Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

Shatzkin hadn’t had a mark on him.

  And I’d forgotten to get an up-close look at the damned calligraphy card.

  Silence enveloped the truck as I powered down 202, then turned left up Bergen Hill. I told Larrimer about the calligraphic invite.

  “And you know this how?” he asked.

  “I sensed it, felt something.”

  I expected him to laugh or make a woo-woo joke. He simply nodded. “Happen much?”

  “Enough.” I didn’t want to talk about it. “That was certainly strange and disappointing.”

  “I agree.”

  “Your knitting is interesting. Tell me about it.”

  “I intended to use it on Shatzkin. It confuses people that I knit while I interrogate them. Scrambles their perceptions. It’s a tool.”

  “A good one.”

  “Thanks. It works.”

  I took a left onto the mighty Bergen Hill Road and Fern thundered onward. The roads were nasty, but I’d driven worse. I hooked a right onto Fantin, took the corner too fast, and the truck’s rear fishtailed.

  “You practice that?” he asked.

  “Yup.”

  We drove toward Lulu’s home. It wasn’t even four, but the day was gently dying.

  I had told Larrimer how the home had been trashed, so we both knew we’d find chaos. We entered through the side door into the small hall, guns drawn.

  Dave’s home was freezing. The petite phone table lay on the floor, its contents spilling onto the blue Oriental rug.

  The cops had told Bob that Lulu’s attackers must have policed their brass, and the bullets found so far had led nowhere. Fingerprint powder dusted the table, the door frames, the bannister.

  The place felt violated and claustrophobic. Yet beneath that, I caught a lingering resonance of love, and my heart tripped.

  We cleared the house fast, then separated. Larrimer took the dining room, and when I stepped into the living room, as if on cue, my wrist itched like crazy. I shuddered anew at the destruction and at the gaping hole where the window had been. The invaders’ knives had gutted the blue sofa and chairs and littered the room with broken paintings, ripped photos, and despoiled books. I’d spent hours in this home, and the wreckage shook me.

  Thank the gods Lulu hadn’t come with.

  Hundreds of books remained in the bookcases. A quick survey, and I found the children’s section. Golden Books, a collection of Pooh, dozens of others. None had a green binding. So I started at the beginning, on my left, up and down, through science, nature, fiction. None of the green-bound books I found had teeth marks.

  I looked in cabinets and under what was left of the sofa and chairs.

  “I’m doing the kitchen, then upstairs.” Larrimer stepped inside the room. “Anything?”

  “Nothing so far,” I said, frustration leaching out of me.

  “Frantic,” he said.

  “Yes. Those creeps.”

  He disappeared, and I gave the room another once-over.

  Out of curiosity, I walked to the blasted-out window and laid my hand on the splintered jamb. A pulse. Electrical. It didn’t hurt, but beat in time with my heart.

  The residue of magic made real?

  I turned away, then trotted upstairs. On the landing, I jerked to a stop and again opened my senses. Larrimer and I were alone, but as I settled, I tasted that same sticky psychic scent I’d encountered in Shatzkin’s office. Not as intense, but present in the air. “There’s something.”

  Larrimer joined me on the landing. “No one’s here.”

  “No. But there is something. Be careful.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Will you bite me if I say the same for you?”

  “Maybe.”

  He grinned.

  Gods. “I’ll take Dave’s bedroom,” I said, voice hushed.

  “Bathroom’s clear,” he said. “I’ll tackle Lulu’s.”

  “Look under the bed for her blue monkey.” I listed her other requests, and he disappeared. “And her bras!”

  Bet he loved that one.

  Inside Dave’s room, my sense of dread grew. But no itching wrist.

  I circled his bed. Mattress slashed, covers and curtains piled on the floor. Pens, pads, and letters, broken glass and photos. Cracks spidered an old tube TV atop the dresser. Feathers from ripped pillows attached themselves to me as I walked by. In the closet, clothes and the scent of anger. I rummaged the shelf and the floor. No chest. No book.

  Help me, Dave. Please.

  Maybe they’d found them. What would Dave’s killers do with them? That fetid taste of danger increased, and a buzzing, like bees. Focus, dammit, on what’s here, not what you’re sensing.

  I picked up a curled photo of Lulu and her dad, ink splashed on its corner, slipped it into my jacket for her. Frustrated, I stepped to leave—and my eyes snagged on the oddest thing. Against the far wall stood a shoe polisher with a tall chrome handle so you wouldn’t lose your balance.

  The buzzing increased, and I almost laughed. Dave and a shoe polisher so didn’t compute. And tucked beneath it on the wood floor sat what looked like a thin book, its green spine facing outward.

  I raised the heavy polisher, slid out the book. The minute I touched it, power, like the charge in the air just before a massive thunderstorm breaks, prickled my skin.

  As I lowered the polisher, I smiled. The book bore a child’s tooth marks on its well-worn leather cover.

  he Storybook was smaller than I expected, only about five by seven. No title on the spine or the cover.

  I raised it to my nose. It smelled…

  I snuggle next to Dave as he reads me the Storybook. It’s so good! I love the princess and the queen, but I love best the little girl in the forest. She’s like me! That’s what Dave says.

  He closes the book.

  “Why do I feel sad at the end, Dave?”

  He puts an arm around me, and I snuggle closer. “Because something important is lost.”

  “Oh.” I still don’t understand.

  “Someday you will, Clea.”

  “How did you hear my mind?”

  “Because I can, little one. Sometimes.”

  I move my fingers across the marks on the book. I feel guilty. “I’m sorry I bit the book.”

  He smiles. “I’m not. It’s your book, after all.”

  “Mine?” Excitement! “Can I take it home?”

  He shakes his head. I think he wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. “Not for a long time, sweetheart.”

  I cross my arms, huff. “Humph. I want it now.”

  “I know, my little hasty Clea.” He tucks a finger under my chin, tilts my head so I look at his pretty eyes. So serious. “Someday, it will be your task to find—”

  “There you are!” says Cruella. Well, that’s not her real name. She stands all tight and bright in the living room door.

  Dave tucks the book behind his back. “Hello, darling. I thought you’d gone out.”

  “Were you reading again to that child?” She flicks a finger at me.

  She doesn’t like me at all, and I don’t like her, either, especially not her pointy ears that hear too much.

  “I was.” He holds up The Jungle Book.

  I love those stories, but Dave is fibbing. Why?

  “How come you have pointy ears?” I say. It’ll make her mad. And she’ll go away.

  “That child!” She pulls her hair over her ears.

  After she leaves, I giggle.

  Dave leans forward and kisses my forehead. “Quite the mischief maker, aren’t you?”

  I throw my arms around his neck and hug him. “I love you.”

  I held the book close, the Storybook, with a capital “S,” and again inhaled the leathery scents of age and use. I felt joy.

  The magic… Dave was teaching me all those years, and I never knew it. That’s what he’d meant by not finishing. Oh, Dave. I was alone on an uncharted plain. Why had I been sheltered from it all my life? Bernadette said I “wasn’t ready.” For what? Would
I ever be? How would I know?

  I unzipped my inner jacket pocket and slipped the book inside.

  “Anything?” Larrimer called from across the hall.

  “A jumble,” I said. “Stuff ripped, torn, stained.” And no chest.

  He walked into the bedroom, face stiff with anger. “Bastards.” He carried Lulu’s things. “We shouldn’t be taking these.” He dangled the monkey from his fist.

  “They’ve already processed the house.”

  “Yeah. I’ll call that prick Balfour to—”

  “He’s not a prick, dammit! Why did—”

  A crunch downstairs, then a splash. I’d dampened my senses while I’d searched Dave’s room. Stupid.

  Larrimer raised a finger to his lips. “Hush.”

  I closed my eyes, scented the air. Sourness, death, urine, geraniums…

  Synapses clicked. “Larrimer, run!”

  He grabbed me around the waist, and suddenly we were airborne, his back shielding me, hand covering my head as we crashed through the bedroom window a heartbeat before a deafening blast propelled us straight toward a giant pine. In an impossible move, he flipped me around so he’d land first, and somehow we thudded into the frozen snow, saving us from death-by-tree.

  We landed hard, and he flipped me again, his body draping mine as heat billowed and debris rained. I shielded his head with my hands, terrified he’d be injured.

  Vibrations and noise whizzed through me, except cotton wadded my ears, and then something whammed my temple.

  A flare of pain.

  A shape hovered above me, blocking the sun. I blinked and blinked again. I pushed at the face, but hands held my wrists. What was wrong? Where was I? Why was I trapped?

  A weight pushing on me. I pushed back, but it didn’t budge.

  My ears… I couldn’t hear! Blood inside my mouth. My stomach heaved. I spat.

  The man’s lips moved, like he was talking, but what was he saying? Who the hell was he?

  “Let go!” I screamed, but I was mute, my words stolen. Once before. Yes. Oh, gods. There, watching the helicopter crash, unable to help, floating inside myself, dribbles of blood, gouges of pain.

  Suspended. Was I there? No… not desert hot, the ground cold with snow.

  And the man still looked at me. The bluest of blue. A Pacific Ocean of it. Soothing. Cradling.

  I sniffled, blinked, squinted.

  A trickle of memories, a blast. My head throbbed. And he was holding my wrists, keeping me prisoner. Let it go! Let me go! Can’t escape, can’t escape! No, no, no! Panic!

  You can escape. Remember your magics. Focus. Do it now.

  I press my mind toward the voice, like I’d been taught.

  That’s right, focus, little Mage.

  But he’s holding my wrists. Red teeth, hands, claws. The Bad Meanie! Let. Me. Go! I uncurl my hand, and glowing lights swirl from my palm… scents of citrus and cedar… fireflies pushing out, glorious patterns expanding, almost doing it, doing it.

  … everything collapsed.

  Trapped! I cranked back a leg to kick the bastard in the balls. Except he wasn’t there. Fuck.

  “I heard that,” came his muffled reply.

  I heard him, too, though he sounded far, far away.

  What had happened? I shook my head. What had I been doing? Panic and pain and…? Remember, remember. But I couldn’t grab it. A wisp of memory. Damn.

  My head killed. My face, my arm. My wrist burned. A memory, a shred, a thread. I tried to unwind it. Dissolved. Smoke.

  I coughed, craned my head back, and looked into a bronzed face, scarred cheeks, startling blue eyes.

  Larrimer. He stood above me, arms at his sides, calm, serene almost. Really? We just flew out a fricking window. And here I was, and here he was, and we were alive. Hoorah for that one. And I’d been about to kick him in the balls. Well, damn. Shame on me.

  I rolled to a stand, hating my Lilliputian-size to his berserker’s, except the earth shivered, and I began my descent.

  Larrimer caught me around my waist. He was being way too touchie-feely helpful. I shoved at his chest. “Cut it out! I’m fine.” I spat more blood on the ground, just to prove it.

  “Glad you’re back,” he said.

  “Me, too.”

  “Come on,” he said.

  “We need to—”

  “—do squat. I called our techs.”

  “Gee, they’ll get here quick. Not.” My mouth full of marbles. I slid out my phone, thankful for its protective cover, and walked a few steps away. When I dialed headquarters’ tech division, Berti answered. They’d come. By the time I hung up, a smile ghosted my lips. Now I knew the scene would get a proper investigation.

  His jaw clenched—all pissy—he didn’t bother to comment.

  I looked around. Blood dotted the snow. So did a million photographs. Oh, Lulu. I was amazed we were alive. Larrimer had shielded me, saved my life.

  I looked him over. Was he hurt? His black sweater was shredded, a couple bloody scratches marred his face. “Are you okay?”

  “I’ll do.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Thank you.”

  I ignored his answer as I spied a piece of Blue Monkey, a leg. Somehow, that was too much. I turned so he wouldn’t see my tears, and began picking up remnants of the stuffed animal. The head. Two arms. The leg and another. His furry blue body.

  I slid them into my jacket pockets, and started on the photos, what was left of them. Larrimer helped. Now my nose was running. Crap on that. A hand waved a maroon handkerchief in my face. I took it, blew my nose, and pushed the thing into my back pocket.

  Miraculously, draped across a bush, one of Lulu’s bras was pristine. I picked it up and sniffled again at the heavy padding that spoke to a girl’s poor body image. The bra went into my pocket, too.

  “Her jewelry?” I asked.

  He pulled a T-shirt-wrapped box from his jacket pocket. “It made it.”

  Maybe the pink dress… No, it hung in tatters from a tree.

  When we were done, I stumbled to Fern. Larrimer limped beside me.

  I said, “Are you sure you’re—”

  “I’m good.”

  I gave the house one final look. Well, it wasn’t really a house anymore. More like a pancake of wood, as if a giant had smooshed it, leaving scattered clapboards, a tilted chimney, and not much else but unidentifiable debris on the ground and in the trees. Fire burned, low and smoky, feeding on wood and clothes and unnamed treasures. Sirens screamed in the distance, growing louder. What a disaster.

  Lulu had not only lost her father, but now her home, too. And if Dave’s chest had lain undiscovered inside, it had been blasted out of existence.

  That evening we dealt with Lulu’s renewed grief and Bernadette’s tsk-tsking as she patched up Larrimer and me. Arm bandaged, wrist bandaged, purple-and-green forehead butterflied with bandaids, I looked like a refugee from a bad bar fight. At least, Larrimer’s leg injury was relatively minor.

  Aching to read the Storybook, I’d wait until I was alone.

  After I showered, I slipped into Lulu’s room and laid the bra on her dresser alongside a small plastic jewelry box that Larimer must have put there. I sighed. Minutes later, I gratefully sank into the sofa’s softness. Larrimer’s eyes followed the Celtics’ game on the flat screen, which was muted. Warmth and calm surrounded us. Home. I closed my eyes.

  The cushion next to me moved with another’s weight.

  “Did you…” Lulu asked, hope warming her eyes. “Did you find Blue Monkey?”

  I cranked my eyes open to see her mingling of hope and fear. My heart stuttered. I didn’t know what to say, but I got up, retrieved my jacket and pulled out the remnants of Blue Monkey. I cupped them in my hands like some damaged offering.

  Lulu just stared.

  I didn’t know where to put the parts—on the table, in Lulu’s lap—and I just wanted to scream that none of it was fair. Not any of it.

  Bernadette took the pieces of Blue Monkey from
my hands. She smiled at me, a gentle smile. “You did good, cookie.”

  I shook my head, but said, “Thanks.”

  Then she wrapped an arm around Lulu. “Ça va. I’ll fix your creature right up. Better than new.” And Bernadette, arm still around Lulu, clutching Blue Monkey’s pieces, led the girl away.

  “Clea,” Larrimer said.

  I turned to face the man sprawled at the opposite end of couch. “Yes?”

  He frowned. “You’re hurting.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You say that a lot.”

  “You say it a lot, too.”

  He scraped a hand through his shower-damp hair, then switched off the game, opened his laptop, and tapped a few keys. He handed me the computer. The screen held an image of an invitation. My breath caught.

  Written in sweeping calligraphy the color of red wine:

  You are invited to the Midborough Policeman’s Gala

  February 27, 7 p.m. to 11 p.m.

  Semi-formal to formal attire

  Midborough Country Club

  49 High Street

  Midborough, New Hampshire

  It looked an awful lot like the card in Shatzin’s office. “How did you get this?”

  He reached to reclaim his laptop. Our hands brushed, and he stiffened as he took the computer. That’s when I realized we’d never really touched, skin to skin.

  “You mentioned the invitation you saw in the undertaker’s office,” he said. “This was found on the floor beneath Cochran’s body.”

  Dave. He foresaw his death. Maybe not that day. Maybe not the next. But soon. He knew. And planned.

  Why hadn’t he run with Lulu? Had death rushed too quickly? Perhaps he couldn’t leave. Or maybe he’d made a conscious choice, knowing his end was inevitable.

  “Dave put it there,” I said. “For a reason.”

  Larrimer nodded. “I suspect so.

  “I’ll be going to that gala.” I gave him my hard stare. Had he any idea how much I hated the idea of attending pretentious crap like that?

  “And I’ll be escorting you, of course, Ms. Clea Artemis.” His lips twitched.

  Yeah, he knew. Bet he didn’t much like galas either. I relaxed, and every aching muscle screamed back to vivid life. “Yes, you will.”