Autumn Thorns

by Yasmine Galenorn

  Bryan gently set the bag aside and then squatted down beside me, bracing himself on the table. “Kerris . . . I know this is a big shock. Even though you haven’t seen your mother in so many years, I can tell this has really shaken you. Are you sure you don’t want me to call someone?”

  All of a sudden, I didn’t want to be alone. My grandfather had known my mother was dead and he never told me. And Grandma Lila, she was a spirit shaman—how could she not know? And if she had known, she had kept quiet about it. If she hadn’t known, then she knew now. My entire childhood felt on shaky ground.

  I reached for Bryan’s hand without thinking. “Please, don’t go. Not till Peggin gets here, at least. I don’t really want to sit here thinking about this alone. My mind can be a scary place and I’m not so sure I want to listen to what’s going on up there right now. We can . . . I should go through the rest of the trunk, I guess.”

  Bryan stared at my fingers, then flashed me a gentle smile. “Only if you let me make you some more coffee. And only if you promise to eat a few of those cookies. Shock drains energy and the food will do you good.”

  I nodded, and he headed over to the espresso machine. “Do you know how to use that thing?”

  “I’ve got a similar setup at home, only it’s a little more . . . advanced.” By the tone of his voice I knew he meant expensive, but he laughed and pulled out the beans, starting to grind them.

  Meanwhile, I forced my attention back to the trunk. Beneath the jacket were several journals—including a leather one like my grandmother’s. I gently lifted it out of the trunk and opened it. Sure enough, it had been the Shadow Journal belonging to my mother. I realized I needed one of these for myself. I flipped through the pages and saw that it had several entries, but nothing much. Setting the journal aside, I began to dig through the pile of papers and trinkets below it. There was a small jewelry box with a few items in it, which I put to one side. I gave a quick glance through it but saw no sign of Avery’s ring.

  My mother’s high school yearbook was in there from her junior year. I also found a few pictures. I recognized my mother as one of the girls in a group photo of four teenagers standing on the lakeshore. They were laughing, arms around each other’s shoulders, and in the background I saw the sign for the Katega Campground, near the swimming hole. I had no clue who the others were, but flipped over the picture to find the names: Caroline, Tamil, Eversong, and Tracy. None of the others looked familiar to me, so I set it aside for the moment.

  The rest of the items were odds and ends—a porcelain cat, a flower-pressing book with pressed rose petals in it, and lastly, I picked up what looked like a very small X-ray. As I held it up to the light, I realized it was a sonogram. Me . . . that had to be me. Feeling unaccountably sad, I stared at the debris of my mother’s life. So little. She had been so young, and had so little time in which to figure out her life before it was snatched away.

  “Here you go.” Bryan sat a piping hot cup in front of me, complete with foam, which he’d managed to shape into the form of a cat’s face, whiskers and all.

  I laughed. “Really? You can do coffee art? I never could master it, but so cool!”

  “Did you eat any of those cookies or do I need to force-feed them to you?” He cocked his head to one side, hands on his hips.

  I was struck with a sudden urge to reach and take one of those hands again, only this time I wanted to rub it against my face. Blushing, I quickly turned my head before he could catch on to the direction my thoughts had taken. I didn’t need distractions, and I certainly didn’t need any more complications in my life right now. Instead, I nibbled on a cookie. Bryan was right—the sugar began to revive me a little.

  “You know, when I was little, I used to dream that my mother would come rushing back with some story about being kidnapped by aliens or foreign spies or something . . . anything that would prove she hadn’t just run off and abandoned me. I even thought she ran away to meet my father and to protect me, they had to keep hidden. Now that all seems so terribly sad.” I decided to chance a question. “You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but . . . how . . . why was your father killed? And how is it that you were there?”

  Bryan’s face clouded over, but then he let out a soft sigh. “I don’t talk about this much, but . . . for you, I will. My father had enemies—rivals who didn’t appreciate him. One night, we were at home, alone. My mother had gone out for the evening—to some women’s meeting or something. We lived out in the forest, away from the center of town. Three men showed up at the door. They broke in and went after him. Father pushed me into the closet before they could see me—we were in his bedroom. He had been reading to me. He ordered me to keep quiet—to not breathe a word or make a sound. I was brought up to obey his orders, and so I huddled there. But I lay down and peeked under the crack at the bottom of the door.”

  Without thinking, I asked, “What was he reading to you?”

  “Around the World in Eighty Days, by Jules Verne.”

  I didn’t know why but his answer surprised me. I just nodded, though, and he continued, his voice oddly calm.

  “I watched as the men cornered my father. He didn’t have . . . well, he wasn’t armed and he couldn’t reach the gun rack. I wasn’t sure what they wanted, but he couldn’t reason with them, and so they fought—he fought tooth and nail, but they overpowered him. At the end, they decapitated him. But I obeyed his last order. I didn’t make a sound. They left after that. I suppose they figured that my mother had taken me with her when she went out. I stayed in the closet till she got home. I watched her find him . . . saw her walk in the room all cheerful and happy and then . . . she saw his body. They took his head with them.”

  Bryan leaned forward, folding his arms on the table. He cocked his head, his expression unreadable. “I’m a private person. I seldom talk about my past. Maybe you’ll understand why I was so . . . abrupt, earlier. I still apologize. I was rude, but I do have my reasons.”

  I glanced around him, looking for some sign of his father’s spirit. Usually when people were witness to violent crimes, the energy would linger in their auras until they had it cleared. But once again, I was only able to see the faint wisps coming off him. The man was a closed book. But his story had punched me in the gut. Regardless of his collected exterior, an ocean of seething emotion lurked below the surface. He was a ticking bomb, given the right circumstances and the right people.

  “Did they ever catch the men who did it? If you saw them . . .”

  “Yes, they did. They were . . . taken care of. Our clan handles things in a different way. My people don’t leave loose ends, and we never forget a blood grudge. We clean up our own.”

  Clan? People? Who was he? Just what background did Bryan come from? And what kind of enemies came in and decapitated a man? A brief thought that he might have ties to the mafia ran through my head, but somehow it didn’t fit. The questions were piling up, but I had the feeling I needed to walk cautiously. Not to mention, the trauma of seeing your parent’s head cut off wasn’t exactly a memory I wanted to stir up. Bryan was being nice to me and I had no desire to make his story worse by dredging through the details.

  “Are you of Irish descent? The name sounds like it might be.”

  He bobbed his head. “Gaelic. Originally the Ó Tighearnaigh of Brega. Tierney means ‘lord’ or ‘master,’ and my ancestors were born near the Hill of Tara.”

  I cocked my head. “I’m Irish, as well. The origins of the spirit shamans are from Ireland—we’re considered daughters of the Morrígan. She’s—”

  “I know who she is.” His gaze was cool and collected. “Trust me, I know more about the Morrígan than I think even you do.” But the way he said it held no hint of arrogance . . . a simple statement of fact and one that was probably true.

  “I know some . . . what Lila taught me before I left. I should have studied into it on my own, but I wanted to put t
he world between me and Whisper Hollow when I left. I tried to use my abilities in other ways, so they wouldn’t overwhelm me, but I kept as far away from my heritage as I could without driving myself nuts. I need to read my grandmother’s Shadow Journal. I know some of our history will be found in there. Hell, I couldn’t even tell you the origins of my family at this point, though she could have talked your ear off, I’m sure. For all I know, she did?” I glanced over at him, wondering just how much Lila had told Bryan.

  He shook his head. “I know she was a spirit shaman. I watched her leave in the evenings, heading out to the cemetery with the lament singer. Your grandfather didn’t seem extremely pleased—I heard them arguing several times when I was working in my garden. Either they were outside or they had the windows open, I’m not sure which.” Pausing, he added softly, “You left because of him, didn’t you?”

  I caught his gaze, wondering how much to say. After a moment, I nodded. “Yeah . . . he never hit me—nothing like that—but he was a vicious old man. He had absolutely no respect for my grandmother and he didn’t love me, I knew that much. I have no idea why my grandmother married him, or stayed with him. I don’t think I ever asked, to be honest.” Actually, it had never crossed my mind to ask—Grandma had been loving and kind to me, but I had always known that she would defend my grandfather, though I had no clue why when he was so abrupt with her.

  After another cookie, I was starting to feel like the color was coming back into my cheeks. I finished my coffee, then pushed my chair back and stood up. “I guess . . . my next step is to figure out what I want to do about this. My mother disappeared thirty years ago—that’s a long time.”

  “Murder shouldn’t be allowed to go unpunished. Or unreported.” Bryan cleared our cups away from the table and put the cookies back in the cupboard. “Seriously, Kerris. I know it’s your decision and I respect that, but if I were you, I’d call the cops.”

  I thought for a moment. “Who’s the chief of police now?” If it was somebody who might have been Duvall’s friend, I wasn’t sure I wanted them to know.

  Bryan finished rinsing the cups and upended them in a drainer on the counter. “Sophia Castillo. I’ve seen her around the town.” He seemed to sense where I was going. “I doubt if she and your grandfather were pals.”

  The name sounded familiar. I glanced at the clock. Peggin would be here within half an hour. “I need to start the baked potatoes and make a salad. Listen . . . would you like to stay to dinner? My friend Peggin’s coming over—”

  “I’ve met her. Don’t know her very well, but she seems nice enough. And dinner sounds good, thank you. Put me to work, woman. Whatever you need doing.” Bryan gave me a long look, and I had the feeling that I’d passed some sort of test with him, though for the life of me, I had no clue what.

  An odd flicker ran through me. I frowned. “She’s my best friend—we were best friends in high school and she’s the one person I stayed in contact with while I lived in Seattle. So, you’ve met her, then?” Even as I asked the question, I blushed. Damn it, I hated the flicker of jealousy that flared up when he said he knew her.

  He gave me a side glance, an annoying smile tilting the corner of his lips. “Yes, while I was at the doctor’s office. She’s nice.”

  I had absolutely no right to, but I wanted to ask him if he thought she was pretty. Get a grip, woman. You so don’t need to be acting like you’re fifteen and back in high school. Peggin’s your friend, not a rival. Irritated with myself, I gathered up my mother’s things, sans the jacket, and gently replaced them in the trunk. “Can you lift this off the table—it can sit over there in the corner next to the archway.”

  Bryan obliged. “I have some peaches and nectarines over at my place. Why don’t I go grab them and we can have an old-fashioned dessert. I’ve even got whipping cream and a pound cake to go with them.”

  That sounded good . . . plus it would give me time to regroup after everything that had gone on this afternoon. “I think that would be lovely. Thanks, Bryan—and . . . thanks for everything. I’ll see you in a little bit.”

  “You’re sure you’ll be okay while I run home?” He hesitated at the door.

  Touched, I waved him on. “Go. I’ll be fine. By the time you get back, Peggin should be here.”

  As the door closed behind him, I shivered. Now that I was alone in the house again, a brooding sense came over me and I paced the kitchen nervously. I wanted to see my grandmother. I wanted some sort of reassurance, but I had no sense that she was around. Instead, it was as if something else lurked in the shadows. At that moment, Agent H came running in. He took one look around the kitchen, let out a yowl, and then raced back into the living room. That was all it took. With a glance over my shoulder, I hustled after him.

  Once I was in the living room, the mood seemed to lighten and I breathed easier. I decided that hearing somebody else’s voice would be a very good idea right now, so I flipped on the TV and turned it to the Cooking Channel. As I settled on the sofa, draping a throw over my knees, the cats all converged on me. Agent H took up his place on the back of the sofa, right where he had perched back in Seattle. Daphne crawled into my lap, and Gabby sat beside my feet.

  The comforting glow of the Tiffany-style lamps warmed the room, and the bustle of Andrea Ceres—one of the newest stars in the kitchen—took my mind off the trunk in the kitchen. Andrea was preparing a chicken in mandarin sauce and I focused my attention on her every move, keeping my mind on a narrow track away from my mother and her death. Or at least, I tried. It worked after a fashion, though the stray edges of my thoughts kept creeping back to the jacket, the blood, and what I had seen.

  Finally, the bell rang. I jumped, scaring the cats, and as they went shooting out of the room, I draped the throw over the side of the sofa and answered the door. It was Peggin, carrying a bag. My stomach rumbled as the inviting smell of fried chicken wafted up from it.

  “Thank God you’re here.” I pulled her in and shut the door, locking it.

  She handed me the bag—which had not one, but two buckets of chicken inside—and shrugged out of her coat, hanging it on the coat rack by the door. “What’s going on? You look way too pale. What happened since this morning?”

  “Come on in the kitchen with me, please. By the way, Bryan is coming to dinner. I wouldn’t have asked him but . . . after today . . .” Setting the bag on the counter, I pulled the chicken out and arranged it on the table. “The potatoes will be done in about fifteen minutes. I hope you don’t mind going without salad. I forgot to make one. Bryan’s bringing peaches and pound cake for dessert, though.”

  “I’m not a rabbit, so no salad is fine. And peaches and pound cake sound good.” With a worried look on her face, Peggin slid into a chair. “Tell me what happened. You seem all shaken up.”

  I let out a weak sigh and slumped in the chair next to her. “You see that trunk? It was my mother’s. I found it in the attic when I was hunting around up there.”

  “Oh, pretty! What’s in it?”

  “Some things of hers. Peggin, I found a jacket in the trunk that’s covered in blood. When I pulled it out, my mother . . . her spirit showed up here. I’m pretty sure she was murdered.” Saying it to Bryan had been different than saying it to Peggin. Saying it to Peggin made it far more real.

  She let out a little squeak, then walked over to the trunk and knelt down by it. “Are you sure it was hers? You haven’t seen her since you were three.”

  “I’m sure. I remember what she looked like right before she left. And the jacket was the one she was wearing the day before she vanished. I think somebody killed her. And my grandfather knew because the key to that trunk was in his dresser drawer. Which makes me wonder if my grandmother knew, too. Was she hiding it from me all these years, like Duvall?”

  Peggin set her glasses on the table and rubbed the bridge of her nose, looking frazzled. “I have to tell you, this looks pretty
bad for your grandfather. Didn’t you tell me that Ellia said he was really bent out of shape over her getting pregnant?”

  “Yeah. I wish I knew why. That might answer some questions. And then, there’s whatever secret he was hiding that he never got to tell. Oh, Peggin, what do I do now? Bryan thinks I should go to the police. I was thinking about it, but . . .” A crow cawed loudly from the bush near the kitchen window.

  Peggin shook her head. “Not yet.”

  “Yeah, I’m not certain what I want the cops to know. At least, not yet. What do you know about Sophia Castillo?”

  Peggin let out a slow breath. “She’s a good sort. Steady, levelheaded. Her family seems fairly popular. She isn’t power hungry, but she’s no pushover, either. She was in the sophomore class when we were seniors, so she’s about two years younger than we are. The only reason I know who she is, is because we met in a store a year or so back and she reminded me that we used to have the same piano teacher. Her lessons were always right after mine, so she would be waiting whenever I got done at Miss Helen’s. She has a husband and a daughter. Her daughter, Maria, is best friends with my boss’s daughter, Kimberly.”

  “Do you think I should talk to her?” I still didn’t want to. I didn’t want to do anything until I knew more about what I was dealing with.

  “I think you need to trust your instincts.” Peggin looked up as a knock sounded on the kitchen door. I answered, escorting Bryan in.

  “Hey, you.” Peggin gave him a coy smile, but I could tell she was holding her energy back. Whether it was for my benefit, or whether she was preoccupied with what I had just told her, I didn’t know. Either way, I was grateful because when Peggin turned it on, she turned it on.

  Bryan gave her a two-fingered salute. “Hey, how’s your boss? I haven’t had a chance to play racquetball with him in a while.”