now. Or rather, the painting version of me did. My mom looked less surprised than angry, though. Her jaw worked as she examined the piece before us, then she turned to me. A pink flush was working its way up her neck and into her cheeks, and she was trembling.

  “Give me your hair tie,” she demanded.

  “The one I’m using right now? In my hair?”

  “Yes.” She impatiently held out her hand.

  Unused to seeing my mom worked up in a state like this, I obeyed without further question. I pulled the elastic band from the back of my head and dropped it into her open palm. She pocketed it and immediately began running her fingers through my hair, ruffling it up and pulling it forward to cover my eyes. It hung wildly in my face, tickling my nose and leaving me looking like Cousin Itt.

  “Is this necessary?” I reached to push my hair just enough to see through the curtain before my eyes, but my mom swatted my hand back down.

  “Don’t touch it. Wait right here. I’m going to talk to the artist.” She turned on her heels and disappeared through the crowd.

  I spun around to follow her and found myself staring into a broad chest covered by a snug fitting navy blue t-shirt. Slowly, my eyes moved up higher, and higher again, past a strong scruffy jawline, full lips twisted into a crooked half-grin, chiseled cheekbones that looked like they’d been carved from granite, and into the glistening golden eyes of the boy who’d watched us walk in.

  “Can I have your autograph?” His low, rich, baritone words danced through the air, messing with my senses.

  I giggled nervously. “You want me… I mean my, uh… that’s not me. You don’t want my autograph.”

  He pushed a section of my untamed hair to the side, and his fingers left my temple tingling where they’d brushed against my skin. He was very forward for a stranger. And if he’d looked like anyone else, I might have balked at him touching me. But this was no ordinary guy. He could touch me all he wanted.

  “Are you sure?” One side of his perfect mouth pulled up into that charming crooked grin again. “Because it sure looks like you.”

  I giggled again. I was acting like a lovestruck pre-teen, but I couldn’t help it. The longer I stood near him, the more enamored I became. He must have been a model. This was New York, after all.

  “I’m sure,” I finally mumbled through a bashful smile. I dropped my chin, allowing my hair to fall forward over the edge of my eye again.

  The boy closed his eyes and took a sharp breath before slowly opening them again. He allowed his grin to reach full capacity, displaying a perfect set of white teeth, and I almost swayed in place. I was actually going weak in the knees like some kind of cartoon. What was wrong with me?

  “Well, at least tell me your name.”

  “Everly.” It rolled out of my mouth before I could consider otherwise.

  “Everly,” he repeated. It sounded so much better coming from his lips. Slow and smooth like honey.

  “Everly!”

  I startled, and turned to face my glowering mother, stomping toward us. When I looked back over my shoulder, the boy was gone.

  “What are you doing?” She immediately pulled more of my hair forward when she reached me.

  I blew it back out of my face. “Just enjoying the most delightfully bizarre encounter of my life.” I sighed.

  “I thought I taught you not to talk to strangers.” She frowned. I wasn’t buying her attempt to be funny. She was still visibly shaken.

  “I can’t say no to a stranger who looks like that.” I grinned. “Speaking of strangers, did you find the artist? I swear I don’t know how he painted this. He must have found one of my 4H clippings from the Hibbard Newspaper or something.”

  “I seriously doubt that. And no.” She glanced around the room. “But he’s here.”

  “How do you know?”

  Her frown deepened. “I can just feel it.”

  “If you say so.” My mother was starting to sound like she had a few screws loose. Of course, I’d never say that to her face.

  She ran her hands up and down the sides of her arms, scanning the room as she did. “Maybe we should just go. Let’s get back to Millie’s for now, and we can figure this out later.”

  “It’s really not that big of a deal. It’s not even me in the picture—it just looks li
ke me. She’s missing my scar.”

  My mom’s jaw dropped. “I knew it,” she muttered.

  I followed her gaze to the lobby, where the early evening sunlight was filtering in through the windows in wide golden rays. Gliding through the sunshine like it was his own personal spotlight came a thin, pale man, probably in his fifties. He stood ramrod straight, like a metal bar held him firmly in place under his clothes, and his feet stepped so softly across the wood floor that he almost appeared to be floating. His hair was stark white and pulled up into a high topknot on his head. He wore all black, which contrasted sharply with his ghostly coloring.

  He strode over to the front of our hall and turned to face the crowd of onlookers. A small group meandering toward the exit stopped to compliment him, but he never once looked in their direction. He didn’t acknowledge their existence at all. He simply stared straight ahead. Maybe he was blind. Or deaf. Or maybe just stuck up and indifferent.

  “Is that the artist?” I asked. Mom didn’t answer. She was already walking toward him. Good luck with that.

  To my surprise, he turned to face her as she approached. It was only then that I saw his eyes. With his fair skin and white hair, I’d expected them to be pale as well. But they were dark. Darker than brown. Almost onyx. I inhaled sharply as his two black holes took in my mother, who by all accounts, looked fearless.

  Based on body language alone, I would have guessed she was screaming at him. And with the way her hands waved back and forth in front of her, it was probably very colorful language. But in reality, I couldn’t hear a thing. The acoustics in the gallery must have been pretty horrible.

  The artist wasn’t intimidated. He remained straight-faced as she berated him. His mouth moved in response, but the rest of his face and body were eerily still. A few eyes from passers-by glanced in my direction, clearly associating me with the woman causing a scene. I needed to put some distance between us before I got dragged into the kerfuffle as well.