by Rhodan, Rhea
Cayden riffled through them on the way back to the kitchen. The vast majority were from J. Milton Developments, whoever that was. The postmarks dated from just after Muriel’s birthday to the present day. More recent and most foreboding was an official-looking letter from the planning commission of East Granby. Making the connection between the two wasn’t difficult. Neither was deducing the nature of danger the Crossing was in. Instant sweat made the papers stick to her fingers.
“Best to begin with the one on the bottom.”
Cayden scooped the yellowed paper out of its envelope. On faded company letterhead, handwritten in bold, forceful strokes, it began Dear Aileen. Hmm, personal. She scanned the contents, which sounded like a generous offer to a single mother in difficult financial straits. An unmistakable force tugged at her between the lines. Only the richness of her heritage allowed her to resist its call. The man had a rare, most certainly magical, power of persuasion. If it was this strong on decaying paper, what must it be like to experience in person? There was something in the tone, something chillingly familiar, as if echoed from a dream. The letter was signed simply, Milton.
Cayden laid her hand on her grandmother’s thin shoulder. “He knows, knows what Buchanan’s Crossing is, doesn’t he? That’s why he wants it.”
“Aye,” was all Gran said. Both her hands were wrapped around the empty little teacup, shaking.
Something in her eyes made Cayden ask, “Gran, what was he to you?”
Her voice was a low hissing new to Cayden’s ears, “He was a viper in the garden of a naive young girl.”
Cayden whispered the question, afraid of the answer. “He, he wasn’t the Keeper, was he? He wasn’t Grandad?”
The teacup shattered. “The Keeper!” Gran’s voice rose, shrill as Cayden had never heard it. “Great Mother, no. The Crossing is not so daft as a stupid young girl. It wouldn’t pick the likes of Milton Cumberland for the Keeper.”
Cumberland, the name of the Loyalist traitor. Oh no.
“He told me the babe was stillborn. For a long stretch, I was too ill to know whether I’d passed on myself. I went home after that sorry time and didn’t return to Buchanan’s Crossing till I’d graduated the university at Edinburgh.”
“Oh, Gran.” Cayden was sorry she’d asked, sorry to have brought such sadness to Gran’s face, sorry she didn’t have the words to comfort the woman who had always comforted her.
“You should know ’tis Milton’s son, Dean, sendin’ the letters of late.” She nodded to the pile of envelopes on the kitchen table. “As you ken from the one you read, Milton’s of the blood, and more powerful than he ought to be. If it follows true, the son will not be so strong as his father.”
“What do you mean, ‘if it follows true?’”
“Pity about not comin’ by the Keeper’s blood for my spell, not that I blame you. How was it, exactly, when you tried to give him the ring?”
As with her other questions, Gran was going to answer this one in her own time.
“It was weird. He got this look on his face as though he were in some awful pain before he even touched it. He’s had a lot of headaches lately.”
“Unchancy, that. I’d like to see the ring, if I may.”
Cayden pulled the newly rune-covered ring from her backpack. It gleamed warmly in the light.
Gran leaned toward it, her focus softening. Then she pulled back and nodded. “Aye, ’tis as I feared. His blood’d be no help. The Dark’s too strong now, and holdin’ too tight to divine its nature. It cannot abide the ring which would reveal it.” Her gaze returned to Cayden. “Your Keeper’s deep in it, and there’s naught we can do against it.”
Some of Cayden’s despair must have shown, because Gran took her hand. “Choices he still has. And whatever that old devil Milton might try, he’s no stronger than I.”
One glance at Gran using her cane to push herself up from her chair sucked the reassurance out of those words. The wolves were at the door of Buchanan’s Crossing. The best chance to save it was to somehow get the Keeper—who not only had taste in women the exact opposite of Cayden, but was also in some terrible trouble—to hook up with her. Oh, and the hook-up needed to result in pregnancy.
Cayden had thought she was out of tears, but the new flood surpassed the earlier one.
Gran handed her another box of Kleenex from the cupboard. “You can’t give up, Cayden. This precious world cannot stand to lose a Crossing. It’s teeterin’ on the abyss as ’tis.”
Her whole world certainly was. Why must the fate of the Crossing fall on her, anyway? “I still don’t understand why Muriel wasn’t chosen to be the next Warder.”
“Even if she hadn’t turned against her legacy, she didn’t possess enough power. My mum didn’t, either. She and her bridegroom moved back to his home on the Isle of Lewis. My gran taught me what it is to be Warder when I came to live with her. Your own mother is not so strong as you and I.
“So that’s what you meant when you said, ‘if it follows through.’ Dean won’t be as strong as his father.” Cayden didn’t know how far Gran would take this conversation, but she desperately needed the distraction, along with any understanding it might give her. “You told me Muriel used to be a charm witch.”
“Used all of it on a single charm, she did. The charm to win your father.”
Whoa. “That’s—”
“Not yours to judge. Without it, you’d not be who you are, my darlin’ little witch. If your father didn’t carry the blood, your gift wouldn’t be so fierce.”
Fierce, huh? Belaboring that issue now was pointless. Besides, it made sense. Her mother’s charm had been potent, too potent. Her father had eyes only for his wife. Cayden had tried everything to get his attention, had finally gone into fencing since severe seasickness ruled out yachting, the only other two things he cared about. Surprisingly, she not only liked fencing, she had a real talent for it. It had worked for a while, or rather, the illusion had, until she’d realized that’s what his attention was—the illusion he cared. Now she could at least take some small comfort in understanding why.
“So now you ken the all of it. Try not to worry yourself so. As I said, Milton’s no stronger than I, and you’re more than a match for that son of his. There’s time yet. Not so much as if it were it up to me, but enough.” She shuffled to the doorway. “I’m off for a late mornin’ lie-down. Be so kind as to tidy up for me, will you?’ I’ll be seeing you soon, darlin’.”
Rob Roy cast Cayden a baleful look and trotted behind Gran.
It was too late to ask Gran if there was an alternative to the Joining. In any case, Cayden would be trading her shift at HandiMart for a shift with Gran until she was feeling better.
After she’d finished cleaning up the pieces of the broken teacup and setting the kitchen to rights, one glance at the relentless rain pouring outside the window decided Cayden on taking the train back to Springfield. That is, before she looked up at the wooden clock on the kitchen wall. Two minutes before nine. The last morning train left the East Granby station promptly at nine o’clock.
She looked down at the robe she was wearing. The dryer’s buzzer went off, loud and annoying.
Skating slowly along the slick dark road, fighting the wind to keep her umbrella right-side out, Cayden hoped Clint MacAllen, wherever he might be, was as miserable as she was.
Clint was reasonably sure the stylish modern clock on the reception area wall said two minutes before nine o’clock. He couldn’t remember a rougher Monday morning since those following big games they’d won, or lost, back at BU. It was an unfair comparison, though. Back then, the worst thing he had to fear was a god-awful early morning economics or psychology lecture to be endured with a hangover. This morning’s wretchedness not only rivaled the worst of those, in spite of drinking only a few fingers of scotch after he got home last night, but
a whole lot more was at stake here than missing some notes for a lousy test.
The over-the-usual-top pounding in his head might have something to do with the endless thunderstorm, or the fact that he’d barely slept, again. The box of rocks in his gut could be guilt over what he’d put his parents through, anger at Darcy dumping him, or a bad piece of nearly-raw meat. Or maybe he was scared shitless J. Milton was going to pull out of the mall project, leaving him and Green Man holding a bag of eight-figure losses. If this meeting was just a progress report as Dean had said, why had he sounded so tense when he’d called early on Saturday morning?
“Mr. Cumberland will see you now, Mr. MacAllen. You may let yourself in.”
Why hadn’t Dean invited him in personally, as he had last time? “Sweets” hadn’t offered him any of that fantastic coffee, either. God knew he could use it.
Clint stopped just inside the doorway. Dean wasn’t alone. A large man stood off to the right in front of the big window. His thick mane of silver hair was shoulder-length, yet impeccably groomed. The lines of his dark suit were conservative, imposing. The contrast made Dean, with his short curly red hair and round freckled face, appear even more innocuous.
“Thanks for coming in, Clint. I know how busy you’ve been with the mall. I hadn’t realized you were so hands-on with your company. I’m told you’re the first man on the job in the morning and the last to leave at night.”
Dean’s handshake was as firm as Clint remembered, but damp. He didn’t have time to dwell on why that might be, or where Dean got his information, because the large man turned around and smiled.
Something about that smile combined with the icy gray eyes froze Clint’s blood and had him sweating through his dress shirt at the same time.
“Father, allow me to introduce you to Clint MacAllen.”
O-kay. No wonder poor Dean had lost some of his shine. If Daddy struck fear into the hearts of would-be competitors around the world by reputation alone, he could scare the teeth off a saw in person.
“Mr. Cumberland, sir, what a—”
“The pleasure’s mine, Mr. MacAllen.”
The voice was richer, smoother than Dean’s. It contained a hint of an English accent and was oddly familiar, though Clint couldn’t place it. He’d intended to say “surprise,” though he could’ve been persuaded it was a pleasure, had his ring finger not begun burning in Cumberland’s powerful grip.
The discomfort ceased the instant his hand was released. Clint didn’t miss the penetrating frown Cumberland leveled on that hand before gesturing to the comfy chair in front of the desk. It was the same frown Clint had seen Dean wear while staring at his hand, though it was more distinct in the lines of the older man’s face. If Dean had inherited little from his father, he’d at least gotten that intense frown and a measure of his voice.
“If you’ll take a seat, we can get down to business.”
Clint would rather have stood to match Cumberland’s height, but his body sank down into the chair before he could tell it not to. Dean was also sitting stiffly in his big chair. His father remained standing.
Clint braced himself for the “we’re dropping you and my lawyers can get me out of anything” speech. Dean had probably figured it wouldn’t have been as intimidating coming from him, so he’d brought Big Daddy in to strike the blow.
Well, when it came to fathers, Lewis MacAllen might have been hopelessly poor, but he hadn’t raised his son to be a chicken shit. Clint turned to Dean, who was at eye level anyway, summoning his hardest tone. “Is there a problem?”
“‘Problem?’” Dean’s weak smile was far from reassuring, even less so when he glanced up to Big Daddy, then turned it up a notch for Clint. “On the contrary. I, that is, we, wanted to make sure you were happy with the terms of the contract.”
What? “Sure. What’s not to be happy about?” He sat deeper in the chair, trying to figure out what the hell was going on.
“I’m pleased to hear it.” Cumberland’s voice resonated like a radio announcer’s. “Then we wouldn’t be mistaken in thinking you might be interested in an additional project?”
Clint tried to hold on to his cool, keep the surprise from his voice. “Dean and I had talked about some future work. Nothing specific though. What kind of project are we talking about?”
“A substantial one, Mr. MacAllen,” Cumberland said, turning back to the window.
Dean perked up. “It’ll be one of the biggest convention and conference centers in the northeastern United States, certainly the most luxurious.”
It was Clint’s turn to frown. “Where? There isn’t enough land available for that kind of development around here.”
“As we’re still in negotiations for some of the permits and parcels, that information must remain confidential for the time being. We’ve already invested a considerable amount of resources. These situations can be delicate. I’m sure you understand.”
The smaller man’s expression was so sincere, Clint nearly missed the flicker in his sharp blue eyes. He probably would have if his ring finger hadn’t started itching worse than ever. And if his brain weren’t so muddled, he would’ve recognized Dean’s weak explanation for what it was right away.
“I appreciate a development the size you’re talking is bound to stir up trouble. Some landowners won’t want to sell, others will jack their prices up if they know how integral their piece is to the whole. I get that. A green builder would need to be privy to the location, though, in order to ascertain suitability and plan early aspects of the construction.”
“Are you saying you’ll do it?” The corners of Dean’s mouth lifted. Clint wouldn’t call it a smile, not as long as those piercing eyes of his were narrowed.
Clint might have said yes. Underestimating Dean with his father standing next to him would have been easy. He was developing a strong suspicion this apple hadn’t fallen as far from the tree as it appeared to.
“I’d be a fool to pass up an opportunity like this, provided the terms meet my lawyer’s and my approval.” He made his half-smile match Dean’s.
“Oh.” Dean’s face fell. “It would seem I haven’t been sufficiently clear. If you don’t sign the contract today, we’ll be forced to bring in a different builder. We’re in a bit of a crunch on this, you see.”
If Dean had been expecting sympathy, he wasn’t going to get it. “I’m afraid I don’t. You can’t honestly expect me to sign a contract of this magnitude without having an attorney look it over.”
“Would it make any difference if I assured you the terms are considerably more generous than those of your previous contract? See for yourself.” He pushed the crisp white sheaf of papers toward Clint, grinning his guileless grin.
Clint skimmed through the legal blah-blah-blah to the terms and let out a low whistle. “They’re generous all right. A smart man would ask himself why a company the size of J. Milton would be willing to cut a small builder like Green Man in on a deal this sweet if it didn’t have to.”
The shine fell off Dean’s grin. “You’re our best bet to get this deal through. The other company would cost less, but be a bigger gamble. We’d rather not risk it.” He glanced at his father’s back. “I hope you’re satisfied you forced me to admit it.”
Clint was not going to feel guilty. This was business. If he’d screwed up an attempt by Dean to impress his father, it was too damn bad.
“Same as last time, right? You need Green Man’s reputation.”
“I told you he was intelligent, Father.” Dean’s smile was satisfied, a bit too satisfied for a man who’d supposedly just been busted.
Something was off. Clint rubbed his itching finger and said, “May I see the specs?”
“Of course.” Dean handed him a thick manila folder. “I had it printed out for you, though it must remain here.”
That
statement was the only thing that hadn’t surprised Clint this morning. It didn’t take a deep analysis of the design to see there wasn’t nearly as much leeway in greening it up as there had been with the mall’s design. He told Dean so.
“I’m confident that if anyone can make this project green, it’s you. If you’re not up to it, though, we’ll be forced to go with the other company.”
“I didn’t say I couldn’t do it. I just don’t want to make promises I can’t keep. This design will significantly cramp my style. I’ve put a lot into making Green Man Construction what it is.” Everything. He’d put in everything he had, and then some. Damn it, he was being manipulated, but he didn’t see what he could do about it.
“I understand how valuable your reputation is to you. The mall is coming along beautifully.” Dean’s sigh was probably supposed to come off sympathetic. “It would be a shame to switch builders this far into it.”
Clint sank in his seat. The room felt too warm. The rocks tumbled in his gut. It was all he could do to hold his voice steady when he leaned toward Dean. “So what you’re telling me is, if I don’t sign on the dotted line for the new project right now, you’ll pull the plug, leaving me high and dry on the mall project.”
Dean inched his chair back from his desk. “It does sound bad when you put it in those words. Do try to see it from my point of view. We’ve got a lot riding on this. J. Milton needs a builder we can rely on to work with us. The other company we have lined up has proven highly adaptable.”
“That’s quite enough.” Cumberland had turned from the window again. His wintry gaze flicked from Dean to Clint.
The glare the man leveled on his son was so cold, Clint could swear the air between them frosted. “What my son has been trying, and failing miserably, to accomplish, is to tell you how very critical your complete cooperation is to our success. While his threat is by no means idle, it’s merely a last, rather desperate”—he threw one of his ice daggers at Dean—“resort. Undoubtedly, we can come to an understanding. What would you require of J. Milton in order to sign the new contract today, Mr. MacAllen?”