Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  Now was the perfect moment for the fireflies. Perfect.

  I held my right hand up, palm facing the back double doors, thumb out, and fireflied.

  Not even a dribble.

  He’d seen them, though. They were real, and they scared the hell out of him. So why couldn’t I do it?

  Okay, Larrimer knew I was missing. And maybe this wasn’t all bad. Maybe I was off to meet Master HooHa, and I’d learn what the hell was going on and find Lulu. Except I’d most likely be chopped chuck. Oh, bad image.

  Burrr. Maybe I’d just freeze to death in the damned truck.

  There was a way out of here. I just hadn’t found it yet.

  Think. Think. I inched close to the double doors and pushed down the inner handle. No movement. Locked from the outside. I slid my knife from its sheath and pushed the tip against the thin gap between the doors. Metal scraped against the tip. The overlap. Not a chance.

  I stood, swayed, then crawled around the inside of the box. As I’d guessed, it was simply that, a metal box. Or a prison.

  I punched the wall and slid onto my bum. I’d better speed up this big escape, or we’d arrive, and I’d be mincemeat.

  Why did I keep thinking in food metaphors?

  Since I believed the fireflies were real and powerful, why did they never appear when I just asked, summoned, whatever? What did I know. They were somehow connected to the pressure in my head, except if I replayed the times I’d created them, more than summoning was at work.

  Forcing myself, I relived the UPS accident, which, given the revelation of Todd as a shit, wasn’t an accident at all.

  Running down the driveway hill, Lulu helping the boy, me trying to reach her, but so far away and—voila. Then the horror at the Adept’s Den and the thought of eating, consuming tiger. Now, a man hitting me, touching me, about to rape me.

  The truck wobbled, downshifting, grinding, a right turn, slow, then picking up speed again.

  I played the movie of those three events over and over.

  Panic. Each time I’d fireflied, I’d been compelled by panic.

  And a memory. Larrimer and I had flown out the window of Dave’s home. It was murky, but someone, Larrimer, he’d held my wrists, and I’d felt such panic, and the swirls of fireflies. That voice in my head, too. I’d heard it then.

  Panic had to be the trigger.

  Well, crap. Here I sat, anxious, fearful, upset. But I wasn’t panicked.

  That was the key.

  I’d recreate it.

  I focused, reached out, and found a meditative state. I pictured racing down the driveway, seeing the UPS truck slide, the bus, the traffic. Reliving it. Feeling it. Move, Lulu! Move! My breathing sped up, sweat formed in my palms, a pulse in my head.

  Beautiful fireflies swirled in my right palm, a mini-cosmos. And the scent, that divine scent.

  I lifted my hand, thumb out, focused on the rear doors. My head throbbed lightly.

  The firefly swirl never budged.

  We thudded to a stop, and I braced so as not to slide. If we’d arrived. Shit.

  I scrambled to a corner into a crouch, pulled my knife from my boot. When Blondie2 opened the doors, I’d jump.

  And I almost fell on my ass when the gears ground and we started up again.

  Not there yet. I sighed, sat back down, leaned against the side of the truck.

  Swirling in my palm wasn’t enough. The fireflies had to project outward, like the stream of a comet.

  What was wrong with my last effort? Maybe I hadn’t evoked enough emotion. Those events were over. Lulu was safe. Well, she had been then. I had to feel the panic.

  Oh, this was nuts.

  A voice, my own inner devil, whispered The Dream. I shut it down. I didn’t want to do that, relive that, go there.

  Which was why it was perfect.

  I placed my hands beside me on the floor. My breathing sped and terror glided up my spine. I closed my lids and sank deep, deeper, inside The Dream.

  The helicopter…

  No…

  YES, dammit…

  Tommy’s laugh… blades thud-thud-thudding… the canyon… the tail plunges down and down and down.

  A jagged boulder… stabbing metal.

  Exploding shards…

  I scream.

  I scream and scream and…

  I raised my hand, dazzled by pain and pleasure, leaking tears and fear, swathed in cedar, as a river of fireflies formed and knit into the arrow pattern that glowed. Arrows streamed from my palm, and I aimed my hand at the double doors.

  We hit a bump, swerved hard, and I flew, and the white-gold stream swiveled forward, right at the driver’s cabin.

  Burning metal, a scream, and I fisted my hand to stop them.

  Except they kept coming.

  The truck careened, and I was flung in the air.

  And the stream changed direction and encircled me and flew ‘round and ‘round as the world topsy-turvied and thundered, with me cradled inside a cocoon of light.

  A boom, and I sensed movement around me, eve inside the twirling, whirling light.

  The thunder stopped with a final groan, a creak.

  I’m cushioned in my bright golden cocoon. How to get out? A niggle of fear. Now what?

  I again curled my hand into a fist and thought, Stop!

  The cocoon vanished, and I dropped onto the metal floor of the box. Ouch.

  Well, swell, easy enough to stop now I knew what to do.

  I hurt, and a wildfire of exhaustion swept me away.

  Metal beneath me. Hard. Unbending. I had to rise, to move, took a deep breath, another. Just a few more minutes. My Celtic spiral glowed, and faded.

  My eyes adjusted. I wasn’t on the floor of the box, but on its side. The whole truck lay on its side. There was watery light, too. It seeped in from the front of the box, where my fireflies had ripped through the metal and into the cab, a frisbee-sized hole. Which was upsetting, given I was definitely larger than a frisbee.

  I crawled toward the cab, stood, and peered through the hole. The dome light was on, and my stomach flip-flopped. Blondie2’s head was a bolognese of blood, brains, and bone above his stump of a neck.

  I slid onto my ass. I’d done that with things that came out of my hand. I’d done it. Stopped the bastard from kidnapping me. Launched the fireflies with intention for the first time.

  Now what was I supposed to feel—happy or horrified?

  Except I was still stuck in a metal box with no way out. I was spent, I couldn’t crawl an inch further, and I somehow knew I couldn’t call again on the fireflies anytime soon.

  For endless minutes, I sat in the metal box. Maybe if I rested long enough, I could get the fireflies back. Maybe.

  A gunshot blasted the back of the truck. I skittered forward, knife at the ready.

  One of the doors swung open.

  “Clea?”

  “Larrimer!”

  “Don’t move!” he said, voice a granite command.

  A flashlight beamed into the truck, and an arm appeared.

  “Ease into my arm,” he said. “On your belly.”

  “I don’t…?”

  “Come.” He waggled his fingers toward me. “Come and get me. Slow and easy.”

  I inched toward the muscled arm and touched his fingers with mine. He was warm and alive. Oh sweet gods! I gripped his hand.

  “Let go for a minute,” he said, then slid his arm around my waist. He lifted me from the box and curled me into him.

  He pulled me tight. “Put your arms around my neck, legs around my hips, and don’t let go.”

  I did as asked, face smooshed to his chest, and hung on. He released me, and I felt him pull on a rope, muscles straining as he sidestepped us away from the truck. Clear, arm over arm, he climbed us higher and higher. Then he lifted us up and over a barrier and stood. His breathing harsh in my ear, I dropped my legs to the ground and he octopussed around me.

  I drank him in, inhaling his sweat, his fear, unsure what had
just happened. And we stayed that way for a long moment, until he broke us apart.

  “Look.” He pointed.

  The full moon was round and bright when I peered over the guardrail, down the precipice. Dots of light twinkled across the valley far, far below. Fairy lights.

  The truck lay on its side, the box where I’d been imprisoned facing the drop, its one wheel caught on a boulder. If I’d managed to open those doors, I would have slid out and plummeted into space, falling until the earth broke me.

  “Shit,” I said.

  “Yeah.” He moved away, freeing the nylon rope from his waist. The rope was mine, the one I used to fasten my kayak onto Fern’s roof.

  “I don’t feel so good,” I said.

  “You look worse.” Larrimer at his most pragmatic.

  “Nice.” I slipped my hands around him and stroked his back. I couldn’t help it.

  “Like I said, incapable of staying out of trouble.” He bent his head and nuzzled my neck, and in a husky voice said, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

  We sat in Fern, the heat cranked on high.

  “What happened to the guy?” Larrimer said. “You shoot him?”

  I shook my head. He’d seen them once, but how to tell a rational, concrete sort of guy that I’d taken out Blondie2 with fireflies coming out of my hand? “Not exactly.”

  Sirens blasted the air. In the rearview mirror, a firetruck barreled toward us.

  “I’m not up for this,” I said.

  “Me, neither.”

  He put the truck in drive and we peeled away, more than happy to let Balfour make excuses for why we’d left the scene. Wasn’t much, but the Old Man had to be good for something.

  On the way home, I thought of Bernadette. “It would be good to stop by and see her.”

  A twitch of Larrimer’s lips. “You have no idea what you look like, do you?”

  I pulled down the shade flap and slid back the vinyl hiding the mirror. On went the light, and I scared myself. I closed the flap and crossed my arms. “Maybe after dinner.”

  By the time we pulled into the dooryard, my teeth chattered, and I couldn’t seem to stop shaking. Dammit. The door barely budged when I pushed against it. Dumb thing.

  And Larrimer was there. He lifted me out, kicked shut the door.

  “I don’t need—”

  “Yeah, you do.”

  “I have to shower.”

  “Understood.”

  Amidst an exuberance of dogs, he carried me upstairs and into the main bathroom. He set me down on the floor, on the fluffy white bath rug, and began to divest me of clothes.

  “Larrimer, don’t.” I pushed at him with the muscles of an infant.

  “Let me.”

  That honeyed-granite voice crumbled my will. With exquisite care, he unpinned my black mess of a wig and tossed it aside. He lifted off my vest and undid my empty shoulder holster.

  He drew off my boots, first the left, then the right, went to unbutton my pants, paused—I wouldn’t look at him, couldn’t—and unzipped them. I knew he’d see the bruises. Big ones.

  Blondie’s hands groping. I stiffened.

  “Hey,” he said, all gentle and calm.

  Pants gone, turtleneck off. Ugly black-and-blues mottled my body. He stood to turn on the shower, and I just sat there, fingers plucking the flokati rug. Water and steam began to fill the room.

  This was not how I pictured the first time I got naked with him.

  He moved to unhook my bra.

  I pushed his hand away. “I can—”

  “Let me.”

  “All right.”

  He slipped off my panties, lifted me, and sat me in the tub. The pounding spray felt good. I’m alive. I’m alive. And Blondie2 is dead. Dead. Dead. Dead.

  But now I’d killed two people. Put a period on two lives, two humans I’d erased from the earth.

  I seized up, pulled my knees to my chin, wouldn’t look at him.

  “Ssshh.”

  Larrimer shampooed my hair, laved my face, my arms, all of me, his callused hands gentle, so gentle, and I steadied and watched that hard, scarred face for a long while until I finally relaxed and just felt the blessing of it, a soothing balm. No one had ever taken as much care with me. No one.

  He rinsed me with just as much deliberation. My body, my hair, my breasts, my left arm, my right.

  “What’s that?” He held my right hand.

  I knew what he was staring at. The black spiral remained. “My tattoo.”

  “Pretty.” He kissed my wrist and set it free.

  He stood beside my bed, looking down, dripping water and oozing that familiar fortitude I’d come to appreciate.

  “Why don’t you try and sleep,” he said.

  I wasn’t eager for the dreams, for the feel of Blondie2’s hands on me again.

  He crouched down on his haunches. “Mind if I join you?”

  His understanding, it broke me. “That would be nice.”

  He stripped, rubbed some of the towels over his body, and climbed onto the other side of the bed. He curled around me, so I was enveloped in him, his warmth, his scent, his calm. He drew the covers over us.

  “I’m tired, James.”

  He stroked my wild, curly hair. “You’re a warrior. Remember that. Now sleep, Clea.”

  And I did.

  hen I awoke, it was after nine that night, and Larrimer was gone from my bed. I forced myself to do the postures of an abbreviated Sun Salutation. Everything, and I mean everything hurt. But the feel of his hands surrounding me, I remembered that, too, and tucked it away in a safe, warm place.

  I eased sweats over a body I’d slathered in Bag Balm and walked downstairs to find Larrimer setting two plates at the kitchen table.

  “The animals?” If I moved too fast, I’d shatter.

  “Fed and watered.”

  “The brouhaha at the cliff?”

  “Taken care of by that ever-efficient prick Balfour, along with the headless corpse.”

  He didn’t know. “My kidnapper was Blondie. Well, his twin.”

  “Shit.”

  “He was taking me to The Master. Where’s Ronan?”

  “Practice. I made him some burgers.”

  “That was nice.”

  “We need to talk.”

  “About…?”

  He gave me a hard stare.

  “All right. But after dinner.”

  “Deal.” He held out my chair, and I chuckled. “Thanks. I know this chivalry won’t last.”

  His smile flowed to his eyes.

  It felt almost normal, if I could forget the feel Blondie2’s hands on me and golden glow of fireflies that decapitated a man.

  Vegetarian chili, baby greens salad with avocado, and homemade bread from the market. Except I played with my food, more than ate it.

  “Eat,” he said, the word dark with command.

  “There went the chivalry.” But I swiped a spoonful of chili into my mouth, did it again, and suddenly the chili, the salad, were gone.

  After dinner, my ribs screamed when I reached into the tall cabinet for a bar of chocolate. I slid the milk from the fridge, got down the sugar, vanilla extract, and cocoa powder, and cursed because I had nothing for whipped cream.

  “What are you doing?” He sounded annoyed.

  I turned on the front burner, bent down for a small pot.

  He loomed, yes, loomed behind me.

  “I want to make us a treat,” I said. “I’ll be in, in a sec.”

  He cursed, but I felt him leave.

  In minutes, I’d prepared two mugs of hot chocolate. I lifted them, and my arm tremored. Cocoa sloshed onto my hand, burned. I steadied myself, licked off the cocoa, and carried them into the living room.

  I handed him his mug, set mine on the table beside the red chair, and eased into the seat.

  “No one’s made me cocoa in a long time,” he said.

  Our companionable silence unnerved me.

  I didn’t want to do this. Didn’t
want to explain or tell him about the fireflies. I just wanted to sit and be silent for a while, pretending Lulu and Bernadette were upstairs and Ronan was coming up the drive.

  A vroom, and then a screech in the dooryard. The dogs’ barking commenced.

  Instantly, Larrimer bristled with guns. He stood with his back to the doorway, peering into the mudroom entrance, weapons up. I retrieved my small Glock and knife and crouched behind the red chair, which gave me a good sightline to the mudroom door.

  A curse, the knob turned, and the door flew open.

  “This place is a damned hellhole.”

  Bob?

  Gun at my side, I stood. Larrimer hadn’t moved.

  Bob stomped his feet, then strode into the living room. Larrimer lowered his guns, stepped away from the wall.

  Balfour twirled on him. “What the…” His wave of disgust rolled across the room. “Oh, it’s you.”

  “In the flesh,” Larrimer holstered his weapons.

  “Yeah, right.” Bob sniggered.

  Cruel, and so unlike the old Bob. I laid my gun beside my mug.

  While the dogs bounced around Bob—a new toy!—he shrugged off his FBI jacket and slung it onto the back of a dining chair. He patted his suit, as if he could erase the wrinkles. A stain marked one knee. I’d never seen him so unkempt. It was almost shocking.

  Tension bloomed, with high notes of crazy and low ones of testosterone. As I got Bob a Scotch on the rocks, I spied him headed for the red chair.

  “That’s her chair,” Larrimer said, his tone a whiplash. “Take the couch.” Cocoa in hand, he thumped into the chair opposite.

  “Fuck you,” Bob said, but took the couch.

  I handed Bob his drink and sat in my chair, their hatred for one another an acrid taste on my tongue. The dogs sensed it, too, pacing like confused chickens.

  “Settle,” I said, and they curled by the woodstove.

  I picked up my knitting, felt the soothing presence of Loki and Lofn. Alvarise. I imagined filleting his flesh off…

  “Clea?” Larrimer said.

  “Uh, sorry.” Knit, purl, knit, purl. Filleting him very, very slowly. “What are you doing here, Bob? Come to put me back on active duty?”

  He took a hit of Scotch. “What the hell has been going on here today?”

  “This and that,” I said lightly.