The Amulet of Caorunn (A Jinx Hamilton Mystery Book 7)

by Juliette Harper

  “Is that what you saw in the dream?” Tori asked.

  “To the letter,” I replied. “The man with his hand outstretched blowing the dust just stepped out of the shadows before the old guy knew what happened. When he gasped, so did I and that’s when vertigo hit me, and I woke up.”

  Putting the last strokes on the drawing, the pen turned to face me inquisitively. “Thanks,” I said, “that’s it for now.”

  With that, the writing instrument went horizontal, descended slowly toward the grimoire, and smoothly slid itself back into the leather loop.

  “I have got to get one of those pens,” Tori said. “That thing beats an Etch-A-Sketch all to hell and back.”

  When I put the grimoire in my lap, she sat down on the side of the bed with me as we studied the scene. “Your green stuff worked,” I said. “I wanted more detail. I’d say we got detail.”

  “And then some,” Tori agreed, “but what does it mean?”

  Sliding open the top drawer of the bedside table, I took out a magnifying glass and held it over the figure of the elderly man. “Look,” I said. “There, under his shirt. Do you see the chain and the top of the pendant?”

  Tori took the glass and squinted at the drawing. “Yeah,” she said. “He’s definitely wearing something under this shirt.”

  “Not something,” I said. “He’s wearing the Amulet of Caorunn. I think the dream showed me how it was stolen.”

  “Okay,” Tori said, “but where was it stolen?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I said. “The buildings are old. I’m thinking Europe. Maybe you can go online and try to find some place that looks the same?”

  She reached into the pocket of her sweats and took out her phone. “It’s a long shot,” she said, snapping pictures of the page, “but I’ll give it a try. It’s not much, but at least it’s a start.”

  “It’s more than a start,” I said, holding the magnifying glass over the face of the thief. “If I see this guy in real life, I’ll recognize him.”

  “Any chance I can talk you out of repeating this little experiment until we have more information?” Tori asked.

  “No problem,” I said. “I’m not anxious to get hit with another dream-based whammy of any kind.”

  Trust me. I said it with complete conviction, but as it turns out, the Casket of Morpheus had other ideas.

  4

  A Secluded Estate, Location Unknown

  Irenaeus Chesterfield removed the jeweler’s loupe and regarded his prized pocket watch with a look of infinite regret. The instrument had flawlessly transported the wizard to bookmarked locations in time and allowed him to move laterally across the stream of present hours. But now, under the damnable weight of the natural order, the glittering diamond set in the watch’s face was poised to shatter.

  Using the loupe’s magnification, Irenaeus found fine cracks radiating from the gem’s center, already distorting the inclusion at the heart of the diamond that allowed it to focus and channel temporal magic. The stone, acquired in Egypt after the Second Crusade, could not be replaced.

  Chesterfield would need a compelling reason indeed to initiate the diamond’s ultimate destruction; for now, he returned the gold watch to the pocket of his vest. Rising from his chair, he put on a maroon silk smoking jacket, tying the black belt with studied precision. Finding comfort in the gesture, Irenaeus paused to drink in the elegance and sophistication of his new home.

  Although pained by the loss of his apartment and antique store in Raleigh, he had long ago become accustomed to casting off one identity for another. Immortality demands sacrifice and subterfuge. At least he was free of his blessedly brief but barbaric sojourn in a dank cavern lying beneath the North Carolina mountains bordering Tennessee. While perhaps not the worst lodgings he’d endured in his long life, Irenaeus far preferred civilization’s comforts.

  The late afternoon sun slanted across the glass fronts of the cabinets lining the walls of the baronial study. Each contained treasures and curiosities collected over centuries. The objects formed a visual record of Chesterfield’s long journey.

  Now, as the only Creavit in North America, he stood far distant from his origins as the scorned, defective second son of Gregorius Chesterfield — and yet, an image of his father’s scowling face still rose unbidden in Irenaeus’ mind.

  No matter what the son accomplished, no matter how far he advanced his practice of magic, he could not exorcise that wretched father from his memories or dreams.

  Or at least that had always been the case. Soon Irenaeus would be the most feared self-made wizard in the human realm — a fact he alas could not hold over the long-dead Gregorius.

  Instead, Irenaeus would exact his familial revenge from the sufferings of his pious brother, Barnaby. The Lord High Mayor of the sanctuary city of Shevington would regret his feigned superiority as would the turncoat, assimilated Creavit of Europe — those lapdogs who had once shared Chesterfield’s vision of a new age of made magic. For their sin of collaboration, the fools would pay in equal measure with the Hereditarium.

  A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Smoothing his lapels, Irenaeus stood away from his desk and stepped across the priceless Louis XV Savonnerie carpet. Positioning himself to greet his visitor with the air of a gracious gentleman, Irenaeus said simply, “Come.”

  The carved mahogany door swung silently on well-oiled hinges to reveal a slender, slightly elven man dressed in dark trousers. A tweed vest covered his faded workman’s shirt, and in one hand he held a soft cloth cap. “Begging your pardon, Mr. Chesterfield,” he said, “but your guest has arrived.”

  “Thank you, Liam,” Chesterfield replied. “Show the lady in.”

  Stepping to the side, the man ushered an old woman through the entrance. The cold breeze that preceded her accentuated the pale blue tinge of her skin. She wore a long, gray cloak and carried a gnarled wooden staff. With each rap of the wood against the floor, small circles of ice crystals formed.

  “Cailleach Bheur,” Chesterfield said, bowing. “Welcome to my home.”

  “What business have you with the Queen of Winter?” the old woman asked sharply, her breath fogging the air as she spoke. “I am not accustomed to being summoned by self-aggrandizing pretenders.”

  Although he stiffened, Chesterfield’s pleasant expression remained carefully in place. “Not summoned,” he said, “invited. Would you care to join me by the fire?”

  Cailleach turned and regarded the hearth. “It is a myth that I do not enjoy the warmth,” she said absently. “I will sit with you.”

  Chesterfield turned to the servant who still stood, cap in hand, at the door. “That will be all, Liam. Thank you.”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Chesterfield,” the man said, bobbing his head and closing the door behind him.

  “He is not of the human world,” Cailleach said, lowering her body into one of the chairs. “Nor is he of the Otherworld. He smells of the In Between. What is he doing here?”

  “Working for me,” Chesterfield said, taking the chair across from her. “May I offer you anything?”

  “You may answer my question,” she said. “What business have you with the Queen of Winter?”

  Steepling his fingers, Chesterfield said, “You are the Queen of Winter for now, but indolent Spring will soon come knocking at your door sending you into exile, will it not?”

  Anger kindled in the old woman’s crystalline eyes. “Do not dare to diminish me, wizard,” she said. “I am and always shall be Mistress of the Cold. I create a world of icy beauty where the earth slumbers beneath blankets of snow and rivers pause in their course. My voice drives mortals shrinking into their pitiful dwellings to hunker by the fireside. Through my dominion, they find gratitude in their petty hearts for hot food and warm beds.”

  Chesterfield continued to regard her impassively. “It is upon those truths that my plans depend,” he said. “Do you not weary of the yearly transition? Of the need to melt away beneath the incessantly sunny gaze
of Brighid?”

  Studying him warily, Cailleach said, “I have no love for the Queen of Summer, but the way of things demands the coming of her season and the waning of mine. So it has always been, and so it shall always be.”

  “Why?” Chesterfield asked.

  The crone blinked in confusion. “Do you wish me to tell you any one of the hundred tales the humans use to explain the passing of the seasons?” she asked. “Even a Creavit should know that the winter months have been my dominion since the days when the Tuatha Dé Danann ruled the earth.”

  Choosing to ignore the pointed insult, Chesterfield said, “The tribe of the gods has long since retreated from the affairs of the human realm. You are not one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, yet you faithfully follow the old order. Where do you go when the days turn warm, and the earth grows green?”

  “I retreat to the far lonely places,” Cailleach said simply. “They are my sanctuary.”

  “And are you not losing that sanctuary?” Chesterfield asked. “Does not the ice at the top of the world diminish each year and with it your place of repose?”

  Cailleach nodded slowly. “It does,” she said cautiously, “but how is that any of your affair?”

  “I, too, have suffered from the superiority of the Fae,” Chesterfield said. “The greed of the Queen of Summer seeks to overwhelm your dominion. Brighid, the daughter of Dagda, does not know her place. She is not a faithful servant of the natural order as are you, dear Cailleach. Would you not like to teach this presumptuous child a lesson?”

  At first, she didn’t answer, but then Cailleach said slowly, “Perhaps. What do you suggest?”

  Rising smoothly to his feet, Chesterfield crossed to a cabinet near his desk. Extracting a key from his pocket, he opened the heavy glass doors and carefully removed a flat box covered in black velvet. Returning to his chair, the wizard opened the case and showed the contents to Cailleach.

  “I suggest,” he said, “that at the stroke of midnight on the Winter Solstice you fasten the Amulet of Caorunn around your neck, thus preventing the fading of your dominion.”

  Cailleach studied the amulet. “What is its power?” she asked with thinly disguised interest.

  “The rejuvenation of that which has faded.”

  The old woman snorted. “An enchanted trinket will not stop Brighid from pressing her case for the ascendancy of summer,” she said.

  “Let me worry about Brighid,” Chesterfield replied. “I assure you the amulet will prevent the waning of your powers. I will give it to you in exchange for a small favor.”

  Cailleach’s eyes narrowed. “Now we come to it,” she spat. “I do not do your bidding, Creavit.”

  Chesterfield held up one hand. “Wait until you hear what I ask. All that you must do is plunge the area of the United States known as the Deep South into the clutches of an unrelenting winter storm. In particular, I wish the state of North Carolina to experience near arctic conditions.”

  Cocking her head, the Queen of Winter said, “And the rest of the world?”

  “Visit whatever conditions on the globe suits your purpose,” he replied. “Only do as I ask in this one region until I tell you otherwise.”

  “How long may I keep the amulet?” Cailleach asked.

  “Once you take possession of this box,” Chesterfield said, “the amulet is yours. If I am successful in my designs, I will rule over a new order of magic in the realm of the humans. I do not require unrelenting sunshine to do so. We can negotiate the state of that world’s climate at some future date.”

  For the first time, the old woman smiled. “You do not require the heat of the sun because the depths of your heart are as cold as my own.”

  “Colder,” Chesterfield said, holding out the box. “Have we concluded an accord?”

  Cailleach’s blue-veined hands started to reach for the amulet, but the crone stopped. “And if you fail?” she asked.

  “If I fail,” he said, “I have no doubt the precious forces of the ‘natural order’ will reassert themselves.”

  “And if I say no?”

  The wizard fixed her with a flat stare. “Then my next conversation will be with Brighid. It matters not to me if the world is plunged into deep winter or hellish summer. The choice is yours.”

  After a moment’s pause, Cailleach took the box.

  “Remember,” Chesterfield warned, “do not put the amulet on until the stroke of midnight on the solstice.”

  “I understand,” Cailleach said, running her fingers over the smooth amber. “When do you wish cold to fall upon the South?”

  “You may begin to deepen winter in the region as soon as you like, but on Monday, December 28th, a storm must paralyze all of North Carolina,” he said. “Build the intensity of the event to the turning of the New Year. By that day, I wish to see the state powerless and encased in ice. Can you do that?”

  Cailleach’s eyes flashed. “I can do that,” she said. “I can do that and much, much more.”

  5

  The experiment with double enchanting the Casket of Morpheus didn’t leave me in a frame of mind to go downstairs and use magic for anything that day. That’s not something I typically do when there are customers in the store anyway, but then a situation landed right in my lap that I couldn’t ignore.

  Okay, I could have ignored it, but I didn’t.

  When I walked outside to sweep off the sidewalk, I ran straight into Chase working on the same chore.

  I’ve never been the type of woman who refuses to speak to an ex-boyfriend again — unless he’s been a total jerk. I can’t say Chase handled ending things with me gracefully, but he didn’t leave me hating him. Frankly, things would have been easier if he had.

  Generally, when a relationship falls apart, there’s a post-break-up cooling-off period to allow for closure. That’s when you manage to find enough equanimity to speak to the guy you were dating when you see him in the post office and ask him how his grandma’s doing.

  I should be so lucky.

  Chase lives next door, and we’ve got this whole sworn destiny protection thing going on. Getting away from each other hasn’t been an option. Now, admittedly, after he broke up with me, my anger and hurt feelings did win out over my better impulses.

  Chase endured the sharp edge of my tongue for weeks, especially when Lucas Grayson showed up and Chase decided it was a good idea to play the jealous ex. Bad choice. Seriously bad choice.

  That attitude did not work with me, and Mr. McGregor heard about it in no uncertain terms — from me and finally from Festus who came right out and told his son to grow the hell up.

  Since then, things have been better between me and Chase. But here’s the deal. Even though I don’t admit it to anyone, not even Tori, I’m still trying to get over him.

  Imagine, then, how not thrilled I was to step out my front door, broom in hand, and find Chase talking to Ann Marie Detwiler right there on Main Street. To put it bluntly, the only men in three counties that woman hasn’t gone after are the guys on life support over at the Leisure Lodge Nursing Home.

  The first words I heard came slithering out of her mouth. “Oh, Chase!” she gushed. “Do you really think you can fix them? They’re just my favorite pumps in the whole world.”

  The fact that I didn’t immediately swat her with my broom proves that I have enormous self-control — restraint I almost lost when Ann Marie spotted me and squealed, “Norma Jean Hamilton, just look at you! If we weren’t in direct light, I’d swear you haven’t aged a day!”

  Chase coughed into his hand so he wouldn’t laugh. I gritted my teeth, and said, “Why thank you, Ann Marie. Is that your original hair color? I honestly don’t remember, honey.”

  “Oh, Jinx,” Ann Marie trilled. “You always did try to have a sense of humor.”

  Chase must have seen something flash in my eyes he took as a warning sign because he dove between us, which was, frankly, an act of raw courage.

  “Ann Marie, why don’t we take your shoes inside and let
me have a closer look at them?” he suggested.

  Batting her fake eyelashes until they looked like a pair of epileptic butterflies, she said, “Whatever you think, Chase. You’re the professional.”

  “Go on in and make yourself at home,” he told her. “I’ll be right with you.”

  When the door closed behind her, I muttered something dark and entirely inappropriate. Grinning at me, Chase said, “I take it the two of you know each other?”

  “We went to school together,” I said sourly. “Watch yourself. She collects men like scalps.”

  “I think I can handle her,” he said. “I’m a big boy.”

  The remark could have been delivered with that particular wording on purpose, or my imagination might have been in overdrive, but the sentiment came across just a tad more wolfish than I liked.

  As he disappeared into the cobbler shop, I took a couple of vigorous — okay, vicious — swipes at the concrete with the broom and went back inside myself.

  The morning regulars were engrossed in their books and crossword puzzles. Tori was cleaning the espresso machine, and we had Mindy in the storeroom bundling herbs. No one was paying any attention to me.

  Making a show of re-folding a stack of t-shirts shelved on the wall we share with Chase’s shop, I waved my palm over a hand mirror on display and muttered, “Revelabit.”

  The surface of the mirror swirled and then showed me the interior of the building next door — complete with sound. Chase was sitting at his workbench, practically staring right at me, with Ann Marie hanging over his shoulder.

  “Magis praestiterunt silentium,” I ordered.

  The volume dropped, but not before I heard Ann Marie say, “Why don’t we have dinner sometime since you’re not seeing anyone?”

  I couldn’t hear what Chase said in response, but he smiled when he said it. That was enough for me.