Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  He’d done it. Warmth blossomed at his kindness. Maybe I wasn’t completely annoyed with him.

  It took all my energy to slide the barn doors closed. I could not get sick. I turned and stared at my home. Home. It had never really been that. Well, when Tommy lived. Yeah, then, it had been a home, with a sprinkling of laughter, the voices of Tommy and his friends playing video games, Bernadette constantly on the move. She was softer then, less idiosyncratic, before her grandson’s death had peeled away any normalcy, leaving only the shrapnel of sorrow.

  Funny, but now the ancient post-and-beam building felt sort of like a home again. Bustling with purpose and people. Noise. Comings and goings. Laughter. Sadness. Energy. Family. Love.

  Back inside, I hung up my barn coat. When I turned, Larrimer handed me my go-mug. A truce, except when he glanced at my neck, his body hummed with anger.

  But I was in a mood, too, my bad elf perched on my shoulder. There he stood, all bronzed biceps in his tight black t-shirt. So he didn’t much like skin-to-skin, eh?

  “Let’s talk.” I smiled and hooked an arm though his.

  “Don’t touch me.” Startled words ground out likes rocks.

  “Grouchy, are we?” But I let him escape and as he walked away, was surprised to see him brush his fingers across the spot where I’d touched his flesh.

  He took the red chair, another salvo. I took the ancient one, trying to ignore that spring poking my butt, and picked up my knitting, the mitts I’d started for him. I fired back, all dulcet tones and smiles. “Thank you so much for doing the barn chores. Hope you didn’t get too much chicken poop on you.”

  His lips twitched.

  I grinned. “You’re fun.”

  “You’re more fun.”

  “But you’re still madly inscrutable,” I said.

  He raised that eyebrow. “Whereas you’re simply maddening.”

  “It’s good for you,” I said. “Given you try to bulldoze your way most of the time.”

  He started to speak, almost smiled, then, “I’m more subtle than that.”

  I nearly blurted my ass, but then we’d be off again. Instead, I told him what Anouk had said, again editing out the magic, and he listened with that intensity that hallmarked his skills.

  “Control’s a funny thing,” he said. “Elusive. It can shift in an instant.”

  Didn’t I know it. I sounded him out about Lulu and school, and he thought it was a wise idea.

  “Now it’s your turn.” I cut his questions off at the pass.

  “I lost him,” he said.

  “Not buying it. You’re faster, cannier than any man I’ve ever seen.”

  He pulled back, his face a blank slate, his body language relaxed. “He’s dead.”

  “Did you—”

  “No.”

  I tilted my head. “Why can’t you be forthright with me?”

  Statue still, he leaned forward, reached out a hand as if to caress my cheek. He fisted it. “Simple. There are things I won’t share.”

  Frustrated, I hid my disappointment. “All right. For now.” I waited a beat. “When I entered the diner, I glanced at the shooter. I sensed nothing. No anger, no toxicity. That bothers me.”

  “His training.”

  I shook my head, my new curls tickling my cheeks. “I should have sensed that layer.”

  “I believe we can disabuse ourselves of any notion that you are safe.”

  he day dragged, the ache in my neck slowing me down. Larrimer had taken my truck to the Hadley, Mass., Fish and Wildlife headquarters. A briefing, he’d said, about the eagles. I was concerned about him, a faint hum in my head saying he might be in danger.

  I surfed the net, dithering about his return. I found nothing about The Master except for the 2012 movie and several Dr. Who references.

  The Master. What a dumb name. Maybe it was an acronym. People loved those. Like Menace After Stupid Thing. Crap. That was silly.

  Luscious cooking smells finally distracted me—hoorah—and the murmur of low voices. I tested my shoulder, which was way better, as were my other nicks and bruises. Or maybe it was the throbbing in my neck that drowned them out.

  I fast-walked to the kitchen, and spotted Lulu in the living room, glued to the TV while she munched a sandwich.

  “What’re you watching?” I asked.

  “A new reality show. ‘Real Magic.’”

  My eyes crossed. Could I not get away from this? “Oh?”

  All excited, she took another bite. “Yeah, it’s so cool, like… real stuff.”

  “What stuff?”

  “Like videos of jackalopes and fairies riding mice and this thing called a Hodag in Wisconsin.” Her eyes widened. “It’s got two tusks and spiky things on its spine. It’s really gross.”

  I could only imagine Anouk’s take.

  At dinner, Lulu bubbled about her return to school the following day. She flew from the table to call Ronan, not even bothering with her dirty dishes.

  A healthy sign. She was home. Even if Larrimer wasn’t.

  When he finally blew through the door and looked to be in one piece, something inside me relaxed, which, oddly enough, made me feel physically crappier. Bernadette handed him a mounded dinner plate, and I decamped into the living room, having been ordered not to clean up.

  Minutes later, Bernadette carried a tray of steaming tea, bourbon, scones, and what looked like two stainless devices of torture and set it on the sofa table.

  “Time to fix your dressing.” She frowned, worry pleating her wrinkled face.

  “Are you magic, Bernadette?” It just popped out.

  She glared. “Mon dieux! You’ve lost your mind.”

  “Probably.”

  Larrimer ambled around the corner, and she notched her chin. “Sonny boy here says he wants to watch. Check out the wound.”

  Face canvas-blank, he eyeballed my neck.

  “What am I, some medical experiment?” I asked, grumpy as hell.

  He snapped on a pair of gloves. “You’re oozing.”

  Gross. I poured two fingers of bourbon into the tea and drank, manning up.

  Bernadette grinned and tore off the bandage.

  “That hurt!”

  “Tough it out,” Larrimer said. But at odds with his words, he gently rubbed a thumb back and forth across my shoulder. My clothed shoulder. Damn, I wanted the man to touch me. Even more, I wanted to touch him.

  “So what are you going to wear?” he asked.

  Bernadette’s hand flashed as she swiped Betadine across my neck.

  “Wear?”

  “To the Policemen’s Gala,” he said. “My agency’s replicated the invitation. We’re good to go.”

  What the frig was I going to wear?

  “Ah, you’re opting out.” He nodded like some Buddhist sage.

  “Never. It’s just goat farming isn’t conducive to owning anything frou-frou.” None of my clothes would cut it. “I’ll figure it out.”

  “I’ll take care of it,” he said.

  “You’re deranged.”

  “I thought we’d already established that.” His eyes took on an animal sparkle.

  Bernadette dabbed on a gob of salve, then pressed a new bandage to my neck.

  “Ow!” I said.

  “Poor baby,” Larrimer said, looking all faux sad.

  “It’s a good thing you’re a man,” I said under my breath.

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “If you weren’t, swear to gods, I’d take you out.”

  “You mean like on a date?” he asked.

  “No! I mean like in a fight.”

  “What,” he said, face stoic, but eyes laughing. “You don’t fight men?”

  “Of course I do! Just stop bugging me.” I turned away, pissed. I didn’t want him to see me grinding my teeth.

  Larrimer twined gauze around my wrist. “Don’t scratch it.”

  Gurrr.

  As I pulled a new skein of yarn from the closet, Larrimer’s
voice came through the closed door to my office. Had to be on the phone. I inched closer. Impolite, but irresistible.

  “She looks lousy,” he said. “Bastard shot her.”

  Pause.

  “He’s dead, chomped on something in his mouth, foamed, and died.”

  The shooter committed suicide. Extreme.

  Pause.

  “Why send an incompetent?” Larrimer’s voice, cold enough to freeze the Sahara.

  Pause.

  If only I could hear the other end of the conversation.

  “The Anouk woman? So they’d been after her. Yes, she talked to Clea. So?”

  Anouk was in their sights, too. Little wonder she’d scooted so fast.

  Pause.

  “That’s a fucked-up reason.”

  Pause.

  “What was on that bullet?” His voice, a hot growl.

  Pause.

  “That’s fucking deadly. Fix it. Use the wyvern’s blood.”

  Wyvern?

  “I don’t give a shit if you were saving it.” Pause. “No, not even for my men. She needs that fucking antidote now.”

  Pause.

  I raised a hand to my neck. Sensitive and sore. But I felt okay.

  Pause.

  “If anything happens to her…” he growled, his voice near feral. “Pray that the courier arrives in time. Pray hard.”

  A whine at my feet. Grace, wanting to go out. Larrimer’s footsteps. I vamoosed, fast.

  Wyvern? That was a dragon. Holy shit. Larrimer wasn’t just hiding a secret, but a whole grab-bag full. He knew more about Dave and the magic world then he’d let on. At the end, his psychic scent spoke of fury and desperation, and underneath it all, care. For me.

  Back in the living room, I scooched forward on my chair, in an effort to grab Bernadette’s attention, which was stapled to the TV. “I was serious before, when I asked you about magic.”

  She waved a hand to shush me. “Not now. I’m watching my story.”

  No one but Bernadette would call Game of Thrones a “story.” “You’ve seen this episode.”

  She fussed with her turban. “This is On Demand. I want to see it again.”

  I couldn’t help myself. “Reliving old times?”

  She jabbed the pause button. Her hazel eyes blazed. “I can’t help you, Clea. I told you, you’re not ready.”

  I swept my fingers through my hair. They came away greasy with sweat. “When I’m ready, will you answer me?”

  “I already told you, I can’t.”

  “Why, Bernadette? I don’t—”

  “I made a serment.”

  A vow. Except she was lying. No. Rather, she was speaking half-truths. Lately, my senses were refining, grasping even subtle nuances from peoples’ emotions. “You took a vow.”

  “A sacred one, cookie.” She pursed her lips. “Sure as shootin’, you don’t want me to break it.”

  “But…” I shook my head, which felt like a bag of rattling rocks.

  She turned from me and pressed play.

  Dismissed, I walked toward the stairs, stumbled.

  “Clea?” she asked.

  I forced myself to straighten. “Just tripped.”

  She pinched the loose skin at her throat. “I worry. I don’t want the wolves to get you, cookie. That Larrimer’s one of them. You’ll get eaten.”

  Smiling, I winked. “I’ve always liked lupines.”

  Upstairs, I spun to shut the door, got dizzy, and leaned against it. My room swirled like a mad funhouse, and I squeezed my eyes, tried to still the vortex. Fail.

  All I had to do was get to the bed. I took a step, stumbled, reached out, and belly flopped onto the floor, a handful of bedspread cascading over me. I pushed it away, tried to holler for Bernadette. What came out was soft and breathy. My phone. I fumbled in my pocket, and the walls of the room shrank, then bowed.

  I pushed the phone’s buttons, tried to find Larrimer’s number. After a couple of breaths and blinks, I stilled the crazy enough to press the buttons.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I have a problem.”

  “On my way.”

  “Just you.” Cold flash-flooded my body. My teeth chattered.

  He strode in seconds later, his unease caustic on my tongue. I must look like shit. Either that, or I was about to die. Bad thought.

  He lifted me onto the bed.

  A stab in my belly. Dizzy. I puked.

  Tommy yammering. “Look out!” “Don’t go that way!” “Check the stirrup!”

  I mean, really. Get a grip, Tom. I’m not a baby.

  He keeps yelling at me. Why isn’t he shutting up?

  “Clea! Stay with me!”

  More orders. I’d had it with orders.

  Ohhhh. Cool liquid against my lips. Heaven. So hot in here. Broiling.

  “Clea. Open your eyes.”

  I lay cradled in someone’s lap. “Where’s Bernadette?”

  “She looked in on you. Now we wait. Open your eyes.”

  I did. Blinded by the light, by the song. “Where are we?”

  “On your bed.”

  “No I’m not!” Crawled my fingers to his shirt, fisted it. “Don’t take me to the hospital, Tommy.”

  “I’m not Tommy.”

  Panic! I blinked. Larrimer came into focus. “I insist we go home. Who will look after Lulu?”

  “Ssshh. We are home, Clea. I told you I’ve had someone watching the house. Jason’s outside now.”

  “Ohhhh. That’s good.” Words slurred. “More water?”

  As I drank, he kept glancing toward the door. He wasn’t paying attention! What would he say if…? “I’m magic.”

  “Yes, you are.” His eyes bored into mine. He was always so serious.

  I wiggled my fingers. “See.”

  “I do.”

  A belly cramp. I curled into a ball. Another. Maybe I was dying. Lights out. Gonzo. “Am I a goner?”

  “Not an option.” His arms tightened around me, his voice low and mean.

  “If I die, I trust you. To keep Lulu safe. Find Dave’s killer. I trust you, James.” I grabbed his hand. He tried to pull it away, but I hung on. “Why don’t you like me touching you? I like when you touch me.”

  He growled. “You’re being a drama queen.”

  I laughed, and started coughing. Spittle on my lips. He wiped it away. Red dotted the tissue he clenched. Blood. My blood. “Am not. Not scared to die. Maybe I should be. Huh. Or maybe I’ll never know, and it’ll just happen. Boom. Dead.”

  A beast boiled the room, filling it, consuming it with rage and fear. Larrimer.

  So that’s what he felt like when his shields were down. Epic. “I’d rather not. Die, I mean.”

  “You won’t,” he ground out.

  I poked his chest. “You can’t hold back death, mister.”

  “That remains to be seen.” He smiled at me. Gods, he had a fine smile. I hoped I wasn’t drooling. Was I drooling?

  He wiped my face with a cool cloth. That came away red, too. “Can I run my fingers down your face?”

  He looked like he’d sucked lemons, but nodded.

  I touched him, and he winced.

  “Hurt you?” I asked.

  “No.”

  But his hands, white-knuckled on the mattress.

  Another cramp, so bad I screamed.

  “He’s here!” came a shouted voice from far away. But loud. So loud.

  The ambulance. He was taking me to a hospital. I tugged at his shirt. “James, please. No hospital. Please.”

  My gut spasmed. Knives, spreading, slicing, expanding.

  uck crusted my eyes, so I rubbed them clear, saw my quilt, my Nantucket baskets, Kermit. I was home, in my own bed. And, of course, there was Larrimer sprawled in my reading chair, a magazine covering his face, hands on flat belly, taking up enormous amounts of bedroom space. I reached for the water glass. It had a bendy straw. Sweet.

  My head ached and my neck throbbed, but only a little. My right wrist, re-ba
ndaged, itched like a son of a bitch. But overall, I felt pretty fine. Almost too fine.

  I shouldn’t wake him up, but, “Am I about to croak?” My voice, sandpaper.

  He awakened with a jerk, the magazine sliding to the floor. He looked awful. His bronzed skin pasty, his eyes shot with red. “No.”

  “No, really.”

  He walked to my bedside and did the looming thing. “You’re fine.”

  “Oh,” I said. His beard had grown, more than a day’s worth, his shirt rumpled and half hanging out of his jeans. “You have one too many tequila shots?”

  “If only.” He tucked in his shirt.

  How long was I out? How long had he watched over me? “I have to pee.”

  “I live to serve.” Hand on waist, arm out, he bowed like a cavalier of old.

  “Dream on, buster. I’m going on my own.”

  “If you insist, as you always seem to.” His eyes hinted laughter, that almost-smile. Those eyes, starlight on the Pacific. Spectacular.

  “Why did you stay with me and not Bernadette?” I staggered out of bed.

  “The thought of you waking to her gave me nightmares. That turban and derringer. Plus, she’d pepper me with that shotgun of hers if I left you alone.”

  A twinge. I’d hoped for… more. Made it to my bathroom door. Panting hard, but I just had to turn the knob. I looked over my shoulder. “Bernadette’s a crack shot.”

  “I run fast.” He grinned, all teeth. Manical.

  I took care of business, but back in bed, I failed to keep my eyes open. Later, I half-awakened to a whispered voice. Secretive, covert. Larrimer, over by the window, on the phone.

  “She has a right to know,” Larrimer hissed as he looked out at the night. Then, “I won’t keep quiet forever.”

  Another pause. Larrimer laughed softly. “You really think you can stop me, Balfour?”

  Bob?

  “Freak?” Larrimer said, voice a low rumble. “Yeah, man, I’ve always got my freak on.”

  Pause.

  Bob must be talking. Again, I wished I could hear both sides.

  “She should know,” Larrimer said. “What you’ve done. The Union. She’s a human being, and we’re tracking a monster.”

  Larrimer, hand pressed to the window, listening, then his fingers curling to a fist. “I don’t give a flying fuck what she is. You tell her. Or I’ll do it myself.”