Tressa's Treasures (The King's Jewel Book 1)

by Gordon, Belinda M

  "Yes, that's a good idea," I agreed. Not taking care of the wound myself turned out to be more stressful than I had imagined. I chafed with an urgency to help my friend.

  "No, I'm okay," Holly said.

  The door chimes clanged; Holly's sister exploded through the door and ran to her side.

  Eileen, though she looked very much like her sister, was in many ways her opposite. She was taller and bigger boned. While Holly worked with feminine things like jewelry, crystal and china, Eileen drove an eighteen-wheeler.

  "What's he done this time?" she asked venomously.

  Eileen thrust her chin in the direction of the cloth in my hand, indicating that she wanted to see underneath it. I lifted the linen napkin from Holly's wound.

  "Damn him, he split your head open." She took the cloth from my hand, taking over as nursemaid for her little sister. I suspected she had become accustomed to the role.

  "He was drunk," Holly said in a monotone.

  "Of course he was. Isn't he always when he starts throwing punches?" Holly started to speak, but Eileen talked over her. "And don't give me any of that 'He didn't know what he was doing' crap."

  Holly crossed her arms over her stomach and looked away with pursed lips.

  Tom had finished his inspection of the damage. After a moment of hesitation, he joined the rest of us.

  He stood with his feet shoulder width apart, his thumbs tucked into his gun belt. Everything about his body language said he was all business. I suspected that he wanted to offset our awareness of his friendship with the offender.

  Eileen turned to glare at him, flinging her ponytail over her shoulder.

  "Don't you be making excuses for him either, Tom Lynch. How you can be friends with that bully I'll never understand."

  Tom returned her glare but didn't respond. Instead, he effectively excluded her from the conversation by angling his body away from her and toward me.

  "You want to tell us what exactly happened here this afternoon?"

  "There wasn't much to it. Fred came in drunk. He threw over the display case, hit Holly and left," I said.

  "How did you get him out of here?" Tom asked.

  "He just left."

  The scrutiny in his gaze made me uncomfortable. He glanced away from me, exchanging a look with his partner.

  "Did he try to force Holly to leave with him?" Tom asked.

  A bit of life came back into Holly's eyes. "He wouldn't do that," she said.

  The officers nodded, their expressions remaining carefully neutral.

  "Maybe he wasn't drunk this time," Tom suggested to Will.

  "Come on, Tommy. He was drunk," Eileen said. "Just like he has been a thousand times. And you know as well as anyone that he's a mean drunk."

  "No one's asking you, Eileen. You weren't even here," he snapped back at her. Regret instantly crossed his face.

  "He was drunk, Tommy," Holly confirmed, flashing a warning glance at her sister.

  "Was anyone else in the store?" asked Will.

  "Linda Singer and her friends were leaving when he arrived. And a man—a customer—I don't know his name. He was here with his little girl."

  "Yeah, he's waiting outside," Tom said.

  "Ha. I didn't need to be here to know he was drunk," Eileen muttered, refusing to let it go.

  Tom pressed his lips together as if determined not to let her get to him again. He turned back to his partner.

  "Are we good here?"

  "Yeah, let's go talk to the others and get this wrapped up."

  The officers nodded to us and left the store.

  Eileen turned her full attention to Holly's cut. The cloth in her hand was crimson red and soaked with blood. I handed her a clean one to take its place.

  "Come on, Holly, let me take you to the emergency room. I really think you need stitches," Eileen said with a quiet urgency.

  Holly finally agreed, though she insisted on splashing water on her face and attempting to put her hair in order first. She turned back to me before they went through the door.

  "I'm so sorry, Tressa. I'll clean everything up tomorrow."

  "Don't be worrying about it, Pix. I'll get it done before tomorrow's opening." I waved my hand to show how unconcerned I felt.

  "But—"

  Eileen cut off her protest by pulling her out the door.

  Alone in the store, I debated what to do next. Surely people would expect me to stay, at least until the police leave.

  I sat on an upholstered chair by the sweaters. I needed a moment of peace so I could think. Instead, my senses were assaulted from every angle.

  The harsh flashing lights that flooded in through the windows made the jagged edges of the broken glass and china appear sharper, piercing to my eyes. Here and there, blood drops dulled the sharpness, but created their own affront.

  I looked away from this eyesore, turning to stare out the window instead. The rain had stopped and the police lights had drawn a crowd of a couple dozen people. Their voices, filled with emotions ranging from tension to excitement to curiosity, created a turbulent, disagreeable sound. Concerned about the words being released into the wind, I made an effort to sort through the noise and pick out individual conversations.

  "I saw that Mr. Moyer was real drunk and real mad. So when I left here I ran up to get my mom," Linda Singer was telling Tom. Her mother stood beside her.

  "And that's when you called 911?"

  "I called," said Rachel Singer. "It seemed like a good idea after what Linda told me. Tommy, you know how Fred gets when he's toasted."

  The officer nodded wordlessly.

  "Then I went ahead and called Eileen. She's Holly's sister, you know."

  "Yeah, I know." If Tom had been trying to keep the agitation out of his voice, he failed.

  I scanned the crowd and found Will Clark questioning Sophia's dark-haired father. Sophia wasn't with him.

  "Did you recognize this man?" Will asked.

  "No. I'm not from around here."

  "And you say he tackled her, she hit her head, and he left?"

  "That's what I saw."

  I took a deep breath, relieved that he didn't elaborate. I couldn't afford for him to talk to people about what he saw me do today. It had been bad enough that there had been a witness at all. If word got out that I somehow forced my will onto Fred, it would be much worse.

  Between his comments and Linda's, I heard nothing that would incriminate me if plucked from the wind.

  I put my head down and closed my eyes to block the visual assault. I stayed like that for a while, listening as the din outside gradually faded. Someone quietly entered the store but I didn't move.

  "Are you okay?" asked a low throaty voice next to me.

  I opened my eyes and braved a glance at the rubble on the floor in front of me. Blessedly, the flashing lights were gone. "Sure and I will be, once this place is cleaned up."

  "Yeah, it's a mess. But I was more worried about the blood on your leg."

  I hadn’t even noticed the cut on the back of my leg. A trail of blood ran down my calf. Now that I was aware of it, the wound throbbed painfully.

  "It's nothing."

  An appreciable silence hung between us. A tension radiated from him that felt like anger: Yes, definitely anger. The intensity of his aggravation seemed out of proportion with the circumstances. Perhaps it was in response to his daughter's exposure to such violence?

  "I am very sorry about this—so sorry your little girl was frightened," I said, thinking that must be it.

  "Me too."

  He walked over to the powder room where I had gotten the towels to dry Sophia's hair. When he returned, he handed me a fresh wad of paper towels. I pressed it firmly to the wound.

  I felt the weight of his gaze on my face, but I still hadn't looked directly at him, fearful of what I might read in his eyes. Did he suspect that I wasn't who I seemed to be?

  He crouched down until we were level. His eyes, now so close to mine, drew me to him like a ma
gnet. Unable to resist, I braced myself and turned to meet his stare.

  He searched my face while I searched his, looking for any hint of his thoughts. He was heart-stoppingly handsome. His dark chocolate eyes were deep, still wells that kept his emotions far from the surface, yet somehow I felt the anger draining out of him. Almost simultaneously, my own apprehension faded. A deep connection caused a peacefulness to fall over us both.

  As we continued to gaze at each other, a different type of tension arose. The magnetic pull I’d felt was growing stronger. We leaned in towards each other, eyes locked, until at last he smiled and looked away, breaking the connection. He shook his head, bemused.

  "Wow. I did not see you coming," he said under his breath.

  And with that, the strange moment disappeared.

  He peered out over the mangled showroom. "How did you do that?" he asked.

  Now we had come to where I’d expected to be when he first approached me: covering up my strange behavior. I knew he was referring to Fred's abrupt departure, but I pretended to misunderstand him. I relaxed my face and widened my eyes to appear innocent and youthful.

  "The flying glass cut me."

  "Not that," he said impatiently. "How did you make that guy leave?"

  "Me? How could I make a big man like that do anything?"

  He looked at the destruction around us, replaying the scene in his mind, concentrating as if to remember all the details.

  Not wanting to give him the chance to ask any more questions, I decided to run. Least said soonest mended, as my grandmother would say.

  "I'd better go tend to my leg," I said, escaping to the powder room.

  I closed and locked the door, leaning back against it. A wave of relief washed over me as I stood in the darkness. After several seconds of nothing to see or listen to, only the pain in my leg remained to trouble me.

  I flipped on the light switch to examine the cut. It was longer than I had imagined, but not particularly deep. I wet a clean paper towel and blotted the blood away, scrubbing a couple of spots where it had dried on my skin.

  Once the area was clean, I broke off a leaf tip from an aloe plant that sat on the windowsill. I squeezed the healing liquid from inside the leaf onto my fingertips. I gently spread it over the cut, infusing it with my essence—a bit of my soul, really—as I rubbed it into my skin. As the liquid expanded and grew warm, the bleeding stopped, the throbbing pain subsided, and the edges of the cut knit together until it disappeared entirely.

  For the finishing touch, I took a large Band-Aid out of the cabinet below the sink and placed it over the area so that no one outside would see that it had healed.

  When I came out of the bathroom, Tom Lynch was coming in the front door. Otherwise, the store was empty again.

  "I wanted to let you know we're all done here," he said.

  I looked past him to the street. Will Clark sat in the driver's seat of the cruiser. Fred Moyer's dazed face looked toward me from the back window.

  "He was next door at JR's," Tom offered before I could ask. "We'll hold him at least overnight."

  He turned to go, then hesitated and turned back.

  "I've known Fred all my life. Truth be told, I've been drinking with him since we were fifteen. When he gets into a drunken rage, nothing stops him until he passes out."

  I did my best to seem polite but indifferent to his words.

  "But tonight he gets himself into a full rage, suddenly stops in the middle of it, walks away, and sits at a bar calmly having another drink?"

  I shrugged.

  "Something doesn't add up here. What am I missing?"

  "Tommy, truly, there's nothing more I can tell you."

  CHAPTER THREE

  I traversed the stone walkway through my grandmother's terraced garden in an odd zigzag trajectory, avoiding the puddles left by the rain. Dusk was falling as I climbed the stone stairway to the back entrance of her house, queuing the garden's lanterns to sputter on.

  The heavy oak door was unlocked, as always. I turned the doorknob and pushed it open to let myself in. The grand foyer ran from the front entrance back to the rear door where I had entered. I crossed to the far left, toward the half-flight of stairs that led to the small library where my grandmother would be waiting.

  I was halfway across the enormous room when her butler, Shamus, bustled in. My grandmother kept several servants to run the estate. Besides Shamus there was a cook and a grounds-keeper: a small staff, compared with the one she had employed when her husband was alive.

  Shamus, though one of many Brounies that lived on the estate, was the only one who came out during the day. My grandmother brought him with her to the estate when she retired. Her servant for centuries, I was sure she couldn't imagine her home without him.

  Shamus had wiry, red-brown hair, the ends of which stuck out even though he used grease to slick it back. He had a terribly old-fashioned and formal disposition. I'm afraid I annoyed him a great deal with my habit of making myself at home in his mistress's house.

  He tagged along behind me as I continued on my way to the library. I moved briskly, impatient to see my grandmother. He worked his short legs hard to keep up with me while maintaining his starched demeanor.

  "Miss Tressa, if you can't wait for me to open the door for you, won't you please allow me to announce your arrival to Mistress Órlaith?"

  "No need, Shamus my friend. She knows I'm coming," I said over my shoulder as I approached the library door. I had to raise my voice a notch to be heard over the American country music blaring from behind the door; oddly, my grandmother had acquired a taste for it since moving to the states.

  When I entered she was shuffling towards the bookshelves by the cold fireplace. She dragged her left leg slightly more than usual as she walked, leaning on her mahogany cane for support. When she saw me looking, she tried to hide her limp with her next step. Her pride would not allow her to admit weakness. I rushed to greet her with a kiss on her smooth cheek.

  "Welcome home, a leanbh," she said with a warm smile.

  She pointed at the book she wanted. I lowered the volume on the music before taking it down and walking with her to her favorite chair by the bay window.

  My grandmother's appearance had changed little since I was a child. Her long, thick hair still shimmered in the light. Now, however, the color was gray instead of golden blonde. Her face, though lined, was as regal as ever. No one would have guessed her true age, despite her labored gait.

  The way I felt in her presence hadn't changed either. The sight of her calmed my nerves and made my heart swell.

  "How was your day?" I asked.

  "I had a fine day, as a matter of fact. I sat watching the effect of the storm on the gardens. Isn't it wonderful how it makes everything shine?"

  "Sure it is."

  I kissed her cheek again before sitting on the floor at her feet and leaning against her, just as I’d done since childhood.

  "Oh Mamó, I had some trouble today."

  She stroked my hair gently. "Tell me about it."

  "Holly's husband—you've met him, haven't you? Fred Moyer?"

  "Yes, I believe so. He has dark coloring, does he not?"

  "No, actually he's blonde with blue eyes."

  "Aye, that's the one."

  Such nonsensical remarks were characteristic of my grandmother. Years of experience had taught me that trying to make sense of it was useless; I let the incongruent remark pass.

  "He came into the store this afternoon drunk and looking for a fight. He threw Holly against the wall and she bashed her head. I fear he would have done worse, but I was able to stop him."

  The hand that had been stroking my hair slipped under my chin and lifted it until she could see my face.

  "You called Dominion over him?"

  "Mamó, what choice did I have?" I searched her face for a reaction. My own expression pleaded for approval.

  She sighed.

  "No other choice at all," she said.

 
"He destroyed most of the Belleek china and one of the old curios," I lamented, remembering the shattered pieces that had littered the shop floor.

  "You are hurt." Her voice took on an edge when she noticed the bandage on my leg. "Why haven't you tended to it?"

  "Oh, I did. I put this over it so no one would notice." I pulled off the Band-Aid as I explained. No trace of the cut remained.

  "And Holly was injured? Did you tend to her as well?" she asked.

  The question surprised me. She knew the consequences of using my essence to heal Holly as well as I did. Certainly she wouldn't have approved of my being so reckless. "I thought it best to let her sister take her to the emergency room. Would you have wanted me to do differently?"

  "No. The timing isn't right."

  I puzzled over her comment, but again I let it pass, continuing with my story.

  "Eileen called to tell me Holly needed several stitches, but there was no concussion. The police picked up Fred next door at JR's. They assumed he was in a drunken stupor."

  She smiled sadly and patted my cheek. I laid my head back in her lap and she went back to stroking my hair as she spoke.

  "You did it to prevent an act of violence. The Decree of the Ancients is clear that this is one of the situations where you can call Dominion without it being reported to anyone at home."

  "Hmmm. Unfortunately, that isn't the real problem. Holly was too traumatized to realize what was happening, and Fred won't remember any of it, of course. However there was another man in the shop at the time. He saw everything."

  "A leanbh, that is unfortunate."

  "I've never seen him before. He's not from around here. Surely he was a tourist who will go home and forget all about it. At least, that's what I'm hoping." I bit my lip, silencing the small part of me that hoped he would stay.

  Determined to shake that thought, I reminded myself what was at stake. I had dangerous enemies. Several of my friends had lost their lives just by being close to me. The memory made my stomach churn.

  I had found a haven here at my grandmother's Pine Ridge Estate. Here, people liked me for myself, rather than for what I was. Here, disappointment didn't attack me at every turn. Deaglan Mór didn't know I was here. To keep everyone safe, I had to keep it that way.