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

  The women chattered in hushed whispers among themselves, anxious for what Birdie was about to say. Lolly passed around the Blessed Book and each woman took a moment to swear secrecy and alliance.

  “Birdie, do you think this is a good idea?” My eyes darted around the room. While I knew most of the women and Birdie certainly trusted them, in our line of work one couldn’t be too careful. You never knew when a friend would turn foe. There were several attractive women in this room who would certainly serve the Leanan’s purposes.

  She looked at me, her eyes fierce. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  The Council must have given her some sort of temporary pass to include the coven in this mission. Whatever it was.

  My knee was shaking. There was a lot to do and I wished she’d just get on with it.

  Fiona turned on the laptop I bought them and pulled up an Internet page. I was so proud. They’d come such a long way technologically speaking since the last time I had sat in this room.

  She clicked to the website of the Royal Irish Academy and I sat up a little straighter in my seat. Now they really had my attention. I nibbled at my dinner, waiting for the briefing.

  Fiona maneuvered the mouse and clicked on another page. The image on the screen was that of an ancient text written in old script.

  “This is the Book of Dun Cow. It was written in the years 1090 to 1106. The primary scribe was Mael Muire. It is the oldest surviving record of Irish literature. The manuscript contains, among other things, the first known recording of the Otherworld fantasies and the introduction of Queen Maeve, who was instrumental in negotiating the peace treaty between the Tuatha Dé Danann and the Druids.”

  I heard a loud snore and looked to find Thor napping beneath the table.

  Birdie continued. “So as you can see, the book is part fantasy, part reality. Much of the text was destroyed in the Viking wars, but for the most part, our ancestors had been able to determine fact from fiction. Except for one story.”

  Birdie nodded to Fiona, who clicked the mouse again. A ravaged page popped up on the screen.

  “This is the last page of the book. The title reads: ‘The Places Where the Heads of the Ulster Champions Are Buried.’ It was never completed. For years, the Council has debated on whether this story was fact or fiction. It was suggested that perhaps it could be a blending of the two.”

  Heads. Skulls.

  I wiped my mouth with a napkin. “So are you saying that the science fiction novel, The Book of Skulls, is connected to this story?” I took a sip of the juice.

  She rolled her eyes. “Please. They don’t make scribes like they used to. I’m saying that this is a fictionalized version of a true story. A key, if you will, that was to reveal the location of one skull that isn’t a human skull at all, but the legendary—and elusive—obsidian skull.”

  Gasps from across the room. Whispers of It really exists and I heard one archeologist has been searching for it for decades and My art history teacher talked about it and My mother told me about it were scattered across the room. The witch who had collected the gnome and told me Chance had been tainted stared at me. Her makeup-free face was stuck on a look of shock. She scratched her freckled nose, slid her eyes away from me, and tucked a stray dark hair beneath her hood.

  I swung my head from one woman to the next.

  “What’s the obsidian skull?”

  “It was rumored to be the only art the Leanan Sidhe ever fashioned herself. The source of all creativity for humankind. The reason that so many of her lovers went from starving artists to wealthy masters of their crafts. It is the tangible form of the Midas touch. Whoever possesses it would have access either directly or indirectly to an endless pool of valuable creativity. And we believe she may want it back.”

  “So if we find it, maybe we can flush her out,” I said.

  Fiona said, “It’s our best shot. But she must never lay her hands on it. Because if she destroys it—”

  “All art is lost,” I concluded.

  Fiona nodded gravely.

  The room was silent as every woman absorbed the information.

  I asked, “But I don’t understand what this has to do with Blade.”

  Birdie said, “We think his parents knew where the skull was located and they were killed because of it.”

  Fiona said, “Thirty years ago, a Council member was sent to search for the skull. He checked in, said he had information on its location, and linked it to the Conrads, but he was never heard from again.”

  I looked at Birdie.

  “It was before I became a Council board member.”

  I stood up, pacing the room. So maybe that’s what happened. Maybe Blade’s parents tried to pass off a fake and that’s why the killer became so angry.

  But then why destroy the fake? Why risk shooting through my window to do so?

  “But wait a minute, if the story was never completed and that was the key to the skull’s whereabouts, then how could anyone have discovered its location?”

  “We believe perhaps the father had written a code of his own. Had continued the story of the original scribe. We’ll never know for certain, but the link may have been a lineage back to the original author of the ‘Heads of the Ulster Champions.’”

  I shook my head. “Blade’s father was a teacher and his mother was an artist. Plus, I highly doubt they would have risked their lives and their son’s life. Not to mention, why wouldn’t they give the location of the skull to the Council member to protect?”

  “We haven’t determined why that would be. Unless perhaps they intended to use the skull for their own purposes.”

  Again, I disputed that. “They bought art at garage sales. They lived on a teacher’s salary. Don’t you think if they had that kind of intention they would have banked on the power of the skull? Cashed in somehow on its creative energy. His mother could have made a fortune selling her own art if that was their plan.”

  Birdie began pacing with me, reaching for another avenue.

  “Perhaps the Council member was rogue?” Fiona offered.

  Birdie looked at her. “Impossible. He was meticulous. Checked in every step of the way throughout the entire mission. He said he had discovered an ancestral link to the original scribe. The Council assumed that link was the Conrads.”

  I racked my brain to come up with a solution. What had Caleb said about Blade’s father? He wasn’t just reading The Book of Skulls, he was studying it. Highlighting the book, making notes in the margins. He was looking for clues. So maybe someone had tailed the Council member. Someone else must have known that somehow the Conrads were the key to finding the skull.

  No. Coach Conrad wasn’t hiding the Leanan’s creation. He was looking for it himself to protect his family. Someone else knew about the skull. If the Council member had linked it to the Conrads, then someone else could have as well. And that person may have thought the Conrads were indeed hiding it, but I didn’t believe that.

  I mentioned this to Birdie.

  “I suppose it’s possible.”

  Fiona said, “Maybe the Council member didn’t get a chance to tell the board everything he knew when last he checked in. Maybe there was more to the story.”

  I stopped short and Birdie bumped into me.

  “What did you say, Fiona?” I asked.

  Fiona repeated her remark.

  More to the story. Could that be it? Was it possible that all of this was connected? Was Blade more important to this whole thing than any of us had realized?

  I looked at Lolly. “Lolly, is there anything in the Blessed Book about a scribe in the New World? Anything about the Seeker encountering one?”

  My hands started sweating as I waited for Lolly to search.

  A few of the witches widened their eyes at the word Seeker.

  “You didn’t tell them that
part?” I asked my grandmother.

  She gave me an annoyed look.

  If I was right, then everything—Blade showing up when he did, the newspaper clippings about me, the strange feelings I had when I was near him, him seeking my help—would make sense.

  It wasn’t long before Lolly found a passage and read aloud. “The Seeker shall cross paths with the first Scribe of the New Age. Quill and sword must unite to protect a legend long ago lost.”

  “So what does that mean?” Birdie asked.

  I took a deep breath and grabbed my grandmother’s shoulders.

  “It means that Blade is the Scribe. It means his parents didn’t know where the skull was. It means that the Council member who tracked the lineage of the original Scribe was right. He just had the wrong Conrad.”

  Birdie’s eyes widened. “It means no one could find the skull because thirty years ago, the rest of the story hadn’t been written.”

  Chapter 30

  Blade Knight had gifted his entire collection of Tracey Stone books to the library at the inn. He had signed each and every one of them, and Birdie and the aunts agreed that his personal stamp on the page might give us an advantage in searching out clues in the text. Clues we hoped would lead us to the obsidian skull, and in turn, the Leanan Sidhe. Since the Council member who had tracked the Conrad family all those years ago believed there was a lineage link to the original scribe who had begun the story in the Book of Dun Cow, it made sense that Blade was the one to finish it.

  I found it interesting that Blade had told me about the writer’s subconscious and how it leaked into his work.

  He didn’t know the half of it. Scribes are gifted at birth with storytelling, but more importantly, they hold the keys to history. Those keys—or rather clues—were embedded in their work completely unbeknownst to the author.

  Like a perpetual state of automatic writing.

  Birdie, the aunts, and I were all convinced that Blade’s books held the key to the location of the skull—and possibly other treasures we had yet to learn about. And that my great-grandmother Meagan’s vision was dead-on accurate.

  Now, we just had to pick apart the story and piece it together again.

  “So here we are, ladies. Everyone grab a book.” Fiona said.

  I reached for Stone Cold and went to grab a seat, but Birdie stopped me.

  “Stacy, a word, please.”

  She pulled me aside to the hallway that separated the library from the parlor.

  “It has come to my attention that perhaps Chance has fallen under the Leanan Sidhe’s spell.”

  I shot a look at the witch who had approached me on the street earlier. She was probably only twenty-two or twenty-three years old, but I expected more from an initiated coven member. I could handle my own messes; I didn’t need a neophyte tattling on me to my grandmother. The young witch felt my eyes on her and turned, smiling. The smile fell from her thin lips when she caught my glare.

  “Now don’t go blaming poor Shannon. She was only doing what I asked of her.”

  My glare quickly shifted to Birdie. “What you asked of her? What are you talking about?”

  Birdie’s voice was irritatingly calm. “You have quite a task to fulfill, not to mention an army of angry Fae on your tail. You cannot possibly do this all by yourself. I’ve asked everyone to keep their eyes and ears open and report back to me any unusual behavior.”

  “It’s under control, Birdie. Chance is fine.”

  I wasn’t 100 percent certain about that, but I was certain I could find a better way to protect him myself than having complete strangers follow him around town. I could bind him if I had to. Weave a protection spell all around him. That would be better, because who knew if Birdie’s coven members could be trusted? These were woman I had only met a handful of times if at all.

  No way was I going to trust Chance’s safety to anyone but me.

  “We’re all in this together, Stacy,” my grandmother said. “You need to learn to work with a team when it’s required.”

  “I don’t need a team when it comes to Chance.”

  She lowered her voice. “Then be prepared to lose him.” She carried her book into the parlor and sat down to read, without giving me another look.

  Maybe she was right, maybe I did need help, but it wouldn’t come from someone I hardly knew.

  I texted Caleb and asked how Chance was doing. He texted back that Chance was fine. He had just gotten home and they were having a beer.

  So where had he been these last couple of hours?

  I sighed, grabbed the book, and found my own spot in the parlor.

  Every witch was using her own method for ferreting out information from the books. Some were using scrying mirrors, others crystal balls; one woman had a turquoise necklace around her neck to aid intuitive powers. I was using the locket.

  No one was actually reading the books. We were all skimming the pages, using our instincts, spirit guides, and internal messaging systems to highlight passages that jumped out at us. At someone’s suggestion, Lolly had rolled a large whiteboard into the room and, every once in a while, a witch would jump up from her seat and jot down a line that seemed important.

  An hour later, Shannon scooted over to me. “I hear Stone Cold is about you.”

  I didn’t look at her as I said, “You heard wrong.”

  She tried another approach. “Did you find anything good?”

  “I guess we’ll have to wait and see when we piece it together.”

  She folded her legs beneath her. “So that’s the locket, huh? The Seeker’s locket? Wow, it must be so cool to have that title.”

  I marked my page and shut the book. “I’m trying to work, Shannon. Don’t you have work to do?”

  She gave a nervous laugh. “Oh, I finished mine. You want me to finish yours?”

  What was with this girl?

  “No.” There was an edge to my voice I couldn’t control.

  Shannon inched closer to me and I suddenly yearned for a flyswatter.

  “Look, I’m sorry about, um, the thing. I didn’t mean to get you in trouble.” Her green eyes seemed sincere and I felt like an ass all of a sudden.

  “I’m a grown woman, Shannon. You didn’t get me in trouble with my grandmother.”

  “Oh.” She flicked her eyes to Birdie, who looked up as Pickle bounced in the room. “Because she kind of scares me.”

  I looked at Birdie too. Her reading glasses were perched on her nose.

  “Yeah. She has that effect on people.”

  “Not you, though. You’re strong. Stronger than all of us.” Shannon looked behind her quickly. Birdie was reading a note Pickle had handed to her. The girl’s voice was barely a whisper when she spoke. “Maybe even stronger than her.”

  “I doubt that.” I looked at Shannon. “I forgive you, okay? Let’s forget it.”

  Shannon bobbed her head up and down like a puppy. “Cool.”

  Then Birdie said, “The rebels have been taken care of. Now who would like to check on Sleeping Beauty?”

  That reminded me. I wondered how Cinnamon was doing.

  Shannon shot her hand up. “I will!”

  She galloped up the stairs two at a time, her cape in her hands.

  “Brownnoser,” I muttered.

  The witch sitting next to me snickered.

  From across the room, Birdie sighed loudly. “Yes.” Her eyes trained on me. “She’s like the granddaughter I never had.”

  I rolled my eyes and went back to the book. There were only a few pages left and I found nothing in them.

  I closed the book and stood up to stretch.

  Lolly and Fiona were arranging the clues on the board. Several other witches got up to assist. I heard them chattering away, arguing about where the puzzle pieces fit, as I twisted my back and stretched my legs. Birdie
played ringmaster until they had a sensible text to work with.

  They all took a step back just as a car door slammed. I rushed over to peek out the window. When I saw Blade’s car I chained the door.

  “He’s back,” I said.

  “Well, that’s unfortunate. Because something’s missing. And we’ve been over every line of all these texts.”

  “Something’s missing all right,” Shannon said from the top of the stairs. We all looked over to her. “Monique.”

  Chapter 31

  “Fiona,” Birdie said.

  “I’m on it,” said Fiona.

  I gave Birdie a curious look.

  “She put a tracking spell on the harlot. She won’t be hard to find.”

  Two of the witches turned the board around as I heard a key slide into the lock. I scanned the room.

  “The tools,” I hissed.

  The witches got busy putting all their talismans away and hurriedly took their seats, books in hand, looking like some sort of book club from an Alice Hoffman novel.

  The bell rang and I went to unlock the door.

  Blade and his agent, Yvonne, entered the parlor.

  The author said, “That was strange. My key didn’t work.”

  “Hmm” was my response.

  Blade looked around the room at all the women holding his novels. “What do we have here? A new fan club?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  Yvonne said, “Wow. Well, you have the author at your disposal. Any questions?”

  The women all looked at each other as Blade stood there expectantly.

  “Guess not,” I said.

  “I have a question,” Shannon said from the top of the stairs. “What happens next?”

  Blade’s eyes trailed to the landing.

  “Well, young lady, I guess you’ll have to wait and see.”

  She descended the steps slowly, swinging her hips back and forth. Her voice took on a sultry tone that would impress even Fiona. “Oh, come on. I’m sure you have an unpublished manuscript on your hard drive.”

  Oh, brother. This was too much. He’d never fall for it.