THEY CALL HER THE GUARDIAN OF THE FIRE OPAL
OVERVIEW:
A runaway teenager returns to the Cajun roots she fled in terror to attend her mother's funeral and learns that some destinies cannot be escaped.
A bounty hunter goes back to the swamps in search of his brother's killer and discovers the girl he thought was dead is now a full-grown woman who never gave him a second thought after she ran away.
Le phantom noir, the dark entity who killed her mother and grandmother, resides in the swamp. Her father is in pursuit, intent on getting the fire opal back, their only chance of defeating this evil.
What Reviewers Say . . .
Page Turner
If you like mysticism mixed with eroticism, this book is for you. The book is impossible to put down. I love the imagery of the swamps that surrounds the characters told in a brilliant story. The characters are complex and tortured yet eerily reminiscent of people you have met before. She masterfully weaves in a steamy romance that enhances the theme without overpowering it. Flynn does a great job of capturing the essence of what it is to be a cajun and the power of the spirits that inhabit the Louisiana bayous. A must read!
. . . Joe Gigante
THE WEREWOLF QUEEN IS ON THE RUN
OVERVIEW:
A shadow of her former self, a fallen werewolf queen is stalked by two different men. One, the king of the lupine, will patiently wait for years to destroy her. The other, the grieving shaman who loathes all werewolves for murdering his wife, lures her to a remote canyon in order for an ancient prophecy to take hold. But where the queen goes, werewolves follow . . . and so does danger.
If Lily fascinated you in SHADOW ON THE MOON, you'll enjoy seeing her get her comeuppance at the hands of White Hawk in SHADOW OF THE WOLF.
What Reviewers Say:
"A rich, complex novel filled with powerful emotions, romance, and magic." Romantic Times
"Thoughtful, mystical, and hauntingly moving. Ms. Flynn creates a steamy, sensual tale of faith, forgiveness, and love . . . Excellent!" Rendezvous
"No one makes the para-world seem more like a perfectly normal occurrence than the fantastic [Connie] Flynn." Harriet Klausner Book Browser
ALL SHE WANTS IS TO REBUILD HER HOUSE,
BUT OLD BONES STAND IN HER WAY
Old Bones in a short story coffee-break read of approximately 22 pages . . .
A Chicago woman is sent over the edge when a skull that could be an artifact is discovered during the rebuilding of her property.
Some dubious help from her hottie project foreman sends her racing for her life.
Someone wants that skull and is willing to kill her to get it.
Short and sweet, but with all the twist and turns of longer works, like those of suspense writers like Lisa Gardner, Lori Handleland and Karen Robards.
What Readers Say:
K C Flynn charms you with a unique protagonist, a unique setting and a satisfying twist at the end. Worth the price!
--Denise Domning
Ivy is a witty and likable heroine, and Steve...well Steve...good guy? ...bad guy? ... no spoiler here. Read the story and find out for yourself. You'll be glad you did!
--Karen K. Walker
This story was . . . the perfect length for a Sunday afternoon adventure. I love the location . . . really felt like I was there with the character. Twists and turns kept me flying . . . I would recommend this to anyone!
--Melissa
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Note From Author
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Other Works by Connie Flynn
Shadow on the Moon |There's a Dead Elf in Santa'sWorkshop
Murder at the Toadstool Cafe
The Fire Opal
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Dedication
Table of Contents
Copyright
End
Shadow of the Wolf
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Table of Contents
Copyright
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Old Bones (a short story)
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End
The
Fire Opal
by Connie Flynn
The Fire Opal
Copyright 1998, 2012 by Connie Flynn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author/publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Chapter One
"Come back from the dead . . ."
"Best-kept secret I've ever . . ."
"Her folks never said . . ."
They huddled together, casting furtive glances and whispering among themselves from behind their hands. A misting rain shrouded the gathering, and wind blew through the moss-hung cypress and oak with an eerie whine that made a somber backdrop for the rites the priest performed.
Liz Deveraux gathered the hood of her lightweight raincoat around her face, as much to block out their voices as to protect herself from the cold and the rain. The townspeople were trying to be kind, she told herself. They were trying not to show their qualms about the woman they were putting to rest, about the daughter who'd somehow climbed out of a grave to attend the funeral, but their hushed murmurs and thinly veiled wariness made her feel exposed.
She'd run from this so long ago, from the sly looks and whispers. From that odd mixture of love, respect, and fear that Port Chatre residents had always shown Ellie Deveraux, and by proxy, her only daughter.
But Liz had loved the way a child loves. And she'd always believed her mother would live forever, providing time to resolve their differences. Wrong, oh so wrong, as the rain-slick marble cover leaning against the vault attested.
The priest finished the rites. Attendants from the mortuary took up the sides of the cover, sliding it into place with a baleful clunk. The finality of the sound sent a shudder through Liz, but her eyes still remained as dry as they'd been throughout the funeral.
"Come, Izzy. The time is now to go to the wake."
Liz turned to her father. Even at this sorrowful time, she felt an urge to correct his fractured syntax, and with it came a pang of guilt. Her parents were who they were, and if she'd learned to accept that, she wouldn't now be feeling the weight of the unresolved issues her mother had taken with her to her crypt.
"Weep, mon fille, you must weep. Keep tears inside, they poison your soul."
"In my own time," she replied softly. She wanted so much to cry. Her throat and chest ached, but somehow the tears just wouldn't flow.
He acknowledged her answer with a nod of his bowed head, and returned to staring at the freshly sealed vault. Unlike most of the other men, he wore no suit. Raindrops had collected on the felt bill of his hunting cap and on the nappy surface of his checked flannel jacket, making him look exactly like the swamper he was.
Liz moved to the impressive crypt that she had ordered, glad she could give at least this much. The marble was fresh and smooth, and the indentations of the inscription were already filling with rain. She could feel the rough edges left by the chisel as she traced the letters of her mother's name, hoping the act would somehow fill the empty space inside her. But it didn't.
When she touched the epitaph, she stilled her finger and looked at her grandmother's adjacent vault. It bore the very same words.
Guardian of the Fire Opal
At Last She Rest
"This makes it sound like a blessing that Mama died," she said sadly, running
the flat of her hand across the markings.
"A blessing, no. But now she finally be free of Ankouer and the burden of caring for the opal. That, mon fille, is a blessing for true."
"But . . . it's so disturbing. Please have it changed, Papa."
He fixed her with a bloodshot stare.
"Non. Every guardian have this on her vault. And every defender, if there be one, carve it there as an act of love."
"It's total superstition."
"Superstition. Yeah. I think that, too. Once."
He ran his hand across his strong, stubbled jaw, and Liz wondered how long it had been since he'd shaved. He wasn't prone to be slovenly or to talk about things such as Ankouer and the purpose of the opal. It was her mother who had followed the mystic ways that awestruck the townspeople and had caused Liz such embarrassment.
"Then I seen him with my own eyes." He tapped the marble as he spoke. With each word, the taps grew harder and faster, until they sounded like angry cries. "Giantlike and black, swirling with evil. And he suck my Ellie's life breath. I can do nothing, I, to stop him, though I try so very hard."
"See what I mean, Papa?" She leaned over to stop his tapping hand, then reached up to caress his face. He was grief crazed, that was it. His sorrow had warped his judgment. "A stroke killed Mama, just like Grandmere, but you're blaming yourself. That's what superstition does. Please don't do this to yourself."
"No one else to blame." He covered her hand with his other one and smiled sadly. It was the smile she remembered from childhood, the one that said she was loved. "We talk no more of this. Richard has been so kind to offer his home for your maman's wake. We not keep them waiting, no?"
"No, of course not," she replied, giving a wan grin to hide her dread.
Holding his hand, she turned to head out of the cemetery, but a sudden drag signaled that her father had stopped. She lifted her eyes to him in question.
"Tomorrow I give you the opal."
She shook her head. "I want you to have it."
"I cannot. The opal is now yours to guard. There be no one else to carry on."
"To guard . . ." she repeated dully, involuntarily glancing back at the twin vaults with their twin inscriptions.
"Oui. Only you can keep the stone from le fantome noir. You be the last guardian There be no one else."
Her legacy, she thought bitterly. Instead of bone china or jewelry like everyone else, she was inheriting an icon of superstition. She started to protest again, then realized no argument would keep her father from giving her that stone.
"I am sorry, Izzy," he said, tightening his grip on her hand, and gazing at her with lost, haunted eyes. "For true I am."
* * *
"Glad, you responded to my fax in person, son. I'm no expert coroner"—Doc Allain stated this humbly, but his chest puffed up with pride—"just a small-town doctor doing my best, and I didn't want to put my suspicions in writing. Pretty sure you'll understand why when you see what I got."
"Looking forward to it," replied Zach Fortier, thinking that the guy was kind of an amazement. Had to be nearly ninety, and the last time he'd seen the man, he'd been tottering on a cane. Now here he was looking a healthy sixty, if that.
"Used to get a lot of notifications," Zach went on to tell the doctor, "but the last year they kind of petered out. Yours is the first I've seen in months."
"None of 'em panned out I suppose."
"Nope. Maybe this time. A man can always hope."
"Sure can. Probably should." Allain tilted his head. "But what makes you doubt the official findings?"
Zach hesitated. He wasn't crazy about examining his reasons too close. They were hazy, sort of, and came more from the gut than the brain. But Allain deserved some answer, he supposed.
"Jed knew the swamp as well as any man, and he swam like a gator. It doesn't make sense he'd drown out there. Plus that, the escaped con he was chasing had drug ring connections. Throwing a body in the swamp's a good way to cover up the real cause of death." He'd explained enough, Zach thought, and he was impatient to see the evidence the doc had faxed about. "So what have you got?"
"Nothing conclusive, you understand."
"You never know until you see the evidence."
"Right, but let me give it to you in a nutshell. I compared the results of Ellie Deveraux's examination with the stuff you put on the wire about your brother, and—" The man's short cough almost seemed to be for effect. "Well, there's reason to believe Frank killed his wife."
"What?" Zach sputtered. "What did you find?"
"Just this." He handed Zach a medical file. "Couldn't do an autopsy without Frank throwing a fit. But I have plenty."
The thick folder was old, the edges bent, and it contained the records of every member of the Deveraux family. Unusual these days to see a family file, but Port Chatre was still a small, old-fashioned town. Some of the papers looked the worse for wear, but a new top sheet contained the results of the doctor's examination.
Zach read the doctor's report carefully. Ellie Deveraux had died in her sleep. Frank found her the next morning.
Just the idea of waking up to discover your wife lying dead beside you gave Zach the creeps. Just as creepy was the act of going through the family folder of the first girl he'd ever loved.
Were the results of Izzy's examinations in here? Did they mention her vitality? Her love of life? Those remarkably flecked amber eyes that always reminded him of the stone called cat's eye? Did those pages tell all these things about a young woman whose life was wiped out so early?
An unwelcome thickness in his throat made him turn his attention back to the report. Except for the lividity about the lips, the same unexplained blue cast Jed's desecrated body had also borne, nothing looked unusual about Ellie's death. A stroke, Doc Allain had written, causing paralysis of the lungs, resulting in anoxia and eventual asphyxiation. A blood test revealed no oxygen in the bloodstream. There was tissue decay of the fingers and toes.
Hell, Zach wasn't a coroner. But he didn't have to be to see this was another wild goose chase. This sweet old guy was one of those backwoods physicians with an honorary coroner's title who fancied himself a forensic expert.
He leafed through the folder, telling himself he wasn't really looking for something about Izzy, and when he came across a sheet on her, he quickly passed it by. Near the back he found a report on Catherine Deveraux, Ellie's mother. She, too, had died of a stroke. Same lividity about the lips, and decay of the digits.
"Those the same kind of marks found on your brother?" Allain asked.
"The bluish lips, yes," Zach said. "There wasn't enough left . . ."
"Petechiae under the eyelids?"
"Yeah." At least on what was left of the lids.
"You identify the body yourself?"
Zach reached for a cigarette. One thing about small Louisiana towns, no one objected to smokers, not even in a doctor's office. "Yeah," he said after lighting up. "I did."
"Must've been rough seeing him chewed up that way."
"Wasn't the easiest." He looked back down at Catherine's sheet. "Looks like strokes run in the family."
"Or maybe murders. Frank brought Catherine in, too."
"You examine Catherine yourself?"
"Yes, but those days I didn't know what I know now."
Bull's-eye. Yep, give a man a little knowledge. One thing was clear, Allain sure did want to prove he'd found a killer.
But accusing Frank Deveraux? Zach remembered the man's dark laughing eyes, the way his big, rough hands could so gently touch a kid's shoulder.
Investigators didn't put much stock in coincidence, and he'd given years to the business, but connecting these deaths was a stretch he couldn't quite make.
True, Ellie's lips had shown a blue cast; so had Catherine's—and Jed's. Not uncommon in asphyxiation, but this particular marker was unusual because color on the lips usually faded rapidly as uncirculated blood pooled in the body. Another medical anomaly that would suddenly start popping u
p again and again? Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, despite the similarities to the findings on Jed's body, there was nothing in these reports that a stroke couldn't explain away.
"Frank's gone half bonkers," Allain went on, "saying Ellie died of la maladie malefique. Shows a guilty conscience, you ask me." The man chuckled derisively. "Evil illness, indeed. These swamp Cajuns and their hocus-pocus. Have to admit, though, it's one I haven't heard in a while. Hell of it is, some take him seriously enough they'd never think murder."
"Sure, Doc," Zach replied absently as he spied Izzy's name at the top of a sheet. This time he paused to look. She'd been in to see Doc about a sore throat. Strep, the doctor had diagnosed, prescribing an antibiotic. Odd, considering her mother's reputation as a natural healer, but maybe the problem had gone on too long.
"Don't get many murders around here. Last one happened in eighty-nine. Old Pete Bourg went off half-cocked in Tricou's café, shot Louis Martin clean through the chest. Boy, what a mess. Pete carried Louis in, bleating like a goat that Ankouer made him do it, blood spurting all over the place, like to never clean it . . ."
Zach hardly heard. His mind drifted to his teenage years. He and Izzy paddling through the swamps, sometimes alone, but more often than not with Jed tagging along. Lots of mischief, lots of laughs. Now he was the only one left.
How could that be? Sagging belly or not, he wasn't even forty. Too young to have lost two people so close to him who were even younger.
"Town's not the same since your folks left," Allain remarked. "Cannery's gone, tourists all over the place. I miss the old days."
Zach abandoned his trip down memory lane, and looked up.
"Ma couldn't run the cannery herself with Pa gone," he replied. "Too bad the buyers couldn't make a go of it. Times change, I suppose."
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