Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  “The fuck.”

  “I really did see him. He was in a lot of pain. But not by the end.”

  He swiped a hand across his face, fisted it. “He was a wyvern, not a dragon. They used wyvern blood to make me. He was much as you describe. Beautiful. Deadly. Powerful.”

  “Where is he, er, when he’s, um, not inside you? Oh, geesh, I don’t understand this at all.”

  He flexed his fingers. “He’s not anywhere. They took his blood. Again and again. Tried to infuse it into others. They failed. People died. All of them, except for me. The wyvern withered. They kept taking. The wyvern died.”

  He reached out and swiped a tear from my cheek. “He’s worth your tears.”

  “He’s not dead.” My voice sounded rough, a whisper. I strengthened it. “He’s inside you.”

  A calloused hand cupped my chin. “I don’t see how that’s possible, but if you say so… And he had a name, one I couldn’t pronounce.” His smile was slow and warm. “He was something to see.”

  “Tell me more,” I said.

  “They bribed the Fae or more likely tortured him into reigniting me with a spark of magic. My magic is drawn to yours.”

  I prowled across the couch on hands and knees to sit on his lap, and he held me loosely as if he wasn’t sure if he should. I tucked my head into his shoulder. “Your magic’s drawn to mine, huh. That’s sort of nifty.”

  “You continue to confound me with the things that pop from your mouth.” He took my wrist and turned it this way and that, his eyes focused on my tattoo.

  “It glows when I firefly,” I said. “It’s pretty cool. I don’t have much control. I can’t go puff and they appear.”

  I felt his smile.

  “So, just now, that was an experiment. You’re lucky you didn’t fry the both of us.”

  “Not to worry. It would’ve been quick.”

  His bark of laughter did warm things to my innards.

  “You are a ridiculous woman,” he said.

  “Ridiculous, am I? Humph.”

  He quieted. “I should have had your back.”

  “You rescued me off a frigging cliff.”

  “I’m fucked up.”

  “And I’m not?” I kissed his throat.

  He stilled, that statue thing he did. “I’ve got to make a call.”

  Damn. Damn damn damn. I kissed his throat again, tasted the salty-sweetness of him with my tongue, and sat up. “I’ll go take care of the animals.”

  “Need help?” he asked.

  “Why don’t you call whomever was hot to talk to you? Use the landline. Please don’t crunch that to death, too.”

  Chores complete, I phoned the diner, hoping Anouk had returned. She knew stuff. No joy, but I left another message. Damn that woman, creature, whatever.

  Minutes later, rehab called and said we could pick up Bernadette. Yes. On our way, and after a quick trip to the Verizon store for a new phone for Larrimer and some new burners, I laid out my plan for the night at The Adept’s Den.

  “ASAC Balfour’s plan,” I said, “is set for late in the evening, after everyone’s been seated and served. We go in disguised well before the FBI does.”

  “They’ll make you,” Larrimer said.

  “No way. I’ll wear a different costume, you’ll be in disguise.”

  “Yours worked well the last time.”

  “Blondie did not recognize me from the dinner. By the way, sarcasm is never appreciated.”

  “Says she who’s the expert at it.”

  Gurrrr. “Blondies are dead. We’re golden.”

  “Christ, Clea, he wasn’t the only one who saw you that night.”

  Grace barked from the car’s backseat, probably agreeing with him.

  “No,” I said. “But he was the only one with a functioning brain.”

  “Alright. Given our options, it’s a solid plan. We’ll get in before the FBI.”

  “Into that inner sanctum.”

  “Yes,” he said. “That’s where The Master will be. Where Lulu and Ronan will be, too, if they’re there.”

  “They will be.” I waved a hand. “I suspect he loves an audience. So theatrical. I bet that’s what the food thing’s all about. He’d be keeping Lulu close. Ronan, too.”

  His sidelong glance said he didn’t like it. “You realize they could be killed, either in the assault, or when we go after The Master. What he really wants is you.”

  My gut agreed. The Master knew I’d come. If he wanted me, he’d have me. Hell, yeah. He’d underestimated me so far. He’d do so again. “Yes. What other choice do we have?”

  Frustration rolled off him like scalding oil as he turned off 202 and took the hill to the hospital campus. He rammed the truck into park, and it bounced once. “I can think of several different ops, all of which include taking you out of the equation.”

  Larrimer wasn’t a fool. He knew I’d never agree to that. “So I’ll be bait. And you’ll have my back.” He would. More than anyone I’d ever known.

  Bernadette’s room at rehab smelled antiseptic. She slept in a green vinyl recliner beside the bed, her things in a clear plastic bag on her lap. I’d taken her derringer, but she still wore that silly turban.

  Her attending physician peeked in. “Mrs. Sevaux is doing very well. She needs rest, but gives every indication of a complete recovery.”

  “Her memory?” I asked.

  He removed her chart from the foot of the bed. Nodded. “Good. It’s good. All except for the assault. It may return, but very possibly won’t. That’s common with this kind of trauma.”

  “You talking behind my back, Doctor?” came a voice from behind us, with, thankfully, only a trace of French accent.

  We turned. Her teasing smile flirted with the sixty-something doctor. She turned to us, wrinkled face pleating with joy. “You kids here to take me home? Wonderful.”

  My mouth moved, but nothing came out. Bernadette had been replaced by an alien.

  She rose, hooking the bag across her arm. “Clea.” She took my arm.

  Then she turned to Larrimer and beamed. “And my boy. My sweet Tommy.”

  Shit.

  Four days later, we’d cemented our plan for The Adept’s Den. Four long days with no phone calls, no messages, no breaks on Lulu or Ronan. On the plus side, no one had tried to steal me, shoot me, or stab me.

  Larrimer, of course, stuck to me like white on rice. But not in the good way. Oh, he’d touched my cheek, smoothed my hair, patted my shoulder. But it was all affection, like you’d touch a friend. No kisses, no heat, no sizzle.

  When you want to jump someone’s bones, this was torture.

  I insisted that each day we go to the diner to see if Anouk showed. She didn’t. We also visited Shatzkin and Bronze Printing. Both were “on vacation.” Convenient.

  The world stretched tight in anticipation.

  The evening prior to The Adept’s Den costume party, we got lucky. I spotted Anouk entering the diner. Larrimer would watch the place while I hid in the ally anticipating her smoke break.

  She didn’t fail me.

  Light spilled from the back door, then the woman who conjured thoughts of Amazon warriors and giant panthers followed. The door closed, and darkness enveloped us. The outline that was Anouk paused, a moment’s hesitation, then she sauntered toward me. Seconds later, a lighter flared. Those sloe eyes took me in, snaring mine, and she fired up her cigarette and inhaled.

  “It is about time,” she said, in that precise, not-quite-English accent.

  As if I’d kept her waiting. “You were supposed to get in touch with me.”

  “You are damaged since we last met.”

  “Funny, I don’t feel damaged.”

  “But there is more to you this time. Much more.”

  I wasn’t in the mood for cryptic. “A chest of bone.”

  “Shush.” She took my hand. “Come, let us walk. Your shadow, he will not see or hear us.”

  I had every faith that Larrimer would.

&
nbsp; We walked down the alley and onto the street, Anouk apparently unconcerned as we strolled beneath the streetlamps. Bundled in down, the night wind didn’t chill me, but she wore no coat.

  “You must be freezing,” I said.

  “No.”

  We’d better move past the monosyllable stage. Fast.

  Few people were out, and when a couple passed us, they appeared wrapped in their own warm world. We headed toward the closed shops of Station Square, and at the shuttered Garner Deli, she led me up the steps and indicated we should sit on the porch bench.

  We sat side by side, and Anouk kept her grip on my hand.

  “Anouk, the—”

  “Wait.” She held up the cigarette between her two long, slim fingers.

  So I sat there silent, inhaling secondary smoke, while she puffed away, slowly, as if it wasn’t twenty degrees out.

  She finally dropped the cig, squashed it with her boot, and slipped the butt into her sweater pocket.

  I waited.

  Her tongue swiped her lush lips.

  Finally, I failed the patience test. “Who are ‘we?’ You never told me.”

  he shot me an annoyed look. “We, creatures of magic, thrived in our world.”

  I chuffed out a breath. “I know there are Fae, which I’ve looked up online.”

  She snorted. “Some truth there, but also much garbage.”

  “And Mages. I’m one, right?”

  Her eyes glowed, that panther color. “You have been busy. Yes, you are Mage. Have you looked that up, too?”

  “I found a lot of gaming stuff, and books, novels. What I need is an encyclopedia.” I grinned. “Have one handy?”

  “You are a smarty pants.”

  “And no one’s used that term since forever.”

  She lit another cigarette.

  “You’re not going to stop talking now, are you?”

  She waggled the tip at me. “No, but you are.”

  I clenched my jaw.

  After a slow nod, she continued. “The chest. You see, we of the magic realm could manage without the chest with the worlds’ unplaited. We had no choice, as without it, we could barely reach into your reality and—”

  “The mundane world.”

  She cut me a sharp look. “Where did you hear that term?”

  My Da. “A memory.”

  She took a drag. “It is the correct one. To continue. The chest was powerful, but with the worlds separate, not essential. As time passed, so we have learned, the chest transmorphed into a simple box. For a thousand years, this has been. Mundane on one skein and magic on the other. Always parallel, on occasion touching, but only with the delicacy of a lover’s caress. Ah, a lover’s caress.” She took a deep inhale and blew smoke out her nose. “Then, fifty years ago in your timeframe, the strands began to reweave.”

  “Why? Why then?”

  “We have our suspicions, but that is, as you say, above your ‘clearance grade.’ Now, the braiding is becoming chaotic, different, the fabric warped without the chest. The new Guardian cannot find it.”

  New Guardian. “Who was the former Guardian?”

  Her lip curled. “Your friend, Dave.”

  “But I thought the chest was lost. The Storybook—”

  “A metaphor… of sorts.”

  Metaphor, my ass. She wasn’t telling me the half of it. I plowed on. “Explain more about this chest of bone. That’s the right name, yes?”

  “It is the Chest of Bone, all capitals, my dear. You should not name it aloud.” She hissed, and her head tilted sideways. She listened.

  The world lay still, breathless. A few errant leaves, autumn leftovers, rustled the parking lot. The rumble of a car. Voices, laughter, but distant. So distant.

  “The chest is a thing of magic. Of power. As the skeins continue to intertwine, the chest orders them, melds them. Without it…” She bared her teeth. “It is really quite simple. In safe hands, the chest helps weave the plaits together in pure symmetry. In evil hands… Well, you have read the books about what happens then.”

  One storybook in particular came to mind. “Who is The Master?”

  “We do not know. We do know he feeds on power, and we suspect he has serious help from the Magic realm. With the chest…” She shook her head, then flowed to her feet, as did I, except when I tried to release my hand, I failed. Superglued together. Swell.

  “How can you not know who he is?” I asked. “Is he a Mage? A Fae?”

  She shrugged.

  “What are you?”

  “For now, my dear, I am your guide.”

  Swell again. “Are you or are you not a panther?”

  She did the glowy eye thing. “Remember the wolves.”

  So she was a wolf? They were shapeshifters, too? Oh, why not. I saw those all the time. They sold them at Target.

  “You, Clea Artemis Reese, must find the chest, and you must keep it safe, until you hand it over to the new Guardian.”

  Which was all well and good, but… “What I need to do is find Lulu and Ronan.”

  “You do not see. You still do not see. Why, my dear, do you think you were named Clea? You’re The Key, of course.”

  She released my hand, lit another cigarette, and vanished.

  Yup, she vanished. Right up that damned column of smoke. Helluva guide.

  I dropped back hard onto the bench, expecting Larrimer to emerge from the shadows.

  Instead, a man towered over me, costumed in calm. Oh, great. Sure, he looked relaxed. Like the Mummy before it grabbed you.

  “What the fuck,” he said in that slow, low voice. “Two seconds ago, when I climbed the steps, you weren’t on this bench.”

  “Of course I was. Why don’t you sit down before I strain my neck?”

  He didn’t.

  So that was the way it was going to be. All right. I slapped my thighs and got to my feet. When I tried to take his hand, the icy fist didn’t budge. I crooked an arm through his. “C’mon, let’s walk.”

  Down the steps, we crossed the parking lot to the path that ran by the river. “What’s your problem, Larrimer?”

  “I’m contemplating the plusses of strangulation. Of you.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.” Was that teeth grinding I heard? “Now, aside from throttling me, what—”

  “You vanished.”

  “All we did was walk from the—”

  “No,” he said, with a preternatural calm. “You did not. You disappeared. I couldn’t find you.”

  “She held my hand the entire time.” I patted his arm. “I guess she made us invisible, which goes with the whole psycho shebang. Ready to listen?”

  He fisted his hand in my hair, tilted my head back, brushed his stubbled cheek against mine. He inhaled deeply. “You scare the shit out of me.” He used that low, honeyed voice that turned me to goo. I wanted a kiss. Where was my kiss?

  He released my hair and took my hand.

  We walked, and I regurgitated Anouk’s tale. “When I was a kid, I loved reading fantasy, sci-fi. Still do. Lord of the Rings, The Once and Future King, Dune, Asimov, whathaveyou. I never once imagined any of it was real. How much of fiction and myth is real?”

  He was taking this all pretty well, until I said, “Anouk’s a shapeshifter, by the way. Maybe a wolf. Although that doesn’t feel exactly right.”

  That stopped him dead. “Doesn’t feel right?”

  “She implied the wolves who helped me were, too.”

  “Shapeshifters.” He nodded.

  He’d gone somewhere far away. Wherever he was, he’d never tell. I squeezed his hand, wanting him here, present, with me. “Oh, and she vanished in a puff of smoke. Wish I could do that.”

  He squeezed my hand. “Me, too.”

  “I think of those tales about thin places,” I said, “Where the otherworld is closest to ours. That idea always intrigued me.”

  “Never heard of them,” he said.

  “Maybe they were places the magic always touched, and where the re
weaving started. Humm. Some say people under enchantment create the greatest art and beauty. Mysterious ancient books exist, like the Voynich Manuscript at Yale and the Oera Linda Book, that I learned about in school. Adder stones, the Lothar Crystal, the Chintamani Stone, Zuni fetishes. Protective wands, healing, curses. Synthetic apriori.”

  He paused, a flash of a smile. “Immanuel Kant?”

  “Why not? Doesn’t our situation fit the idea that what we experience as humans is only appearance, and not the things themselves. Didn’t Kant hypothesize that space and time are subjective forms of our human intuition?”

  “You’re wading pretty deep.”

  I grinned. “It was a good college course. Maybe magic is also a science, just one with its own set of rules.”

  We stopped beside the river. Moonlight danced on the small crests, and the scents of water and pine and snow drifted to me. Stars crowded the sky, distant points of light.

  “Pretty.” Larrimer raised our joined hands and kissed the back of mine, grounding me in a much simpler reality. “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”

  “First you know Kant, now Shakespeare? Should I be worried?”

  His soft laughter echoed on the empty path as we walked to the car.

  The Audi we’d rented for The Adept’s Den dinner party purred. Earlier, Larrimer, sporting a hooked nose, wrinkles, bags beneath his eyes, and a mustache had passed my inspection. He looked nothing like James Larrimer, a fact that added hope for the evening’s outcome. My gold-lame pants itched, and my loose velvet blouse, hiding a knife strapped to my waist and my gun’s shoulder holster, showed enough of my pink pushup bra to make me blush. Oh, screw it. I plumped my breasts up even more. Ballet flats, gold-painted nails, Cleopatra eyes, and a red wig with bangs completed my transformation.

  I looked like a hooker on crack.

  I’d already slipped my FBI badge, a second knife, spare car key, and cash into my dainty purse.

  Larrimer’s lab—which was certainly helluva lot more than Fish and Wildlife—had recreated the original invitation, changing only the date. It would get us through. Where it wouldn’t get us was the inner sanctum. The diners I’d seen enter that alcove to the third room had always been escorted by Adept’s Den staff. No one had walked in alone. No one.