Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  “Yes. Fine.”

  She tsk-tsked. “You look like the demon spawn.”

  “You should know.” Which just popped out for some reason. I found that funny, giggled.

  She did, too, which might have been the oddest thing all day, and pushed to her feet. Minutes later, she returned with my sunglasses. “Here. You’ll scare Lulu.”

  I slipped them on. “Better?”

  Her fingers wrapped around my chin. “You’re closer than I suspected. Almost cooked, cookie.” Her voice, soft and dark, with a deep French accent.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked, mesmerized.

  She took the dirtied bowl and towels to the kitchen.

  I recalled scents of citrus, cedar, and the fireflies as they’d formed the Waterlilies pattern. I ran a finger across my wrist, no longer spirals of fire. Smooth, the tattoo faint, but visible. I reached in my pocket and retrieved my phone, thankfully still in one piece. I took two photos of the spiral. Larrimer must have seen that.

  The dogs barking, hurting my ears. Larrimer’s footsteps accompanied by… “Lulu!”

  She raced to the couch and kneeled, putting a scraped hand on my knee. “Are you okay? Why are you wearing sunglasses? What happened?”

  Pure joy. I hugged her tight.

  “Talk about exciting! And this guy, he’s a football player, a friend of Ronan’s, and he had a broken leg.” She chattered on. “Scariest thing ever!”

  My fingers feathered her cheek. “Are you hurt? Tell true.”

  She shrugged. “Couple scrapes. And this. Ouch!” She leaned her head forward.

  “Where? Let me see.”

  She pointed to a spot between her bangs and hairline.

  My heart seized.

  A Valkyrie appeared beside us. Bernadette took Lulu’s hand, tut-tutted. “Let me take care of that, dear.”

  “Did Larrimer see?” I asked Lulu.

  “Yup. I showed him! It’s not that bad.”

  “You’re right,” I said.

  “In the bathroom, please,” Bernadette said, taking her kit and steering Lulu.

  “Wait!” Lulu reached for my hand, my right one, and she stared at the tattoo.

  Even as Bernadette tried to lead her away, I clamped Lulu’s hand and whispered in her ear. “What is this spiral on my wrist, Lulu? Tell me.”

  She whispered back, tears in her voice. “Daddy had one just like it.”

  When Larrimer reappeared, my lips throbbed, the remembered passion of his hungry kiss. I hoped for one of his rare smiles. Nope. He was buttoned up tighter than a straightjacket. I patted the seat beside me, but he chose the red chair.

  “Feel better?” he asked.

  I lowered the sunglasses and pointed. “Demon eyes, according to Bernadette.”

  “Scary.”

  I found myself tearing up, which was really dumb. “Thank you.” My voice wobbled.

  “At your service, ma’am.”

  “You kissed me. You touched me.”

  “Yes. I apologize. A mistake.”

  A simmering anger dammed my tears. That he would deny this feeling between us burned like acid. “Don’t. Just don’t.”

  His stare was cool, distant.

  A knock at the door startled me, then footsteps, and a man stood in the doorframe between the kitchen and living room.

  All in black, from his sweater to his boots, he was older, maybe fifty, of medium height and burly, with a clean-shaved chin and outrageously bushy sideburns that I loved.

  “Jason,” Larrimer said. “Meet Clea.”

  “Hey,” I said. “Thank you for keeping an eye on Bernadette and Lulu.”

  He flashed a warm, inviting smile, then shrugged. “Not much to it.”

  “I disagree, and it’s appreciated,” I said.

  His gray eyes cut to Larrimer, and he unwound a fisted hand. In it sat a small plastic bag containing two spent bullets.

  Those furrows in her scalp were just what I’d imagined. Someone had fucking shot Lulu.

  ason tossed the bag to Larrimer.

  “I’ll send these to the lab,” Larrimer said. “I don’t expect much will come of it.”

  “Didn’t find the brass, boss,” Jason said. “Gonna look some more.”

  Jason left, but my eyes were all for Larrimer. White lines bracketed his mouth. “Dead men walking.”

  “Larrimer.”

  Power boiled, and heat. It poured from his fingers, his arms, his chest. The air seethed. The dogs tear-assed out of the room. The man I knew went missing. That thing was death.

  “Larrimer. James!”

  He blinked twice, and clamped on the calm like Iron Man dons his armor. Gods, if the switch ever failed.

  He whooshed out a breath. “Sorry.”

  “What was that?” I asked.

  “My stupidity.”

  The dogs crept back into the room. He reached down and ruffled their fur.

  To avoid foot-in-mouth disease, I nipped my urge to probe. “Did they mean to shoot her? Kill her? I just can’t see it.”

  “Maybe to rid themselves of old business?”

  That shook me. “Perhaps they messed up. If our driveway hadn’t been so iced up, the UPS van wouldn’t have lost control.”

  He ran a hand across his chin. “They may have factored in the crash.”

  “They want her. The Feed and Seed, her house. She would have been an easy grab in the chaos of the crash if stuff hadn’t gone wrong, like Lulu helping that kid in a cast off the bus. If she hadn’t been helping him, she’d have easily made it out.”

  He stared. “The bus was inches from killing her.”

  I bit my lip and started to talk about the hand-sparkly thing. But the words stuck in my throat.

  I dragged a shaking hand through my Medusa hair. Change, evolution.

  How to control what was happening? I needed control.

  Larrimer would listen. I should talk to him. Except he hadn’t talked to me, and he knew stuff.

  “I smell those wheels turning and burning.” That voice, honey laced with concern.

  “That’s me, a smelly wheel.”

  That evening we were all tense. Ronan stopped by after dinner, and he and Lulu vanished into her room. Larrimer disappeared into my office and closed the door. Bernadette called a friend on the landline.

  Grace velcroed to my leg, I entered our main bathroom, carrying my phone and wine, which was when I finally looked in the mirror. And bit back a shriek. My eyes were slasher-movie red. Hideous.

  My trademark fast healing better crank it up a notch.

  Giving several minutes over to my awful eyes and my vanity, I swirled the bath oil around the tub, and then climbed in, clutching my Vinho Verde. After much maneuvering, Grace settled on the flokati rug beside the tub. She wuffled a sigh of joy, unabashedly happy to be sharing these moments of intimacy with me without the intrusion of chickens, goats, or Mutt and Jeff, not to mention the kitten.

  The water ran, a mantra of calm, and setting my wine beside the tub, I settled into the porcelain curve, the heat soothing my battered body. I could doze off right here.

  Instead, I began to shake.

  Shit.

  I drew up my legs and rested my head on my knees. Everything felt so wrong. Maybe it was PTSD. I held out my palm, the one that had stopped a school bus from crushing Lulu. The Celtic spirals were gone, the skin clear and unblemished.

  My phone.

  I lifted it, clicked, and sucked in a breath.

  Blurred. All the shots I’d taken of the wrist spiral were out of focus. Impossible.

  “Shit!”

  Apparently nothing was impossible. Since Dave’s death, I was living on some magical moonscape. Senses heightened. Visions, magic fireflies, voices in my head.

  Maybe “magics” were simply a different system, one we humans didn’t understand, one our brains had to unlock?

  Gather. Gather. “Got it, Da!” My body shuddered. Da.

  I snagged my wine and downed it.
Bourbon would’ve been better. The whole damned bottle.

  Perhaps…

  I held up my right hand, palm facing the box of cotton balls on the shelf, thumb out, just like that afternoon. Cotton balls. What could be easier?

  I pushed left, aiming to knock the box off the shelf. I imagined the box moving. I pictured pushing the box. Then pulling the box. Roping the box into a net.

  Not even a wiggle. I stared at my palm. No glowy things, no fireflies, no pain, no pleasure.

  And I’d stopped a bus with this hand?

  Saturday morning, I sat at my desk amidst a sea of papers trying to make piles so I could actually work. So I could think. I’d been to the barn, Larrimer had again made me coffee, and I’d savored its hints of cinnamon and honey between nibbles of Bernadette’s scone.

  I snugged my flannel shirt around me, then used the Flair pens to mind-map a diagram of all that had happened.

  Wow. Looked like a frigging solar system. I balled up the paper and tossed it. Score!

  Simplify.

  Larrimer and I were hunting Dave’s killer. The Master was searching for a treasure, one bound by magic, which equaled Dave’s chest.

  So where the hell was the damned chest? I sighed.

  And called the diner. Anouk was on extended leave. Well, whoop-de-doo.

  I pulled up the image of the invitation, the one with the animal blood in the ink.

  “What?” said the sleepy voice at the office door.

  I turned. Lulu. “What what?”

  She snorted. “You said, ‘the ink.’”

  I hadn’t realized I’d spoken aloud. “Oh, this invitation to the gala.” Found beneath Dave’s body, a fact I’d never tell her.

  She appeared beside me, milk and PopTart in hand, face bruised and scalp bandaged, vivid reminders of yesterday’s near-miss.

  “You look—”

  “Awful.” She winced. “I’m glad prom’s not tomorrow.”

  “I was going to say ‘okay,’ but that would’ve been a lie.” I smiled. “Good thing my prom isn’t tomorrow, either. Pull up a chair.”

  As she did, she said, “Your eyes are scary.”

  “Boo!”

  She laughed as she leaned toward the screen and took a giant bite of PopTart. Then, her face flushed bright pink.

  “Lulu?”

  Tears tracked down her face, and she made little mewls. I ran a hand down her arm. “Hon?”

  The creak of a floorboard, and Larrimer emerged from the hall, barefoot, in jeans and no shirt, drying his hair with a towel. Muscles carved his torso, his arms, flexed as he moved them. I wanted those arms around me, wanted another kiss, just wanted.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, his voice rough with sleep.

  I shook my head. No clue.

  Lulu’s tears continued, and I held her tight while Larrimer stood by, looking awkward.

  The girl abruptly straightened. “What am I, a baby?”

  “No, you’re not,” I said. “Hon, what is it?”

  “Nothing.” She jerked out of the seat and turned away.

  I snagged her hand. “Lulu, it’s something.”

  “What?” she snipped.

  “Don’t—”

  “I wasn’t flouncing,” she tossed over her shoulder.

  Teen hormones were a bitch. “What’s wrong, dammit?”

  She sucked in a jittery breath. “I saw what was on your computer. I saw. That’s my dad’s… That’s my dad’s writing.”

  It took me a minute. “Dave was a calligrapher?”

  She nodded, sniffled, then tossed her head. “Just ‘cause he ran the Feed and Seed didn’t mean he didn’t do other stuff.”

  “I know that, Lu.”

  She turned her head away. “But he was secretive, Daddy, about some stuff, like his Guardian—” She slapped a hand over her mouth.

  She knew about Guardians. She knew stuff, dammit. “Did his calligraphy relate to—?”

  “No!” she said. “But he made good money doing it.”

  “Okay.” I nudged the chair. “Why don’t you sit back down? Look at this. Do you recall seeing him write it?”

  She tilted her head. “Maybe.”

  I looked at Larrimer, who quirked a brow.

  I knew what he was thinking. Animal blood. Confirmation of Dave’s complicity.

  Lulu’s face had frozen into stubborn mode. I wanted to hug her or strangle her. “You’re a good kid, Lulu.”

  She frowned. “What’s that ever gotten me?”

  “Lots. Is this what you’ve been hiding? That your dad was a calligrapher?”

  “Not exactly. Part of it.” She stroked Gracie. “Daddy was gifted. He did a ton of fancy invitations and stuff. He used a different name and everything. A secret post office box.” She brightened. “He liked it a lot. But then these men came to the store and, well, it wasn’t ever the same. After that, he’d get, I don’t know, dark when he got out his calligraphy case. And he stopped talking about it, the styles and stuff. It became more. He said it had to be our secret.” She jumped up. “And you ruined it!”

  Don’t explode. Do. Not. Explode. I stood, too. In for a penny, in for a gazillion pounds.

  “Is this how your dad found out about the animal trafficking?” I stood, eyeball to eyeball with Lulu.

  Her eyes widened. “I promised I’d never say anything about that to anyone.”

  “Tell me about the men who came to the store, please.”

  “I don’t know!” she shrilled. “I was there, but in the office. Daddy shut the door.”

  “Do you suspect his calligraphy has something to do with his death?”

  She hunched, crossed her arms over her breasts, something I hated.

  “Lulu.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Why have you been hiding this?”

  “Because it’s none of your business. He said never to talk about the calligraphy or the animals to anyone, including you. That he was investigating some bad people, and it would be dangerous if anyone knew.”

  The breath I drew was deep and long. “I thought you trusted me.”

  “I don’t want to talk about this anymore.” She swung away.

  I put a hand on her shoulder. “Lulu, you said you wanted to help. We’re trying to find the people who are doing these things, who killed your dad. Our animals. We need to know.”

  “I…”

  “Leave the girl alone!” Bernadette swept into the room, an avenging angel.

  “We need her help.” I tried to grab those flashing hazel eyes.

  Lulu flung herself into old woman’s open arms.

  “Ça va, Lulu.” Bernadette speared me with “the look.” “You always need someone’s help.”

  Anger pushed me out the door, out the house, out the friggin’…

  When I entered Nott’s stall, I braced my back against the wall and exhaled a long, slow breath… and got treated to an affectionate head butt.

  Nott’s wuffle when I scratched the sweet spot behind her ears eased me.

  So. Why? Why did Bernadette pick at me like that? She’d say I needed more calluses. Except, I already had more than two handfuls.

  “Clea?”

  The voice, honey and granite. Larrimer. He’d seen it all. Bernadette’s jab, my reaction.

  I got it together and stood. “Yeah?”

  Larrimer, arms and legs crossed, eyes sleepy, leaned against the stall door, all giftwrapped like a pretty package in that damned shield of calm.

  Those eyes changed, drilled into me deep, deeper than anyone’s since Tommy’s. So deep, down to my soul. How could he find that place in me?

  He clicked open the stall door.

  I gave him my back. “What’s up?”

  Rough arms entwined my waist and pulled me tight against his chest. Hot breath on my ear, then a whisper. “It wasn’t a mistake.”

  He turned me, bent his head, and kissed my neck, melting me, warming me, his lips a trail of fire on my throat, my chin, my cheeks. I to
uched his waist, felt the hard muscle beneath his chamois shirt, ran my hands up his chest, around his shoulders. Held on tight.

  “Why now?” I whispered.

  “Because I must. Because you’re hurting. Because it’s you. Only you.”

  He kissed me then, so different from yesterday’s kiss, his lips soft, then iron hard, his tongue probing, hands in my hair, pressing me to him. Those callused scarred hands cupping my head, his tongue hungry. Mine was, too, as I answered his kiss.

  That song, so faint, soon drowned by the assault on my senses.

  His hands slid to my ass, pressing me closer, against his hard cock, and I burned, wet and hot, and I wanted that hand sliding down to my crotch, his fingers touching me there, pressing me, pumping me, inside me.

  I drowned in the pleasure of his tongue and lips, his body mashed against mine.

  He bent me to him, and one hand moved slowly, way too slowly, to caress my shoulders, an aching breast, my hips. Touch me, touch me there. Him, iron-hard against his jeans, against me, and I stuttered in a breath.

  He released me, backed away, eyes hot and angry, so angry, raked a hand through his hair, shook his head back-and-forth.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  He barked a laugh. “Too much.” And he turned and loped out of the barn.

  I grasped the stall door for balance, crazy with need and disappointment. I smoothed a finger across my lips, swollen and warm and ripe, moved my hand lower.

  Why had he stopped? What was too much?

  Twenty minutes later, wind bit my cheeks, and I hustled toward the house. I focused on Lulu. She had so much to tell us, but she was afraid. She’d promised her dad. But Dave was gone.

  Maybe she’d talk to Bernadette. A part of me was glad Bernadette had assumed the role of protector. But a part was jealous, too. Shame on me.

  Larrimer was waiting when I walked through the mudroom door, arms folded, face closed and tight and purposeful.

  “Where do you think they went?” he asked in a clipped, demanding tone.

  My breasts ached, and the juncture of my thighs. “What?”

  He pointed out the window. Bernadette’s Jeep was gone.

  “Was there a note?” I frowned

  He rubbed a hand across his chin. “No. I called Jason. Got voicemail.”