One Touch of Silver
by Elizabeth Cole
Silver Salem is well-educated in classical languages, ancient history, and the secrets of the occult. But during America’s Great Depression, she’s also desperate for work. When she receives an urgent request, she accepts it without asking too many questions.
Collier Dunne is no ordinary client: bad-tempered, reclusive, and handsome as sin. He needs Silver to translate an ancient document before the next full moon. All Silver knows for sure is that Coll is hiding a painful past…and that she desperately wants to be part of his future.
Silver must trust her own growing power and defeat the darkness threatening them both. And the Halloween moon is rising fast…
Copyright © 2017
Cover design by James T. Egan, www.bookflydesign.com.
Edited by Amanda Valentine, ayvalentine.com.
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Also by Elizabeth Cole
Secrets of the Zodiac Novels
A Heartless Design
A Reckless Soul
A Shameless Angel
The Lady Dauntless
Beneath Sleepless Stars
A Mad and Mindless Night
Swordcross Knights Novels
Honor & Roses
Choose the Sky
Regency Rhapsody Novellas
Regency Rhapsody – The Complete Collection
One Touch of Silver
New Jersey, 1931
Silver Salem stepped onto the train station platform and wondered if she’d discovered the end of the world. The town of Seagrove, New Jersey existed to lure summertime tourists to the Atlantic shore. It was now mid-October, so Silver expected it to be quiet. She didn’t expect it to be abandoned.
A clouded sky stretched over a few long streets running parallel to the boardwalk. The trees along those streets were almost bare, though some still stubbornly wore orange, amber, and yellow leaves despite the cold breeze whipping in from the ocean. Several blocks away, a black car turned a corner and vanished from her sight, the only hint of life around.
A hissing sound emanated from the case Silver held in one hand. She raised the case to peer into the screened front. Two yellow eyes gleamed out, and the hiss came again.
“I don’t like it either, Piewicket,” she confessed to the cat. “But we’ve got little choice.” Silver had almost no money left in her accounts, so this job was really her last hope if she wished to keep her family home and put food on the table.
“Are you quite sure someone’s meeting you, ma’am?”
Silver looked over at the railway valet, who had just deposited the rest of her bags on the platform. “Yes. Well, fairly sure.”
“It’s just…it’s the off season now,” the valet said.
An understatement, Silver thought. The Atlantic Ocean loomed as an endless misty grey in the east, where the equally misty sky was now darkening from grey to black. She was the only passenger to alight at the station.
“I wired ahead,” she continued, less confidently. “My host knows I am coming. And if he is late, I shall go to the hotel.”
“But ma’am, didn’t you know? The hotel’s closed.”
“Closed entirely?” she asked. “I was informed it was open year round.”
“Normally. But there was a fire just at the end of the season, and it won’t reopen till spring, when the repairs are complete.”
“Oh.” Silver tried to smile, but a needle of doubt stabbed her. “Well, if Mr. Dunne fails to arrive here, I’ll leave the bags and walk to his home. How far can any place be in this town?” Oh, Silver, you outsmarted yourself this time.
“You can re-board, ma’am,” the valet offered. “The train departs in ten minutes. You’ll be back in the city by midnight. Five hotels within a block of the station.”
Silver considered the offer, but shook her head. “I must keep my appointment. The matter is vital.” Especially to her.
“Last train of the day, ma’am.”
“Thank you,” she said. “But I’ll be fine.”
Ten minutes later, the train departed with a long whistle that faded along with the gleaming railcars. Silver watched as it vanished among the dunes and pines, then held her breath as she felt the deep silence the train’s engine had concealed.
Other than the murmur of the ocean surf, there was nothing. No motor cars, no shouts of children, or conversations of adults. No church bells, no clatter of wheels. A ghost town.
Piewicket mewed in frustration, clawing at the fabric walls of her case.
“Stop that,” Silver warned.
I’ve been cooped up for hours, Piewicket complained, her feline voice loud in Silver’s mind.
Silver sighed. “I’ll let you out as soon as I can. He should be here any minute. I told him which train we were on.” She was glad no one was around to hear her speaking to the cat. It was always awkward to explain that she was merely responding to the creature’s telepathy.
She waited a quarter hour on the platform, where the cold wind cut past her ankle-length wool skirt and corduroy jacket. Her hair kept slipping loose from the bun she sequestered it in, and heavy, dark curls lashed across her face. She swept them back each time, in defiance of the wind.
Just to be certain, Silver glanced over the letter that the client sent a week ago, asking for assistance in translating an ancient document. Such requests frequently arrived at the Salem house, and Silver often took on translation work for a fee. Yes, there was the line, inviting Professor Salem to come to Seagrove to do the work on site, mentioning a heartwarming sum as compensation.
Silver had sent a telegram back, indicating by what train she expected to arrive.
Now, however, no one was there to greet her. It seemed Dunne forgot about the appointment.
“We’ll have to walk,” she muttered.
You should charge the client more for this indignity, Piewicket opined. The cat was very sensitive to matters of dignity.
“First I must find the client,” Silver said.
She dragged her luggage to a sheltered place under the roof, then set out to find Mr. Dunne’s house, carrying Piewicket’s case in one hand and a small suitcase of essentials in the other.
It was not difficult to find. He called it Hill House in his letters, and there was only one hill in sight. The rest of the land around Seagrove rose no higher than the gentle roll of sand dunes, and beyond the town to the west lay only salt marsh and pine forests.
The hill was farther than it appeared, and the Victorian mansion perched at the top seemed to grow no closer for a long time.
Silver kept up a steady stride. Despite her plump figure, she was a good walker, and she was fueled by indignation as well. How dare Mr. Dunne leave her waiting at the station? What sort of host did that?
Then she passed through the iron gate marking the edge of Dunne’s property. She paused for an instant, certain she felt a warm tingle of magic, perhaps a spell of protection. Or perhaps she was merely beginning to freeze in the misty wind.
Hill House loomed in her vision, stark and lonely in the failing day. It was autumn, so trees that might appear sheltering in summer stood bare as skeletons, their inky branches stretching up like bony fingers to scratch at the sky. A single raven launched itself from a high branch, cawing as it went.
The grass was rank, the few shrubs ragged with neglect. Holly and yew bordered the path, both evergreen. Ivy covered much of the brick facade, also green and vital. In fact, it seemed to want to smother the house itself. Plants of protection against evil, she thought, though they were often found in common gardens.
A few windows glowed with faint light. So the house was not deserted. She exhaled, realizing how nervous
she was. She had feared Mr. Dunne would not be there at all, thus leaving her without shelter.
Silver straightened her spine—then, more prosaically, her hat—and proceeded up the walk. After setting cat and case on the porch, she reached for the iron door knocker and let it fall. The sound reverberated into the house beyond. No one could have failed to hear it. Yet no footsteps came.
Silver lifted the knocker again, with the same result.
She waited to a count of ten, then raised her gloved hand. “Third time’s the charm,” she muttered, and banged the knocker down.
The door was jerked open in the same second.
“What in hell do you want from me?” a deep voice growled from within.
Silver had no answer, not because the question was so unbearably rude—which it was—but because standing before her was the most sinfully handsome man she had ever seen.
He wasn’t particularly tall, maybe two inches or so above her own head. But his shoulders were broad, implying a bullish sort of strength. The hands pushing at the doorframe were large and well-made, with long fingers. His hair was as dark as hers, worn short. And his face was all angles, not an ounce of extra flesh. Even his cheekbones were sharp in the failing light. And then she met his eyes. God, what beautiful eyes. Either grey or blue, she couldn’t be sure. But somehow both clear and deep…and at the moment, very cold.
He glared at her for a moment, but then seemed to have second thoughts. “Who are you?” he asked, with curiosity rather than anger. “Did you walk here?”
“From the train station, yes,” Silver managed to say. She reached into her pocket and withdrew the letter once more. She handed it to him. “I am expected.”
“Trust me,” he said, taking the letter but looking at her, “you are not expected.”
“Perhaps there was a miscommunication? If you show that letter to Mr. Dunne…”
“That’s me.”
“You’re Mr. Dunne? Collier Dunne?” she squeaked out. Oh, dear. That changed things. She’d been expecting some sort of scholar, an older man much like her father.
“I am,” he said, his eyes narrowing again. “Not that it’s any business of yours.”
“Please read the letter,” she said, now seven kinds of nervous. “You wrote it, after all.”
He looked at the letter for the first time. “Who are you?” he asked again as he unfolded it.
She didn’t answer, waiting for him to scan the contents.
He did so, then looked up at her again, his gaze cold. “This was meant for Professor Malachi Salem. Where is he?”
Silver said, “He can’t be here.”
“Why the hell not?”
“He’s de—”
“Delayed?”
“Deceased.”
Mr. Dunne’s frown shifted from anger to consternation. “What? Dear God, when?”
“Three months ago.”
“No,” Dunne said. “That’s impossible. I corresponded with him only two weeks…” He stopped, staring at her. “Who the hell are you?”
“I am Malachi Salem’s daughter. My name is Clementine Salem…Hagley,” she finished awkwardly. “But Miss Salem will do.”
“It will not do. For one, Clementine is not Malachi. That’s our first problem. And second, if you’re Salem’s daughter, then why is there a Hagley at the end?”
“Ah, that would be from my husband.”
“You just called yourself Miss Salem, Mrs. Hagley.”
“I am not Mrs. Hagley!” she snapped.
“What would Mr. Hagley say to that?”
“Nothing! I am a widow, and I have no attachment to my married name.”
“Or to your late husband, evidently,” Dunne noted, taking a new and rather more judgmental look at her. At least he couldn’t see past her gloves. She no longer wore her ring, and the spot where it would have been seemed to itch. “Why’s that?”
“We were almost divorced when…dear Lord,” Silver said, her composure breaking under his perusal. “I have not come all the way here to discuss mourning or naming conventions with you, Mr. Dunne! You need my help.”
“No, I needed your father’s help. What makes you think I need yours?”
“It was me who corresponded with you this whole time,” Silver said. “You requested assistance with a document written in Aramaic, Greek, and Latin—all of which I speak and write. So I can help you with your translations. Following my father’s passing, I am very likely the only one who can. And…” She trailed off, heat rising in her cheeks.
“And?”
“I need the money.”
A sudden, rather smug smile crossed his face. “Ah. That explains it.”
“If you show me the document…”
He shook his head once. “No, Miss Salem. Your services are not required. I’ll find another translator.”
“Who?”
“Someone! Professor Martin!”
“Thomas Martin, you mean?” she asked instantly. “In that case, good luck to you. He’s in Egypt, studying the Sekhem-Net Scroll found in that lead sarcophagus. Even if you manage to contact him via telegram, and even if he accepts the commission, it will be months before he returns to the States.”
Dunne looked equal parts furious and frustrated. “God damn it.”
“You ought to accept that I am your only path to salvation in this matter.”
“I’ve learned to be wary of strangers offering salvation. Good night, Miss Salem.”
“You can’t leave me out here!”
“I’ve left everyone else.” He began to close the door.
“But I’ve nowhere to go!” she said, putting her hand in the gap.
He was forced to pull the door back open or risk hurting her. “Try the hotel.”
“It’s closed till spring.”
That made him hesitate, but only for a second. “You can’t stay here.”
“Shall I sleep on the sand?” she asked.
“I don’t care what you do.”
“You’re refusing me simple hospitality? It’s…discourteous!”
“Discourteous,” he repeated in astonishment. “What century are you from, Miss Salem?”
“This one,” she replied. “And I know that regardless of the year, a real gentleman would never send a lady out into the night with no protection whatsoever. What century are you from? Did you learn your manners from vikings?”
“What if I did?” he asked, his voice going dangerously soft. “They had a habit of stealing women whenever they wanted to. Tough to talk courtesy to them.”
“I’m talking to you,” she said, thinking of the phrase stealing women and wondering why she wasn’t running back down the hill already. “So what do you say?”
He paused, watching her with narrowed eyes. Then he said, “Very well, Miss Salem. As a gentleman, which you seem to have mistaken me for, I am compelled to offer you hospitality for the night. You leave in the morning.”
Silver stepped inside with a sigh of relief. “Thank you. I am grateful.”
“That won’t last long,” he said grimly.
She remembered Piewicket just before he shut the door, and rushed to retrieve the two cases on the porch.
Inside, Dunne reacted in dismay as Silver opened the door to the cat carrier and the little calico bounded out. “Damn it, I did not offer hospitality to your pet.”
As if cats need permission to cross a border. Piewicket gazed at Dunne with her yellow eyes as the thought floated into Silver’s mind.
It was true. Cats seemed immune to nearly all thresholds or borders, whether magical, physical, or merely social convention.
Dunne blinked, as if he too heard the disdainful cat comment. But that was impossible, Silver reminded herself. Piewicket only conferred with the Salem family.
“This is Piewicket,” she said, striving for politeness. “She’s no trouble.”
“Cats despise me,” Dunne said, still watching Piewicket.
Ever contrary, the calico sashayed t
oward him and wound herself in and around his ankles.
“See?” Silver said. “No trouble.”
“She’s trying to trip me,” he grumbled, but some of the fierceness had gone out of his demeanor. One of Piewicket’s gifts was an ability to calm nearly anyone down.
“Well,” Silver said. “Now that we’re all acquainted, why not show me your document? It sounded quite interesting from what little you said in the letter. I brought a trunk of books I thought would be most useful, but without seeing the text, I had to rely on…” She stuttered to a halt when she noticed Dunne’s gaze on her. “What?”
“You’re not going to see the book,” he said. “You’re not going to translate the book. You’re not going to help me. You’re going to leave first thing in the morning.”
“But you need me—”
He moved toward her so fast that she couldn’t even react before he was inches away from her. One big hand gripped her upper arm. Not tightly enough to hurt, but certainly enough to keep her still. In a quiet, measured tone, he said, “Don’t tell me what I need, Miss Salem.”
She took an unsteady breath. Dear Lord, he was so close. She could smell him. “You asked for help,” she whispered. “In the letter, you said it was urgent.” He smelled good, she realized, like spices and smoky heat.
He released her, stepping away enough to let her breathe and get her brain back on track. “It’s probably too late already,” he muttered.
“Too late for what?”
But he didn’t answer. He only turned away, saying, “Follow me. If you’re going to stay the night, you’ll want supper.”
Silver followed him into a drafty dining room, and seated herself in a chair at the table. A few candles burned on the table, not to provide ambiance, but merely to compensate for the rather dim electric lighting.
The table was already laid, and the dishes on it were piping hot. She’d interrupted his dinner. Dunne disappeared down a passageway for a moment, then returned with an extra plate and silverware.
“Sit,” he told her. “Eat. Enjoy the hospitality.”
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