Magic & Mayhem

by Susan Conley

  Sam’s momentum carried him down the small incline, and he toppled head over heels to the shallow pond. He screamed and there was a wet thunk. His body lay still with the water lapping around it.

  The faded form of Peter Wallace stepped from the Inbetween’s darkness and reached out with his frozen hand, a cloud of icy air engulfed it. He stretched open his maw in a wide yawn, displaying the rows of razor sharp teeth. But when his hand reached out, it wasn’t to steal Chelsea’s soul light, but another’s, Sam’s. She heard the whisper of the Watchman’s words, “the Nevernever has him now.”

  “Your light would have made a filling meal.” Peter Wallace’s visage leered in Chelsea’s direction, “but the lost one’s madness calls me, quenches my needs.” The dead eyes in face of the man grew round and black, his pointed fingertips sank deep into Sam’s flesh and jerked back to reveal the glow of sickly yellowed light. Peter Wallace licked his lips and his jaw dislocated like the mouth of a gorging snake, surrounding the fluttering light, swallowing it whole. The Inbetween faded as Chelsea’s scream echoed through the farm fields.

  The gentle sounds of busy insects and the wind came back to life as the weeping willow’s branches leaned over the pond to cry.

  • • •

  Brad leapt to the edge of the water. “Sam!” He attempted to lift his brother’s face from the water, to feel for a pulse, but Sam’s eyes were glazed, life had left them. Bubbles emptied from his nostrils, and his last breath escaped his body. Brad let him slip back into the water, and Sam’s head lolled back and forth in the rippling waves made by his intrusion. A small puddle of blood formed on the water’s surface to surround his head, floating and dispersing around the edges.

  In the pond where Deloris had met her death, so had Sam met his.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  “I’m so sorry, Brad.” Chelsea sat beside the pond, her arms wrapped around her knees. She’d told him what had happened, what she’d seen.

  Brad looked down at his brother, and shook his head. “He set the bench on fire, the evidence is lost. I’ll never have proof that Aunt D didn’t just slip and fall.”

  “Sam did burn some of it, but I threw the quilt over it. I don’t know if any evidence is salvageable, but the bench isn’t burned. Maybe that’ll be proof enough. And we’ll always know the truth.” Chelsea stood and walked over to him, wrapping her arms around him.

  “I better call the police and my parents. Lord, what am I going to tell them? What do they deserve to know?” He dug his phone out and dialed 911. “Could you send someone out to Rural Route One, just south of County Road 23? There’s been an accident, and my brother, Sam Rearden … he’s killed himself.” Brad’s voice broke on the last of it.

  A few moments later, Brad ended the call. “Sheriff’s already on his way,” he said, pressing end on the phone. “Seems your Grams and Hildie had already called and reported something strange going on over here. Were they here this morning?”

  Chelsea nodded and told him what had happened.

  He gazed down into the deep blue of Chelsea’s watery eyes and pulled her in closer. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry for it all.”

  Chelsea buried her face in his chest. “It’s not your fault. Sam was so abused, no one knew the horrors he went through. What he said about your father … ” She shivered as her voice trailed off. What do you say to someone whose life had been changed so much in a few horrific moments, whose brother just tried to kill him … someone he was supposed to love and who was supposed to love him back?

  Brad squeezed his eyes closed tighter and hugged her closer. She held him as silent tears fell.

  Chelsea privately hope that the things in the dark remained unseen, didn’t come to visit her nightmares — there was sure to be plenty of those, and Sam would have a starring role, one of the lost way before death came for him.

  Arm in arm, they walked back to the house.

  Within a few moments, the police sirens sounded in the morning air announcing the sheriff’s arrival.

  • • •

  After Brad and Chelsea relayed the story of what had happened to the sheriff, the ambulance arrived, and the EMT dressed Brad’s wound.

  The medical examiner and the crime scene techs arrived together. “We have to fingerprint you and the young lady as a baseline. You understand?”

  “I was a police officer in Springfield, I know the drill. I don’t like it, but I know the drill.” Brad was fingerprinted first, then Chelsea. Techs moved around the yard, snapping pictures, gathering evidence.

  Brad motioned to the old wooden bench, burned, but not destroyed. “I was going to have this tested myself, before Sam showed up. He tried to destroy it — I think the stains worried him.”

  Sheriff Trent strode over, dropped to his knees, and examined the bench. He motioned one of the techs over, and the tech rolled a Q-Tip over the stain. “It’s blood, Sheriff.”

  “Make sure the bench is moved to the state police labs,” the sheriff said. “Maybe we’ll get more answers than we thought.”

  After the techs took their pictures, the ME leaned down over Sam’s body, tape recorder in hand. Chelsea heard bits and pieces of his thoughts. “Young male … appears to have suffered blunt force trauma … hammer found in his right hand.”

  She moved away. She’d had enough of death.

  • • •

  Brad asked the police to re-open the case of Angie Blackwell. Whether they would or not, the state police would have the final say.

  Chelsea and Brad were allowed to leave, and they returned to the farmhouse in Taylorville. It would be weeks before all the evidence was processed. But, there were promises that Brad would be kept informed.

  • • •

  The state police crime lab confirmed that the rust stain on the wooden bench was blood, a DNA match for Deloris Rearden, and most likely resulting from her death. The boulder was lifted from its place in the pond and taken away as evidence — trace blood amounts were found there as well, again matching Mrs. Rearden.

  Sam’s neck had snapped during his fall. His death was proved to be accidental and would have been instantaneous. Unlucky for him, the afterworld hadn’t been kind.

  Life started to return to normal, with one exception. Brad Rearden took up permanent residence at the Karmikel farm.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  It was two days later when word reached Chelsea that Rowena’s battle was over; her cancer had finally gotten the better of her. The phone rang early one morning.

  “Mama made me promise to call you,” Charlotte’s broken voice told Chelsea. “Let you know she’d gone to her peace.” Charlotte spoke in a hushed voice, Chelsea had to strain to hear. “She was peaceful at the end, no more pain. The doctors say it was a miracle she lasted this long. But I think she was waiting for you. I think she wanted to keep her promise to your Great-Granny. And to get you to make a promise of your own.”

  Chelsea’s eyes brimmed with tears. “If it hadn’t been for your mama, I don’t know if I would have made it. She saved me, Charlotte, she gave me strength. And I promise, if and when June Mary ever needs my help, I’ll be here for her.”

  • • •

  Chelsea sat on the sofa, reading Stephenie Meyer’s Twilight on the recommendation of Grams. The late evening news came on just as Brad strolled into the room, and Chelsea dropped her book on the table. “Hi.” She smiled up at him, but their eyes were drawn back to the newscast when the anchor’s words filtered into their ears.

  “A local man, Edward Vinner, was arrested yesterday in connection to the murder of Angela Blackwell, a college sophomore who had been attending Northwestern University. Her body was found in an alley outside a local popular eatery, beaten to death.” Angela’s smiling picture, the one from the newspaper, flashed across the screen.

  “He’s being held with a on
e million dollar bond; court date has yet to be released.” Then the picture cut away and a short clip flashed across screen, showing a thin, grungy man in dark sunglasses, holey jeans, and a tight fitting t-shirt showing off his wiry muscles, belying his wasted appearance. A vaguely familiar lawyer dragged him from the Springfield jailhouse, screaming, “No comment!” as questions were shouted and microphones shoved in their faces.

  Edward Vinner drew back from the lawyer and grinned as if he’d done nothing wrong. He lifted away his sunglasses, exposing his black eyes, and winked into the camera. For a moment, Chelsea thought he was going to wave like some rock star.

  Brad paled and swore under his breath. “Eddie.”

  Chelsea glanced over. “Do you know him?”

  “I’ve seen him with Sam, though I’ve never understood what they could have in common.” Brad rubbed his tired face as he sank down on the sofa. Chelsea watched him, trying to absorb what was happening on the television. Memories of Sam haunted them both. She wrapped her arm around his waist, resting her head on his shoulder.

  Chelsea hadn’t forgotten Angie Blackwell either. She prayed Angie’s soul had found the peace she deserved, now that her mystery was finally solved. “I know this has all been hard,” she said. The Rearden family law firm was now under investigation — apparently Sam had misused funds, but that was only the tip of the iceberg. There were promises of indictments yet to come. “I wish I could take it all away.”

  He leaned his forehead against hers and bent down to steal a quick kiss. “Just keep doing what you’re doing. This is all that I need, to be right here, right now.” He breathed against her lips, pulling her closer. “I made you a promise, I plan to keep it, I won’t let you go.” His hazel eyes heated with flames.

  “That’s good, because I plan to keep you busy.” She lifted her face and their lips met once again. She sighed. “Is it too early for bed?”

  “Not in my world.” He swept her up in his arms. “Have I told you how much I love you? How glad I am that you walked into my office?”

  “Let me think … ” She pretended to ponder his question before letting her lips take liberties, trailing kisses down the length of his neck. “I could always stand to hear it again.”

  A soft laugh rumbled in his chest, making her heart race, and he plundered her mouth in a demanding kiss. She lifted her eyes to his, her fingers smoothed his worry lines, and she whispered, “Why tell me when you could show me?”

  Brad’s eyes roamed over her face, and he kissed her again. “It might take all night.”

  “I don’t have any place else to be.” She smiled up into his heated hazel gaze.

  “As you wish.” He ravaged her already swollen lips and carried her away.

  About the Author

  Lillie J. Roberts grew up Springfield, Illinois, not as big as Chicago, but big enough for her. She went to school at Eastern Illinois University where she earned a degree in Speech Communication and Disorders. She met her husband while working their way through college, finally choosing to make their life together in rural Illinois with their three children and one wild Westie named Stuart.

  She has always loved reading and writing, making up stories for her younger siblings. So, when life threw her a curve, she chose to make lemonade, and began writing in earnest, letting her characters come to life. She loves music of all kinds from the ancient to the brand new, as long as there’s a rocking beat. She loves to write to the sounds of a good movie playing in the background, drawing her in much like her characters do. She also loves to hear from her readers, drop her a line and visit her at lilliejroberts.wordpress.com.

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Only Time Will Tell by Suzanne Hoos

  A Matter of Fate

  Ellie Heller

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2014 by Alison Auerbach.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-6678-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6678-3

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-6679-8

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-6679-0

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © istock.com/skyman8

  This book is dedicated to my husband Steve, who never got to see the finished project, and my sisters (in fact and by marriage) Julia, Nelly, and Beth.

  A great deal of thanks goes to the critique groups I’ve been in over the years. From RWU to ERAuthors to Critters, Inc., you all have shown me the errors of my ways, helped me grow, and supported me on this crazy quest. In particular I’d like to thank Dr. Zee for metaphorically rapping me on the knuckles early on over my bad “that” and “it” habit, the Sunday Night Chat group—you know who you are—for bouncing ideas off of and being a source of inspiration, and the ladies of my current group for being upfront and honest, as well as wacky as all get out. I’d also like to acknowledge the wonderful editors at Crimson Romance who really helped me shape the final draft into the book you see today. As this is a work of fiction, some of the geographical locations around Lackawanna and Buffalo have been rearranged to suit the needs of the story. Any errors are entirely my own.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  A Sneak Peek from Crimson Romance

  Chapter One

  Her head bowed to the winter wind, Mona strode across the parking lot to the mall, her concern and curiosity about Raine now verging on dread. Since the frantic call from her normally unflappable friend, the scenarios flitting through her mind kept getting worse. Had she been mugged? Detained by mall security? Why? Raine had given no explanation, only saying she needed Mona’s help now. Even if they didn’t see each other much these days, their best friend bond was unshakeable.

  The wind slid under her collar and raised goose bumps along her back. Fuck-a-duck, it was cold! As soon as she finished her training she planned to move someplace warm and get out of Buffalo. Not somewhere too far south though—her light skin sunburned far too easily to be out in the sun all the time.

  Avoiding the revolving door out of habit—she felt trapped when she was neither in nor out—she yanked open the side door, thankful to be out of the frigid temperatures. All elves had their quirks, but she knew she had a few more than most. Growing up outside the Folk enclaves—where she might have learned about magic a lot earlier—hadn’t helped.

  Mona looked around, expecting to see the management office since she’d been directed to use this entrance. Instead she spotted Raine on a bench at the far end of the hall. Mona was relieved for a split second—until she took in her usually tidy friend’s unkempt appearance. Poorly dressed for the winter, s
he had no coat and wore open-toed shoes and a loose, cap-sleeved sweater over a lightweight dress. Huddled over, legs and arms crossed, the thin sweater tented her body. If Mona hadn’t known the woman, she would have avoided her, and not just because she could see the glow of evil intent surrounding her, but because Raine looked as if she’d been living in her clothes.

  As she came closer, Mona's elf heritage allowed her to see the shape of the magic, although it was a bit difficult in the florescent lights. A spell had definitely been placed on Raine. And in her. Mona could clearly see both parts of the spell, the twisted, violent sigils, creating the intent of the spell caster, and the power runes holding and shaping the energy needed for the working. Mona would have cringed if she hadn’t been stuck dumb with shock.

  Oh no, oh no, this was all so wrong. Raine was mortal—aware that there were Folk, but mortal. And mortal or not, no one should have had a working like this on them, complicated with many intricate mini-spells encapsulated in the larger one. Mona was very, very thankful that Raine had called her. If anyone who created spells, and not just saw them, like she did, had touched the working it would have been a disaster. Even now she worried that Raine’s actions may have triggered the warning beacon placed at critical junctures of the spell.

  The magic in Raine would slowly kill her, Mona could see that much. Mona sucked in her breath at the shock. A world without Raine, no matter how infrequently they saw each other, was unthinkable. But what, if anything, Mona could do about it was unclear. She had to be able to do something. She was in training to be a Warder, to protect Folk and humans from misused magic. Even before her training a spell like the one Raine displayed would have drawn her to attempt to fix it; the need was part of why she’d been called to train. Mona took a deep breath; she needed to be calm. The working would shift—speed up—if Raine got overly upset.