by Neely Powell
“Zoe!” Claire wrapped her arms around my legs.
Kinley’s youngest daughter was five years old with an insatiable love of life.
“I’m so happy you came to see us. What did you bring?” she asked, taking my hand as we walked up the sidewalk to the steps.
“Claire, be nice,” Kinley’s sister Lydia stood in the doorway.
“I am nice. Miss Johnson says I’m one of the nicest peoples in my class.”
“I’m sure she’s right.” I squeezed her hand. “I’ve got some surprises in my bag. Let’s go inside so I can talk to Kelly too.”
“Kel-leeee,” Claire yelled. “We got company.”
As we reached the porch, Kelly came down the stairs to the living room while Claire chattered. Claire scooted up beside me on the sofa, grinning and enthusiastic. Kelly sat at a child-sized table and chairs, where she began doodling on a piece of paper with a crayon.
“Here you go,” I handed her the smaller bag. “This is from Miss Darla at our office. Remember how you and Kelly used to sit with her while your mother talked to me and Hunter? She thought you and Kelly would like these.”
Claire opened the bag and went still. “Wow,” she said, her voice filled with awe. “Barbie dolls! My favorites.” She laughed in delight. “Barbie kind of looks like Miss Darla.”
Darned if she wasn’t right, I thought, smiling.
Claire ran to Kelly. “Look, it’s Barbie in a bikini. They’re just alike. One for you and one for me!” She handed the second doll to Kelly and whirled back to her aunt. “Aunt Lydia, I can’t get it open.”
“I’ll get the scissors.” Lydia went to the kitchen. “Zoe, do you want a Diet Coke?”
“No, I’m fine.”
Kelly studied the doll through the plastic container but didn’t try to open it. After a moment she returned to her coloring.
Lydia came back, working on opening Claire’s Barbie. I took the shopping bag and joined Kelly. The little wooden chairs looked sturdy so I sat across from her.
I studied the picture she was coloring. “That looks great.” It was a creative drawing for a seven-year-old. A little girl lay in a bed looking across the page at someone standing a distance from her, a figure dressed in red, which Kelly continued to color until the red crayon broke. She picked up a broken half and began coloring again.
I reached in the bag for one of the stuffed animals. When I brought the gray-striped kitten out, Kelly put her crayon down and reached for it.
“Oh, I’m so glad you like her,” I said and patted her lightly on the arm. “I love kittens too. They’re soft and cuddly.”
Claire raced over. “What about me?”
She pulled the stuffed puppy out with a little shout of happiness. “I’m going to call him Brownie ’cause he’s so soft and looks like Aunt Lydia’s brownies.” She hugged the puppy to her and then squealed again as her aunt freed Barbie from her plastic prison.
“What do you say, girls?” Lydia asked.
Claire hugged me as much as she could with her arms filled with the toys. “Thank you, Zoe. Thank you so much. Tell Miss Darla I love my Barbie, too. I’m going to my room to show Brownie and Barbie where they will be sleeping.” Like a miniature tornado, she raced up the stairs.
“Kelly,” Lydia said. “Don’t you want to thank Zoe for the gifts?”
Kelly’s sad eyes met mine. My heart broke at the grief in her pale face. I could share that I knew what it was to be a little girl whose mother died. But I sensed Kelly needed patience and simple kindness, not a lot of words.
“I’m glad you like the kitten,” I said, unable to resist giving her a little hug. “And the Barbies that look like Miss Darla.” I looked back at the picture on top of the little wooden table. “Maybe you can make me a picture of your kitty. I can hang it in my office.”
Once again, she nodded but said nothing.
“Do you want me to open your Barbie?” Lydia asked.
Kelly shook her head and took her toys upstairs without saying a word. Lydia was wiping tears when I turned back. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“I understand. Detective Scala said she hadn’t been talking. Have you found a counselor for her?”
“There’s one at their school. I like her very much. She was with us on Tuesday and yesterday, and came by this morning, as well. Kelly won’t speak to her either, but we’re going to use her because she’s someone Kelly knows. The kid was already pretty torn up by Eric and Kinley’s troubles, but this…” Her voice trailed off.
Lydia cleared the top of the little table, putting crayons back in the box and stacking the papers.
“That’s the third red crayon she’s broken. She really loves red.” She took Kelly’s latest artistic work. “I’m going to put this up on the refrigerator.”
I followed her into the kitchen. “Hunter’s going to be out of town for a few more days, but I’d be happy to help you in any way I can. Did Brad get you a copy of Kinley’s will?”
“My husband and I are thrilled that Kinley was specific about what she wanted,” she said. “Eric hasn’t said anything about contesting the will, but that doesn’t mean he won’t. His silence has been frightening, especially with what his mother has been saying. She thinks the girls should live with her.”
Eric was behaving uncharacteristically well, letting Lydia keep the kids without a fuss. There had to be a reason for that. Maybe he was lying low to avoid more suspicion about Kinley’s death. Or simply planning to take the girls.
“Bill’s getting us a new alarm system,” Lydia continued, “and the detective said he’d have a patrol car driving by periodically. I just hope Eric doesn’t try to kidnap them or something worse.”
Her voice broke on a sob, and her shoulders shook as she cried. I helped her sit and reached for a glass. Using the controls on the front of her refrigerator, I fixed her some ice water and sat down beside her at the kitchen table. After a few moments she regained control and took a drink.
“Thank you. Every time I feel like I’m all cried out, I break down again.” She took another sip. “The police say Eric has an alibi. But who else would do this to Kinley?”
“I can’t think of anyone.”
“Claire says she, Kelly, Eric, and his mother all had hot chocolate and went to bed early,” Lydia said rubbing at the tension in her neck. “That puts Eric at home all night.”
“The mother backs that up?”
“Of course.” Lydia rolled her eyes. “That woman would say her son was Superman if he wanted. She dotes on him. That was half the problem with him being a husband and father. He didn’t know how to put anyone’s needs before his own. I just worry what we’ll do if he wants the girls. I mean, Kinley spelled out her wishes. She wanted me and Bill to raise them. We can’t have children of our own, and she knew…” Her voice broke again. “Kinley knew we’d be good to them.”
Zoe patted her hand. “She wanted you to give them a safe and happy life.”
“Aunt Lydia,” Claire called from the top of the stairs. “Barbie wants a granola bar and some milk. Can I have some too?”
Lydia wiped her eyes and rose to get the snacks. “Sure, come on down. Ask Kelly if she wants something.”
We heard Claire run back down the hallway, and then she was coming down the steps. “Kelly said no.”
Lydia poured Claire a half a glass of milk and opened the granola bar. Back in the living room at the child-sized table, she moved Kelly’s art supplies and put Claire’s snack down.
“I need to go,” I said, walking over to get my purse. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”
Lydia hesitated, and I realized she wanted something.
“Please,” I assured her. “I’d love to help in any way I can.”
“Would you mind going over to Kinley’s and getting some more of the girls’ stuff? Bill and I got what we could, but we don’t want to go back right now.”
Which was understandable. “Just tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”<
br />
Lydia scribbled a list and pulled a set of keys out of a desk drawer. “These are Kinley’s. Detective Scala gave them to me. He said to call if I needed to get into the house.”
I took the keys, popping open the small leather case attached to them. It contained adorable photos of Claire and Kelly. I stuck them and Lydia’s list in my purse as I said goodbye to Claire and headed for the door.
“There is something else,” Lydia said as we stepped out on the porch. She leaned her head back inside. “Claire, I’ll be right out here if you need me.” She closed the door and spoke softly, “Kinley has a quilt on her bed that she and the girls made with pieces of their baby clothes. I thought it might help Kelly to have it on her bed.”
“That’s a wonderful idea. I’ll be sure to get it,” I hesitated, wondering if I should stay longer. “Are you going to be all right?”
Lydia straightened her shoulders. She reminded me of Kinley—fragile on the outside but strong where it mattered. “Thanks, but Mother and Dad are bringing dinner over tonight, so I don’t have anything to do but enjoy the girls. I’ll be fine.”
We said goodbye again, and I got into my car. I didn’t look forward to going back to Kinley’s house, but it was better for me to do it than Lydia.
Chapter 12
Hunter sat at the desk in his grandfather’s study, a room that now belonged to him, as did the rest of the house and its acreage. Despite the tragedy of Shamus’s death last night, Stirling had insisted that Hunter go over the will today. It was evening now, and his father had just dismissed the quartet of lawyers.
The estate was his with a contingency that his grandmother could live here until she died. Hunter knew it was a challenge, taking over for his grandfather, but he was proud of the older man’s faith in him.
The house had more than ten thousand square feet of living space, with an indoor pool, a bowling lane, and a small skating rink. It boasted a wrap-around porch lined with comfortable wooden rocking chairs, Adirondack chairs, and gliders for relaxing and enjoying the quiet setting along the Hudson River. The outside was rustic but beautiful, the inside elegant but comfortable.
The house’s accessories made it easier to convince the grandchildren to visit when they were younger. Meagan and Hunter were curious and adventurous as Fraser and Isobel taught them the unique history of the beautiful woods that had been saved from ruin by the industrialists who’d built their retreats among the lush trees in the mountains.
As they grew older, they brought friends along but eventually spent more time at their parents’ home in the Hamptons because most of their friends summered there.
Then, of course, there had been Hunter’s sixteenth summer, when his whole world had changed.
Now it was changing again.
Hunter studied shelves filled with an array of first editions his grandfather had collected over a lifetime. The books had been just one of Fraser’s many passions. He also loved art and owned several paintings by Gordon White, the Scottish artist known for his renderings of Scotland’s famous golf courses. There were also Wyeths, an O’Keefe, and even a Warhol that Stirling had given his father, which said a lot about how little Stirling knew the older man.
Now it belonged to Hunter. Megan had inherited the rent-controlled apartment in New York City.
Stirling got the family home in the Highlands of Scotland, a home that could never be sold or inhabited by anyone outside the MacRae family.
Hunter sighed, a sound of quiet resignation. It was too soon. His grandfather should have lived many more years, like most of the MacRae clan.
Chymera had done that, the damned mutant.
Hunter now knew everything about his family’s enemy. Last night, after he and Craig had brought Shamus’s body home, Isobel and Stirling had told him what they knew about Chymera.
In the human world, he was called Michael Killin, a financial genius dubbed the Lion of Wall Street by the media. He was older than Stirling, though he looked absurdly young. Like most shifters, he didn’t age like a normal human. Rumor had it that Killin was the inspiration for Gordon Gekko, the ruthless hustler of the 1980’s movie, “Wall Street.”
Fraser always spoke of Killin with contempt but had neglected to tell Hunter who Killin really was, what he really was, a monster leading a family at war with Hunter’s own.
Each Killin leader took the name Chymera when they changed.
Hunter was angry that he didn’t know this before now. His grandfather had not prepared him for the battle ahead. It was small comfort to know that Isobel and Stirling agreed with Hunter, but they allowed his grandfather make the decisions. Now Fraser was dead.
Despite the loyal men and women who were his protection detail, he felt very alone. He missed Zoe, but he didn’t want her here now. Besides his concern for her safety, he was wary of her new ability. His grandmother said that over the centuries the MacRaes had worked with other humans who had special psychic abilities, which made Hunter wonder why they’d both been left in the dark. Their meeting as young teens now seemed fated. Which just raised more questions.
His grandmother left this morning with a full complement of guards. She would be in New York until the Manhattan memorial service, and then she was headed for her sister’s home in Scotland. Other guards had been placed with Meagan and Margaret. Though the imminent threat from Chymera seemed to be at the estate, the creature straddled the human and supernatural worlds. He could strike at any time.
According to Isobel and Stirling, the MacRaes had relatives who might help, cousins in North Carolina, Wyoming, and Canada, as well as in Scotland and, of all places, Russia. Isobel was certain Fraser had been in touch with them before his death. Hunter needed to meet the extended family soon.
But these kindred’s numbers had dwindled over the last century. Many families were like Hunter’s, where the shifter gene had skipped a generation. A few had been changed the way Isobel had, with a blood transfusion, but that procedure had failed at five times its rate of success. Worse, several MacRaes had fallen to the Killins in the early part of the twentieth century. That was one reason they had spread out, to break up the target area.
On the other hand, Isobel and Stirling said the Killin clan was growing. Killin was rumored to have children with several women, and there were whispers of rapes. His own protection detail included a couple of brothers who were devoted to him. Lions traveled in prides. They didn’t enjoy a solitary life, and that meant Chymera had his own army with him all the time, whether he was human or cat.
Hunter was up against some fierce odds. He was especially saddened—and disheartened—by the death of Shamus. Tomorrow they would bury Grandda’s main man in the estate cemetery. Shamus trained Craig, but the older man knew more about these pursuers than anyone beside Fraser. Perhaps that was why Shamus had to die, to render Hunter more vulnerable.
Hunter braced his elbows on the desk. Was it only days ago that his main worry had been how to score with a hot redhead at a doughnut shop? Or how to avoid Mandy’s husband? Now he was burying another of his clan and plotting how to kill his enemies.
He sighed. Did that make him a good guy or a bad guy?
He wasn’t a pillar of any community. He was impatient with talk of duty. Certainly, he had no interest in the firm Fraser founded and Stirling had turned into an empire.
Hell, the most he’d ever done that came close to being charitable was buy two hundred boxes of Girl Scout cookies every year. And that was because he loved Do-Si-Dos and Tagalongs. Zoe picked out their pro bono cases. He didn’t look for those who needed his help. Now lots of people depended on him. Not just his family, but Craig, Evan, and other men and women and their families. He was now the MacRae, they had told him. The MacRae.
Hunter rubbed his eyes. He needed rest and exercise to build his strength. But most of all, he needed to get his life in order to understand how he was supposed to go on living despite Michael Killin’s death wish for him and his people.
That started no
w, Hunter decided as he stood and walked to the bookshelf that housed the entire Sherlock Holmes collection. He pulled out The Valley of Fear, and the shelf opened without a sound, revealing a room filled with everything needed for guerilla warfare. Craig had revealed this room last night.
Hunter scanned the array of weapons. Now that the lawyers were out of the way, he would join the security detail patrolling the estate. They searched for signs of Chymera all day, but found nothing. Hunter would meet them after dinner. He wanted to begin as human, to see if and how Chymera reacted. The guards had AR-15 rifles with night scopes. Did the monster prowl only at night?
What if he appeared as Killin, as the human? Hunter studied the secret room full of guns. He hadn’t thought how to react if he faced a human. Would the men shoot to kill?
It was something to discuss with Craig. Hunter put on a side holster and shoved his favorite nine-millimeter Beretta into it.
He laughed softly. No wonder Zoe liked wearing her gun. He felt powerful and invincible. Zoe could outshoot him though. She was at the gun range at least once a month doing target practice. If the bad guys got in her sights, they’d go down with one shot.
He walked back into the study and pushed the bookshelf back in place. He needed food to get through the night, so he headed to the kitchen. In the foyer, however, his father called out to him. He found Stirling alone, watching the Bloomberg channel on an eighty-inch television in the den.
That’s entertainment.
“Where are you going?” Stirling asked, sipping a tall gin and tonic. Hunter raised an eyebrow at that. Stirling didn’t drink often.
“Out to do a security check.”
“Why the hell are you doing that?” his father asked and stood. “Those people know what they’re doing. That’s why they’re here. You’re the head of the estate now. Do you think your grandfather went out patrolling with his hired help?”
Hunter rested his hands on his hips. “Yes. I can’t see him waiting quietly with a threat like we have now.”