Born of Treasure (Treasure Chronicles Book 2)

by Jordan Elizabeth

  “Where is your sister?”

  “Amethyst?” Jeremiah leaned back. “Senator Horan has her. I was notified of that most graciously.”

  “You stole her back. You or one of your men.”

  “My men?” Jeremiah lifted his brows. “My men work this ranch. We don’t have time to kidnap people.” The captain’s words thickened in his brain. “You don’t know where my sister is.”

  “We can’t believe she could’ve run off. Someone took her,” Captain Greenwood huffed. “The army contacted your uncle, but the invalid hasn’t been in contact with anyone other than his nurse, and he’s been under house arrest. It had to be you.”

  The walls crept toward Jeremiah. His sister should’ve been safe enough, considering she’d been arrested for conspiring with Clark against who-knew-what. The whole matter was ridiculous, but until his father could figure it out, Jeremiah had to go along with the army to protect the Treasure name.

  Amethyst was gone.

  “She vanished from the army? Did one of your men get her? Did someone touch her?” Jeremiah lunged forward, his fist raised.

  “Oh no.” Captain Greenwood backpedaled, lifting his hands. “We know it was you. You can’t touch me, boy.”

  “I’m not a boy,” Jeremiah spat. Clark wouldn’t have hesitated. He wouldn’t have refrained from pummeling the captain.

  Four soldiers marched into the hallway from behind the captain. Rancher Horan followed, laughing.

  “Get out of my house,” Jeremiah growled. “All of you. We need to find Amethyst. She’s a Treasure. Anyone could’ve kidnapped her to get to my family.”

  “Your family isn’t that important,” Rancher Horan chortled, “and this isn’t your house.”

  “Amethyst has been kidnapped!” Didn’t they understand? She could be tortured, or perished.

  Captain Greenwood snorted. “By you. Arrest Jeremiah Treasure in the name of Senator Horan and Hedlund.”

  “Arrest me?” Jeremiah pushed off the soldier who grabbed his arm. “This is ridiculous. On what grounds?”

  “You broke the law by freeing your sister.”

  “I haven’t seen Amethyst! I didn’t free her.”

  “Tell that to my brother.” Rancher Horan grinned. “You committed treason. Everything you own—which is everything in the Treasure name—is forfeit.”

  “By order of Senator Horan,” Captain Greenwood said, “everything you own now belongs to Hedlund for Senator Horan to distribute as he pleases.”

  “No!” Jeremiah jerked away from the soldiers who surrounded him. He’d been so careful to protect his family’s name. The government had to know he didn’t help his sister—unless, Senator Horan set it up to look as if he had. Amethyst might still be a prisoner with them.

  Rancher Horan clapped his hands. “Guess who my brother gave all the land to?”

  Jeremiah blinked at him.

  “Guess who he gave everything to?”

  What did any of that matter? His family needed to be safe. They would arrest Alyssa because she’d agreed to sign her life away with him.

  Amethyst had better be safe, or Jeremiah knew it wouldn’t just be he who would be furious. Somehow, having Clark angry seemed much worse. They’d grown closer than Jeremiah and Amethyst ever had. Part of him admitted he was glad she had a brother to protect her.

  Amethyst sat on the hill with her legs folded, her eyes closed, and her hands resting on her knees. That warmth came as the sounds of people faded. The sun didn’t feel so hot. Temperature vanished to leave her cocooned in nothingness.

  Something stirred in her belly. Had the coarse bread she’d eaten upset her stomach?

  Amethyst cleared her mind again. It happened faster each time she practiced, and she recognized how much she did love that power. It gave her a strength wealth and fame never had. The warmth spread quicker through her essence as if it loved her back. She let it pool in her feet and work its way up, soothing her muscles. She would need to be rejuvenated when the gangs met at Eric’s lair. Since they would be close to her father’s ranch, she might be able to sneak a few words to Jeremiah, depending on how many guards the army had left there.

  The warmth worked its way toward her head and paused again in her belly.

  A baby.

  Amethyst gasped, ripping out of the trance to press her hands against the skin there. She and Clark had married in the summer, and the season had turned into autumn. She counted the months in her mind. It had been three months since their marriage, but they’d used protection. Clark knew about those things and so did she, from whispers and giggles in the city. He wouldn’t have let that happen until they were ready.

  “We will have to arrive in the night.” Eric floated toward her.

  Amethyst blinked, finding tears in her eyes. She’d never imagined being a mother. Certainly, she’d known it was her duty to breed high-society ladies and gentlemen. Proper ladies only had a few children—her parents had been in vogue bearing three. Her children would attend the best schools. They would know their manners for when she took them to galas. They would someday marry and repeat the cycle.

  Would the child look like Clark? They both had blonde hair and blue eyes, but would the child also have his strong nose? What about his soothing voice?

  “Mrs. Grisham?” Eric touched her shoulder. In public, he called her Amethyst so the outlaws wouldn’t be confused—he had to be concerned to revert back to the pet name.

  “Eric.” She squeezed his wrist. “I’m with child.”

  The holes where his eyes had been widened. “How do you know? I mean, do women… I’ve never been…”

  He hadn’t known about Clark when he’d passed. “I felt it when I concentrated.”

  “That’s… my grandchild.” Eric’s mouth gaped.

  Could Amethyst still fight for Clark? Women in the city hid away for nine months, or ten, or eleven, as long as it took to safely have offspring. None of her friends had bred yet. She happened to be the first to marry, even though they had beaus and fiancés.

  She’d seen the lower class with child, round bellies and waddles, frowns until they smiled, as if it was bittersweet. The servants still worked when they were in that condition. What had her mother done?

  Knowing Georgette, it wouldn’t have stopped her.

  “What do I do?” Amethyst asked.

  “I… don’t know. I can ask Clark, but you should tell him.”

  “Would Clark know?” Who cared who told her husband?

  fell in love with him. When sadness struck, I pictured him in my mind, and it all washed away. We laughed, and I didn’t have to hide behind a façade of being better. He encouraged me—he told me I could do anything, and I believed him. He cheered me on when I wanted to curl up. He let me go when I needed to do something on my own.

  I do this for him.

  The steamcycle roared over a rock, soaring inches off the ground before hitting the dust again, and Amethyst opened her eyes. Jack Three drove her stolen bike so she wouldn’t have to struggle to keep up with the gang. His shoulders hung narrower than Clark’s, and back hair stuck out from his yellowed collar. The stench of sweat oozed off him making her want to gag. With her eyes shut, concentrating on Clark, she could forget about the horror of Jack Three. Maybe riding with Jack One or Jack Two—if they existed—would have been preferable.

  Staring over the man’s hunched shoulder, she spotted the farm looming into view. Dusk colored the darkening sky in streaks of violet and orange, the type of painting she might’ve created when she really wanted a cat masterpiece. The leading cycles circled the cabin and barn, and Jack Three parked in the line. Amethyst jumped off and wiped her gloved hands on her new slacks. At least they’d been there to protect her from Jack Three, who took off his helmet and leered at her with broken teeth.

  She’d used Eric’s bank code to purchase the dugout gang new clothes—Eric let them know what armor they could retrieve from his hideout—so they would be hardier. The clerk in Hedlund hadn�
�t blinked when she requested black pants, shirts, gloves, and boots, as if that order came in every day. The men and women from the other gangs wore their threadbare garb. She’d have to see if she could get them something new.

  Amethyst folded her arms as a shiver played over her spine. Long ago, she’d been a little girl sitting on a white couch in a white playroom in her uncle’s apartment. He’d wanted everything to be white for her, to be pure, innocent… corruptible. She’d sat on that sofa with a porcelain doll in her lap, the toy covered in layers of silk and lace. A dollhouse had rested on the floor, along with a Jack-in-the-Box, a stuffed bear, and that bird in the white cage, that would sing whenever she turned the key in its side. City air would blow through the open window to stir the white velveteen curtains.

  She would pretend her mother was there with her, since her uncle couldn’t play well. She’d stopped after she realized her mother wouldn’t return to the city to live. She stopped pretending she had anything other than her uncle and that white playroom.

  Now, she didn’t have him, and she wore black, with buckles on her pants, buttons up the shirt, and boots that reached her knees.

  The gang members started toward the house, and a man stepped out onto the porch, a rifle in hand.

  “Whatcha think you’re doing?” he bellowed.

  If anyone got shot, she could bring them back. Amethyst started forward when Eric appeared beside her.

  “Do you remember when you first arrived in Hedlund and Rancher Horan attacked a neighbor?” he asked.

  So much had happened when she first arrived. Amethyst shifted her stance. “A little.” The men had gone off, and her mother had worried in the drawing room, so Amethyst had played pool, drunk booze, and fell asleep on her balcony.

  “Rancher Horan had attacked this farm. His brother told him I left something special here.”

  “Wait, hadn’t my father sold this land to the man?” Jeremiah had complained about his father buying the land back to protect the farmer.

  “Yes. He couldn’t protect mine forever. Garth didn’t know where I left anything.”

  “State your business.” The farmer cocked his rifle and lifted it, so the gang lifted their weapons right back.

  “Look here, fella,” Top Hat Terry called. “We don’t want no trouble. We gotta get something on your land and we’ll be off.”

  “You’re gonna get off my land, that’s what!” The farmer—Steven Smith, Eric had called him—shot at Top Hat Terry’s feet. Dust puffed off from the ground as the shot rang across the fields. A cow in the barn mooed.

  Top Hat Terry had said they didn’t mess with honest folk, like farmers struggling to survive in the dry climate. He told her they wouldn’t harm the family.

  “Smith.” Amethyst sashayed forward, swinging her hips. “I’m Amethyst Treasure. Will you let us get what we need on behalf of my father?”

  The farmer scowled before he spit tobacco juice onto the porch. “If you’re off with the likes of this lot, you’re just a whore. Garth don’t have whores.” He lunged forward, aiming his rifle at her. “You one of those that made the army take him off? You lied about his good name?”

  Amethyst sighed. Time for her Rich Girl voice. “Shoot him. Tie him up. I’ll bring him back.” Short, to the point statements.

  Top Hat Terry pulled his trigger and blood blossomed on Steven Smith’s chest. The farmer sank to his knees, his rifle striking the porch, and toppled sideways.

  “Steve!” His wife fled from the house to kneel beside her husband, tears on her cheeks. “What have you done?” She scrambled for his rifle, but one of the men in the crowd shot her in the forehead. Her body crumpled over his.

  Amethyst strolled forward to lean against the porch railing while Top Hat Terry and a woman in a ragged dress tied the Smiths together. Someone else marched in the house after the little boy, whose wrists they bound.

  “Their dead,” the child wailed. “You killed them.”

  “Oh, hush up,” Amethyst snapped. “They’re coming back to you.”

  A ghost shimmered into existence beside her, a gouge carved into her neck and blood staining the front of her blue corset. “Be nice to the child.”

  An aunt, perhaps? Amethyst shrugged the ghost away as she crouched on the wood, resting one hand on each of the Smiths’ shoulders. She closed her eyes to transport herself into the death world.

  “Come with me,” she called. “Your son’s waiting.”

  They crawled toward her, with blackened eyes and gaping mouths. Taking their hands, she yanked them back to reality, to leave them gasping on the porch.

  “What are you?” Steven Smith panted.

  What could she be? Amethyst rose. She could call herself the Dark Mistress, or another wicked name like that. Or… “Amethyst Grisham.” She winked and jumped off the porch. The ghost in the corset had vanished, leaving Eric as the only specter in the yard.

  “This way.” He headed around the cabin, and she followed, sensing the others behind her. Boots crunched over dry grass and dirt. She lifted her chin and straightened her shoulders. The gang respected her more for her abilities than they did her money. Guiding them meant more than teaching a servant to polish silverware better.

  Amethyst laughed, just to hear her voice in the air.

  Eric stopped near the well and pointed toward the bottom. “The lever is in the rock with the key engraved on it.”

  Amethyst glanced back at her followers. She’d look pathetic if she couldn’t get that to work. “Um, what?”

  “Push in the stone with the symbol.”

  Amethyst knelt in the dirt to rub her fingers over the stones. Some of them had marks, cracks, and dirt. None of them seemed to have an actual engraving.

  “Eric, show her.” The corseted ghost shimmered near him. “Don’t be a tease.”

  How nice, ghosts knew each other. Scowling, Amethyst searched lower to the ground. There. Her finger caught in the crease of an engraving. She brushed off the dirt to reveal a crude key design. She bit her lip as she pushed it inward. At first, it resisted, but gave with a click, dirt scraping off against her fingers. The ground behind her lurched and gears ground. A door lifted from beneath the grass and lights flickered within the hole.

  She glanced at Eric, but he kissed the corseted ghost. Since when did he care about that? No man could resist a corset.

  “Here we go!” Amethyst flashed a smile to her audience and stepped onto the first stair leading downward. They couldn’t see her hesitate.

  Each step she descended caused another light to flicker in the wall. When she came to the bottom, a chamber glowed; it had to be at least a mile long, filled with steamcycles and steamcoaches.

  Gunshots sounded above and someone shouted. Had the Smiths gotten loose? Why hadn’t anyone followed her? Amethyst ran back to the top, and someone grabbed her arm. Wind pushed, and she smacked her back into the ground, air rushing from her lungs.

  A knife pressed against her throat.

  “Move, bitch, and you die,” a man growled.

  A man wearing an army uniform.

  She swung her gaze and noticed other army men shooting at the gang members.

  ‘They’ve been watching the Smith farm. I didn’t see them.” Eric’s voice drifted to her ears. How good was a ghost then?

  “I heard you call yourself Amethyst Treasure,” her attacker snarled. They must’ve waited for her to descend before attacking so she wouldn’t be able to escape.

  The knife bit deeper, a sting forming along her throat. If she could save a life, who said she couldn’t take one? Amethyst fought her glove off as he leered at her and clamped her hand around his wrist, flashing them to the dead land. The officer staggered away from her into the sand.

  “Bye,” Amethyst sang as she returned to reality. The man’s body crumpled onto her and warmth soared along her limbs, as though fire were about to leap off her skin. She had to find the energy to leave the cavern. What if she burned up from the inside out, a result of too mu
ch power? The corpse slid off her and she gasped for breath.

  Her lungs wouldn’t work. Amethyst rolled to her side, panting, and reached out. Her hand hit an ankle and the fire energy from the Great Beyond soared off of her, onto…

  She blinked up at the corseted ghost. How had the energy gone into a spirit? The cut through the ghost’s throat vanished and her blackened eyes shifted green, the whites appearing around the irises. The ghost lifted her hands and turned them over.

  “I’m… alive?” The ghost spoke in a hoarse voice. No, not a ghost anymore. Somehow, that energy had made her live again.

  “I don’t know,” Amethyst whispered.

  “Judy,” Eric yelled.

  “Judy?” Amethyst repeated. The world spun and more shouts exploded near her. A bullet tore up the ground.

  “I’m Clark’s mother,” the woman said as a tear fell down her cheek.

  methyst’s world narrowed to a speck, a tornado, a vortex that wanted to drag her into the ground. Clark’s mother was dead. He’d described to Amethyst how he’d seen her body in her bedroom, all the blood and the soaked mattress, the reddened pillows, how he’d fled in panic and never stopped running.

  The corseted woman cupped her hands around Eric’s face, more tears slipping from her eyes. This woman… Clark had witnessed her corpse.

  “Why didn’t you come to me?” Eric’s form flickered for a moment before his tangible essence regained strength.

  “Death is such a strange place,” she murmured. Gunshots sounded around them. Amethyst knew she would have been shocked frozen by those noises the year before.

  Clark’s mother leaned against Eric, her lips pressed to his chin. “I was so happy. I mourned for our son, but I was free, Eric. I didn’t have to worry anymore. I trusted our son.”

  Trust had made her neglectful. Amethyst flared her nostrils. “You could’ve comforted him! Both of you.” They’d been selfish to ignore him as he ran. He’d needed support. What would she have done without her uncle? What if her parents had placed her in a city boarding school? She would have felt forgotten, not free.