Storm Road (Old School Book 3)

by Jenny Schwartz

  “Do you need me to carry anything?” Dean stood on the ladder.

  She swung around.

  The single light bulb shone on his fair hair. He was the clean-cut, all-American boy, all grown up and tested by life. By war. He was a survivor and he was offering her help.

  “These four boxes.” She tapped the stack.

  He maneuvered around her in the small space.

  She watched him pick up the pieces of her past and carry them to the ladder and down. Her breath came a fraction too fast. She was scared of her memories. “Coward,” she whispered, alone in the roof space. She turned, searching among the other boxes. Not all the books up here were Samuel’s. She’d locked away her own past, too.

  Ten minutes later, she’d carried down two boxes to Dean’s four. He closed up the roof space and folding ladder, while she cut open the tape on the first of her two boxes. The memories in this box were good ones, in spite of what had happened between then and now. “Schoolbooks.” She smiled at him as she sorted through old notebooks for her magical studies notes. “An introduction to magic. Mrs. Romanov taught that class.” Beulah opened the second box. “And here was the text we used.” She passed both books to him.

  He frowned as he accepted the books.

  She frowned back. “We don’t have time for me to explain magic to you. The book and my notes from school will do that for you.”

  “Your school taught you magic?”

  “Minervalle School taught everything.” She grinned, briefly. “We learned flower arranging and unarmed combat.”

  He blinked.

  “There’s a language of flowers,” she explained. “Messages can be passed between people using a floral arrangement.”

  “What sort of school teaches unarmed combat?”

  “A girls school!” She laughed at his expression. “Read the book. I’ll explain Minervalle later. Yasmin and Vanessa are part of its Old School network.”

  Her humor died as she faced the boxes of Samuel’s books. These, she’d have to study. Yasmin mightn’t have much more information on ghouls, but Samuel had collected books that facilitated the attainment of power, and this ghoul was powerful.

  She cut the tape on box one and pulled out books, stacking them on the floor between the kitchen and living spaces.

  Dean took her school notes and book, and returned to his chair by the fireplace. He added another log to the flames.

  It helped to know that he—that someone—was there as she turned to the second box of books. She sorted as swiftly as she could, guessing which books were likely to hold information on ghouls and which, like Principles of Modern Predictions, were useless for her purposes. Her hands were dusty from the boxes, but she handled the rare books, anyway. She hated them and what they represented too much to treat them with respect.

  Before opening the fourth and worst box, she glanced at Dean.

  He was deeply absorbed in her school notes. He’d come here, using his vacation time, to find his missing aunt so as to ease his hospital-bound father’s worry. He’d returned to Millie’s farmhouse despite already knowing how bad encountering the ghoul could be, rather than let Beulah go alone. And her ward, set deep to keep out evil, had let him in. He was a good man.

  She cut open the last box of books and extracted the first death magic grimoire.

  Her ex-husband Samuel had been a bad man.

  Two hours later, with books spread across the kitchen table, Beulah finally found something on ghouls.

  Dean had finished reading her notes and the introductory text on magic, and had advanced to doing his own research.

  Unwilling to expose him to the books Samuel had collected, she’d turned him loose on her reference material shelved openly in the cabin. He was looking through books on myths and legends for any hint of ghouls, even by another name.

  “Yasmin was right.” Beulah swallowed, ordering her stomach not to betray her by vomiting. It wasn’t the coffee she’d drunk late at night that turned her digestion sour. It was what she read in the seventeenth century grimoire. “This wizard is calling it a spell, but really it’s a setting up of circumstances, and then, hoping that a ghoul can be bound as a demon is. However, judging by the note scrawled in the margins, it didn’t work.” She squinted at the faded ink. “A wizard tried the spell in the eighteenth century. He ordered a massacre, a slaughter, and set the scene with prolonged suffering and torture first—to eradicate emotion. The ghoul formed, but it then possessed its creator.”

  “Possessed how?” Dean stared at her across the table. He’d been pushed in the deep end, but he was at least managing a dog paddle in this new (for him) world that contained magic.

  “It doesn’t say.”

  He groaned and sat back in his chair, rolling his shoulders.

  They were both too tired. In this state, they could miss something important. She closed the grimoire. “It’s confirmation of Yasmin’s guesses about ghouls’ composition.” She collected the books scattered across the table. “We need to sleep. You can have the guest room.”

  “We need a plan for tomorrow.”

  She stacked the books back in their boxes. She was so tired her muscles hurt. “In the morning we’ll find out what’s happening in town.”

  “Intelligence gathering.” By his tone, he approved.

  “Then in the afternoon.” She dropped the last load of books haphazardly into box three. “I’ll set up basic containment lines. Hopefully, we’ll know more of where the ghoul’s activities are centered, and therefore, where I might be able to contain it.”

  “Aunt Millie’s house.”

  “Probably, but maybe further out. Millie’s farm might be the site where the ghoul was bound, but not where it has established itself. We need more information.” And she knew who she’d asked.

  “About Aunt Millie?” Dean had been incredibly patient.

  Beulah sank back onto a kitchen chair. “I’m about to collapse, but I want a hot shower first.” To wash away the dust of the books and her memories. “So I’ll tell you the story as I was told it, tomorrow. For now, what I know is that your aunt was not caught up in the fire. She made it safely to a friend’s house—the woman who made the apple pie we ate earlier. I plan on seeing Mrs. Johnson tomorrow morning. I generally catch up with her when I come home. Her son keeps an eye on the cabin for me. Mrs. Johnson will know what’s been happening in town, and she’s a talker. She’ll tell us without us having to ask. She’ll also be able to tell you as much as Millie wants anyone to know of where she’s gone.”

  “She’s hiding?”

  “Millie’s made some choices that I don’t have the right to reveal. Speak with Mrs. Johnson, tomorrow.” Beulah stood. “The corner bedroom is mine. The other’s the guest room. I’m going to be a rude host and shower first. Grab your gear from the rental car.”

  Dean didn’t look happy. His mouth was a stern line. But he did seem to accept that he wouldn’t get any additional information from her, tonight. And after the day he’d had, he probably wanted a hot shower as much as she did.

  He was lucky that her dad and brother were also tall men. She’d had the shower heightened during the bathroom renovation.

  This would be the first time any man, other than family, had stayed at her cabin.

  “And it only took a ghoul to achieve that miracle,” she muttered, and stepped into the stream of hot water.

  Chapter 3

  Mrs. Johnson’s home was a 1960s ranch house. The land had been in her husband’s family for generations, but they’d replaced the original cabin with a house in the first years of their marriage. Mrs. Johnson was eighty three years old, and proud of every year. She’d been a widow for thirteen years.

  “Too old and set in my ways to think of another husband,” she’d said to Beulah soon after meeting her. “But you’re not, child. You’re young and pretty. My grandson Keanu…”

  But Beulah had refused her neighbor’s matchmaking attempts.

  Now, she knocked at Mr
s. Johnson’s kitchen door and Mrs. Johnson’s granddaughter, Claudia, opened it.

  Claudia smiled. “Hi, Beulah. Home, are you?” Her gaze locked onto Dean. She repositioned, angling her head and hips flirtatiously, then gasped. “Hells and damn!” She looked down at the ratty robe she wore thrown over pajamas. “Wouldn’t you know it?” She grinned at Beulah, ruefully amused. Claudia’s stated purpose in life was to hook a good guy. She drifted between relationships and jobs, returning to her gran’s house when life got difficult. “I haven’t even combed my hair. Come on in, anyway, gorgeous.” And she smiled naturally at Dean.

  He nodded back, polite but reserved.

  They walked in to see Tyler and two of Claudia’s male cousins seated at the table, eating breakfast. Mrs. Johnson stood at the stove, frying bacon and eggs.

  “I can do that, Gran. You sit with your guests.”

  Mrs. Johnson sat down at the head of the table, and there were greetings all ’round.

  “Thanks for looking after the cabin, Tyler.” Beulah pushed the bottle of perfume across the table to Mrs. Johnson. “And the pie was delicious.”

  “Thank you, child.” Mrs. Johnson accepted the perfume, but her attention was on Dean, and she was a tiny bit flustered. “Millie’s nephew, you said?”

  “A JAG lawyer. Like that old TV show. Hoo-ee, Claudy, rope that critter.” Claudia’s cousins snickered their way out the door, chased by her glare.

  “Uncle Tyler, do you want more bacon or eggs?” Claudia slid the cooked bacon and eggs onto a plate.

  “No, shug. I’m good.” He left, a man of few words.

  Claudia put the plate of food down in front of Dean. “Beulah, you want breakfast?” She collected a knife and fork from a drawer and passed them to Dean with an encouraging smile.

  “No, thanks.” Beulah declined the offer.

  Dean gave a faint shrug, and started eating.

  Mrs. Johnson shook her head, smiling. “Claudy, Claudy.” But her granddaughter’s antics had given her time to think. The shock she’d shown, the thinning of her lips and stillness of her body, at the news of Dean’s identity, was gone.

  Good, Beulah thought. She wanted Mrs. Johnson at her sharpest.

  Claudia cracked a couple of eggs into the frypan, then topped up Dean’s coffee.

  “My dad is in hospital. His leg’s badly broken, so he’s bedbound a while. One of his marine buddies phoned, and mentioned in passing that Aunt Millie’s house had burned down. Aunt Millie hadn’t told us. Dad tried to contact her and…nothing.”

  “She could be chasing a story,” Claudia suggested.

  Dean and Mrs. Johnson ignored her, their eyes steady on one another.

  “The fire didn’t hurt your aunt,” Mrs. Johnson said. “She didn’t say as family might be wanting her.”

  “We’re not close,” Dean admitted. “But Aunt Millie’s Dad’s only sister. He’s all set to break himself out of hospital and coming looking for her. Do you have any idea how I might get in contact with her? A different phone number? Email address?”

  Mrs. Johnson remained silent, staring at him and thinking. All the questions in the world weren’t going to push her in a direction she wasn’t willing to go.

  “So, how did you find him?” Claudia sat down with her eggs and toast and glanced at Beulah before winking at Dean.

  “He wandered on over the mountain, lost. I brought him to Mrs. Jay since I haven’t been home in a while.”

  Momentary annoyance flickered over Dean’s face. He was a marine. He didn’t get lost.

  But what other story could Beulah tell?

  Mrs. Johnson came to life. “I’ll ask Millie if she wants to talk with you.”

  “Thank you.” Dean put down his knife and fork, and took out his wallet. He handed Mrs. Johnson a card. “My name and contact details are on the front. I’ve written Dad’s phone number on the back.”

  The business card was an odd, professional intrusion in the old kitchen with its 1980s décor and scrupulous cleanliness. Mrs. Johnson tucked it under her bra strap.

  Dean blinked.

  Beulah hid a smile behind her coffee mug. She swallowed some, and put the mug down. “What have I missed while I’ve been gone?” she asked, more than ready to move the conversation on to what really concerned her. “Any hikers have to be rescued from the mountains?” Tourists got lost. It was a fact of life. “Has the sheriff found Ensign’s still yet?”

  Claudia snorted. “Ain’t anyone finding that man’s still.”

  “People are keeping their kids close,” Mrs. Johnson said, disregarding her granddaughter’s comment. Her old, shrewd eyes watched Beulah. “Nate Smith was found dead a couple of weeks back.”

  Nate Smith? The name didn’t mean anything to Beulah, and there were too many Smiths to guess at a family connection.

  “The coroner can’t find a cause of death. He wrote heart failure on the death certificate.” Claudia waved some toast excitedly in the air. Evidently, Nate’s death was big news in the small community. “But there wasn’t enough blood in Nate’s body.”

  “Ugh.” Beulah didn’t have to fake a shiver.

  Claudia nodded, enthusiastically. “There could be vampires.”

  Mrs. Johnson snorted. It seemed to be a family characteristic, a way of expressing scorn. “Ain’t no vampires in the world. Just because you see something on television…”

  Claudia grinned, amused at having riled her gran.

  The old woman caught the grin, and swatted her granddaughter’s arm, before smiling. Her smile didn’t last. She looked at Dean. “Nate’s body was found just outside the cemetery.” There was only one cemetery in town, behind the local Baptist church. “Nate lived alone. He was skinny as a rake and ragged. Worse even than I suspected. The sheriff went to his house—”

  “Shack,” Claudia interjected.

  “It was dirty, which everyone knew. But the sheriff also found…one of my nieces works for the sheriff. Janice is a friend of your Aunt Millie’s,” Mrs. Johnson said to Dean. “Janice recognized some of the silver and small things in Nate’s shack. It’s horrible, but he’d been looting your aunt’s house after the fire.”

  It was horrible, but it also gave Beulah and Dean a direct tie between the dead man and the ghoul. This was the sort of information she needed.

  Dean finished his bacon and eggs, and leaned back, cradling his mug of coffee. “Nate Smith,” he mused. “I don’t want to offend those who mourn him, but it doesn’t sound as if he’s the sort of man whose sudden death would scare parents into keeping their children close.”

  “It’s the dead animals doing that,” Claudia said.

  Beulah stared at her.

  Mrs. Johnson sighed. “None have been found on your land or my family’s, Beulah, but hunters and hikers have found them other places.” She listed properties and landmarks.

  Beulah’s skin chilled. The list enclosed the town. The dead animals had to be part of how the ghoul marked its territory.

  “No one’s stumbled over any more dead animals since Nate’s body was found,” Claudia said, her gaze moving between Dean and Beulah, but mostly watching Dean. She seemed excited and intrigued by the mystery; perhaps satisfied that any danger had ended a fortnight ago with Nate Smith’s death.

  She was horrifyingly wrong.

  It had been two weeks since the ghoul had marked its territory. What had it been doing since? Establishing a secure base? Growing in strength? Had it killed anyone else?

  The phone rang.

  Claudia jumped up to answer it. As with the phone in Beulah’s cabin, it was attached to the wall by the kitchen counter. A whiteboard hung beside it, for messages. “Janice? Hi!”

  Mrs. Johnson braced two hands on the table, ready to stand.

  Claudia’s smile vanished. So did her excitement. All her flirting and energy aimed at Dean, the mysterious and attractive visitor, fell away to reveal the same essential strength that characterized her grandmother. “But Allie’s safe?”

 
; The trio at the table all leaned toward the phone, as if their need to hear would make it so. “Okay, Janice. Thanks. I’ll pass the word among the family. No one will touch the kids.”

  Beulah gasped.

  “Dear Lord,” Mrs. Johnson prayed.

  Claudia hung up the phone, staring at them. “Janice said the Renners—that nice couple with the little girl Kaylea’s age, four—they called the sheriff out. Said their little girl stumbled out of her room this morning. Only Paul was already awake, up early cause he was planning on going fishing. Allie said she was going outside. That the man had said for her to come out and play.”

  “Dear Lord,” Mrs. Johnson repeated herself on a shaking breath.

  Claudia nodded. “Paul woke his wife to keep Allie with her and the doors locked. Then he grabbed his gun and went out looking. He didn’t find a man, but…they don’t think Allie dreamed him or his voice.” Her gaze slid to Dean and suspicion, rather than flirtation, darkened her inspection.

  And that had to stop right there. Beulah cleared her throat. “Dean stayed the night at my cabin. In the guest room,” she added. “He wasn’t in a fit state to drive on to find a motel.”

  Mrs. Johnson and Claudia stared at her.

  “He’s Millie’s nephew,” Beulah said quietly. It wasn’t a good reason for letting a strange man spend the night in her cabin. On the other hand, it served no purpose to protect her reputation and let suspicion rest on Dean. Who knew what support they might need from her neighbors to fight the ghoul?

  Claudia’s uncharacteristic somberness vanished. “I guess I needn’t have worried about my robe and bed hair.” She grinned at Beulah. “Nice catch.”

  Heat rose in Beulah’s face.

  Mrs. Johnson reached out and swatted her granddaughter’s hip. “You, missy, better be all talk.” She looked at Beulah, and then, Dean. “If you need a place to stay—if you want to stay around till Millie contacts you—my daughter-in-law Laura takes in guests.”

  “Aunt Laura runs a bed and breakfast,” Claudia added. “I’m going to go dress. I want to know more about this freak running around calling out our kids.”