Unus (Stone Mage Saga Book 1)

by Raven Whitney

  Over the years of not being a morning person who had to wake before sunrise most days, I'd found the best strategy to convince your brain that it's time to wake up is to roll out of bed. Then, your subconscious is faced with one of two options: catch yourself or fall flat on your face. This morning— unfortunately for me— turned out to be the latter.

  “Ow,” I moaned, grateful that my head had mercifully landed on my arm instead of the hard floor.

  Lexie's muffled laughter leaked through her pillow. She yawned loudly and sat up to stare down at me on the floor. “What'd your head ever do to you to deserve such a beating? You're going to kill off all your brain cells at this rate.”

  “I'm almost afraid to open my eyes in case I see stars.” I may have wanted to be a blob on the floor, but I had to get moving or I'd be late in opening the shop. “But stars or no stars, I'll still beat you to the bathroom!” I jerked to my feet perhaps a little too quickly and bolted towards her en-suite. Behind me, I heard Lexie's feet hit the floor to race me there, but I had the head start being closer to the door.

  I made it there a mere second before she did, but that second was just enough for me to close the door in her face. I grinned victoriously as I heard her feet skid to a stop just in front of the solid wooden door.

  Lexie's bathroom was far less colorful than her bedroom and was more of a stylistic match to the rest of the bathrooms in the house with sterile-feeling white tiles covering the walls and floor and gilt brass pedestal sinks and mirrors. Against the far wall, there was the original solid marble bathtub and a slightly more modern unenclosed shower for convenience that had been installed only ten years ago. The toilet itself was the old-fashioned type with the overhead tank and was hidden behind a separate door.

  Mindful of Lexie's urgency, I quickly relieved myself and swapped places with her to get dressed. Just as Lexie does at my house, I have my own drawer in Lexie's dresser for my clothes. I selected a nice pair of jeans and a snuggly blue turtleneck. Realizing that I'd worn my house slippers here and didn't have a good pair of shoes to wear to work, I went to the closet and bummed a pair of simple, brown pumps from Lexie since we wore the same size shoes.

  Unfortunately for me, that was the only size we shared. I'd always envied her tall, willowy stature. But then, she'd always felt the same about my more average height and curvier figure. Such was the plight of being women: the grass was always greener on the other side of the fence.

  She came out of the bathroom a few minutes later, not a hair out of place and makeup artfully done. There were times when I envied the manageability of her stick-straight hair. Unlike my own brownish-auburn, lightly wavy hair, hers never seemed to develop all of the tiny tangles that mine did. I never wore makeup, either. I wish I could cite some self-empowering feminism as my reason, but truthfully, it always seemed like too much of an expensive and time-consuming habit to get hooked into.

  “I'll drive you to work,” she offered, but said more as a statement as she made her way to one of her closets. “I've got some paperwork to get done at the lawyer's office that I may as well do this morning. After I finish, I may come by and help out,” she added to silence any arguments I may have had over inconveniences. I wouldn't have said anything anyway. I learned a long time ago that it was useless to argue with her whenever she said something in that tone. I was just glad to not have to take the bus all the way to the coffee shop.

  Lexie selected a long sleeved burgundy sweater dress with mocha tights and tall, dark brown leather boots. Even though the resident members of the staff were sleeping upstairs, we were still quiet as we made for the kitchen to grab something to eat. Rosemarie didn't prepare breakfast until seven, so we had to improvise. Lexie put two bagels in the over-sized toaster and passed me a small tub of cream cheese.

  “Our asses don't need it, but I sure as hell want it,” she said as the bagels popped up. As we headed out into the bitingly cold, damp winter morning, I moaned in joy at the slightly crunchy, savory deliciousness.

  Thankfully, Lexie was lazy the last time she came home and left her car parked close to the front door rather than in the garage which was an unpleasantly far distance to trek when it was so cold.

  I liked Lexie's car. The best things about it were the seat warmers and heater that get toasty almost as soon as the engine turns over. Unlike my own car, which didn't have heated seats to toast your buns and had a finicky heater that usually decided to blow warm air right about the time I parked behind the shop.

  The brief, ten-minute drive past the empty beaches, stately mansions, country clubs, and high-end boutiques of central Newport passed in an amiable quiet as we scarfed our bagels until we came to my tiny shop. The Philter was started by my maternal grandparents when they immigrated here from Wales as a young, newlywed couple in search of the American Dream. After my grandfather passed away a few years ago, my grandmother handed over the reins to me and moved back to Wales to retire. It occupied a unit in a narrow, brick row-building done in the Tudor style with old, weathered wooden shingles and exposed cross-beams that gave it a quaint, home-town warmth.

  As I turned around to flip the Open/Closed sign, I heard a scuffling noise from inside. I instinctively yelped and whirled around to see Claire finishing with the morning preparations.

  “Oh my gosh! I wasn't expecting you here so early,” I gasped and laid my hand over my chest, relieved to see a friendly face. Claire was one of the sweetest, most generous human beings I'd ever known. In her mid-thirties, she was a petite woman with brown doe eyes and permanently disheveled, brunette hair that she frequently kept pulled back in a low ponytail. However, years of heavy drug use had taken their toll on her and her face was showing lines around the edges of her eyes and mouth that aged her beyond her years.

  Fifteen years ago, when my grandmother still ran the shop, she'd found Claire homeless, penniless, addicted to crack cocaine, and living under a bridge. Good Samaritan that she was, my grandmother had offered her a job and a place to live in the small, two-bedroom apartment upstairs. Under the supreme guilt-inflicting superpowers of a mama-bear Welshwoman, Claire had gotten clean and put her life back on track within a few years, becoming heavily involved with local homeless shelters and soup kitchens.

  Today, she displayed prominent bags under her bleary eyes and let out a weary, exhausted sigh. “I couldn't sleep. I had an argument with Sam last night, so I came here really early this morning.” That was odd. She and her husband rarely fought.

  “Oh no. What happened?”

  “Same old argument we've been having off and on for years. He wants kids and I don't think I'd be a good mom. Knowing me, I'd probably mess the poor things up for life.” She ran her hands over her disheveled ponytail and loaded a rack of freshly baked coffee cakes into the display case next to the counter that ran along the right side of the store.

  “Now that just isn't true! You ought to be nominated for sainthood,” I insisted as I pulled the chairs down from off their respective tables in the left-hand sitting and dining area.

  “That doesn't mean I'm fit for motherhood,” she scoffed with a self-depreciating half grin. A loud clattering noise sounded from behind me, nearly sending me out of my skin. I whipped around to see that Claire had dropped a tray of pastries on the floor.

  “Flying fudge monkeys!” she cried out, her voice cracking as though she were on the verge of tears. She dropped to the floor and began to snatch up the ones that fell into the big pocket of her apron.

  I rushed over and helped her pick them up. “Consider all of the good, normal people in this world who had terrible childhoods. You are so much better than their parents and would make a great mother— you already even curse like one.”

  Claire laughed a little and took the dropped pastries back into the kitchen.

  I reorganized the remaining ones and placed the tray on the counter so I'd remember to replace the dropped ones before opening. “Why don't you take the rest of the day off? You look like you're about to fall ove
r. But before you do any driving, go take a nap upstairs.” I smiled and tossed her my keys when she emerged from the back. She reached her hands up to catch them, but missed by a long shot. They loudly hit the floor on the other side of the counter and skidded into the wall. “My point is proven!”

  “I couldn't leave you here all alone.” She scooped my key ring off the floor.

  “I can manage all by myself.” She looked down at the keys in her hand, conflicted. “Lexie was going to come in later, so I won't be alone for long.” I purposefully omitted the fact that Lexie said she might be coming in after she finished with some paperwork and who knew how long that would take. But I didn't want to make Claire feel like she'd be abandoning me and— though it was hectic— I could run the store by myself.

  “Okay, okay, I give.” She closed her hand around my keys. “I was planning on dropping off the deposit at the two o'clock lag.”

  “Don't worry. I'll take it on my way home.”

  “Thanks so much. I'll make up the hours, I promise. If I don't see you on my way out, I'll leave your keys on the hook by the back door.” She left and a minute later, I could hear her footsteps through the ceiling.

  Alone now, I finished preparing the display case, put the chairs out, and wiped down the counter until the customers started to flow in around seven for an injection of hot caffeine before their morning commute. Once the men and women in their power suits began to come in, I settled into my familiar routine behind the counter.

  Despite not liking coffee, this store had always been my happy place. Ever since I was a small child, I spent many afternoons here helping my grandparents with small tasks after I finished school, but before Mom's shift at the nursing home had ended. I had always kind of known that I would take over the store one day, since both of my grandparents had loved it deeply, yet neither of my parents were interested in operating it. Looking back now, I could see how they had groomed me for the role, teaching me how to operate the machines and troubleshoot their mechanical quirks, manage the finances, and bake my grandmother's signature Welsh cakes.

  My Zen state was broken when the bell above the door jingled and a man came in. For some reason, he didn't quite look as if he fit in around here— perhaps it was the tense, defensive set of his broad shoulders, as though he expected someone to attack him at any moment. He was roughly six feet tall with ear-length wavy hair that was so dark a brown that it was nearly black and rich, olive-toned skin. His eyes were a deep chocolate brown that pierced right through me as he came to stand directly in front of me on the other side of the counter. His jaw was chiseled and tapered to a faintly dimpled peak on his chin and what would naturally be an elegant patrician's nose was made somewhat more roguish by a previous break that left it at a slight angle. The well-broken-in black leather jacket he wore accentuated the lean muscle of his broad shoulders and tapering waist line and I'd be willing to bet his jeans hugged an equally firm rump.

  He had a few days of stubble growth, and his clothes— while expensive— appeared unkempt and wrinkled, almost as though he hadn't changed them in a few days. Around his neck, he wore a medallion that was engraved in the center with three interwoven spirals and three large stones of equal size surrounding it: one was a deep red, the other was a smoky gray, and the last was a burnished orange. His necklace drew my eyes. There was something magnetic about it, something that was familiar in the glistening of the stones and the etchings that surrounded them.

  He coughed politely.

  I jerked my gaze back up, embarrassed at my reaction. He was staring a hole into my retinas.

  Thrown off kilter by his overly-intense demeanor, I stuttered, “What can I get for you this morning?”

  The strange man smiled amiably and a tinge of mischief flashed in his eyes. “It is three o'clock.” Even more mysterious, his masculine voice held an accent that I couldn't place beyond somewhere in Europe.

  Surprised, I glanced back at the copper sunflower clock that hung on the wall, between the two sides of the menu. He was right. I must have zoned out in my Zen. “Oh. Well, what can I get you this afternoon, then?” I repeated, sheepish this time.

  “Double shot black espresso,” he stated without looking at the menu. His eyes were raking me over head to toe. They froze where I wore the bracelet on my left wrist.

  “For here or to go?” I couldn't bring myself to look him in the eyes. Something about him just threw me.

  “Here.”

  Feeling awkward, I was eager to turn away from him as I went about quickly preparing his order. Normally, I'd be more interested in a hot man who walks into my shop and couldn't take his eyes off me, but there was something unnerving about the way he studied me so attentively, as though he were scrutinizing my every move.

  “That bracelet looks lovely on you. Where did you find it?” His tone implied more of a demand for the information rather than a polite request.

  “Garage sale,” I answered without looking up at him.

  He paused as though trying to comprehend my words before erupting into laughter, as though I'd just told him an uproarious joke. His outburst startled me and I fumbled the tiny mug holding his scalding hot espresso. I hissed as the liquid hit the skin on my left arm and the cup clattered to the floor. His laughter ceased as suddenly as it had begun and he once again watched me very closely as I rushed to the sink against the wall and ran cold water over my burns. After a few seconds, he charged aggressively around the counter, his heavy boots making loud thuds across the wooden floors as he approached.

  He seized my wet, stinging arm in a bruising grip, jerking it toward him and examining it. With an almost desperate fervor in his voice, he asked, “Why do you not fix this? You are a healer.”

  An icy trickle of fear ran down my throat. What was he going to do? There were no other customers in the shop. At this time of day, there wasn't much foot traffic around town for anyone to see me through the window. My phone was on the counter in the kitchen, not that I would be able to call the police before he stopped me. In the back of my mind, I debated whether or not I could scream loudly enough to draw in a passerby from the street before he silenced me.

  After several unsuccessful attempts to yank my arm back, I stared at him warily, trying to predict what his next move would be. A few seconds passed frozen in that position and a slow, calculating smile crept across his lips.

  “Văngrassè,” he said, enunciating each syllable carefully, as if he wanted me to repeat after him.

  I scowled and tried again to reclaim my arm.

  “Văngrassè,” he repeated, a little slower.

  Fine. I'd play his crazy game if it got him out of my shop sooner. “Văngrassè.”

  A chill ran up my spine and a flood of liquid tingles rushed over my skin as soon as the word left my lips, concentrating where his hand clasped my arm. I shivered at the sensation and tried again to take my arm back.

  His eyes lit up with triumph and he tugged my arm effortlessly up to his neck even as I fought against his pull. I felt the hard brush of metal against metal on my wrist and he suddenly swooped down to kiss me.

  Panic flooded me as he backed me into the counter and his other hand held the back of my head, securing me in place. I drew on a faint thread of calmness to remember the women's self-defense class that Lexie and I took together while we were at Brown. I used my free hand, which had been digging into his upper arm, to grab and squeeze his crotch as hard as I could. Unlike a knee or foot, which is predictable and can be snatched in motion to disable you, male attackers almost never expect a woman to attack them below the belt with their hands, making it an effective defense in close quarters.

  He instantly doubled over and howled in pain, but he still wore a grin on his rakish face. He gasped for air and looked up at me, almost… proud? Grinning widely now, he said, “That is a good sign. You will do well in your new world, little human.”

  Stunned and confused, all I could do was stare at him from where I'd backed into the corner betw
een the counter and the door-jam to the kitchen.

  Panting from the pain, he rasped, “A few words of advice: keep that new bracelet of yours a secret. Others will come looking for you now. Do not mention me or you will have hell to pay.” The dark look of warning in his eyes told me he was serious. But about what? Was he afraid that I'd report him to the police for sexual assault? No, there was something about him that told me that there wasn't much this man was afraid of.

  “I will always be there for you if you need me, topolina. You have my undying gratitude and allegiance.” His suave, charming smile didn't match the unexpected and utter sincerity in his voice. He pulled a piece of paper out of his inside jacket pocket and set it on the counter. Then the odd man strode out of the store just as confidently as he came in, albeit with a slight limp in his steps this time.

  Taken aback by the events of the last five minutes, I stood frozen and stared out the glass window in front of me. What just happened? As he passed the window and out of sight, I reached for the piece of paper he'd left on the counter— a business card in a thick, ivory paper. It read: Giacomo Campanella, Jack of All Trades. There was no phone number or email address on the card: just a name, title, and beneath them was an opalescent mark identical to the one in the center of his necklace. I'd never seen ink that shimmered like this before. He must be wealthy to afford business cards like this.

  The stinging in my arm brought me back to reality. I shoved the card in my back pocket and rubbed some ointment on the burn. Minutes later, I was cleaning up the spill of coffee, still warm through the paper towels, and broken glass on the floor when Lexie came in.

  “Hey, what happened?” she asked, pointing at the angry red blotches on my left arm.

  “Some weirdo came in.”

  She marched over to where I was kneeling, the heels of her boots clacking harshly on the old wood floor. “What? Did he do anything to you?”