Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  He traced his index finger down that long sinuous scar that ran from his temple to his jaw. “There’s an ugly coda. According to Fish and Wildlife’s lab, the calligraphy ink’s composition is unique. Part commercial, but a good portion was made of animal blood.”

  I winced. Gross. And oh, so bizarre.

  “Someone’s idea of a joke, perhaps?” he asked.

  “You don’t believe that.”

  “No.”

  I stared at the invitation on his computer screen. “A power thing.” If I could touch it, would I feel its power? They’d never let me near it. Bob could get ahold of it. So what would I say to him? Let me at it, so I can feel its energy signature? Oh sure, he’d buy into that. Right.

  Larrimer’s eyes gleamed. “Yes, a power thing. Hundreds of these were sent. Except for the few in the know, it’s pulling the wool over the eyes of the clueless. A nasty bit of work.”

  His striking visage hid a sharp mind, which made for a dangerous and near-irresistible package. “Taunting the pathetic saps who’d be horrified to know what they were touching. If that’s how this guy thinks, the invitation is ideal. I’ve never gone, but the Policemen’s Gala is a big ‘do.’ All the muckety-mucks in town go.”

  “Mixing with a bunch of pompous assholes,” he said. “Save me.”

  I almost groaned. “If only I could.”

  At 1:00 a.m., the house finally asleep, I fetched the Storybook.

  Back in my room, I slipped on my bunny slippers, dragged my ancient cashmere blanket over me, and sat up in bed, all cozy.

  I stroked my hand across its cover and felt a tickle of strength. It feathered my fingers, reached up my hands…

  To evaporate. All I held was a slim volume with a worn leather cover. But Dave’s hands had known this book intimately. He’d read it to me, and, perhaps, to Lulu, too. The small tooth prints on the cover brought a smile. He’d found my sampling funny, as if I’d wanted to taste our book.

  I went to open the cover. It didn’t. Open, that is.

  he cover would not open, as if it had been glued to the pages. I tried the back. Same deal.

  Now what? Was I supposed to say some magical incantation or something? Wave my hands? Use a wand?

  “Abracadabra.”

  Yeah, well that didn’t work, not that I’d really expected it to.

  I waved my hands over the book. Right.

  Next, I pressed my wrist to the book, right where it always itched.

  Still stuck.

  I pried, pulled, pushed. Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have, but dammit, I was going to get this book open. I stopped when I ripped a nail, not that I cared about the nail. The damn thing wasn’t budging.

  Dave said the book was mine. Mine.

  It sure didn’t feel like mine.

  My jaw hurt. I’d been clenching my teeth.

  Calm. Quiet. Patience. Yes, Bernadette. I almost said it aloud.

  I needed a distraction, so I reached for The Fellowship of the Ring. As they were climbing Caladris—problems, problems, problems—I recalled their arrival at the gates of Moria and the whole ferdazzle that happened because they couldn’t unlock the doors.

  I put LoTR aside and reached for the Storybook.

  Calm. Quiet. Patience. I took a breath, deep and slow, and said, “Open.”

  And nothing happened.

  “Please open.”

  Nope.

  And then, I knew. Just as Frodo realized the truth of the doors.

  “I Acknowledge and Accept.”

  Feathers across my fingers, and again something changed. I easily lifted the cover.

  The endpaper and the facing page swirled with gold and purple, the gold reflecting the light. I turned the page. Plain cream vellum, rich and thick, and on the right-hand page, an inscription.

  I fy mab, Dafydd y Mage~

  Ti yw fy drysor. Drysor y llyfr hwn yw o ddoethineb a chariad.

  Felly mae’n fod.

  Gyda llawer o gariad,

  Mam

  The language. Uncommon, yet familiar. Maybe Gaelic or Welsh. And “Mam.” Mother.

  The word resonated, deep inside me.

  I’d used that name for my mother. Yes.

  So long ago.

  I rolled it along my tongue. Mam.

  The memory of the man in ripped jeans, my father, I’d called him… Da. Yes, he was Da.

  And Dave, whom his mother termed a Mage in the inscription.

  I flipped pages, velvet beneath my fingers.

  I read.

  THE MAGIC BOX

  Alone in the forest, a fine little girl stored her magic in a small box. She found the magic when the world was born, and she loved it.

  She would wave her hands, and the magic poured out.

  The dead grass greened.

  The muddied stream turned crystal.

  The withered flowers bloomed.

  As she grew, so did her magic, and she crafted animals, both four- and two-legged. Beings to wield magic and those who sparked with magic. Creatures who shifted shape and those who lived on blood and breath. She used her magic often to create many, many things. And it thrived.

  She became a princess, then a queen. They called her Evermore. And she protected her kingdom, and her box, for there were those who would steal her kingdom and her magic.

  One bright, sunny day, a young man came to her and said, “May I borrow your magic box, to guard and protect and share?”

  “Why?” the queen said.

  “Because you have an abundance of magic, and if you lend me the box, then more magic will grow and blossom like yours. And your Beauty and Strength will be shared with the world.”

  The queen saw goodness in the young man, so she placed a tiny fragment of her soul in the box, and leant it to him.

  And for many long eons, as others used it, they, too, gifted the box with fragments of their souls and passed it on.

  And the magic grew and blossomed and multiplied.

  But one day, the queen, alone in her room, felt a change, a lessening.

  She traveled to the forest, where she’d first felt her magic. And there, too, her magic was less.

  And she sensed an unraveling.

  Soon, evil sprouted and grew, and the queen was unable to hold it back.

  The evil shriveled the world. The evil shriveled her.

  The queen sought out the young man to whom she’d given the box, but he had since died, ages past.

  She built a fire, for she had power still.

  She sang to the winds.

  She called forth the water.

  She dug the earth.

  She scoured the bones.

  Then she magicked the ashes, and delved.

  She delved deep, deeper, down through the years, searching out his sons and his daughters, and their sons and their daughters.

  And one day, the queen met an old woman, the many-greats granddaughter of the young man.

  The old woman told the queen that the box was lost.

  And the queen cried stones of silver.

  The queen continued to seek the magic box, but all she heard were whispers she failed to understand. For the world was unplaiting.

  As days and months and years wove through time, the queen remained in this world, but her magic waned until only a small trickle endured.

  Finally, she gathered all that was left of her magic and, with great sadness, she passed from this world to the Other Side.

  What once was will be again,

  That which has unwound will again wind.

  Find The Key,

  And the box will be found.

  Where is the Box?

  Who is The Key?

  Can you find what is lost?

  Twine what is found?

  I closed the book and ran a hand across its cover. What happened to the queen, to Evermore? Did she travel to a place like Valinor, in Tolkien’s world? Was she The Mother, the embodiment of Earth itself? Rather than a tale for children, the book read more like a prop
hecy.

  And didn’t that just answer everything.

  Not.

  I’d know more if Dave’s wife hadn’t interrupted. Cruella and her pointy ears. Pointy horns would be more apt. I almost giggled, which spoke to how tired I was.

  The Storybook didn’t read like anything for a child, not really.

  Could the box in the Storybook be the chest? Why not? Except the Storybook asked more questions than it answered.

  I swiped a hand across my face. I needed Cliff Notes. No, I needed Dave. But I was fried. A puzzle best left to tomorrow.

  Just one more thing. I flipped to the book’s inscription, lifted my iPad, and Googled a translation page. I bet the queen would have really liked Google. I first tried Gaelic, then Welsh. Score.

  You are my treasure. This book is a treasure of wisdom and love.

  So be it.

  Dave had called Lulu his treasure. Another puzzle piece?

  A blanket of dark forced me to let go.

  The following day, moving was not pleasant. In fact, it was deeply, bone-wrenchingly unpleasant. I forced myself to do stretches, and thanked the stars and genetics that I was a fast healer.

  We were all here, the second day after the attack at the Feed and Seed. I planned to keep it that way and to study the Storybook further.

  Except Bob insisted I come to Boston, allegedly to complete my old paperwork on a case. His tone, however, said that wasn’t the real reason. He’d never admit it, but he was worried about me, wanted to see for himself that his “Young Pup” was in one piece.

  At headquarters, I could beard the SAC in his den and learn what it would take for me to get reinstated to active duty. A plan.

  Larrimer hitched a ride with me to attend a meeting about another Fish and Wildlife case. My crankiness didn’t enhance the trip. Someone had told Bob that I’d been at the Cochran house explosion. Larrimer denied it was he, but smoke signals had puffed.

  Upon arrival, Berti informed me the SAC was out of the office. All day. Figures. Even grouchier than before, I hightailed it to a cubicle to demolish the dreaded paperwork. Bob’s warm eyes narrowed with concern when he found me tapping away on the case. I almost blurted, “Why are you screwing Taka?”, but wisdom prevailed.

  “Clea.” He pulled a chair up to my loaner desk. “Jesus. You look like you’ve been through a war.”

  “All superficial. See, I’m doing my duty,” I said, all chipper. When his frown deepened, I went for gravely reassuring, “I’m fine, Old Man.”

  He nodded, expression pinched. “This Cochran business. It’s damned dangerous. Life-threatening. You’ve been shot, blasted to wherever. These men aren’t playing tiddlywinks.”

  I rested a hand on his forearm. “I agree. And I’m a trained special agent.” I shot him a smile. “Or have you forgotten that itty bitty fact?”

  His brown eyes softened. “Be safe.”

  “Now where’s the fun in that? Why aren’t we more involved?”

  “We are.” He winked. “We’ve got you, and Fish and Wildlife has it in hand.”

  That was so not Bob Balfour.

  “Your hair?” he asked.

  “Huh?” I swiped a hand across my hair. It felt peculiar.

  “How about dinner after you finish?” he asked.

  “Sorry,” I said. “I can’t.”

  “Come to my office before you leave?”

  “Of course,” I said, his dissonance a tart taste on my tongue.

  I slipped into the lav to pee before rejoining Bob. When I looked in the mirror as I washed up, I stilled. My spiked hair had grown at least two inches. I closed my eyes, opened them, squinted. Yup, still there. My spiky hair drooped, with hints of curl!

  I tried to perk it up with gel, “tried” being the operative word, then finger-combed it back, left the lav, and entered Bob’s office.

  Crap. Taka sat poised in a chair beside his desk, ankles demurely crossed, tapping the iPad on her lap.

  I tamped down my annoyance and took a seat across from Bob.

  “You perplex me,” Bob said.

  I shrugged. “So what else is new?”

  “An ant on the move does more than a dozing ox,” he said.

  Taka stopped typing and raised her head. “Lao Tzu.”

  “Yup,” I said. “ASAC Balfour loves pulling the Lao Tzu card.”

  She tittered, high-pitched, almost strident, just like on the phone. Not gonna go there.

  “So what am I, Old Man?” I asked. “The ant or the ox?”

  He laughed. “Definitely the ant.”

  Balfour’s door opened, no knock, and James Larrimer prowled in with that surpassing grace, like he owned the room and didn’t care. Pleasure startled me. I was glad to see him, Bob, not so much. A sour scowl bowed his lips, whereas Taka’s expression remained guarded as ever.

  “Agent Larrimer.” Bob nodded.

  Larrimer strode to the desk and held out his hand.

  “Sorry,” Bob said. “Got a cold.”

  “A shame.” Larrimer turned to me, eyes dancing with glee, the kind just before two guys go at it.

  Animus perfumed the air.

  Bob stood so fast, his chair hit the wall. Larrimer shifted to the balls of his feet.

  “James.” I tried to cut through the testosterone. “Everything good?”

  A toxic wave crested, then ebbed. “Yes.” Larrimer notched his head. “Let’s go.”

  He didn’t spare Bob or Taka another look.

  Bizarre. The whole scene was bizarre.

  I rose, equally eager to vamoose. “I’ll be seeing you, guys.”

  Larrimer’s hand pressed the small of my back, and we turned to leave.

  Powerful threads of emotion shot through the room, so many so fast, they were beyond untangling.

  Bob halted us with a, “Clea, wait up.”

  “Hum?”

  “Are you stopping by the hospital to visit Juan? If so, we’ve got some cards for him.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  He puffed out his cheeks. “I’m sorry. I assumed you knew. The ME, Juan Rankin. He’s in ICU over at Mr. Auburn Hospital. Heart attack.”

  I drove, and on the way over, Larrimer said, “I lied. Things are bad.”

  “What—”

  “Every golden eagle we track has vanished.”

  I almost swerved into the opposite lane. “Vanished?”

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Other countries have reported the same. Gone.”

  “A mass extinction?”

  “We don’t know. No corpses.” Suppressed fury darkened his voice. “And from what we can ascertain, the un-tracked goldens have disappeared as well. It’s North America’s largest bird of prey, the national animal of five nations, historically profound and symbolic. Gone.”

  I focused, tried to make sense of it. Failed.

  We stood next to Fern at the hospital entrance and kept her running because Larrimer had asked to borrow the truck for another briefing.

  “I’ll meet you here in two hours,” he said.

  “Make it the Mt. Auburn Cemetery entrance. If I have to leave early, the cemetery’s pretty beautiful. I’ll wander around.” I bit my lip. “I suspect I’ll be in a dark mood.”

  He peered up at the impossibly blue sky, then at me, shoved his hands into his back pockets. “Now don’t go off on me, but are you aware it’s two days since that guy’s threat? I’ve got a friend watching Lulu and Bernadette. But you.” He frowned.

  “I won’t go off on you.” I rested a hand on his forearm and smiled. “And I’m aware. I’ve got my knives and my gun, and I’ll take good care.”

  “Keep your senses out there. Don’t bottle up because of your friend’s condition. Stay alert.”

  I saluted. “Yes, sir!”

  He skimmed a hand across my hair and was gone.

  Juan was dying. Heart attack and stroke.

  I stood alone atop a hill in Mt. Auburn Cemetery trying to collect myself. I had an hour before Larr
imer returned.

  I was right—after visiting Juan, I needed the quiet. Hospitals were the worst for me. The fear, the pain, the sorrow. They scoured my emotional bones.

  And I’d just tasted my friend’s impending death. Juan was a wonderful man. Sharp. Witty. Caring. His leaving, a heart-wrenching thing. Unfixable.

  So I walked the paths amidst the trees and gravestones.

  Far more than a resting place for the dead, Mt. Auburn was home to sculpture and gardens and nature. Carved angels, dogs, a sphinx. Interred Civil War veterans, African Americans, average Joes. Flowers, ponds, paths. And wildlife in abundance.

  Today, ice draped the trees and statues. It fit my mood. Crystals danced on the oaks and maples and spiked from myrtle and rhododendron. A shocking flash of red from a cardinal. Paw prints of deer, fox, and raccoon.

  If elves were real, they’d live here, in this landscaped ice palace that eased me in ways beautiful and terrible. Hell, maybe they were real.

  I leaned against the trunk of a beech tree, the stone sphinx crouched before me, and stroked the cashmere of my fingerless mitts until it soothed me.

  I walked on, toward a more heavily forested area, more private and a favorite of mine. Icy wind buffeted me. I couldn’t feel my cheeks, couldn’t feel my lips, couldn’t feel my tears. I liked it that way.

  Death came to all. Was Juan going to meet his Jesus? His Buddha? A white light? Or did we just end? Like in End? Perhaps, there existed truths out of time and imagination our minds couldn’t process? If the body…

  Eyes brushed over me. Close. I rubbed my arms, deliberately expanded my senses. Nothing. Mt. Auburn could do that. I took another step. Except the feeling intensified. I turned.

  A white wolf the size of a pony padded toward me at a bouncy trot. I blinked. Still there. Still pony-sized. About six feet away, it stopped.