It’s also pretty.
What I didn’t know, as I scribbled out a card and grabbed my keys, was that it would soon crack open a secret I wasn’t prepared to learn.
Chapter 3
Amethyst is a hamlet tucked up in the far northwest corner of Illinois. Only a few thousand people live here, but thanks to its unusually sloped topography, its historical ties to Mark Twain, President Lincoln, and Ulysses S. Grant, and its quaint Main Street featuring fine dining, spa services, and fashion boutiques, nearly a million visitors pass through here every year. Some of them check into the Geraghty Girls Guest House, and normally on the weekends I pop over to the inn to see if Birdie or the aunts need any help.
Since my cottage is only steps away, I’d be doing just that, but they were likely cooking up something special to bring to Cinnamon’s shower. The party was at the Black Opal, a quick fifteen minute walk, but in case I needed to pick anything up from Angelica’s bakery or cart some gifts home, I decided to drive. My phone was in my bag on the passenger seat, the gift inside, and Thor was stretched across the back seat as I backed out of the long driveway.
I coasted down the hill and looped the car around to Main Street, trying to find a parking space. This wasn’t the busiest time of the year, but with the lack of snow, more weekenders dotted Main Street than usual. Couples strolled hand in hand pointing out the festive decorations, the holiday lights, and the old fashioned lamp posts draped in red ribbons and fresh garlands. The popcorn shop was packed with a group of skiers stocking up on snacks. Magic Mountain, the resort just outside of town, made their own snow when Mother Nature didn’t cooperate. We passed a street vendor roasting chestnuts, another selling hot cocoa, and a musician plucking out Christmas tunes on a guitar.
The tourism center was always promoting some activity or another, especially around any holiday, and this weekend featured living windows displays. Shopkeepers were encouraged to put on a holiday themed act in their storefronts using real people. The candle shop was doing a rendition of A Christmas Carol with Tiny Tim and Scrooge, who was cast perfectly in the form of Scully, Cinnamon’s best customer and longtime Amethyst resident. A vintage toy store a few doors down featured Santa’s workshop, and at the end of the street was the most surprising display of all.
There, standing inside the window of a store called Nuts About You that sold—you guessed it—nuts, was the man in my life, Chance. All six foot two inches of him was dressed as a classic Tchaikovsky nutcracker complete with face paint, a tall fuzzy hat, red jacket with gleaming gold buttons, black pants, and shiny black boots.
I was cackling as I swung the car to the right and parked.
“Come on, Thor. Let’s go see who roped Chance into this.”
We got out and I grabbed my bag, phone at the ready, because this was so going on Facebook. Hell, I might even make it my profile pic.
Thor trotted along next to me as we made our way over to the shop. Even he seemed to be smiling.
I jumped in front of the window and snapped some pictures with my phone. Chance winced and shook his head.
He mouthed something through the glass, but I couldn’t hear him so I told Thor to wait outside while I slipped into the shop.
Homey scents of salt, caramel, and pecans drifted through the building. A few customers were browsing the aisles discussing gift options for friends and family, and a plump teenager was tallying up a purchase for a white-haired woman. It was a long space shaped like a shoe box and painted a soothing walnut color. The shelves were filled with bags and boxes of peanuts, macadamia nuts, pecans, walnuts, cashews, honey roasted nuts, barbecue nuts, Brazil nuts and more.
I curved around the glass to where Chance was nutcrackering.
“Hey handsome.” I pointed to his ensemble. “So this is a new look for you.”
He smirked. “If you like it, I might be able to buy it at cost.”
I pretended to consider this. “Does the hat go with it?”
“Probably not.”
“Then no deal.”
I snapped another photo, pressed a few buttons on my phone, and said, “And post.”
Chance gave me a sharp stare. “Why are you busting my balls?”
“Hey, you’re the nutcracker.” I grinned.
“You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”
I tapped my chin. “Let me think.” My head bobbed up and down. “Yes, yes I am. It’s nice to see you dressed silly for a change. And since you never held back whenever Aunt Lolly strapped me into one of her ensembles, this is what they call payback, my friend.”
Birdie’s eldest sister, Lolly, was a few hours short of a full day due to a loss she’d suffered long ago. To keep all her circuits firing, we poured a steady stream of liquor down her throat—I had no idea how or why, but alcohol had the opposite effect on Lolly that it did on the rest of the human race. But when she’s not firing on all cylinders, she loves to play dress up. And by dress up, I mean anyone and everyone around her can and will be used as her personal dolls. Not even Thor is safe. The worst time was when she dressed me up as Catwoman. Chance still teased me about that one.
“Touché.”
“So whose idea was this?”
Chance rolled his royal blue eyes. “My mother. Her friend owns the place and asked her if I could help out at the store today. You were going to be at the shower, and I had no plans, so I figured why not. Of course, when she called me this morning, I thought helping out meant lifting a few boxes, maybe making some minor repairs.” He raised his arms. “This never crossed my mind.”
Chance owned a construction business, and when he wasn’t building houses or working on kitchen remodels, he was lending a hand to friends and family, often at no charge. The man was generous to a fault, which was one of the reasons I fell in love with him way back in high school. And although I moved away and went to college and dated other people for the next fifteen or so years, he’d stolen a piece of my heart, and I never got it back. Now he had the whole thing, and I his.
“Wow, that’s nuts.”
“You about done?”
I shrugged. “I have a few more.”
He sighed. “Get it out of your system.”
“Don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you to bust a nut.”
He grunted. “And?”
“Is that a wooden leg or are you just happy to see me?”
He gave me a cocky smile. “That one was pretty weak.”
“How about ‘I’m nuts about you?’”
Chance had a way of looking at me that went straight through my heart and into my stomach, where butterflies swarmed. He did that now as he stepped off the platform, reached for my face with both hands and kissed me so deep I felt it in my toes.
He pulled away and I smiled at him.
“See you later?” he asked.
“Sure. I’ll save you some cake.”
He put his forehead to mine and whispered, “I’m not interested in cake.”
“Well then, I’ll save you a spot in the bed.”
“Deal.”
Thor barked impatiently, and I gave Chance another kiss and rushed out into the chilly afternoon. As I did, I spotted a familiar-looking man speeding down Main Street.
I whipped my head around and fumbled for my phone to take a snapshot of the license plate, but I was too late.
I stood there, staring at the now empty street wondering if it was my imagination, or if I had really just seen who I thought I saw.
But...that would be impossible. Surely my mind was playing tricks on me.
Because dead men don’t drive.
Chapter 4
I shooed away a kid who was trying to ride Thor like a pony, and we headed down the street to The Black Opal.
The man in the car had looked an awful lot like Uncle Deck, Cinnamon’s father. He died a few years ago, long after my own dad had passed and my mother had disappeared from my life. The impact of those events left scars on my heart that I had only recently overcome—scars
Birdie and the aunts tried to heal through magic, both mine and theirs. I couldn’t face it at the time. Turned my back on it, in fact, until just last year.
Now I wondered, as I approached my cousin’s bar, if it could have been him. See, a couple of months ago, I could have sworn I’d heard his voice in the background as I was Skyping with my mother. Technically, it wasn’t Skype but the scrying mirror I keep in my Seeker’s Den–the room Chance had built onto my tiny cottage that could only be accessed through the closet in my bedroom. It was equipped with security cameras, a couple of laptops, weapons, crystals, and herbs, plus workout equipment and a database of information given to me by the Council. Mom was in Ireland, living with her significant other, Pearce, and that’s who she insisted was speaking.
But I had my doubts.
I had met Pearce on a mission to the Emerald Isle on a mission to free my mother, who had been imprisoned in the Council’s castle for committing a crime. After retrieving a priceless artifact, I was able to trade it for my mother’s freedom.
So I knew Pearce’s voice. And he didn’t have a Midwest accent. He spoke with an Irish brogue.
Why would she lie?
I tried to recall my uncle’s funeral, but it was so hazy in my mind that all I could remember was a lot of tears and trying to comfort Cinnamon.
Of course, there was something else that had had me on high alert these last several weeks—the missing page in the Blessed Book.
The Blessed Book made up the written history of our family’s lineage and theology. It was recorded by my great-grandmother Meagan, who handed it down to Birdie, who then passed it along to me. It contained records of the high kings who once sat on the hill of Tara, warrior women who fought side by side with men in battle, spells, rituals, magical practices and recipes. It was also filled with predictions for future generations. That’s how Birdie had known, from the day I was born, that I would one day become the Seeker of Justice.
It didn’t matter to her that I had simply inherited my father’s full name. She believed in my destiny, and finally I believed it too.
I had just completed the process of uploading the pages of the book to the database in the Seeker’s den, but that missing page—the one even Cinnamon knew about and, I suspected, feared—gnawed at me like an insect boring a hole through my brain.
My cousin had come to me one day, asking if there was anything in the book about her unborn child. This was unusual, because Cin had never taken an interest in the witchy side of the family. The Geraghty gifts are passed down through the mother, and Cin’s connection to the clan stemmed from her dad. But she was feeling vulnerable at the time, and so with the locket in hand, I searched the book for any passages related to children born in the New World.
This was what we found:
The Seeker shall never be alone in the New World, for another child will join her. Together, the pair will battle inner and outer demons, loss, and tragedies great and small. This child, born of two ancient families, will carry a great burden. For the child holds the key to—
That was all.
I still hadn’t deciphered who the text was referring to, but one thing was clear—there was something my family was keeping from me—something no-one wanted me to find, because when we turned the page we discovered that the next page had been extracted with such precision that if the text hadn’t been severed mid-sentence, you wouldn’t have known another page had ever been there.
So where was it? And who cut it out?
This was the answer I didn’t know, and with my mother acting secretive and Birdie never mentioning any reference to Cinnamon in the book, I got the sneaking suspicion that they were trying to keep whatever it was under wraps.
Secrets stretch long and far in my family. I knew that most of what they had hidden from me, from Cin, was to protect us. Except now I knew that secrets could get you killed.
I had tried, to no avail, to use all my powers, all my magic, to discover what had been written on that page. I had even attempted to call forth Meagan, because that was my gift. Birdie was a healer, Lolly could sense thoughts and emotions, and Fiona had a way with love and animals.
My gift was talking to dead people. And let me tell you, there were a whole lot of them roaming around Amethyst.
But you cannot force a ghost to talk if she doesn’t want to. At least, I hadn’t been able to leap that hurdle. Yet. I was still working on it.
Of course, there was always the possibility that someone else had removed that page—someone outside the family, although how they would have been able to access the book I didn’t know. If that was the case, though, it was best for me to keep working on it in the dark. Because despite my role, the women in my family still thought of me as a little girl they had to protect. For all that, they’re decades older and far less skilled in combat than I am. If any of them thought for a second that either Cin, myself, or the baby were in danger, they would surely go after the enemy themselves. And I refused to let them risk their lives.
We reached the door to the bar, and Thor did a quick shake. That looked like a good idea so I mimed the dog, shaking off any negativity. I pasted on a smile and stepped through the door.
When I saw the man sitting at the bar, a glass of amber liquid in his hand, my stomach twisted into such a tight knot that I thought I might lose my breakfast.
I never thought I’d see him again.
Chapter 5
“Ah, Stacy! Come here, mi bellissimo,” said Cinnamon’s uncle Mario. Uncle Mario was Angelica’s little brother. And by little, I mean he was younger and squatter than his sister, with a mop of greasy hair and a personality to match.
I said, “Uncle Mario, what a...surprise.” I flicked my eyes around the bar that Angelica had already decorated with pastel pink, yellow, green, and blue streamers, baby carriages, and a big sign that read, Happy Baby Showering. Cinnamon wasn’t a fan of pastels, which was why her bar was painted in shades of navy, tan, and dusty purple, with sleek dark wood tables and chairs to match.
But hey, one problem at a time.
Mario slid off his bar stool and slithered over to me like a snake stalking a mouse.
I looked past him to see if I could spot Cinnamon or Tony. No such luck. I was on my own.
“How are you?” Mario shouted into my left boob as if it were a microphone that wasn’t switched on.
I stepped back and stuck my hand out. “I’m just fine. How are you?”
“Bah,” he said. “No hug for Uncle Mario?”
He didn’t wait for my compliance. He just lunged at me and squeezed my ass.
Normally, when a man does that without my permission, he would find himself with a knee firmly planted in his groin, but Mario was Cin’s uncle so I just shoved him away and said, “That’s not how we greet in America, Mario.”
Mario still lived in Italy, which was one reason I’d hoped I’d never have to see him again. He was the sort of man who felt that all the world was a playground and all the women in it his playmates.
I coughed and waved away the cloud of cologne that I was certain he washed his clothes in, the name of which had to be Sleazy No. 7.
He gave me a sheepish grin and I caught a nose full of grappa. I coughed again.
“I just having fun, ah?” He slapped me on the ass and it took every ounce of composure I had not to hog tie him to the jukebox.
Behind me, I heard Thor growl.
Mario peeked around my body and said, “Hey doggie. There’s a good doggie.”
Thor lowered his head and growled again. I couldn’t tell if he was looking at Mario or if there was something else that had his attention. He knew the old Sicilian after all, and he knew that I could take him with one hand.
I trained my gaze to where Thor was staring, head bowed, ears pointed up toward the ceiling. He seemed to be focused on the back room of the bar, but there was no one there. Then the far rear door opened and in sauntered a woman who would have been at home walking down a New York runway.
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br /> She had long dark hair sleeked to perfection, olive skin, and cheekbones you could cut yourself on. She was nearly six feet tall, and she wore a black pencil skirt, a silky white blouse, and black and white pumps with little bows on the heels.
Thor growled again, and that’s when I noticed she was carrying a large leather purse, peeking out from which was the head of a fluffy white dog. I wasn’t sure if Thor was growling at the dog, or because he found it offensive to his canine sensibilities that a member of his species was being treated like luggage. He finally sat down and stared at the woman as if to say, you, madam, are an animal.
“Mario, Bianca make a stinky. Please go pick up, ah?”
“Sure, sure, mi amore. Come meet Stacy, Cinnamon’s cousin.” Mario dragged the woman by the arm over to where I was standing.
“Please to meet you,” she said.
“Likewise,” I stuck my hand out and she shook it. Even her nails were perfectly lacquered and I felt myself growing self-conscious about my own squared off unpolished fingertips.
“Stacy, this is mi amore, Carmella.”
Carmella put her arm around Mario and kissed the top of his head. He in turn, dove in for a motorboat. She giggled as if...well, as if she enjoyed it.
I was dumbfounded. How Mario could land a woman like that was beyond me. They looked so odd together. Like Boris and Natasha from the Bullwinkle cartoon.
“Well, congratulations,” I said to her, because my condolences didn’t seem appropriate.
Carmella placed her bag on the bar and Bianca climbed out and perched right there next to it. Thor decided this was as good a time as any to greet his guest and he sauntered up to the bar to get a good sniff.
Carmella said, “Oh no! Back, beast.” And she grabbed her bag to take a wallop at my boy.
The last woman who did that almost didn’t make it out of town alive.
Phantom Quartz Page 2
