Ground

by Kirsten Weiss

  I knit my bottom lip. It was possible. She'd done that sort of thing before. But we had called the storm. I'd felt the power flowing through us, energy sparking through my veins.

  My gaze clouded. How could I have forgotten?

  Something creaked beneath me, and I looked down.

  My breath seized. I stood in the center of the wellhouse floor. Its wooden boards sagged beneath me.

  “Crap!” I leapt backward.

  There was a creaking, splintering sound. The board gave way beneath me.

  I stumbled and fell sideways, tumbling to the cold earth.

  A clunk. A hollow, echoing thunk.

  Hairs lifted on the nape of my neck. I'd walked inside the wellhouse and not noticed. How had that happened?

  Heart pounding erratically, I clambered to my feet and tried to brush the pine needles from my sweater. They clung to every knitted loop.

  I walked to the stone entrance and peered inside. One of the floorboards was missing, leaving a dark gap.

  Now, this place really was a hazard. And I was pretty sure I wasn't the only kid whose imagination had been captured by the Moorish building. There would be others.

  I could call the police, but who knew how long it would take for them to fix the problem?

  I called Brayden.

  “Jayce,” he said, his voice cautious.

  “I'm at the old wellhouse on Freeman Street,” I said, businesslike as Karin, but my pulse thumped. “One of the boards has fallen through. I'd like to fix this before anyone gets hurt. Do you have any scrap lumber we could use to cover the hole?”

  “I'm off duty. I'll be right there.” He hung up.

  I got on my knees in the stone entrance. Cautious, I crawled onto the floorboards, testing the weight. Most of the boards seemed steady, but I could see the rot. They'd all need to be replaced — a job too big for Brayden and I today. If we could do a quick repair on the worst of it, maybe put a warning sign near the entrance…

  I hadn't thought to ask him to stop by the hardware store and get one. Well, I could return later and erect a sign. But I'd let the police know, and... And that would make a good excuse to call on the city manager, Wynter Swanstrom, and learn more about the lawsuit.

  I peered through the rectangular gap in the floor. A musty, earthy smell rose from it, enveloping me. I sniffed. The odor wasn’t bad exactly, just different. And there was something else. A current of air from below stirred my hair, and my skin tingled.

  Magic.

  Curious, I extended my senses, closed my eyes. A twisted, black and white landscape. Dead oaks and lightning flashes and dark, dark, dark. A broken castle and water streaming, ripping the earth, tearing at roots. Groaning trees, tilting, falling.

  And someone. Something. A feral power, wild beyond my understanding. A gold light tinged rose expanded before my gaze. The magic overwhelmed me, racing like a wildfire across my skin. The light swelled, hot, beyond my control, and—

  “Jayce!” Firm hands grasped me, and I was sitting up.

  I gasped.

  “Jayce, what happened? Did someone hurt you?” Brayden's voice rumbled through me. My side pressed to his chest, and his muscular arms encircled me. If I tilted my head, I could lay my ear against him, hear his heartbeat. Above us, pine branches swayed in a cold breeze.

  “I'm okay,” I choked out and tried to pull away, but he didn't let go.

  “You're not okay. You were unconscious a minute ago.” He flicked a pocket flashlight into my eyes. “I'm taking you to the hospital to get checked out.”

  “I'm fine.”

  “Passing out is not fine.”

  “It was magic,” I blurted, exasperated. “The doctors won't find anything. They'll tell me to get something to eat and rest.”

  He released me, and I wobbled, losing balance at the sudden absence of his touch. “Has this happened before?” he asked.

  Had I ever gone back for a second helping of trouble before? Oh, yeah. “I was in a trance state, not unconscious.” That, I think, was true. I'd opened myself to a light trance, but it had taken me somewhere deeper and terrifying.

  “Like Lenore's shamanism.” He got to his feet.

  Mouth open, I stared up at him.

  One corner of his mouth twisted upward. “Can you blame me for being curious about you three?” He extended a hand and helped me rise, yanking hard enough that he almost lifted me off my feet.

  I lurched toward him and braced one hand on his chest.

  We stood frozen, desire flowing between us. His chest rose and fell. I stepped away, his touch suddenly unbearable.

  “I guess I can't blame you,” I said. “Thanks for coming. I wasn't sure you would.”

  He nodded to a tumble of rough lumber and a tool box lying near the stone wall. “I don't want a kid to fall in either.”

  “And that's the only reason?” I asked and heard bitterness in my tone.

  “No.” He reached for me. At the last moment, he dropped his hand. “You found Phoebe.”

  “Too late,” I said. “She'd called me, wanted to talk.”

  “And you went.” Emotion filled his voice. Anger. Frustration. Fear.

  “Something bad is happening in Doyle,” I said. “Not just the murders. I can't—”

  “He was blackmailing me.”

  I stared.

  “Matt Zana,” he said.

  Confused, I looked from the swaying pines to him. A wounded bird fluttered beneath my ribs. “Blackmail? But what—?”

  “I didn't want to tell you. I told myself it didn't matter. I wasn't responsible, and I was only a kid when it happened. But somehow he found out. And then he began twisting the knife. He knew how I felt about you, what it would do to us.”

  I grasped his wrist, my movements herky-jerky. There was nothing he could say that would change how I felt about him, because I knew Brayden. He was a good man. “What are you talking about?”

  “My father was a drunk, and when he drank, he got angry.”

  I already knew this. Or bits of it. Brayden didn't like to talk about his father. His parents had separated when he was young, and he'd told me he had few memories of the man.

  “One night my mother had had enough.” He stared past me, through the open arch of the wellhouse. “She packed me into the car and ran. She was frightened, not really thinking. He chased us in his truck. I was nine.” And then he looked at me, as if this last bit of information was somehow significant.

  I shook my head. “I had no idea things had been so violent. I'm sorry.”

  “Don't say that,” he said roughly.

  “Brayden—”

  “She was driving badly. They both were. My father tried to pass, and she swerved to block him. There was another car coming in the opposite direction. It veered off the road, hit a tree. My mom kept driving. She was afraid if she stopped, my father would kill us both.”

  “Given what you've told me about your father,” I said, “that wasn't exactly a crazy idea.”

  “She finally did stop, here in Doyle. My father kept driving, and I never saw him again. The police station was smaller then. But they already knew about the accident. So my mother said nothing.”

  “The accident…” I shook my head. “You mean the other car?”

  “My mother didn’t report it.”

  “And the police never found out,” I said.

  “No. She took the secret to her grave, and I kept it for her.”

  What must it have been like to keep that secret? To have held onto that awful knowledge as a child? “And Matt found out about the hit and run? How?”

  “That's not the important part of the story.” His rugged face creased, anguished. “The other driver was killed. He was on his way to the hospital, where his wife was giving birth.”

  I felt the blood drain from my face.

  “To triplets,” he said.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  “Your parents killed my father?” I stared, stunned. “That's what you're telling me?
”

  The woods had fallen silent. A pine cone struck the wellhouse’s red-tile roof and tumbled to the earth.

  “I didn't know how to tell you.” Brayden looked at his booted feet. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  “And you paid Matt to keep silent,” I choked out.

  He looked up, his green eyes intent. “No, I didn't pay him. I threw him work. I think for Matt, blackmail was about enjoying his power over people, not getting actual money.”

  Tucking my hands around my elbows, I turned from him. He'd known all this time the truth behind my father's death, and my sisters and I had blamed it on an unseelie curse. I laughed. All this time.

  A distant part of my brain reminded myself this wasn't his fault. He'd only been a kid at the time of the accident and carrying a terrible, adult secret. But hurt and anger coiled inside me, and I squeezed my mouth shut, terrible words rising in my throat.

  “Jayce—”

  “I can't talk about this now. I have to go.” I walked to my truck and didn’t look back. But his pained gaze scorched the flesh between my shoulder blades.

  Leaving was the best I could do. I couldn't think about this now.

  Starting the F-150, I drove toward downtown. I couldn’t return to Ground. It would be too easy to fall into a work pattern and start thinking about Brayden and my father’s death. Talk it over with Lenore? No, I had to get this straight with Brayden before I told my sisters. Between Brayden's bombshell and whatever magic had happened at the wellhouse, I was too rattled to figure out anything that mattered.

  I drove past the park and its gazebo, abandoned in the winter, and rubbed a curled knuckle against my bottom lip.

  I couldn’t think about Brayce now, but what had happened at the wellhouse? I'd been drawn inside in a trance state and nearly fallen through its plank floor. Had that vision been part of the unseelie's magic?

  My leg muscles twitched, restless. Unlike a dream, the vision hadn't faded. I could still see that twisted landscape, the ruined castle, the unnatural light. The place I'd glimpsed hadn't been of this world. Was this one of the other worlds Lenore journeyed to in her shamanic trances? My hands tightened on the wheel. That answer didn't feel quite right to me.

  And the power I'd felt there — what the hell had that been? It hadn't felt heavy or bad. It had felt beyond good and evil — wild, primal.

  I turned left on Main and drove to the two-story city hall. Like everything else in Doyle, it was old. Built in the 1890s, its bricks had faded to a golden brown. Thick swags of holly garlanded the building, giving it a festive feel. A twenty-foot tall Christmas tree stood on the small patch of grass in front of the town hall, its red and green lights dim.

  I walked up the brick steps and pushed through the wooden, double doors into a high-ceilinged hall. Doors lined the paneled walls. A polished, oak help desk stood in the center of the room. Two poinsettias bracketed each end of the desk.

  Behind it, Mrs. Steinberg touched her silvery hair, and smiled. A pair of reading glasses hung from a chain around her neck. Like everyone else in Doyle, she was well-preserved, her age showing mainly in the depths of her brown eyes. I couldn’t say how old she was, but she'd seemed to have been around forever.

  “Good morning, Miss Bonheim. What brings you to town hall today?”

  “I’m here to see Wynter, the City Manager.”

  “Second floor. Room two-three-two.”

  “Thanks,” I said, glad she hadn't asked if I had an appointment.

  I climbed the marble steps to the second floor gallery. It smelled of lemon furniture polish and thwarted power. Running my hand along the gleaming wooden balustrade, I made my way to room 232. The door stood ajar, so I walked into the receptionist's room with its green carpet and sleek, modern furniture.

  “May I help you?” the young man behind the desk asked. I recognized him from Ground. He always ordered a flat white – name on the cup: Mark.

  “Hi, Mark. I'm here to see Wynter.”

  “Do you have an appointment?”

  “It's about the wellhouse.”

  He frowned at his computer. “But do you have an appointment?”

  “It won’t take long.”

  “You need to make an appointment.”

  “But—”

  An interior door opened. Wynter, his blue eyes cheerful against his near-albino skin and hair, strode into the room. “Mark, can you fix this presentation for me? Maybe come up with an infographic too?” He handed the receptionist a thumb drive and smiled at me. “What are you doing here?”

  “There's a problem with the old wellhouse,” I said.

  Wynter groaned. “Not again.”

  “Other people have complained about the hole in the floor?”

  His pale brow furrowed. “The floor?” He jerked his chin toward the open office door. “Come inside and tell me about it. I've got a few minutes before my next meeting.”

  “Thanks.”

  The receptionist scowled at me.

  I smiled back and followed the city manager into his office. He'd retained its 19th century vibe. The molding on the ornate wooden desk matched the curlicues on the wood-paneled walls. Sturdy, antique chairs with crimson and gold-check cushions mirrored the striped, burgundy and gold curtains.

  “Wow,” I said.

  He grinned. “You can't work in a historic landmark and just chuck the history away.”

  “The town did in your reception area.”

  He shrugged. “Water damage. We had to re-do everything, and Mrs. Steinberg wanted ergonomic furniture. I can't say as I blame her, and no one crosses that woman. So what's this about the old wellhouse floor?”

  “I was there earlier today and nearly fell through it. A friend of mine is there now doing a patch job but there are no warning signs—”

  His forehead creased. “Unless he works for the owner, fixing the floor isn’t his job.”

  “Which is why I'm here.”

  He sat in the massive leather chair behind his desk. “I guess I can't complain too much about your friend’s initiative. The land the wellhouse is on is privately owned. I'll send a warning notice to the owner.”

  I plopped into a chair opposite. “You said other people have complained about the wellhouse?”

  Wynter ran his hand along the brass thumbtack studs on the chair’s arm. “I take it you're not a member of the Historical Association.”

  “No.”

  “They're spearheading a drive to declare the wellhouse a historic landmark.”

  Ah ha. So that’s why they were suing Eric. “What's wrong with that?” I asked, feigning innocence.

  “It puts them at loggerheads with the new owners, who plan to tear down the wellhouse and develop the land.”

  “Where does the town council stand on this?” I crossed my legs. The antique chair wasn’t built for comfort. Maybe it was Wynter’s trick to keeping his meetings short.

  “The town council is divided. Some, like the mayor, value preservation. But housing is tight in Doyle due to various environmental restrictions. The new development would bring more badly needed middle-income housing to the town.”

  “Middle income?” The wellhouse was in a fancy neighborhood, too high class for anything less than upper-income homes. “How do the wellhouse neighbors feel about that?”

  “NIMBY.”

  “Pardon?”

  “It stands for, ‘not in my backyard.’”

  “One of the owners of that property — Phoebe England — was murdered last night,” I said. “I wonder if that will change things?”

  His expression flickered. “Death always changes things.”

  “Have you spoken with the other owner, Eric, about this?”

  “I really can't say.” He rose, but I stayed seated.

  “I've heard Phoebe and Matt were close,” I said, “and now they’re both dead.”

  “It is strange.”

  “You sued Matt once, didn’t you?”

  A door clanged shut
behind his arctic gaze. “Ancient history.”

  “What was it about?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  And I had no way to force him to tell. “But you hinted to me that he was a snoop. I’ve heard from other people that he might have been a blackmailer.”

  “You don’t sue people who are blackmailing you, Jayce.”

  “No,” I said. “I guess you don’t.” But the lawsuit had been years ago. Had Matt held something else over Wynter? Something worth killing over?

  *****

  Outside the town hall, I sat in my truck and thought. Brayden's parents and mine. Brayden's secret. Brayden lying to me... I shook my head. Enough. The past was done with. The present had nearly gotten Karin killed.

  The truck’s cab was a refrigerator, and I blew into my fisted hands.

  The motives for the murders were piling up. The Historical Association, led by Doc Toeller, were suing Eric and Phoebe over the wellhouse. Matt had been having an affair with Phoebe. So far, Matt's wife was the only one I could see who had a motive to kill them both. But a piece felt missing. Had Matt been blackmailing Wynter?

  I turned the ignition and pulled from the curb. Eric was flipping a home on Bean Blossom Road. There’d be workers about, and that made the house a perfect place to ask Eric what he knew.

  On Main Street, a handful of tourists getting a jump on the weekend wandered the raised sidewalks. The windows glittered with Christmas displays. Sandra, who ran one of the wine tasting rooms, turned the sign in the window to OPEN, and paused to pick a dead leaf from the mountain of poinsettia plants on the porch. She went inside and adjusted a Santa Claus wine cozy in the window.

  My stomach growled. If she was opening the tasting room, it was eleven o'clock, too early for lunch. But the vision I’d had at the wellhouse had worked up an appetite.

  Ignoring my hunger, I drove to Bean Blossom Road. It wound above the snowline, and thin powder covered the gardens. Small Victorians — no more than ornate shacks — lined the narrow street. A work truck, its bed filled with equipment, squatted in the narrow driveway of a ramshackle cottage with a steep roof. Eric's red sports car sat parked on the street.