Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  I quivered, a whisper of breath. What I’d heard, what I’d seen.

  One by one, I lifted my fingers from the box. I fisted my hands.

  The luminous runes and symbols faded, and with a snap, the box again metamorphosed into a girl’s small plastic jewel case.

  Chest heaving, I gasped for breath. I laughed. What a frigging trip. The Power of Worlds, of those souls who’d gifted a part of themselves to the Chest, its allure, indisputable.

  But not for me.

  If I was The Key, I should start acting like it.

  The jewelry case would never fit in Anouk’s black box, but of late, I’d seen stranger stuff. I touched the black box and a hinged lid sprang open. I lifted the chest using a soft pillowcase so I didn’t touch the thing, and placed it inside the black box. Of course, it fit. The lid snicked shut. Then I wrapped the box inside the pillowcase.

  Anouk said Tommy was alive. He’d gut me once he realized he’d been fooled.

  Downstairs, I slipped the Chest into my backpack, zipped it, and slung it over my shoulder, thankful that Ronan and Lulu were still in the barn. I retrieved my gun from the floor, checked it, took my purse and my keys. I tucked calico kitten, the real one, into her travel carrier. Last, I slipped the leashes into my jacket pocket and called the dogs.

  I paused, looked around. Bernadette’s kitchen, the living room with its vaulted ceiling, the paintings, the ugly sofa. The broken red chair. This was it. I was really leaving.

  I dowsed the farmhouse lights and departed, perhaps forever, the only home I’d ever known. I didn’t look back.

  The minivan stood ready. I pulled open the side door, and Mutt and Jeff jumped in. I lifted Grace onto the backseat. “Stay.”

  “Lulu! Ronan!”

  I put kitty’s carrier on the backseat floor and received an indignant meow for my trouble.

  The kids appeared, shut the barn doors, and ran to the van.

  Ronan took shotgun, and I expected Grace to sidle onto his lap from the back. Instead, she stayed in place, obeyed. Shocking. Lulu slid in back with the dogs, and I handed her my backpack. “Take good care of that, kiddo.”

  We buckled up. Here goes.

  A set of headlamps turned into the driveway. No. No. NO.

  We were leaving. Godsdammit. We would not be trapped.

  “Stay in the car, kids.” I slid out of the van and crouched by the driver’s side door in the darkness. My Glock was at my hip, my knife in my boot, Bernadette’s shotgun in my arms. I waited.

  Could I really do this? Shoot up the powers-that-be?

  Yeah, I could, but what I really wanted was to firefly. I hoped, prayed, that they would respond.

  I would wait until the vehicle crested the drive, just over the hump, to where I could see it. I counted on whoever was inside not shooting me. What use was a dead lab rat?

  I faced my right palm toward the driveway’s top, and as they hit it, I blasted them.

  Not one firefly flew.

  “Fuck!” I raised the shotgun to my shoulder.

  Moonlight shined across the Suburban. Bob sat in the driver’s seat. Bastard. Beside him, that bitch, Taka.

  They parked perpendicular to the drive, blocking our exit, and all faces turned toward the minivan. I’d swear Taka smiled.

  How could I shoot these people?

  How could we otherwise escape?

  If I blew out the tires, I’d have no way to get our minivan past the Suburban. And I would not, dammit, run off on foot into the night. Lulu, Ronan, the critters, our stuff. Impossible.

  Think, think.

  I could ram it. Except the minivan was no Suburban. What the hell. Worth a try. I slipped back into the driver’s seat.

  A shape detached from the blackness of the barn. Tall and large, with powerful shoulders. It dressed like the night and wore a black ski mask. It glided onto the driveway toward the rear of the Suburban. The passengers didn’t turn, didn’t see the figure who moved swifter than moonlight.

  It rammed the back of the Suburban. The truck lurched forward.

  Shouts, a scream, but not fast enough. Shoulder pressed to the truck, the figure pushed the Suburban forward. The passengers scrambled, tried to escape. But the doors didn’t open, the glass spidered, but didn’t break.

  The figure muscled the vehicle across the remnants of snow and shoved it over the hill. The Suburban slid out of view.

  The sounds of metal and screams came from below.

  It all happened so fast.

  And the black figure was there, blocking our way.

  One arm flung to the side, the other at its waist, it bowed, saluting us like a courtier of old.

  I powered down the window and cried out, “Come with us!”

  He tore off the ski mask and trotted to the van.

  “James,” I said. “Come.”

  He stood by my open window. His body was stiff, tight, as if to confine all the passion he couldn’t, wouldn’t express. The moon shined. His eyes glittered. But he was serious. So serious.

  Those eyes trap me.

  I trap his back.

  He says nothing.

  I have no words, except…

  “Please come.” I cupped his cheek.

  A slow grin, all white teeth and warmth. He opened his shields to our melodic harmony, so beautiful tears dampened my eyes. Then he dipped his head and kissed me. Electric fire. Bliss.

  After long moments, he released me. “I’ve got things to clean up. I’ll find you, Clea. I’ll always find you. Promise.”

  A blur. Gone.

  But he’d promised.

  I stared into the starry night—wished I could see the future—took a deep breath and gunned the minivan.

  I picked a tune on my favorite playlist. Phantom Planet’s “California,” the Tchad Blake Mix.

  “From the OC.” Lulu grinned.

  I forgave her for that. I loved the song, with its indie-rock oomph woven with those chillaxed vibes. We’re coming, California. Watch out.

  We all sang—Lulu, her luminous voice giving me chills, me, and Ronan, too, a fine bass. Grace howled along.

  We played many tunes that day, and in the days to come. And we sang to keep our spirits up, because, boy, we all knew how bad things sucked, and because we were glad to be alive, together.

  We had our critters. Some of them.

  I learned the “errands” were Ronan’s idea. He’d traded our license plates for a junker’s with a For Sale sign on it, parked by the side of a dirt road. Clever boy. That first day, we stopped in Ohio. We took the minivan to a one-day paint shop, and turned the thing from white to dark gray-blue. The place had a drying booth, and so in another day, we were gone.

  Somewhere in Indiana, I realized we were becoming a family, the bonds still new, tentative, but evolving, deepening. A second chance for me. Dave’s final gift had been his best.

  We zoomed our way to Iowa, hoping the Bad Guys assumed we’d take the southerly route for the warmer weather. We drove a lot of back roads, and relaxed as much as possible, playing tunes, talking, snoozing, and eating exotic sausages and fake Chinese.

  We named our minivan Janis. Hell yeah, Joplin rocked.

  L.A. was our destination. A city with a population three times that of New Hampshire stood a good chance of hiding us. But that wasn’t the real reason. A compulsion, one I didn’t question, tugged me to L.A.

  Maybe it was one of the chests. Or maybe not. I didn’t think about that too deeply.

  At times, I wished none of this had ever happened, that I was back at Sparrow Farm with Bernadette and my warm memories of Tommy.

  At others, this new world excited me, with its shapeshifters and mages, Fae and—shit—vampires. I was a warrior, a badass, The Key.

  And always, that song in my soul, James. I ached for him, wished he was with us. He said he’d find me. Promised. He’d better do just that.

  The kids and I had stepped into a shitstorm without even knowing it.

  We’d been guided
and prodded and herded like cows. All the while, I’d been clueless.

  I was so over “clueless.” I’d learn everything I could about the chests and magic and species and deadly enemies who hungered for power.

  One thing I knew. I’d master my fireflies better than Annie Oakley shot her Winchester, and I’d take care of my own. I was done with being a victim. And they’d all better frigging watch out.

  he glowing Celtic spiral tattooed on my wrist hurt like a bitch. It pulsed, too. Maybe this time. Maybe…

  Plop. Plop. Plop. Dammit to hell. Blood dripped from my nose to plop into the brownie mix. That sucked. My magic sucked. Everything sucked.

  All I’d wanted to do was light the burner with my fireflies. Easy peasy, right?

  I’d moved a bus with my magic. Beheaded a rapist with my magic. Defeated a mage with my magic.

  But for six friggin’ months, I couldn’t do shit with my magic.

  That final battle with Tommy… I’d tapped out my magic!

  I tossed the brownie pan into the sink. It shattered.

  Without my magic, how was I supposed to find the friggin’ Chest of Stone?

  My fingers curled against the counter. Breathe. Think.

  I slumped at the kitchen table. My headache spiked. I pulled off the band wrapping my dreads, curled a finger around one and twirled. Nothing was normal anymore, not even my dreadlocks, which were a shiny blonde that glistened so brightly, strangers commented. So not helpful to my staying under The Union’s radar objective.

  Dammitall, I wasn’t giving up on my magic. I would not give up.

  I entered my bedroom, pulled by the forbidden. My bare feet padded across the cool wood, the lush area rug, until I stood beside my bed before a painting. Danger and desire threaded through me, tendrils that caressed me like smoky wisps.

  The Chest of Bone.

  A scent tickled me, rosemary and sage.

  I lifted the painting that covered the hidden safe and pressed my palm to the safe’s door keyed only to my print. The small door whooshed open. There it was, the beautiful ebony box. Deep in my bones, I felt what lay inside the box. When I drew it out, the box warmed to my touch.

  On the edge of the bed, I set the plain rectangular box on my lap. So smooth, so lush, glazed by the moonlight streaming in from the window.

  The box had no lid, no opening. But that was a lie. I was The Key. No other could open the box. None. Not even a Guardian. I touched the top, and the lid yawned like an awakening lotus flower.

  There, inside the box—the Chest of Bone. Its curved lid beckoned me. Did I dare?

  I’d first glimpsed it as a teen’s plastic jewel box, complete with twirling ballerina, not the oval bone coffer sitting before me. I bit my lip. Odd, semi-sentient thing. The five chests changed to suit their environment. Incredible pain and death could have been avoided if I’d only first touched the jewelry box with my flesh. Instead, I’d been wearing gloves, and the chest hadn’t responded. Seven months ago? It felt like centuries.

  Each of the five chests contained universes, as well as slivers of souls. Each ordered the magic of a particular species, the one before me belonging to the mages, like me. Each only responded to The Key. How ironic, how amusing, how absurd.

  My dark mood deepened.

  When I reunited the five chests with their accompanying guardians, the magic retwining with the mundane world would synchronize, harmonize, become one, as it once was millennia ago.

  Now? The replaiting was chaos—destroyed Sedona and St. Petersburg, created the flower fields in Australia, vanished the Golden Eagles. How many other events hadn’t reached my ears?

  As The Key, I mattered, a fact I found ridiculous. Because of that, The Union, my brother, others sought to possess me, control me.

  But if I opened the Chest of Bone, I would be in control.

  Wielding its power, I would find the Chest of Sone. The chest would solve all my problems with Lulu and Ronan, too. I would use it to find my lost lover, James Larrimer. We’d be a family, a happy one.

  Except the chest wasn’t mine. I wasn’t to touch it, just keep it safe. It was a terrible and dangerous thing. Anouk said it could destroy me, but…

  I set the box on the bed, brushed my fingers across the rich velvet lining. The chest’s lid glowed warm and welcoming. It knew me. Although I hadn’t touched it, pins and needles feathered up my fingers.

  Outside its protective container, it would assume a new form. Camouflage. I could hide it on my dresser or in a drawer. Use it at will.

  Its ancient patina glowed. It throbbed like a human heart.

  My index finger atremble, I touched the chest’s lid. A thrill rolled through me. Golden runes slid across its lid and down its sides, their swooping letters, Tolkienesque, interspersed with The Orobus, The Dragon, The Eye. When the symbols covered the entire box, they stilled.

  The chest hummed, the sound oscillating inside me, a half-remembered melody, beautiful and inscrutable.

  All I had to do was lift the lid, and the cosmos would be mine.

  Calm caressed my shoulders, my back, my mind. Delicious melodies wove inside me and coiled toward my pool of magic.

  Now. Do it now!

  I slid my fingers inside the ebony box to free the Chest of Bone.

  “Fuck you, asswipe!” screamed my ward, Lulu. “Kids call me Bloodsuckerhead.”

  “That’s a cool vamp!” Ronan shouted back.

  No. Stop fighting. My fingers crept further inside the box.

  “You’re not my boyfriend anymore!” she hollered back.

  “News to me!” he said.

  No. I savored the brush of cool velvet, the warmth of the chest.

  “They call me Agent Orange, too.” A shriek.

  “Your hair’s copper, a gorgeous shade.”

  Tingles skating up my hands. Remembered power.

  “And Burning Bush!”

  “Don’t, Lulu!” Ronan hollered.

  “Bite me!” Another scream. “Help!”

  I snapped back to the now, stared at my hands, which were cupped around the chest.

  Shit. Was I crazy? What had I been thinking?

  I jerked my hands away, closed the box, shoved it into the safe. I slammed shut the door and raced from the room. “Lulu! Ronan!”

  The bathroom door was open, cold light splashing into the hall. I stepped inside. Half of Lulu’s luxuriant hair pooled on the floor like a bloody stain as she struggled with Ronan, the scissors way too close to his chest.

  “Stop!” I said at her bathroom entrance. “Stop it now!”

  They froze, grappling statues.

  Lulu, the high school girl, my mentor’s daughter—a girl I loved with my whole heart. Ronan, the huge orphaned boy we “adopted” back in New Hampshire, now a college student. Both oozed pain and sorrow, both of their lives as off-kilter as mine.

  “Oh, Lulu,” I said.

  Her freckled face whitened with anger. “I cut it, all right. I cut it, and I’m gonna finish cutting it until it’s gone, gone, gone.”

  I lay in bed, darkness cradling me, so hot I sipped my bourbon on the rocks, rather than neat.

  The bourbon was a palliative. Certainly not a cure for the emotions pinballing around inside me. Dave… Lulu’s dad, my beloved mentor, homicide victim, and former Guardian of the Chest of Bone. He would’ve said I’d experienced emotional overload, in that kind-firm way he’d possessed.

  Lulu and Roman, acting out, behaving as only teens could. Gods, how could Dave think I’d be a good guardian for his daughter?

  Right now, I was so screwed up I’d been drawn to again fall into the chest’s cosmos, to feel its magical infinity, to feed on the power of those souls who’d given themselves to strengthen it.

  I’d imagined it would fix all our ills. It wouldn’t. Of course it wouldn’t.

  No, only I could do that.

  Time to cancel the pity party and get my act in gear.

  What had awakened me? My bourbon glass sat empty on th
e bedside table. The lights were out, and at some point, I’d fallen asleep.

  I listened, eyes scratchy with exhaustion, and reached out with my empath senses.

  Someone. Some thing was in the living room. I tuned my emotional senses, tried to understand. Hunger. Animus.

  Grace slept at the end of the bed, her usual snores wuffling her cheeks. The thing hadn’t awakened her. Odd. My movement did just that, but I hushed her with a gesture, whispered her to stay.

  My hand found the throwing knife I kept between the mattress, then I padded to the closet, eased it open. With habitual movements, I geared up with my gun, several throwing knives, and my small Bowie. I brushed the katana James has gifted me. Not to self: learn to use katana.

  James. Where are you?

  Knife in my left hand, Glock in my right, I eased into the hall and again unfurled my empath senses.

  Shit. Whatever was downstairs wasn’t human, its emotional signature off-the-charts strange. It was in the living room, that much I knew, but not moving.

  Listening for me? Had it heard me? Damn.

  I stood still as ice, doffing my emo baggage, while donning that familiar, pre-battle calm.

  My bare feet schussed across the wood floor, down the hall toward the three steps that led to the living room. Faint moonlight from the picture window filtered through the stygian dark. I peered around the hall corner, felt a single bead of sweat trace its way down my temple.

  Took a cleansing breath.

  I slid around the corner, back pressed to the wall. Clear. I had a straight line to the living room’s three steps and moved forward.

  The closer I got, the more that “otherness” clung to my skin like mucous. What the hell?

  Ten steps, eight, three.

  The living room’s darkness yawned. A shape, cloaked in the room’s inky black, little more than a shadow, its overriding emotions ones of hunger, desire, death. Tall, maybe seven feet. Shit. Arms, yes, long ones, outstretched, ovoid head, long, long legs, but skinny.

  From a crack in the curtains, a moonlit beam brushed the creature’s head.