by Julie Reece
Easing my back against the tree, I sketch a new design for my steampunk timepiece line. The breeze is warm for early June, and I predict a blistering summer. Dandelions dot the yard in need of mowing. Cirrocumulus clouds cover the hazy blue sky. I’m proud I remember that handy tidbit from science class, they are also nicknamed Mackerel because the clouds look like fish scales. So, why can’t we just call them that? Why do scientists always have to name everything such long, stupid names that no one can ever remember for a test?
Except that I just did. Gah! Shut up, Raven! Sometimes I can’t turn my rambling brain off.
Maggie giggles, and I watch the foursome on the deck, enjoying the day. Simple gratitude wells up inside me until the feeling spills over. Thankful for the sun, the shade that a faithful, old tree provides in summer, for the strength of its support, the music of fluttering leaves in the breeze.
The ground jumps and rumbles beneath me.
Startled, I glance around, but there’s nothing to see.
Another rumble and energy infuses my nerves, sending a shock through my body.
I drop my pad and pencil. My palms press the grass on either side of me, fingers digging into the soft soil for balance.
Then the shaking stops.
On the deck, Maggie tosses her head back and laughs as her father points the nozzle of the ketchup bottle her direction. She begs Dane for help, but he puts his hands in the air, as if to say this is between her and her dad. Mrs. Wilson frowns, warning her husband to stop his teasing.
No one seems alarmed by the fact a small earthquake has just taken place. No one seems to notice at all.
Does a power line run under this tree? Maybe a neighbor dug in the wrong place. Lawn mower run amok? Sink hole? I wait, rooted to the spot, but nothing else happens.
My muscles relax as another soft breeze floats by. I shake my head at my overactive imagination, and settle against the tree. Slowly, I’m eased forward and back again. As a child, I often fell asleep on Ben’s solid chest. Gentle swells and contractions of his ribcage forced me up and down in a steady rhythm like a lullaby with each breath. The tree trunk breathes the same way—like a giant lung. Shivers wrack my body. I force myself to sit still as several limbs bow low. Leaves gently caress my face and neck sending little jolts of energy skittering under my flesh. As the maple rolls me forward again, a warm sensation fills my mind with a sense of awe and wonder. And power. Light floods my eyes in a brilliant flash. I scramble to my feet with a shriek, and, too fast to track, the tree limbs retreat to the canopy above.
“What’s wrong?” Maggie yells over her father’s shoulder. “Ew, is there a bug?”
“Uh … ” How do I explain? I stare at my friend, unable to answer with a single intelligent word.
Worry, fear, and doubt weight the air easing from my chest. When Gideon and I broke the curse last year, I thought the ritual would end our troubles—the supernatural ones, anyway. Suddenly, I’m not so sure. And if the magic’s retuning, how in the world do I tell my beautiful, strong-willed, and overly protective boyfriend?
The Middle
Chapter Four
Cole
It’s two in the morning and Rosamond’s spirit still haunts my dreams. She’s appearing more often, making her pleas that much harder to ignore.
I’m supposed to be going through the stack of tutoring resumes my parents left behind. A year of catching up on my education, and I’m off to Uni. Carving out a worthy career path is a task expected of every decent Wynter.
Instead, I’m standing on the second floor balcony watching a fox dart across our moonlit garden. Trees, flowers, expensive wrought iron furniture—everything’s washed in an effluent glow.
Life is peaceful in this moment, or could be, if not for the mysterious blond whose image won’t fade. I tell myself the visions aren’t real, and then she appears again. The more I say she isn’t my problem, the heavier my soul feels. How do I live with myself if I walk away? Yet, the bigger question may be … how can I possibly help?
My hands grip the balcony railing. As far as I know, the camera hidden in the Maddox mansion was the only way into The Void. While our physical bodies were stored in coffins in the Maddox cellar, our spirits walked the grounds between worlds. Never in my years of banishment had I seen Rosamond.
Were there other coffins? More people that the Artisans punished whom I’d never met? Gideon never mentioned anyone else. In fact, when Raven convinced him to free us, all twenty-four souls were accounted for that night. So, where did Rosamond come from?
Even if I knew, would Gideon help me free her?
Memories can haunt a person as effectively as ghosts. And considering all I’d done to him, I highly doubted that he would …
At age fifteen, I remember waiting outside the headmaster’s office at Malcolm College, listening to my father rant. Mottled glass panes in the oak door gave me a decent, if blurry, view of the uncomfortable scene unfolding within.
Headmaster Stewart (Stewie or Stewmeat, as we liked to call him) Allen Gamble was about as tough as boiled noodles. Confrontation with my father was best handled as you would an attack dog. Speak with a clear and firm voice. Never show fear. Never run.
Who knows how Stewie achieved his high rank? It hardly mattered. If my father had much to say about it—and he did—poor Stewmeat wouldn’t have his job much longer.
As Father spoke, the volume grew. Cold and hard as the steely, blue barrel of a gun, old man Wynter leveled that voice at his victim and pulled the trigger. “This is absurd! No one expels a Wynter. It doesn’t happen. So, a few boys played an innocent prank that went awry. The burn was an accident. Hell, didn’t we all do a little hazing of the new chap when we were in school? Young master Maddox needs to toughen up anyway, I dare say.”
My father’s tone held a hint of pride mixed in with his superiority. As though my chosen method of torturing Gideon won me points for ingenuity. My stomach soured. Teeth ground to the point of shattering. I never meant to hurt the kid, not really. The plan was to embarrass, and maybe scare him a little.
Back then, Dr. Greene, my therapist, said I did shite like that as an outlet for my anger and for attention. Maybe that was true. Or maybe I was the biggest monster of all because I’d seen the hospital photos of Gideon’s burns collected by case investigators.
Scanning the photographs, I can still feel the way my eyes stung, and throat swelled shut. I wanted to shout, say I was sorry. But how could anyone apologize for something like that?
All Maddox wanted was to fit in.
My father might have disowned me if he knew how sick I felt. A Wynter is never wrong, never apologizes, or shows regret for his actions. That’s weakness.
But as I viewed the evidence of my crimes against Maddox, my hands trembled, and I knew I was the weakest boy on the planet, because I cried like a baby—but not until I got home and alone behind the closed door of my bedroom.
We weren’t so different, really, Maddox and me. I wondered if he’d seen that, too. Wealthy, overachieving, only sons with assholes for fathers. We were polished, clever, and fairly miserable, trying to be something we would never be. Acceptable. The difference was I’d learned to play the game and Gideon hadn’t. He still cared, and I hated him for it.
Students thought of me as popular, funny, and charismatic. Gideon wasn’t. Awkward and self-conscious, the boy drove me and my mates crazy with his wretched slide-stop gait—gimping down the hall on his crutches. Head always hung a little too low, back a smidge too bowed. He never looked anyone in the eye, excluding our professors, naturally. He ate by himself, studied alone in his room, yet there was something about him. A gleam in his eye at times that hinted at promise, winked at hope. That look made me want to knock him down.
That and the fact he wasn’t completely barking yet, either. Not like the rest of us. Time changed all that, of course. Eventually, Maddox surpassed my reputation, and that’s saying something.
�
�My dear, Mr. Wynter!” Stewmeat’s shocked tone drew my focus to the heated conversation in the other room. “The Maddox boy was seriously injured. The board is furious. Cole’s actions are without excuse and cannot be swept under the rug this time.”
Through the glass, I watched the headmaster’s shoulders hunch—probably withering under the glare of my father. I knew the feeling well.
The door swung open, Father hesitating just inside the room. His face an angry shade of purple—just a screaming, giant blue grape jutting out of his shirt collar where his head should’ve been. I’d have laughed if I wasn’t so close to vomiting.
“My son doesn’t need this third rate institution of incompetence. The board doesn’t scare me. If you people had done your job and given these spirited boys proper supervision, the accident wouldn’t have been possible. It’s your fault, Stewart. None but yours. No need to expel my son. I withdraw him. This isn’t over. Mark my words, you sniveling coward!”
As he left, my father slammed the door shut with a shuddering bang. How the glass didn’t break is still a mystery. He stalked to the leather chair in the hall where I’d sat perched like a goose awaiting beheading. Hands knotted at my sides, I couldn’t look up, and then I did. He’s not a large man, my father, yet the fury in his eyes made him seem eight feet tall. “You!” he growled, pointing an accusing finger my direction. “I’ll deal with at home.”
I glanced over at Stewmeat hovering in the doorway. He never spoke, but his expression softened to what I believe was genuine pity.
Pity. Something a true Wynter abhors, and yet the emotion sat on my chest like a hundred-pound weight.
An owl screams in the forest behind our home, drawing me from bad memories. It’s just a bird, but the cry falls like an accusation. A flash of wings against the night and the owl is gone. Only the moon remains, enduring, strong. Faithful to pull the tide, first to light the way …
I’ve been fighting the truth, but I can’t deny what’s happening anymore. Once, I hurt someone just to impress my friends, then sat by and did nothing to please my father.
The guilt almost killed me.
If I fly to South Carolina, Gideon may refuse to help me … or call the cops. He might grin as he socks me in the nose. Yet, in this moment, I lean on the balcony rail, pressing numbers on my cell phone to buy a plane ticket.
Rosamond’s freedom is worth the risk.
Chapter Five
Gideon
Maddox Industries occupies an entire floor at 32 Old Slip in Manhattan’s financial district. My father’s expensive leather chair squeaks as I redistribute my weight and stare out the wall of windows. To me, sunset makes the hard edges of New York’s uneven horizon appear more like an erratic EKG tape than a big city skyline. My view is crystal clear, yet I can barely function inside the cloud of shock suffocating my brain.
My gaze shifts to the grandfather clock in the corner, to the walls covered with paintings depicting my father’s favorite generals and historical battle scenes … and down again, to the stark paperwork awaiting my signature. How many Maddox men have worked at this ancient desk? My great-grandfather first, and then my grandfather, my father, and finally, me. All gone.
Who could have guessed that when the executive board called an emergency meeting, which happens from time to time, they’d have an ambush waiting? I’m out on my ass, thank you very much.
I got lazy. Distracted. Soft. Apparently, our tax attorneys had embezzled obscene amounts of money before disappearing last week. The board found out, took a look at our holdings, and panicked before our stockholders could. Restructuring to save what’s left of the institution my ancestors built was swift, and lethal. Also, it does not include me.
So be it.
A year ago, I was just as ruthless. Their decision is exactly what I would have done in their place. Feeling altruistic, the board left me the mansion, and the country house in Grey Horse, but no cash, stock, art, jewelry or any other real estate holdings my family had acquired. Art Windsor, my father’s most trusted advisor, was the only one to stand with me in today’s meeting and contest the board’s decision. Afterward, he told me not to give up as he took my company credit cards and promised to investigate the matter. He means well, but I know there’s nothing he can do.
In front of me sits a document. The board’s offering to pay a small annuity for the right to retain the name of Maddox Industries. The name is prestigious and well known globally. As much as I’d like to tell them where to shove their offer, I can’t refuse. The money covers upkeep on the mansion and will pay the salaries of Jamis and Jenny until their deaths.
Nothing more.
No meetings, decisions, responsibilities, or business trips for a job I don’t have. Jetting to glamorous cities for concerts, dinner, or just for the hell of it is a thing of the past. Gone are the luxury cars, clothes, and toys. A Maddox without money? My father is probably rolling over in his grave. Once again, I am the weak link in our family chain bringing the company to ruin because I was too distracted to notice we were being robbed blind.
Raven …
The thought of her slams into me like a cannonball. Well, not the thought of her, but about her. Without money, how will I make her dream of becoming a world famous designer a reality? All I promised, all I hoped to give her is gone. My hands fist on the desk. Thankfully, her college tuition is in an account in her name—a scholarship the board can’t access. Too bad I didn’t do the same for myself. I never thought I’d have to.
Our joint clothing venture Raedoxx Apparel dodged a bullet, as well. I developed the company last year when I blackmailed Raven to work for me. Before I fell in love. Now the company’s safe, but not because of any strategic move on my part, and not because the board didn’t try to include her designs in the takeover. Saving Raedoxx was a lucky, sentimental accident. I put the company in her name with me as acting CEO thinking I’d present it to her as a wedding present or some other ridiculous display of affection someday. That desire inadvertently protected the newly formed LLC from the board. The parent company absorbed the initial costs of production—and the profits. We planned to grow the company together, so while the money’s gone, at least her designs are safe.
With a roar, I grab the expensive vase on the corner of my desk and hurl it against the wall.
My attempt to blow off steam doesn’t help. Instead, it leaves a pile of shattered glass on the carpet in a million irreparable shards that someone else will have to clean up.
I’m nothing. And tomorrow, I’ll have to fly home and tell the girl I love.
How could I have been so stupid?
As I move along a darkened hallway, the fishbowl echo and blurry edges of memory let me know I’m dreaming. At eight years old, everything looks bigger, but our lake house in Grey Horse is vast by anyone’s standards.
The rubber soles of my new shoes squeak against the highly polished wood floors. I pause, wait a beat in case I’m discovered, but no one appears to condemn me. Creeping closer to the forbidden room, I nudge the mahogany doors open and peer inside my father’s study.
One sharp breath and I hold it in. Consequences for appearing in this room uninvited may be severe, but I want to be near him so badly, I ignore any possible repercussions. The smell of earthy, wood spice and tobacco tell me he’s close. I exhale, then breathe more deeply of him. Confident. Powerful. A scent all his own and my favorite in the universe.
A great man, perfect in ways I will never be, my father stands before an enormous, gilded mirror, taller than a giant, and wide as ten windows. He stares into the glass, eyes moving back and forth as though he’s watching a soccer game on TV.
“Come here, Gideon.”
Caught spying, my young heart hammers away. “Father?”
“Come, boy. Look here with me. Tell me what you see.”
See? I’m not sure what he means. Historically, my father’s questions involve some trick or riddle assuring both my failure and his
wrath.
As I draw near, I study the reflection of my father. Tall. Athletic. His dark hair is pulled into the neat ponytail he wears for work. The silver streaks at his temples are thickening of late. Firm chin, straight nose, lips pinned together in impatient anticipation. My father’s green eyes miss nothing. The orbs glitter, deep and penetrating as the facets of an emerald.
I glance at my image in comparison.
My body is frail. Crooked. One blue eye stares back. My hair hangs in messy curls over my forehead hiding my green eye. The one I got from him.
“Observe closely.” Father’s fingers clutch my shoulder. He squeezes to the point of pain, lessening his grip with my flinch. “Look past the obvious, son. Past this crude flesh,” he says, pressing my arm. “What do you see?”
Instinctively, I know he’s not referring to the ordinary items surrounding us. Rich, leather chairs I’m not allowed to sit on. Heavy, cherry desk with drawers I mustn’t open. Persian rugs I dare not tread upon. Tension electrifies the silence as I hesitate. My mind casts about desperately hoping to grasp his meaning. Earn his approval.
“Look, damn you!” he says. “Inside the glass. Magic is elemental. It’s in the earth, the water, even in the air we breathe. Magic is in the fire of a man’s will. Understand?”
I jump at his hardened speech. Breathe in. Breathe out. My lids lower by half, as I squint at the mirror. Slowly, the shiny surface dims, replaced by a swirl of gray clouds. Shadows deepen while lighter fog clusters and takes shape. There! I see … what are those … trees? Yes, and hedges. Tall as the mirror itself, forming what appears to be an endless maze. Color bleeds through the black and gray scene. A stone footpath lies at my feet, disappearing into the maze running left to right. Blue leaks into the sky. I lean forward as the space in the center of the shrub before me rustles. The temperature drops. I breathe out a fine, white mist, but my eyes continue tracking the quivering leaves.