“Dammit,” he muttered, losing the connection. He could hear Arrim shift beside him and knew that the guardian was having the same trouble. Joe tried again, and his shallow trance broke even more easily this time. Joe opened his eyes and looked up, disgusted. Arrim snapped a curse of his own. He looked at Joe, his wild hair damp and matted.
“What’s going on?” Joe said, frustration leaking out of his voice. “Why can’t we close it?” He thought of the money and felt a pang of guilt. Dammit, is this my fault?
Next to him, Arrim muttered, “Forest god. I think I know what’s happening. Thrice-bedamned meddlers.”
“Arrim, you aren’t making any sense.”
“We’re trying to close the wrong gordath.”
“The wrong—” Joe stared at the other guardian.
Something zinged over their head and thunked into a nearby tree. A crossbow bolt.
After the first moment of paralysis, Joe and Arrim turned and bolted for the door. The clearing erupted as armed men swarmed out of the woods. Bolts thunked past them, breaking on the stone walls of the house or thudding into the door. Joe recognized they were deliberately shooting high. Men shouted, and Joe and Arrim hit the door at the same time, scrabbling for the bar and pushing.
They weren’t fast enough. First Joe was hauled back and then Arrim, and they were dropped to the ground, a sword at Arrim’s throat, a loaded crossbow at Joe’s. His chest heaved as he struggled to control his breathing, a rock pressing into his back. The treetops almost closed out the sun, the sky white with summer heat. Where the hell is Tal? Wasn’t that the way it always was—never a cop around when you needed one?
There were about a dozen men, dressed in rough leather and metal armor. They were masked, all were armed, and about six of them had crossbows, cocked and ready. His hunting knife and Arrim’s old machete, used when they deadheaded through the woods, were taken, and then they were pulled up roughly and their hands tied behind their backs.
When they were secure, one man approached them. He was masked like all the others, but his armor was finer, his boots sturdy and well-made. You can always tell a lord in Aeritan, Joe thought. Just look at the shoes.
Of course, not even Lord Tharp carried a handgun the way this man did.
The leader spoke through his mask, his words muffled. “Guardians. Do as you are told, and you won’t be harmed.”
Joe glanced over at Arrim. The man nodded. He was pale and kept swallowing. Joe knew how he felt. This was bad. They were in big trouble.
It got worse. Another man stepped up next to the leader, dressed in hunting camo and carrying a nice hunting rifle that Joe would have coveted when he was younger.
“Joe Felz,” said Mark Ballard with a grin. He was bearded and shaggy, and he looked like he had seen better days, but the unearned cockiness was still there, although Joe had to admit, the rifle backed him up. “Never thought I’d see you here. This must be a step up, right? You got tired of shoveling horse shit?”
Joe nodded at him cordially. “Mark. Still brownnosing?”
Furious, Mark swung on him, but the leader pulled him back by the collar of his heavy hunting jacket, now stained and weathered after a year or more of constant use. The leader stood in front of Mark. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to. Mark pointed at Joe.
“If he mouths off to me again, I’ll kick his ass.”
The masked lord said, “If you disobey my orders again, I’ll have Drav kick yours.”
Joe guessed that the man he referred to was the hulking guard who turned around at his name. Drav grinned under his mask, and Mark folded. Joe shook his head. It was cold comfort that Mark Ballard was barely better off than him and Arrim, but he’d take his comfort any way he knew how.
The leader jerked his head at the house. “Go find your coin and hurry and don’t take long. We are far from welcome here.”
Coin, huh? Uh-oh.
Mark sulked, but he went into the house. Joe waited, his skin prickling. He had no doubt what Mark was looking for, but what the man thought he was going to use American money for in Aeritan, he had no idea.
The clearing stayed quiet while they waited on Mark. Joe looked around, taking in their kidnappers. They were professional soldiers. He and Arrim were well and truly screwed.
They all watched as the pretty little chest sailed out of the top floor window and fell to the forest floor, its legs and lid smashed open. When Mark came out again, he was whistling. He ruffled the last of the stacks before shoving the money into his pack.
“Sweet,” he said cheerfully. “A hundred grand, just like I left it. Hear that, Felz? Hare and I are going into business together, and you and your buddy here are going to help.”
“Don’t use my name.” The leader—Hare—spoke tight little words that screamed of rage. Mark looked startled.
“What? It’s not even your real name.”
Joe barely kept from rolling his eyes. Shut up, man, he thought, but he knew Mark wouldn’t. Hare’s voice was still barely under control when he spoke again.
“Are you through, Lord Bahard? Maybe you would like to visit Red Gold Bridge again, and tell Lord Tharp of our plans? Or perhaps we can take our leave, now that we have what we need, and get on with it.”
Mark just shrugged. “Yeah, I got what I wanted. You have the guardians. We’re set.”
Joe and Arrim were pushed into line, separated by several guards, and hustled off. Crap, Joe thought. What have we gotten ourselves into?
Two
Night had fallen over Hunter’s Chase. Lynn finished her walk-through of the hill barn, peeking in on the horses drowsily finishing their hay, a few already dozing. The warmth of the barn, with its aroma of wood shaving bedding and oats, the heavy scent of horses and manure, enveloped her. She took a last look around, turned off the light, and pulled the heavy doors together. Outside, the stars twinkled faintly in a light-drenched sky. It never really got dark anymore, not even out in the country. She remembered the night on the plains in Aeritan, the stars a cold, burning swath across a strange sky.
Was Joe looking at those stars? Was Crae? Sometimes, lying in bed alone, she thought of the choice she could have made with Crae, implicit in their stolen kisses. She could have stayed in Aeritan with him, and then only one man would have haunted her sleep, not two.
Maybe it was better not to have to make the choice. Sure, it was the coward’s way out, but how could she be happy with Crae if she knew it meant she could never be with Joe?
Unwillingly she let herself turn to the barn apartment, its windows dark and lifeless. She had loved Joe. She was pretty sure he had loved her.
If I had to do it over, she told him silently, I never would have ridden home through the woods last year. Not if it meant never seeing you again.
And as a consolation prize, she got Hunter’s Chase. Now that had been a surprise, when Lady Sarita signed over the stables to her. In a couple of ways, the gift had been more of a curse. The business of running the stables had been a sobering experience. Lynn sometimes felt the harder she worked, the faster she fell behind. On the other hand, the beauty of the place seeped into her, and she felt blessed that she had the guardianship of it. There was no other word, she reflected, even if guardian had taken on a load of new meanings since last year.
The air was cool, flowing, the heat from the midsummer day long gone. The cool raised goose bumps on her bare arms. Lynn rubbed her arms absently as she headed down the gravel path to the house, its warm lights inviting. Headlights caught her eye as a car turned up the drive, rumbling slowly over to the main barn.
Whoever it was parked next to Joe’s old car, still sitting there from last year, Queen Anne’s lace growing up around the wheels. Lynn tsked in annoyance. It didn’t look like a client’s car. Who would be coming to the barn at this hour?
She walked over as the person got out of the old station wagon.
“Can I help you?” she called out.
The woman turned, her features indi
stinct. “Are you Katherine Hunt?” she said, her accent tinged with something foreign.
Lynn’s blood ran cold.
“She isn’t here anymore,” she said carefully. “I’m Lynn Romano. I own Hunter’s Chase.”
The woman sighed. There was just enough light for Lynn to make her out. She was older, in her fifties, her face fleshy and strong. She had once been very beautiful and still had remnants of it.
“Then maybe you can help me,” she said, and Lynn began to peg the accent. “I’m really looking for Joe Felz. I’m Isabella Felz. He’s my son.”
You are an idiot, Lynn, she told herself as she brought in two cups of coffee, decaf for Mrs. Felz. She should have told her Joe was gone, and she had no idea where, and sent her on her way. The woman sat in the living room in the low light, looking around at all the silver cups and ribbons, the photos of horses past and present, the old elegant furniture that had Mrs. Hunt’s stamp all over it. She smiled at Lynn’s approach.
“Oh, thank you,” she said. “You are being very kind.”
“I wish I could help you,” Lynn said, taking the other chair. “But Joe left last year.”
“He didn’t say where he was going.” It wasn’t a question.
Lynn shook her head, forced herself to sip so she wouldn’t say too much. Mrs. Felz sighed. “That was him. He never told us where he was, even as a boy. He had a tree fort in the cot tonwoods along the creek, and he’d sleep up there for days. The day he got his license was the day I knew we wouldn’t be seeing him for much longer.”
Tears stung Lynn’s eyes. She had known nothing about Joe.
“We got mail from an address in Connecticut, so I started there. I drove up all last week. But his landlord said that Joe had been in jail, that he had murdered someone. And he didn’t know what happened to him, that he thought he might have jumped bail.” Mrs. Felz put down her coffee and groped for a tissue from her pocket. She cried for a few minutes, and her next words were almost indecipherable. “He couldn’t have. Not my Joe.” She looked at Lynn. “Is that what you meant, when you said he left?”
Lynn didn’t know what to say. “No, I—well—” She stopped, warning bells going off in her head. Whatever lie she told could only get her deeper in trouble, and this mother, who had driven all the way up from Texas, was not about to leave any stone unturned. “I knew Joe, and he wouldn’t have killed anyone. He worked with me, and he was a good man.” I loved him, and I wish I could tell you that. It was hard; every step was dangerous.
She found a tissue from the box on the table between them and handed it to Mrs. Felz. The woman blew her nose and wiped it.
“Why didn’t he take his car?” she said thickly.
“His—car?”
“That’s his car, isn’t it? The one I parked next to? If he was running away, I mean.”
Lynn didn’t say anything, pressing her lips tightly shut. Blood hammered in her temples. At her silence, Mrs. Felz looked up.
“Yes, it’s his car.”
A frown furrowed deep between the woman’s eyebrows. “So why didn’t he take it?”
“I don’t know.” At Mrs. Felz’s confusion, Lynn threw up her hands. “I don’t know! He went away, and I don’t know what happened to him. I wish I did. Like you, I hope every day that he’s okay.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Felz said. A smile appeared. “You’re the girl.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I talked to him last summer—he called. He hardly ever did that. He told us he met someone. His daddy was upset, of course, because he knew it was one more thing to keep Joe from coming back, but I was happy for him.”
“He told you about me?”
“Not much, but I could tell he was happy.”
Despite herself, Lynn smiled. Mrs. Felz started crying again.
“I’m so sorry. I am just so worried about him, and I miss him, and I want him to come home.”
If he did his job right, he would never come home.
Joe’s mother got herself together and stood. “Thank you. You’ve been very helpful. Do you mind telling me how to find a motel?”
There was nothing for miles, and she would surely get lost on the country roads trying to find her way to town. Lynn sighed.
“I have a better idea,” she said.
It was strange to see a light in the apartment over the barn. Lynn watched it until it flicked off, and then she went up to her own bedroom. She had made sure the apartment was kept clean, in part because she knew that at some point she was going to need a barn manager. It was perfect for Joe’s mom. Mrs. Felz carried up her small case and thanked Lynn as if she had given her a suite at a fancy hotel.
As she crawled into bed she thought, This is a very bad idea. Very bad. Mrs. Felz was asking all the right questions. It was only a matter of time before she started to put things together. She’d never get the right answer, of course, only the logical one—that Joe was dead and Lynn had something to do with it. She stared up at the ceiling, lost in the darkness, and listened to the beat of her heart.
Oh, Joe, she thought. I wish you were here.
Driving home from the horse show, Kate rested her head against the window of her mom’s car, the cool of the summer afternoon pleasant against her skin. She was still in show clothes—midnight blue jacket, fawn-colored breeches, and white shirt—but her stock was unpinned, and her hair hung in limp strands around her face. She had tossed her boots in the backseat, along with a few ribbons she had won with Allegra, the Hunter’s Chase mare she was riding for Lynn. Her stocking feet were propped up on the dashboard.
It had been a good show. The mare was difficult and moody, nothing like her sweet Mojo. But Mojo had died on the battlefield outside Red Gold Bridge, and so Kate had been working with the difficult horse. The riding mostly made her parents happy. She figured that way they could think everything was back to normal. And it had gotten fun again, but she could already tell it was no longer her whole life, the way it used to be. B.A.—Before Aeritan, she thought.
She moved restlessly against her seat belt. Her back itched. Her mom glanced at her.
“Are you okay, honey? We can call Dr. Gilbert if the skin grafts are bothering you. She said there are some things she can give you.”
“It’s not that bad. I probably just got some dust down my shirt.”
“Well, take a shower when you get home.”
Kate nodded, rubbing her forehead against the window. Her mom went on, keeping an eye on traffic, “So, did you get a chance to look at those college Web sites I bookmarked? And you also want to take a look at your résumé. I was talking with Miranda Bolton, and she said Sophie has been putting together a portfolio of all of her extracurriculars, and I think that’s something we should do, too. It’s not too early to start, and we don’t want to leave it till too late.”
“I know,” Kate said, trying to face down rising panic. “I just—it’s hard to think about all of that.” Every time she thought of junior year—the make-or-break year, as everyone kept on saying ominously—she wanted to run shrieking for the woods.
“Well, you know, it’s something colleges want nowadays. Your grades are good, your test scores are good, but Harv—colleges are looking for something extra. And I’m afraid that you’ve spent so much time on riding, that hasn’t left much time for putting in community service.”
Well, let’s see. I extracted bullets from bodies without anesthesia and sewed them up, I helped set broken legs, I made all sorts of medicines and drafts to fight infections that soldiers died from anyway, I rode a horse into battle as a courier, and I stole a car. What would Harvard think of that?
Kate took a breath. “Okay,” she said. “I . . .” Her voice trailed off as her mother slowed for a red light. Kate caught sight of someone standing in the long shadows on the side of the road, and she turned to look as her mother stopped the car.
Tall, dark, longish-haired. His clothes . . .
His clothes were Aeritan clothes.
&nbs
p; Time stopped. She looked up, her eyes drawn upward without her control. He looked back at her, his eyes as black as his lank hair.
“Go! Go, Mommy, go! Drive!” Kate heard the screaming, realized it was herself.
“Kate!” The car jerked forward but slammed to a stop as Mrs. Mossland realized cross traffic was still streaming.
“Drivedrivedrivedrive! Mom, please go!”
How had he come here? How had he gotten through?
“Kate, my God . . . What is it?”
The light turned finally, and the car sped forward, Mrs. Mossland trying to talk to Kate, and Kate lost in her tears.
“It was the general, Mom. It was him.”
She knew her mom was talking to her dad in the kitchen downstairs. Unable to sit still, she paced around her bedroom in her old pajama bottoms and a tank top, her hair wet from her shower. Pictures of Mojo stared at her from shelf space all over the room, intermixed with blue ribbons and silver cups, horse posters and model horses, and a few stuffed animals from her childhood.
When she first got back from Aeritan, she had walked around her room this way for hours, everything unfamiliar, her anxiety making her pace like a racehorse. Only gradually, when her brain reset to Earth mode, could she be soothed and take comfort again from her memories.
Sighting General Marthen made her feel as if she were back in camp once more.
Colar sat at her computer desk, still in his shorts and T-shirt from lacrosse practice. His forearms were thick from practice—well, she thought, she supposed that they were pretty well- muscled from swordsmanship, too.
“You sure?” he said.
She sighed, adjusting her tank top strap. “I don’t know. Sometimes—sometimes I think I see him everywhere. But this was different. Only, he was in the long shadows—and he, it just—”
“You can’t keep something like the portal closed forever,” he said thoughtfully.
Red Gold Bridge Page 3