The Crystal Warriors Series Bundle

by Maree Anderson

  Pieter merely smiled. He bent and whispered to Amie, praising her for her courage and instructing her to return to her mother. Then he raised his hands to the skies and began to chant. “Verily the crystal for which thee be named/ Shalt form the prison in which thee be bound/ To atone the sins for which thee be blamed/ ’Til thee be blessed and thy true love be found.”

  Wulf threw back his head and laughed. “Blessed? What nonsense is this, old man? Mayhap you are addle-brained, yes? Warriors such as we have no need of blessings. And as for true love? Bah. ’Tis naught but a woman’s fantasy.”

  The crystals surrounding Pieter began to glow. Black clouds scudded across a rapidly darkening sky. An ominous crackle of lightening haloed beams of light—each a different, unearthly hue—shooting up from the gems.

  “What sorcery is this?” Malach, Wulf’s second in command, demanded.

  Pieter raised his arms to the sky. “Kyanite, Malachite, Shattuckite, Okenite, Danburite,” he intoned. “The stone thee be named for shall bind thee. I, Pietersite, bind thee.”

  The heavens answered with a rumble. The five Styrians Pieter had named vanished. In the precious moments it took Wulf to comprehend the peril and react, Pieter had named his five remaining warriors and bound them, too, to his stones.

  Wulf pivoted his battle mount, already unsheathing his sword. He charged, screaming his defiance, his sword raised for the killing strike.

  “Wulfenite. The stone thee be named for shall bind thee.” Pieter did not flinch as the blade descended. “I, Pietersite, bind thee!”

  The Styrian warrior vanished. His sword clattered to the ground.

  ~~~

  Wulfenite, Lord Keeper of the Shifting Sands fief, veteran of countless battles, awoke to unceasing blackness, a vast emptiness devoid of sensation. It was not the afterlife warriors of his ilk fondly imagined, not this godsforsaken place. It was Halja. Hell.

  Centuries passed. Time enough for fury to turn to despair, for despair to turn to acceptance, and finally, for Wulf to mourn what might have been.

  He harbored no hope of redemption… until the guardian of the crystals spoke her name. Chalcedony.

  ~~~

  Chapter One

  Chalcey Laureano glanced at her Mickey Mouse watch. Fifteen minutes early. Fat chance the finance guru might already be here, waiting for her to arrive. He’d made it very clear his time was precious. She straightened her shoulders, plastered what she hoped resembled a confident smile on her face, and strode into the café….

  And pivoted on her heel to walk straight back out the exit again. Her breath whooshed out in a ragged little whimper. She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t sit alone in that soulless, too-trendy café, pretending to be professional and calm and totally in control of her emotions. Couldn’t stomach any more angsting over operating statements and income projections. Reducing her dream of owning a successful dance studio, her passion, to mere numbers on a page? It sucked.

  Right now, she’d rather be crawling ’round on her hands and knees, plugging holes in her studio’s floorboards. But she couldn’t blow off this meeting. She needed this loan.

  For the gazillionth time she rifled through her handbag to reassure herself that she’d brought along all the required forms.

  Yep.

  Another glance at Mickey. Still thirteen minutes left. More than enough time to work herself into a tizzy. Why, oh why couldn’t she swallow her stupid pride and take Sam’s offer of an interest-free loan? Sam was a trust-fund baby. That girl had more money than she could spend in a lifetime and—

  A blaze of sunlight refracting off the neighboring store’s window display washed Chalcey’s face. Wavering and flickering with a rainbow of colors, like some heat-induced mirage it beckoned—

  And the next thing she knew, she’d spilled through the store’s open doorway, arms wheeling and heels screeching as she fought for balance on a gleaming polished floor.

  Her eyes watered, dazzled by fiery, multi-colored brilliance. WTF? She blotted her face with her sleeve and blinked rapidly until she could focus. Okay, Chalcey. Calm down. Just a store selling rough-hewn gems, rocks, and crystals, and all the usual paraphernalia that went with them.

  “And here you are at last,” said the weather-beaten elderly man perched on a chair behind the counter. At least, that’s what she thought he said.

  He caught her gaze as he took a sip from a rather elaborate silver mug etched with complex designs. Her crazy heartbeat slowed and steadied as he abandoned the mug on the counter.

  “How may I help you?” he asked, shuffling toward her and smiling with his entire face. Poor deluded soul probably figured she had money to spend.

  “Thanks. But I’m, uh—” Trying to figure out how the heck I got here. Chalcey pulled her shit together and assumed the businesslike tone she’d been practicing in front of the mirror. “I’m just window shopping.”

  His head bobbed on his scrawny neck. “As jackdaws are drawn to a shiny trinket, many curious visitors are drawn to my crystals. Unfortunately, few are willing to loosen their purse-strings enough to make a purchase.”

  Uh oh. Busted. A flush burned her cheeks. She managed a tight smile and turned smartly on her heel. Sooo out of here.

  His hand snaked out to grab her arm with a speed that belied his age. “Do not be so hasty, child. Please forgive an old man his ill-humor.” His nut-brown eyes twinkled and his deeply seamed face cracked another broad grin. “You need not feel obliged to make a purchase. Please, browse and enjoy the fruits of my labors.”

  Chalcey glanced first at his arthritic fingers clutching her arm, then at the clock on the wall. She still had a few minutes to kill. Where was the harm? She allowed him to usher her over to the window display.

  “These crystals are no mere baubles to delight the eye,” he said. “Each should be approached with respect. They have been formed by the very birth of Earth itself and thus, each crystal is indelibly marked by the power of the force which created it.”

  She couldn’t place his accent. It seemed strangely formal, out of place in the modern world. He droned on about his crystals, projecting such reassurance that she didn’t protest when he placed his hand under her wrist to wave her outstretched palm over some hunks of gemstone. “Feel the energy of the crystals, Chalcedony.”

  Hang on. He knew her full name. How—?

  “Choose, Chalcedony.”

  The frisson of alarm skittering down her spine was smothered in gentle, soothing waves of benevolence. It seemed completely natural—right—for her to do as he instructed. The last remaining tension drained from her body and as she relaxed, he released her, leaving her hand hovering over the gemstones.

  A ripple of energy surged from one of the crystals, agitating the air beneath her palm. A sensation of knowing, of connection, smacked her. Warmth, like the afterglow of an expensive brandy, pooled in her belly. Emotions roiled around her, raw and intense and profoundly disturbing. She sensed despair, remorse, and such immeasurable hopelessness that her mind instinctively reached out. And then she was united with the crystal, empathizing with its pain, soothing it.

  The dark emotions ebbed, replaced with curiosity, burgeoning hope and a sense of longing so powerful that she retreated, alarmed. But the crystal refused to relinquish its link to her. Its power licked through her mind and Chalcey couldn’t suppress her response. She wanted more—yearned for more—and the alien energy rejoiced. Its essence caressed her with gentle phantom fingers, the intimacy causing her to gasp. There was a moment’s respite before it exploded through her in an electrifying rush.

  “Wulfenite!” A woman’s voice. Her own. Why was she screaming? She didn’t know, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything at all except succumb.

  “Chalcedony!” A man’s voice this time, hoarse and raw.

  Blackness ate her.

  ~~~

  Chalcey peeled open her gluey eyelids and shook her head to clear hangover-style grogginess from her mind. The polished stainless steel decor o
f a café needled her cringing gaze. She bit back a squeal, rearing back from the table with enough force that she rocked her chair. Shit! How the hell had she ended up here?

  The man she’d arranged to meet observed her antics with a frown and thin, tightly compressed lips.

  Sickly dismay roiled in her stomach. Her heart plummeted to her toes. “M-Mr. Chapel! I, uh— I’m sorry, did you say something?”

  “You dropped this on the table, Ms Laureano.” His nostrils flared as he brandished a palm-sized chunk of dirty-brown stone.

  She took it from him, turning it over in her hands, frowning as she struggled to recall how she’d gotten the darned thing. She sure as heck didn’t remember paying actual money for it. Ohhh crap. Please, please don’t tell me I lifted it from the store next door.

  “This? Um, I think it’s a crystal.” The child-caught-in-the-act squeak she heard in her voice made her wince. A missing chunk of memory and the possibility she had a new hobby: Shoplifting. Way to start off this meeting on a positive note. It’d been a hellishly stressful few months but…. Sheesh. Way to appear eminently worthy of a nice, fat, low-interest loan.

  She stuffed the offending item in her handbag and when she glanced up, caught Mr. Chapel doing the nostril-flare again as he wiped his fingers thoroughly on a napkin.

  Time for damage control. “I arrived a bit early for our appointment, you see, and I—”

  “Quite. Well, that concludes our meeting.”

  His tone was clipped and sharp and so very disapproving that Chalcey bit her lip. And then the full meaning of his words smacked her. “Huh? I mean, it does?”

  He indicated the briefcase sitting on the spare chair at their table. “I have your income projections and all the required documentation. You’ve told me everything I could possibly need to know about your circumstances, Ms Laureano.”

  “I have?” Oh, no. That couldn’t be good.

  “I’ll call you in a few days regarding the lender’s final decision,” Mr. Chapel said. “Good day.” He cracked a semblance of a smile as he rose from his chair and held out his hand.

  She stared at his manicured fingernails.

  His eyebrows shot upward, forming little pinnacles of displeasure.

  Heat bloomed on her face. She struggled gracelessly from her chair to shake his outstretched hand. “Right. Yes. Yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Chapel. I look forward to hearing from you.”

  He threw her another of those soullessly professional smiles as he adjusted his tie and tweaked the hem of his jacket over his bony ass. He snatched his briefcase, and with a glance at his fancy wristwatch, hurried out the door.

  Obviously a very busy man was Mr. Chapel.

  What were the chances that she’d made a really fantastic impression on him?

  Probably non-existent, considering she couldn’t recall a single thing she’d said to the man. Who, despite sounding very encouraging over the phone, in person made even Chalcey’s asshole of a bank manager seem sympathetic. She could only hope she was reading far too much into the abrupt way he’d ended the meeting. Perhaps he used that tone with all his potential clients. After all, she was in effect begging him for money.

  She flopped back into her chair, grimacing as the stylishly uncomfortable metal frame grated her spine. As she toyed with her water glass, her gaze skittered across the tabletop and lit on the crisp bills placed so very precisely across the café docket. Mr. Chapel had already settled up his bill—not that she could remember him eating or drinking anything. The last thing she remembered was being in that funny little store, waving her hand over bunch of crystals like some freaking New Age hippy. Weird. The stress of the past few months had obviously come back to bite her on the ass at the worst possible moment.

  She delved into her bag to check the contents of her wallet. Just enough cash for coffee and a muffin, plus the credit card she kept for emergencies. No new receipts. Hmmm. She drummed her fingernails on the tabletop, nervy and unsettled. Something weird had happened to her in that crystal store. Something profound. And if she’d believed in woo-woo stuff, she might have concluded she’d been hypnotized. The pragmatic side of her snickered at that fanciful thought.

  The waitress swooped in to collect the cash and clear the table. Chalcey pulled her fractured thoughts together and asked for her check. She copped a sideways look and raised eyebrows—the kind people gave someone who was losing it. “You didn’t order anything, ma’am. There’s nothing more to settle up.”

  “Oh. Okay. Thanks.”

  Now what? Uncharacteristically for Chalcey, the last thing she felt like right now was coffee. Not when her stomach was swooping with nervy unease. First thing on the agenda, have a chat with the old guy and find what the deal was with the damned crystal. And, if she really lucked out, perhaps he could shed some light on whatever the heck was up with her.

  She exited the café. It was an effort to walk rather than give into the growing panic that threatened, and run flat out. She hung a hard right at the door, all the while rehearsing her defense in the event she had actually stolen the crystal from the poor old guy.

  She needn’t have bothered. There was no sign of the store. Or its owner.

  A cold worm of dread slimed her skin. She wrapped her arms about her middle, shivering, struggling to process the truth of what she was seeing. Namely, a fancy designer boutique immediately to the right of the café, and an even fancier antique store to the left.

  Oh God. She really was losing it.

  She shook off the numbness of disbelief and forced herself to move. The store had to be somewhere nearby. She couldn’t have imagined it.

  She wandered the entire block in vain. She even stooped to questioning snooty store assistants, enduring one sneering put-down after another. Doubtless they all thought she was certifiable but she kept at it, until even her particular brand of stubbornness was reduced to a whine of protest. No-one recalled the crystal store she described. It was as though the store, and its mysterious owner, had been conjured up by her fertile imagination.

  Defeated, she slumped against a storefront window to catch her breath. Was it too much to hope this had all been a dream, and it was early morning, and she’d wake in her bedroom out back of the studio? She pinched her arm. Hard. But her bizarre reality didn’t magically change for the better.

  As a last resort, she opened her bag to check that the hunk of crystal she’d somehow acquired really did exist.

  There it was, right at the bottom, vying for space with her brush, a packet of tissues, and a tube of lip gloss—rock-solid evidence that something weird had gone down. Her head reeled as she sought valid explanations for something so out there, she couldn’t even imagine trying to explain it to anyone. But there was no logical explanation for the time she’d lost. Wasn’t like the old guy had had the opportunity to slip her a roofie. And even if he had, what would have been his motive?

  Reality check. The meeting with Mr. Chapel was already done and dusted. Nothing she could do about it now so there was little point in fretting. Plus, there was a heap of work to do at the studio. It was time to head home, put this whole experience behind her, and hope that after a decent night’s sleep it’d all make sense.

  She wiggled her cramped toes in the low heeled pumps she’d bought to go with the cheap suit. Should have gone with a pair of old dance shoes. Sure, the pavement would have ruined the soles but at least they would have been more comfortable than these cheap crappy things. She shouldered her bag, and started walking.

  When she rounded the final street corner she paused to gaze up at the Laureano’s Dance Studio sign. The space was perfect. She’d known it the instant she laid eyes on it. And, after months of backbreaking physical work, the basic refurbishment was nearly complete. Her opening-night party advertisement had run in the local papers and everything was good to go.

  Tears stung her eyes. She was so damn close to achieving her dream she could taste the syrupy sweetness of success on her tongue. She could almost hear her
dad’s voice launching into his favorite pep talk about how Chalcey could do anything she set her mind to. He’d given her the Mickey Mouse watch as a gift after her first dance recital at the tender age of six. He would have been so proud of her.

  The sweetness faded, leaving behind the bitter aftertaste of anxiety. The lease and renovation costs, and even her own meager living expenses, had eaten through the small legacy her dad had left her. And now that she’d finally convinced her dance partner, Jai, to ditch his straitlaced ballroom studio and come teach with her, she had an employee to worry about, too. If class numbers didn’t reach her expectations….

  But she wasn’t going to think about worst case scenarios right now. Mr. Chapel’s cronies would come through with the loan she needed to ease her temporary cash flow woes. Why wouldn’t they? Her stomach rebelled with a lazy somersault. Why wouldn’t they, indeed.

  ~~~

  “Why the heck aren’t you ready?” Sam’s outraged screech careened through the studio and made Chalcey jump like a startled cat. She glanced up to see Sam approaching, and sucked in a sharp breath in preparation for some screeching of her own. “Stop right there!” She reared on her knees, menacing Sam with her pallet knife. “Lose the shoes or I’ll do you bodily harm!”

  “Huh?” Sam froze, deer-in-headlights startled.

  “Your fuck-me-big-boy spike heels—” she waved the knife at Sam to better emphasize her words “—are gouging holes in my floorboards. How many times do I have to tell you about heel protectors?”

  Sam kicked off her shoes and surveyed Chalcey, hands on curvy hips, Botoxed brow doing its darnedest to wrinkle. “You’ve forgotten.”