Obsidian Curse (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Five) Read online

  Other Works by Barbra Annino

  Opal Fire: Stacy Justice Book One

  Bloodstone: Stacy Justice Book Two

  Tiger’s Eye: Stacy Justice Book Three

  Emerald Isle: Stacy Justice Book Four

  Sin City Goddess: Secret Goddess series Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Barbra Annino

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle

  www.apub.com

  Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.

  ISBN-13: 9781477820124

  ISBN-10: 1477820124

  Cover design by Kerrie Robertson

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013920855

  For the fans

  And always, for George

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Author’s Note

  Recipes for Samhain

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  When I was a little girl, I used to love playing dress up. I would sneak into my mother’s bedroom, slip into her black pointy heels with the shiny buckles, and explore her jewelry box, looking for colorful gemstones to accessorize the ensemble. I would sift through the clip-on jade earrings that matched her eyes, the obsidian necklace she wore every Samhain, the charm bracelet that my grandmother Birdie had given her one year for her birthday, and other baubles and shiny things.

  After choosing the perfect glittery adornment, I would teeter off to her closet in search of a cape. Hers were more elaborate than my own, with intricate bric-a-brac and detailed embroidery accenting the sleeves or the hood. But what I really liked about them was how long they were. I felt like a queen, traipsing around our little house, a long train whooshing behind my every step. Then I would shuffle into the kitchen and dabble in spellcasting or potion making, relishing the charms I could come up with and the power I could wield with an herb or a gemstone.

  You know, typical kid stuff.

  One day, while I was balancing on a step stool near the sink, oleander leaf in one hand and dragon’s blood root in the other, my father arrived home unexpectedly from work. My back was to him, but the lime and basil aftershave my mother crafted especially for his skin gave him away. He whisked me off the stool, twirling me in his arms, and I giggled. He kissed both of my cheeks and in a proper British accent said, “What regal beauty is this?”

  I laughed. “It’s me, Daddy. Stacy.”

  He feigned surprise. “Impossible. You are far too grown up to be my daughter.”

  “Nope. It’s me. Honest.”

  “Why, I could have sworn you were a royal princess.”

  “I’m in disguise,” I whispered, playing along.

  He whispered back, “I see. Hiding from the queen?” He scanned the room, then shot a look over both shoulders as if an armed guard was about to leap from the pantry.

  I giggled.

  My father’s eyes flicked behind me then, just over my head. He said, in a feigned worried tone, “Uh-oh. I’m afraid our cover has been breached, fair one.”

  He set me down gently on the step stool and we faced my mother. She was tapping her foot, her toned arms crossed over her chest. She shook her head first at my father, then at me in pointed disapproval. She aimed one long finger first at my right hand, then at my left, then straight at my nose. “Drop.”

  I let the oleander leaf and the dragon’s blood root slip from my fingers at the same time. The leaf curled and swayed all the way to the floor and I could have sworn I saw a feather fall on top of it for the briefest moment.

  My mother did not like me dabbling in magic without supervision. For someone so young, it was not only dangerous, it could be deadly. Even for someone like me, who had witchcraft coursing through her veins. That was a lesson I would eventually learn the hard way.

  My mother cocked her head and raised one eyebrow at my father.

  He performed a very graceful, sweeping bow. “Your majesty. A thousand pardons. Please do not punish the child for my misdeeds.”

  There was a sparkle in my mother’s eye as she half smirked, half frowned at my father. Her hair was still damp from the shower she had taken and her feet were bare. “You may rise.”

  I stole a look at my dad, enjoying this little exchange between them.

  He rose slowly, his gaze trailing the curve of my mother’s figure, which was amplified by the spaghetti strap dress she was wearing.

  “I am humbled, your grace.” He stepped forward, kissed one of her wrists, then the other. Her face flushed slightly.

  “As you should be. Oleander can stop a man’s heart in minutes.” She gave me another disappointed look. Her face was so expressive that I always knew what she was thinking—at least whenever she wanted me to know—even if she was clear across the room.

  I shuffled my feet. “Sorry.” It was a feeble apology, because I should have known better. Thankfully, while my mother could be strict, she wasn’t one to hold a grudge.

  My father stepped forward and extended his hand. “May I, princess?”

  I placed my tiny hand in my father’s large one and stepped off the stool, carefully tiptoeing around the plants I had discarded.

  My mother looked at my father. “Honey, don’t call her that.”

  He glanced up at her, weighing if she was serious or still playing make-believe. When he decided that she was all business, he said, “Why not? She looks just like a redheaded, green-eyed princess. Wouldn’t you say?”

  Mom crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at me, drinking in my borrowed attire. She took a deep breath as if to smell my very essence. She paused for a while, then circled me like a shark.

  I stood there in our cozy kitchen, t
he clock on the wall tick-tocking, the scent of my mother’s vanilla-lavender body wash permeating the air, holding my breath in anxious anticipation.

  Finally, she shook her head and a tiny line curved around her mouth. “Absolutely not. And do you know why?”

  She turned her gaze to my father, who shrugged. “Do tell.”

  With the confidence of a woman who had no qualms about leaving the house without makeup, my mother said, “Because princesses can be rather stupid.”

  I gasped. Was that true? Then why did everybody want to be one? I thought about pigtailed, fresh-faced classmates who loved to wear tiaras, dress in pink and blue chiffon, and make up stories about fire-breathing dragons and knights in shining armor rescuing them. It made me wonder. Do they know that their idols are dumb? Because I would trade in all the sparkle and bling for some smarts.

  Dad held his elbow and tapped his chin, considering this revelation.

  I looked from him to my mother, hoping the game would continue a while longer. I couldn’t wait for her explanation about why she felt this way and—more importantly—why Walt Disney wasn’t privy to this information.

  Dad said, “I see. Would you care to elaborate on that observation, my love?”

  My mother began ticking off a list on her fingers. “Well, for one thing, they can’t spot a disguise to save their lives. I mean, who mistakes a beautiful evil queen for an old decrepit hag?” She winked at me. “The eyes would give her away, would they not?”

  She had a point. I nodded enthusiastically. My father gave me a high five.

  Mom continued, “Plus, they are forever eating poisoned apples or some such nonsense. Everyone knows you don’t eat anything given to you by a stranger.” She grabbed some tea from the refrigerator and poured three glasses, handing one to my father first, then to me, emphasizing her meaning. “Not to mention, they tend to be rather careless, pricking their fingers, falling off mattresses, getting themselves cursed. And then there are the really daft ones who find themselves locked in a drafty castle for ages on end, all the while waiting for some Prince Charming to rescue them, when they should know how to save themselves.”

  She spun to face my father, parked a defiant hand on her hip.

  There was a gleam in his eyes that I couldn’t quite comprehend. “By stars, I do believe you’re right, Sloane.” He bent down, eyeing me. His breath smelled of oranges. “So what do you think our young Stacy Justice looks like? What sort of a nickname best suits her?”

  My mother scooted up to his side. She thought for a moment.

  I held my breath, waiting to hear the nickname she would bestow upon me. Movie star? Fairy queen? Batgirl?

  “She looks like a truth seeker, if you ask me. A rebel spirit. All light, fairness, and fight. The kind of girl who doesn’t burst into tears when life gets too tough. Who can defend herself with both her words and her strength.” She narrowed her eyes at my father. “What do you think?”

  “Hmm.” He nodded. “So the word you’re looking for is warrior.”

  “I like the sound of that. Warrior.”

  She said that last bit with such strength and conviction that it has held me in good stead for many years. In fact, whenever I found myself in a tight spot and I began to lose confidence—like I was right now—I replayed her voice in my head.

  Warrior.

  I felt his breath first. Then his hands around my neck.

  Chapter 2

  He was strong, to be sure. Tall, too, but that didn’t matter. The strength and size of my attacker was not as important as intuition, sharp senses, and a quick mind. My training had taught me that. If he were standing in front of me, I would have head-butted him or kneed him in the groin. Instead, I stomped my heel into his left foot, jutted my right elbow into his ribs and, just as he doubled over, I grabbed both his arms and flipped him over my back. He bounced off the floor once before I pirouetted around and straddled him. The athame was tucked inside my boot and I whipped it out for good measure, placing one foot on his sternum.

  He coughed twice.

  “Um, Stace, honey, we need to get you a new sparring partner.”

  Chance looked a bit pale and a small, familiar panic gripped me. I could never hurt him, would never hurt him, but there was a part of me deep down terrified that I might one day. Not intentionally, but because of the secrets or circumstances that plagued my life and now, my role in this world.

  There was a hint of mist in his blue eyes as if he had just stubbed his toe and was trying not to yell about it as I tucked the knife away. “I’m so sorry, Chance. You can’t sneak up on me like that.” I scanned his face, looking for signs of pain before I knelt down and kissed him. “Did I hurt you? Because you know I would sooner cut off my leg than hurt you.”

  “No, I’m okay.” He grunted as he shifted beneath me. He gripped his hands on my hips and rolled me over onto the mat, hovering above me. His chest was bare with just a hint of hair trailing to his navel, his sandy locks damp near the temples where perspiration had broken out during our two-person fight club. “It’s just that when you work construction like I do, you need all your parts in working order.”

  I grinned at him. “Right. We can’t have you broken. I still need those shelves installed.”

  He blew a playful raspberry on my neck and I squealed.

  “Is that all I’m good for? A handyman?” he asked.

  I looked around at the addition he had built on to my little cottage. It was a good-size room that extended from the closet in my bedroom to a wide-open square space with a weight bench, boxing bag, and a treadmill. On the far wall were various martial arts accessories like Chako sticks and five-pointed stars, along with a few Taser guns and my newest find from the spy store—a tranquilizer gun. There was also a small room off to the right with a cedar door. Chance had surprised me with it last week, explaining he thought it would make a great post-workout sauna, but I had other plans for the space.

  He assumed that this addition I had asked him to build, along with my relatively new obsession with self-defense, was all due to the fact that my job as a reporter, not to mention my wacky family, had often landed me in dangerous situations.

  He didn’t know the half of it.

  Chance called the new area the Bat Cave. I called it the Seeker’s Den. For that’s who I was. The Seeker of Justice.

  With a little bit of warrior whenever necessary.

  I kept my voice low, seductive. “Oh, you’re good for a lot more than that, you sexy beast.”

  He laughed, looked at me tenderly, longingly before he wove a web of kisses across my neck.

  We made plans to see each other that night, before Chance ducked back into the cottage to take a shower. I hit the bag a few more times, did some flying roundhouse kicks and a quick set of sit-ups before I was all out of juice. I grabbed a water from the fridge and drank the whole thing in one shot.

  There were three security cameras installed around the outer perimeter of the cottage. I’d had more than my share of intruders, so Chance was happy to help install this little peace of mind for me. One faced the space between the Geraghty Girls’ House and the cottage, one was aimed at the back door and side yard, while the last one covered the walkway leading to my home as well as the front porch. I walked over to the laptop on the desk, hit a few keystrokes, and switched on the camera that faced the front of the cottage. It appeared that Chance had just opened the door to his truck. He tossed his overnight bag inside then hopped in after it, hair still damp, jean jacket unbuttoned. For some stupid reason, as if he could see me, I waved. As he drove off, the massive tires of his 4x4 crushing autumn leaves in their wake, I felt an overwhelming sense of remorse.

  Guilt can be a crippling emotion. Even more so when the reason you’re feeling guilty can’t be washed away with an apology.

  Because how do you apologize for a secret that must be contained?
/>   I looked around at my new space that Chance had built in the weeks since I’d returned from Ireland. There were herbs drying on the peg rack behind the sleek metal desk; crystals of every shape and size packed into jars; knives, swords, and various other weapons covering most of the left wall; two laptops—one for home, one for work—a database system programmed with information that couldn’t be found on the Internet (courtesy of the Council) that I was in the process of updating with pages from the Blessed Book; a large wireless monitor that talked to the database; and the cameras and a security panel on the door. This wasn’t just a work space, or a workout space, it was a modestly armed, technologically fortified spy chamber.

  I suppose that’s what I was now. Sort of. A spy for witches.

  My mind melted back to all that had transpired during my time in Ireland as I punched a code into the laptop and a tiny drawer slid open beneath the desk.

  It had all been so extraordinary, even I had trouble believing everything that had happened.

  Until I held the locket.

  I extracted the tiny trinket from the drawer, careful not to open it, for that was where its heart beat, and held it in my palm. It was lightweight and caked with age, this gold piece of history. I dangled it from its long chain, allowing it to swirl and flutter in the air as I wondered how something so small, so delicate, could be the source of so much pain, agony, and betrayal.

  Not to mention power. Oh, so much power.

  And now, I was its keeper.

  Or more accurately, its Seeker.

  You see, Chance has known who I was ever since we were kids. At least as far as I knew who I was. I never shied away from telling my best friend all the stories my grandmother and mother had shared with me. Legends of myth, magic, and ancient treasures. Mystical tales of sorcery, healing, and spellcasting. Enchanting and frightening fables of fairies, gods, warriors, and wizards.

  He would listen to me chatter away for hours on end, stretched out beneath the stars in his backyard, or on the floor of his little boy’s room, surrounded by posters of race cars and monster trucks. As I waxed nostalgic about the long line of witches I hailed from, Chance would nod and occasionally ask a question that I was more than eager to answer.