Chest of Bone (The Afterworld Chronicles Book 1)

by Vicki Stiefel

  Had science failed him? Was he truly shutting down? Ending? Had I failed him? Because I was too soft, felt too much?

  Oh gods, please. I needed this man. I loved this man.

  Like a flower waiting for the sun, the realization bloomed, beautiful and terrible. He could not die. Could. Not.

  Resting my head on his hand, I dozed.

  Barking dogs and Bernadette’s, “Get up!” awakened me.

  James. His face, serene, glassy, like a pond awaiting a pebble. He breathed. Deeper. Or was I imagining it?

  “Vite! Vite!” she said from the kitchen.

  I pushed to my feet. Who? Had Tommy come after us?

  Voices shouting orders. A booming, “Wait for me.”

  Bob. Shit.

  He couldn’t find a vulnerable Larrimer. Okay, we had to keep Bob in the kitchen. He couldn’t see through the half-wall to the couch.

  I ran into the kitchen, smoothed my… damn! I was still in costume, and now it was covered in blood. “Stall him,” I said to Bernadette. “I’ve got to change.”

  I flew upstairs. Had Ronan moved the rental car? A peek out my bedroom window. Gone. Garaged. Good boy.

  As I whipped off my clothes, a knock at the back door, then voices. I scrambled into jeans and shirt, raced to the bathroom, scrubbed my face, poked fingers through my wild hair, forced myself to calmly walk down the stairs and into the kitchen.

  “Bob!”

  He stood by the counter talking with Bernadette. He looked exhausted. Vertical lines creased his face, the bags beneath his eyes smudged purple.

  “Don’t you look like crap,” I said. “Come. Sit.” I walked him to a chair at the kitchen table, one facing the mudroom. Risky, but riskier to leave him just standing there. “Ssshh. Not too loud. Ronan’s asleep on the couch.”

  Bernadette bustled around. “So good of you to visit, Captain Balfour.”

  “Special Agent,” we both said simultaneously.

  “Special Agent, then.” Her smile could have melted chocolate. “Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Scotch?”

  He waved a hand. “Just coffee, Bernadette. And thank you.”

  “I’ll have some, too.”

  A covert look of worry. “Of course. Let me take your coat, Captain.”

  Minutes later, she placed a carafe of coffee, milk, sugar, mugs, and a platter of cinnamon buns on the table. She vanished into the living room, sat by the woodstove and picked up her knitting. Just like anyone’s sweet granny. Ha!

  He frowned. “You were there tonight.”

  “Yes.” Why wasn’t he barking at me for going in on my own? For squirreling away Ronan?

  Bob’s hand drifted across the table and covered mine. “You could have been killed, Young Pup.”

  “But I wasn’t, Old Man.”

  I moved my hand to reach for the carafe, poured him a mug, and did the same for myself. Where earlier I’d begged the powers-that-be for a movement, a word from Larrimer, now I pled for silence.

  Bob swirled sugar and milk through his coffee, studying me. “So tell me about it.”

  One false step. Hell. I smoothed my face.

  “I’m not sure you’re going to believe this, but…” I recounted a much-edited version of the night’s events, leaving out any mention of Larrimer and magic, my fireflies and the Chest of Bone. I explained The Master, sidestepping Tommy’s name and all he meant to me. He’d use me as a wedge with Tommy and view Lulu as a side issue. Not gonna happen.

  “I ran out of the place,” I said. “Just as your people came in. I had to get Ronan out of there, to safety. He was already hurt and—”

  “Hurt?”

  “He’d been imprisoned and his girlfriend has vanished with a monster. He’d been compelled to eat that meat.” My stomach flip-flopped.

  He leaned back in his chair. “You were always tough, Clea, but ever since—”

  “My breakdown? My panic attack? The doctor cleared me, something you seem to have conveniently forgotten. You’re talking to Clea 2.0.”

  His eyes warmed. “So I see. Rest assured, we’ll find this master and the girl.”

  They didn’t have a prayer. “Could you open the brick wall behind the stage?”

  He nodded. “There was some screwy secret latch. Took us a fucking half hour, which is why we lost him. This guy’s got a payload of tricks. He’s making buckets of money with his endangered animal scheme. Sick bastard, but clever. I’m surprised you didn’t see that. You usually cotton on to things goddamn fast.”

  “Yes well, I admit it, I was scared. Everything got muddled.”

  His sympathy flowed over me, then sharpened. “And where was the mighty Larrimer in all of this?”

  “He was going to come with me,” I said. “But he got a call and said he had to go. Urgent business. He said he’d be gone for a couple of days.”

  “Is that so?” He stood. “I’ve got to talk to the kid.”

  ou want to talk to Ronan?” I squeaked. Cleared my throat. “I’m sorry. He was exhausted, but he couldn’t sleep. I gave him an Ambien. Ouch. Tomorrow?”

  “Now, Clea. Even if—”

  “I Shot the Sheriff” wailed from somewhere. Shit. Do I get Larrimer’s phone? Shove Bob out the door?

  And Bernadette appeared, fawning over the agent.

  I jumped up. “My phone. Be right back.”

  I started to search Larrimer’s pants. Hell! Of course it wasn’t there, we’d taken the burners.

  The damned song kept playing. Where?

  I ran into my office, dove for the phone on the daybed. “Hello?” I asked, shooting for high and breathy.

  “Who is this exactly?” said the woman.

  I knew that voice, knew it from… Holy shit. Taka. Special Agent, my ass.

  The identifier photo had shown a pixie-haired, lab-coated, black-lipsticked woman, glasses askew. Just like that trippy 3-D flash I’d gotten of her weeks ago.

  I further enhanced my faux voice. “I’m sorry. Mr. Larrimer isn’t here.”

  A pause, then, “I see. Have him call me ASAP.”

  Staying in character, I made sure to ask, “Who’s calling?”

  “He’ll know.” She disconnected.

  Why was Taka calling Larrimer, and at three a.m.? I checked the phone’s recent calls. Taka’s call said DarkPool. What was that?

  I powered down the phone. A haggard Bob sat in my kitchen. He was up to his neck in this sewage. How? And that “agent wanting to study me” bit. Yeah, right. Like I was a frigging lab rat.

  Larrimer was their lab rat, too, except he wasn’t following their protocols.

  I collected myself, then returned to the kitchen table. I didn’t sit.

  “A friend,” I said to Bob. “Saw a car come up our driveway. Wanted to see if we were all right. I checked on Ronan. The kid’s out cold.”

  Bernadette tsked. “3:00 a.m. Terrible time to phone.”

  “They were worried about us, B,” I said. “Bob, I’m exhausted. How about you give us a break?”

  Bernadette stood. “A fine idea. I’m quite tired, too, dealing with that unfortunate boy. I’ll get your coat.”

  Bernadette disappeared, and Bob rose. “I’ll stay. That maniac could come after you.”

  “Thanks, but we’re fine, Bob,” I said.

  He put his hands to his waist. “Now you listen, Young Pup, dangerous stuff’s going down. You’re out here in the middle of nowhere. You’re not safe.”

  Shit on a shingle. Now what?

  His phone rang, “Balfour.” He frowned, nodded. “A tip. He’s been spotted in Fantin, with the girl. It seems you’ll get your way, after all. Take care.”

  I stood a far better chance of stopping Tommy and getting Lulu. I’d follow.

  Bernadette reappeared and handed him his coat.

  I smiled up at Bob, trying to ignore the acid tension souring my belly. “Thank you. Now, get that bastard.”

  “I’ll come back out tomorrow.”

  “You needn’t, Bob. You’re
exhausted, too.” Me, all molasses and light.

  “I’ll be here.”

  After Bernadette closed the door, she turned to me wearing a Cheshire grin.

  “What?” I reached for my keys.

  “I like those, what do you call them, burner phones. Handy.”

  I didn’t get it, and then the lightbulb lit. “You called in the tip.”

  Endless hours passed. Too many. Larrimer hadn’t moved, hadn’t awakened. At 6:00 a.m., I shrugged into my barn coat. Watery morning light streamed across the dooryard. Each day we gained a few minutes. A red squirrel spotted me and scampered off. Grace at my heels, I walked through the barn, feeding and watering our critters. I whistled for Clem, who frolicked in the pasture. He sensed spring was coming, too. Oh, not this week or next, but it always did, and with it, longer days, baby green leaves, the sounds of peepers, and an excess of mud.

  I longed for it all, even the mud.

  Damn. I’d scheduled the farrier to do Clem’s hooves today. I’d reschedule, but, gee, it would be fun to mix her with Bob.

  Finished up, I flicked off the lights and dragged my ass back into the house. Checked once more. James Larrimer still breathed.

  I showered and dragged my sleeping bag to the living room, pushed the table away, and set it beside the couch. If he awoke, he’d need something.

  Sleep eluded me, and I had this crackbrained idea. I sat up, placed my hands over his heart. He felt warm and real and alive. I called my fireflies. Oh, pleasepleaseplease.

  Nothing. Either I was tapped out or not panicked enough. Who the hell knew. I lay back down, my busy mind fogged with exhaustion.

  James stands tall beside me, a gun in each hand pointed at Tommy.

  Tommy raises his hands, and a river of silver quills arcs toward James.

  His face splits, his torso, his legs.

  Blood, blood everywhere, splashing, frothing as the quills rip him apart!

  His head rolls across the floor, comes to rest, eyes blank, mouth open, neck red and jagged with bone and flesh.

  Nooooo!

  I sat up, screaming, imagined James on his haunches, holding his side, shirt in tatters. I breathed a sob. Still dreaming.

  Calloused fingers warmed my cheek. I held them there.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  That voice, honied granite. Eyes burning, I blinked twice. Real. “Yes. Yes. Sit before you keel over.”

  A grin. “Still giving orders?” He eased onto the sofa and stretched out his legs.

  “Absolutely.” I sat beside him, nuzzled my face close to his. He felt so good. So good. I settled. “You shouldn’t be up, you’re—”

  “I’m fine.” He frowned. “Getting there. Thank you for the trust.”

  “Okay. Now, how are you really feeling?”

  He grimaced. “Like shit, but I’ll live.”

  I skimmed my fingers along his jaw. “Nanotechnology at its finest.”

  Arctic stillness.

  Stupid, stupid mouth. I leaned closer and nipped his ear. “I’m glad you’re tough.”

  “Comes in handy.”

  “Bob was here. He’s coming back today.”

  “Fuck.”

  “I agree.” Time to tell the tale. “Tommy’s The Master. My Tommy.”

  He nodded. “I heard as much before I passed out.”

  The ache in my chest grew as I filled in the blanks. Like I was betraying my best friend. My emotions better catch up to my brain. Instead, the ache grew. “Tommy wants to trade Lulu for the chest. And he wants me.”

  His face tightened. “He can’t have either.”

  “I don’t care what the thing does…”

  “No.”

  Except, it was the only thing that would placate him. If that. I churned with scenarios of how to deceive Tommy. He was too sharp, too canny. His power terrified me. His shield. Those silver quills. He’d frozen me for long minutes in that goo. Had he been trying to kill me, I’d be dead.

  Somehow, somewhen, Tommy had tapped into the magic retwining with the real world. What did “real world” mean anymore?

  How many years had Tom known about the magic? When had he learned? He’d have practiced, hard. He was methodical, my Tom.

  As a freshman, when he’d been cut from the basketball team, he’d been so hurt. Afterwards, he’d shot baskets, endless baskets, and as a sophomore, become their star point guard. I admired his doggedness, yet he’d never meshed with the team, always held a germ of a grudge from that original cut.

  How hard must he have worked to fake his own death?

  What I’d never seen, or, what I’d refused to acknowledge, was how his determined streak could bleed to obsessive, his unyielding notes to pitiless, his perception of some people as beneath him. His ability to lie—to me, to Bernadette, to himself—when it came to what he wanted. Perhaps those behaviors stemmed from the loss of his parents, the way they’d left him with his grandmother one day and disappeared. That sense of abandonment could warp a child. Or maybe it was just him, hardwired into who he was. I didn’t know.

  Yet loving him back was like breathing.

  “Clea,” Larrimer said. “Where did you go?”

  His eyes filled with concern, his worry undid me. My eyes burned.

  He pulled me onto his lap and folded me into arms warm and strong.

  The burning turned to tears, and became a torrent. “He’s done horrible things. Terrible. Because with me, he always loved. Unreserved, fierce, loyal. No one, not Bernadette, not even Dave, loved me as Tommy did.”

  And I couldn’t stop crying for a loss more devastating than when I’d seen him “die” in that copter.

  When I finally wound down, Larrimer’s tattered shirt was damp, and a quiet sort of numbness smoked through me.

  Last night, my fireflies had affected Tommy. But they hadn’t brought death, not when his resurrection was so new to me. I’d held back, too.

  When I fireflied, I’d begun to note subtle differences, the distinctions controlled by my emotion. To draw a thing to me. To protect. To attack. To kill.

  The path was clear, but I hunted for a way out. Like a rabbit caught in a leg-hold trap, the only escape—to gnaw off my leg.

  I must, I would kill Tommy.

  He’d never see it coming. I was the only one who could get that close to him.

  Here I was, contemplating ending yet another life. A third life. No other way. All exits blocked. No escape route. Tommy would die. And so, most probably, would I.

  Larrimer couldn’t know. He’d try to shield me, and Tommy would end him. Alive, he’d keep Lulu safe. Bernadette, too. He would be safe. To do this, to kill Tom, I needed to know James lived.

  “What’s going on in that twisted mind of yours, babe?” Larrimer said.

  I took a deep, stuttering breath, and smiled. “Nothing too diabolical. Tommy’s a master of some kind of magic. He built a wall of ooze that contained me. It hurt. Until I fireflied.” I looked up. “I wish you’d seen them. They were amazing. Fierce.”

  “I wish I’d seen them, too.”

  Those probing eyes saw too much. “Tommy will get in touch with us. With me.”

  “He said that.”

  “No, but he will.”

  “What about telling Bernadette?”

  The pressure hurt. “No, I can’t. Can’t tell her what he is, what he’s become. Her mind, it’s better. She fixed you up.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Did I imagine sugar?”

  “Nope.” I pushed the button on my phone. “Geesh, it’s one in the afternoon.”

  “You had a good nap, until the end.”

  I smiled. “Yeah, the ending’s always a bitch. Oh dear, Ronan.” I started to get up.

  His arms tightened. “Still sleeping. Bernadette’s in her room. I was on my way to take a shower.”

  I pictured him showering, wished I could join him.

  He leaned forward and kissed me. He tasted of salt and honey and him. His mouth moved gently, but I fel
t his storm.

  I wanted more, and I ran my tongue over his lips, combed my fingers through his hair. He held me to him. Rock hard. Solid. Divine.

  All while my thoughts devised ways to kill my best friend. I slipped from Larrimer’s embrace and off his lap.

  He cupped my face. “What?”

  “You had a phone call around three this morning. I answered. Sorry, but it came when Bob was here. A woman. She sounded annoyed. She said you’d know who she was.”

  He ran a finger down my cheek. “Did you tell her who you were?”

  “No.”

  “Good.”

  Secrets and lies, words knit like an intricate lace shawl, obscuring the truth.

  A quick kiss, and he stood. “After I shower, mind if I borrow the Tahoe, er, Fern?”

  “You can’t drive yet.”

  The eyebrow again. “But I can.”

  “What’s DarkPool? I thought Fish and Wildlife was—

  His eyes flared, then cooled. “I’ll explain when I get back from town. Promise.”

  Hours later, I was alone for the first time in what felt like centuries. Outside, I threw my knives, then I trotted to the cellar, slipped on my gloves, worked my kickboxing routine.

  Punch, kick, punch, punch, kick. Muscles liquefied, gliding into the familiar, and I sank into the zone of dancing and movement, then segued into my ballet workout. I flew.

  The world felt near normal. Ronan at practice. Bernadette going to her bridge club. Larrimer off to Boston.

  Yet I walked on quicksand, reality having become a capricious thing.

  Tommy controlled his power. I could control him.

  I rested my hands on my knees, panting.

  No. That way led to madness.

  I trotted upstairs.

  Time to stop stalling and find the chest.

  Showering again, I pictured Lulu in that indigo satin dress, felt her anguish, her blazing hope when she saw me, her terror for me. And her horror as Tommy trapped her in his arms.

  Ronan felt that same pain. He adored her, and she, him. She admired him, too. Trusted him.

  Ronan was a special young man.

  Humming with hope, I snagged a pair of nitrile gloves, walked to the room at the end of the balcony, and turned the knob.