Unus (Stone Mage Saga Book 1)

by Raven Whitney

  She took my shocked silence as an affirmative. Like a wave, a mask of vengeful rage quickly overtook her delicate features. The expression was so alien-looking on her usually cheery face that I was momentarily taken aback by it. For that brief fraction of a second, she didn't look like my best friend.

  She pulled her cell out of her pocket so quickly that she almost dropped it. “Do I need to make a phone call?” Without her telling me, I understood immediately who she meant. Though the operations of her family's long-standing shipping empire were on the legal up-and-up, they had several silent business partners who had served time in jail for “tax evasion”. With a single call, she could unleash some of the most vicious men in the world to track down the mystery man.

  At the thought, an unmistakable protective instinct surged to the forefront of my mind. Anger followed closely on its heels— he comes into my shop, accosts me, and now I'm feeling the need to defend him? What the hell was wrong with me? Still, it wasn't as though he actually hurt me and short of that, I couldn't allow those monsters to hurt him. “No, I'm okay. He just grabbed me and tried to kiss me.”

  Lexie was silent with a carefully blank expression on her face. “Horror movie kiss or rom-com kiss?”

  “Um, neither?”

  “Was he hot?”

  “Very.”

  “Hot enough that he couldn't possibly be a bad guy?” she asked in a wheedling tone. Her comment may have sounded shallow, but she had good intentions behind it.

  Admittedly, the last real date I went on was more than two years ago and it had been four since I ended it with Blake, the sorry puppet for his family who had only been dating me for a business connection to the Baxter family and cheated on me for the whole three years of our relationship.

  I think it made her feel bad that I'd been single for so long, so she was always trying to set me up with young men she met at soirées or friends-of-friends. The problem was that most of them were self-centered, pretentious rich boys who'd never had to work a day in their lives. Obviously, those dates never ended well. I'd tried before to tell Lexie that between the shop and helping take care of Mom, I just didn't have the emotional space for a boyfriend. As a serial monogamist who went through men like candy— with each one being her soulmate— she just couldn't wrap her mind around it.

  “A lot of women thought Ted Bundy was hot. That didn't make him an angel.”

  “Good point,” she conceded. “Are you sure he wasn't hitting on you?”

  “I had to twist his crotch to get him to let me go.”

  Raising her hands in mock surrender, she got up to grab another wad of paper towels to help me clean up the mess.

  The rest of the day passed by uneventfully as Lexie helped me with the evening crowd of customers looking for an infusion of coffee before heading home to their families. I used to feel almost embarrassed that Lexie worked here so frequently without any pay. It wasn't until she refused the check I tried to hand her for the thirtieth time that I realized she enjoyed working and hanging out here as much as I did. She offered some excuse that the fine print on her trust fund stipulated that she couldn't hold a paying job in the service industry, but I could tell that she was lying. Not that I would put that sort of thing past her snobby parents, but she'd always been a terrible liar, especially to me.

  Since there was some kind of event going on nearby, Lexie and I decided to keep the shop open later than usual. Once the number of customers had tapered off, I grabbed the deposit out of the safe and put it in my purse. Since it was so late, I'd have to take it in the morning. We locked up for the night and she dropped me off at home before returning to her own.

  Once again, the lights were out in the house by the time I made it back. It wasn't very late, but Mom always went to bed very early when she was on chemo and Dad always went to bed at the same time Mom did. Since I already ate one of the leftover breakfast sandwiches at the shop for dinner, I sneaked directly upstairs to my room with Goliath hot on my heels, licking at the stains of spilled coffee on my pants as I walked.

  After changing clothes and brushing my teeth, I crawled straight into bed, too tired to even take a shower. Yet no matter how exhausted I was, I couldn't stop thinking about my encounter with the mystery man from earlier.

  It was just so weird. His eyes were practically on fire as they raked me over, but even though he'd kissed me, he didn't give me the impression that he was flirting with me. I'd heard from Lexie that European guys could be more forward romantically, but that was a bit extreme if he wanted to ask me on a date.

  His warning had sent chills down my spine. What did he mean when he said that others would come looking for me? Other who? What would anybody want with me? I was the very definition of boring. All I did was run a coffee shop.

  He said he would be there for me when I needed him. He swore “gratitude” and “allegiance”. Those were heavy words, especially from a man I didn't know— and one who didn't act friendly, at that.

  When Lexie was threatening to put the full force of her family's friends after him, a protective instinct surged to the forefront. Not that I would let a stranger be hurt, but what I felt for him was much stronger than what I would have felt for anybody else. Though I've been fortunate enough in my life to have never been in real, life-or-death danger, I would compare that to the fear I would feel if my own life were on the line.

  Unable to take the wondering any longer, I threw off the covers and reached for my laptop. It loudly whirred to life, protesting my awakening it. I pulled up my favorite search engine and battled with the old, sticky keys to type in the name on the card he gave me, Giacomo Campanella.

  Nothing. There were a few other men who shared the same name, but there was no way that any of them could be confused the man I met. Despite being handed a business card, there weren't any results for businesses under that name.

  There was no phone number, email address, mailing address, or even a sketchy PO box on the card for me to search for, either. I had no leads other than his name and that turned up nothing.

  Frustrated and about to fall asleep, I shut the computer back down and could almost hear it sigh with relief. Ten minutes with a search engine may not have yielded any results, but my computer skills could barely be called amateur. Lexie, on the other hand, was a technical savant. With just his name and my recognition of his face, she would be able to find out what his favorite food was. I would have to ask her for help first thing in the morning.

  5

  The next morning, I was once again forcibly dragged from my peaceful state of slumber by my obnoxious cell phone alarm. Truth be told, I could have picked a much more pleasant tone, but if I used anything less jarring and irritating, I would sleep straight through it.

  In a zombie-like state, I rolled from my bed and just barely caught myself before I hit the floor. For someone who owns a coffee shop, I'm really not a morning person. I threw on the first articles of clothing that my hands touched without really looking at them. It wasn't until I reached for my purse that I noticed that there was something on top of it: a little scroll of off-white, coarse paper bound into its tightly wound form by a black ribbon.

  A curious dread came over me because I knew it wasn't there before and my luck lately had been in the gutter. I slid the silken ribbon off the scroll, noticing the black wax seal of a skull holding the ribbon closed. As I unrolled the tiny piece of paper, my eyes read the words at a glance and surely they weren't correct. I reread them and, as comprehension set into my brain, a sensation of ice stung my every nerve and a leaden feeling settled in my stomach.

  Dearest Stone Mage,

  Your friend, Alexandra, is now my hostage. If you want to see her again, you will follow the commands that appear on this letter. Should you do so and arrive alone, in a timely manner, your friend will be returned to you.

  Sincerely,

  Octavius

  Panicking, I dove back onto my bed and dug through the rumpled sheets. Finding my phone, I whipped it ou
t and dialed Lexie's number with shaky fingertips.

  “Hello?” Her voice sounded from the other end of the line and my knees nearly buckled beneath me in despair. “Hello?” she dragged out, as though she couldn't hear me. She burst out laughing and said that her phone was probably lost again and that she would call back as soon as she found it. I'd been nagging her about that voicemail message for months. Before, it was just annoying. Now, it was soul-crushing.

  I tried again and that message just repeated.

  What if somebody actually had kidnapped her? The Baxter family had an ironclad “no negotiation” rule with kidnappers. And I knew that they strictly adhered to that policy from experience. Several years ago, one of Lexie's second cousins was taken while on vacation in Costa Rica. The men who'd taken her had demanded three million dollars in exchange for her return. The family had attempted to get her back through the police and refused to negotiate with her captors. They never saw her again.

  I looked back down at the little scroll still in my hands. The words on it faded away like a special effect before my eyes and were replaced by new ones:

  You have three hours to reach Montreal, Quebec, Canada.

  My hands snatched up my keys and purse, and then I dug my passport from the deepest recesses of my dresser before I could think. I had to see for myself. I had to be sure that she was gone. I ran out the door so quickly that I nearly tumbled down the stairs. My hands shook so badly that it took a few tries to get the key in my car's ignition. In the pre-dawn light, I drove twice the speed limit through the streets and for the first time in my life, I ran a stop sign as I raced to Lexie's house.

  Red and blue lights flashed in front of me. Slamming on the brakes, I couldn't stop a panicked, dreadful wail from escaping my lips as I saw the scene at her front gate. Police cars were parked in the street with their lights on and uniformed officers milled around behind a barrier of yellow tape. In the fray, I could see Mr. Miller speaking with a grim-faced officer.

  Mr. Miller lifted his head and spotted my vehicle from the distance. He put his hand on the officer's shoulder and began to walk towards me. Gone was the somewhat-personable giant with the grumpy smile and in its place, there was a dark, violent intent on his face.

  I froze. She truly had been taken.

  With a boom, Mr. Miller's bear-like hand slammed against the window, snapping me out of my daze. He didn't need words to convey his command. His eyes said everything.

  I rolled down my window. “What happened?”

  For long moments, he was silent. His cold eyes bore holes into me, as if trying to root out the truth. Finally, he said, “Lexie was kidnapped sometime last night.”

  Panic started to close up my throat. “How?”

  “We dunno, so whoever they were, they're pros. None of the alarms got tripped, there weren't any signs of a break-in in the house, and the dogs are dead.” The news of poor Spot and Ed's fates pushed the pooling tears over the brims of my eyelids and a whimper clawed its way from my throat.

  “There hasn't been a ransom call, yet. Have you heard anything?” When I didn't respond, he grabbed my shoulder and shook it. “Do you know what happened?”

  Like a frightened child, I felt the need to tell him about the letter and beg him for help. He would know what to do, but the note said to come alone. Every time there was a hostage situation on television, I'd always thought the protagonist was stupid to go alone. It was always a trap. But this was reality and Lexie's life was on the line. I would be the only one fighting for it.

  If the note said to come alone, then I would have to obey it. One of the officers by the gate waved his hand and called out to Mr. Miller. He held up his finger in return, gesturing for the man to wait.

  He turned his attention back to me. “You. Stay. Here.” Spinning on his heel, he marched to the other man.

  My body was on autopilot as I whipped the car around and, ignoring Mr. Miller shouting for me to stop, raced to the airport in Providence. Since my credit card was maxed out and I didn't have enough money in my bank accounts to cover the exorbitant cost of a last-minute ticket, I had to use the deposit money. The guy behind the ticket counter looked like he was unsure of whether or not to call the police on the crazy woman buying a plane ticket with a bunch of small, rumpled bills and change.

  I rushed through airport security, ignoring their scrutinizing glares at my frantic demeanor and lack of luggage. I was grateful that Lexie convinced me to get a passport so we could go to her family's ski lodge in Alberta. By the time the plane took off, the shock had worn off and the awful reality of what was actually happening sunk in. There was a chance that I would never see Lexie again. It was almost hard to believe.

  Please, God, don't let that be the last time I see her.

  I simply couldn't imagine a life without Lexie. She and I had been joined at the hip since we met in third grade. Normally, a minister's daughter and an heiress would never have crossed paths, but Lexie— being her free-spirited and rebellious self— had decided to run away from home when her parents hired a new nanny for her before leaving for Monte Carlo. Her logic was that nobody else in her family lived at home, so why should she? Of course, having been chauffeured everywhere for her whole life, she had no sense of direction and had inadvertently wandered into the cemetery of my family's church.

  Little Lexie had looked so sad, crying behind one of the granite grave markers with her pink princess backpack. I was shy and unsure of how to help her. The icebreaker was a little twig with a spider on it snagged on her shirt. Before it crawled into her hair, I reached around the corner and plucked the branch. From there, we'd just clicked. Over the years, she'd become more than just a friend: she'd become like a sister to me. If she died, my heart would have a hole in it that would never heal.

  As soon as the plane touched down, the words on the paper changed. That was eerie. It was almost like it knew where I was. I felt the paper carefully to feel if there was some kind of chip in it or something, but it was smooth— just paper and ink. How could whoever was behind this nightmare be tracking my location without a GPS thingy?

  And who could be behind this? I could understand kidnapping Lexie to get at her family's money, but what was the point in targeting me? I didn't have any money or anything of value.

  I looked back down at the mysterious paper. Its instructions now read:

  Congratulations on making your first checkpoint. You now have five hours to reach the city of Iqaluit, Nunavut, Canada.

  Where was that? A quick Google search on my phone showed that Iqaluit was the capital city of the northern Canadian territory of Nunavut. Although the entire region encompassed a fifth of Canada, it only had thirty or so thousand people. I'd never heard of it.

  A feeling of dread settled over me, heavier than before as I realized a place that remote probably wouldn't have regular flights like Montreal.

  My knees almost gave way when the nice lady at the ticket counter told me there was a flight to Iqaluit with an available seat leaving in thirty minutes. Again using the deposit money, I purchased the ridiculously expensive ticket and rushed through the airport to board the little jet plane in time.

  Once again, the instant the tires made contact with the tarmac in Iqualit, the instructions changed. This time, it snarkily directed me to Igloolik— which Google informed me was another-place-I'd-never-heard-of even farther north. Where the hell was this thing taking me? The North Pole?

  According to the young man at the ticket counter, there was only one flight to Igloolik scheduled for the whole week and it was departing now. Checking the paper again, it said there was only a four hour time limit and there was no contact information listed to negotiate for more time. I threw down a wad of cash and the flabbergasted man passed me a ticket.

  I just barely managed to get aboard the tiny propeller plane before they closed the door to the cabin. The close call nearly made me break down into tears, but I couldn't cry yet. If I shed even a single tear now, the paper-thin dam
holding me together would shatter and I wouldn't be able to stop. Lexie needed me to keep my head on straight.

  Quickly counting the remainder of the deposit money, I realized there wasn't enough for any more of these pricey tickets. As the plane descended, I prayed that this was the final destination. Once the plane was on the ground, I checked the paper.

  A stone sat in my stomach as I read it again. It instructed me to go to Pond Inlet next. Bracing myself against the burning cold wind that pierced through my fleece jacket like a barrage of needles, I made a mad dash for the small, blue building that I assumed was the airport.

  The middle-aged Inuit lady at the desk was baffled by the half-hysterical, inappropriately-dressed young woman pleading for a ticket.

  She cleared her throat and said slowly, “I'm very sorry, ma'am, but there are no commercial flights available to Pond Inlet today.”

  “No passenger flights? What about other flights? You have to help me,” I pleaded, my voice cracking. “I'm desperate.”

  Her impassive face began to show a tiny smidgen of compassion. With obvious reluctance, she said, “There's a postal flight leaving in ten minutes. There are no tickets to board. You'll have to ask the pilot.”

  I thanked her profusely as I backed away before turning to run back outside. I squinted against the glaring whiteness to spot a single-propeller bush plane parked directly in the sun. As I ran closer, I could make out a shape against the plane, loading bags of what I presumed to be mail into the cargo hold.

  I called out to him, “Do you have room for one passenger?”

  He turned around from where he was knelt, checking something on the landing gear, and from what I could see of his face from above the woolen wrap around his head, he looked at me like I was an alien. “What?”

  I repeated myself.

  He continued to stare at me, as if mulling over the idea of spending the flight time with a possible lunatic. Finally, he nodded to the plane. “Get in.”

  A few minutes later, my new hero joined me in the cockpit. He flipped switches and pushed buttons to get the plane going. Once we'd reached cruising altitude, his voice came over the headset intercom as he extended his hand, “I'm Michael.”