Obsidian Curse (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Five) Page 7

  Blade snapped his fingers as if to say, bingo. “It wasn’t until I received a call two weeks ago from a social worker that I opened up that floodgate.” He glanced at the satchel. “After losing my parents, and then the experience of the first few foster homes, I decided to cut all ties to anything painful. I brought only a book with me from house to house until eventually, I forgot all about the box. But it was labeled with my name and the contact information for the social services office. My last foster home was here in Amethyst. The man who owned it died recently and someone found the box in his attic and contacted the agency.” He tapped the bag, right where it was buckled. “As soon as I opened it, the memory of that sticky summer day came flooding back.”

  “So what about the memory of that day makes you think it wasn’t a robbery gone wrong?”

  Blade looked at me, deadpan. “Because, Stacy, my parents knew someone was coming for them.”

  His words sent a shudder through me that chilled me to the bone. My mother knew someone was coming for me too. And her split-second decision that day sent a ripple effect through our entire family that would last a lifetime.

  “Then why didn’t they take you and leave?” I asked.

  Blade sighed and started pacing the room. “I’ve been asking myself that question ever since I opened the box two weeks ago.” His gaze met mine. “All I can figure is that they didn’t think whoever it was was there to kill them. They must have only thought that the intruder wanted something from them.” He slid his eyes over to me. “That was obvious, judging from the state of our house after the murders. The place had been thoroughly tossed.”

  “Then why didn’t they just give it up? Whatever it was.”

  Blade turned to me, leaning on the other stool. His voice was rising, excited and frustrated at the same time. “I’ve been thinking about that too. What if they didn’t actually have it, but the killer was certain they did? What if they never had it? What if it was hidden? Or it belonged to someone else?”

  We stared at each other for a moment trying to piece the puzzle together. Blade broke his gaze after a while. He looked off toward the window and into the night sky, toward a past he had fought to forget.

  But the past can only be buried so long. Eventually, it catches up with all of us. It’s how we face it again that’s important. Do you run away from the horror? Or do you challenge it head-on and give it the fight of your life? I suspected Blade had struggled with that decision. He had a lot to lose, after all. A solid career, money in the bank, a job he loved.

  But looking at him now, it was obvious that he was tired of running.

  “So what happened, Blade?” I prodded gently.

  He snapped back from the fog and his voice rose an octave. “There was a hidden room inside our house. One of those Cold War bunkers that led underground. My mother stashed me in there that afternoon as soon as I got home from school. She told me to lock the door from the inside and not to come out until she came to get me. The walls were relatively soundproof, but I could hear footsteps on the ceiling and furniture crashing to the floor as if a fight had broken out.”

  “Or as if someone was ransacking the place.”

  “Exactly.”

  “So you never saw anyone. Do you know how many people came to the house?”

  “No. I couldn’t even tell you if it was a man or a woman, although if it were a woman, she would have had to be pretty strong to overcome my father, unless he was caught off guard.” He paused, thinking. “And considering the way he was killed, he could have been.”

  “What was the murder weapon?”

  “A hammer. The police believed my father was struck first, then my mother. All they took was some artwork, a clunky computer, and a few books.”

  “First-edition books?”

  Blade shrugged, shook his head. “No. Just commercial fiction.”

  “And the artwork. Was it valuable?”

  Another shrug. “Not that I know of. Purchased at garage sales and flea markets. My mother was an artist. She appreciated and supported modern painters.”

  I leaned against the counter, struggling to find a clue, anything that would make this story fall into a rhythm.

  “There’s more,” Blade said. “When I finally emerged from the bunker there was something in our house that wasn’t there before. Something I was certain the killer brought with him and left behind. A sculpture lying right there on the floor next to our shattered coffee table.”

  This piqued my interest. “And the police couldn’t trace it to anyone?”

  Blade shook his head. “They dismissed me as an imaginative child.” His eyes shined a bit brighter for a moment. “I’ve been writing since I could hold a pen,” he explained. “Blade Knight isn’t my only pseudonym, it’s just the one that pays the bills.”

  I nodded. “So they dismissed your claim.”

  “They couldn’t fathom why anyone would bring a piece of art to a crime scene and leave it there. In fact, I remember the exact words of one of the officers.” He scrunched up his face and in a gruff voice said, “Usually works the other way around, son.”

  I suddenly had a horrible feeling in my gut. “Who was the officer? Do you recall?”

  He looked at me, getting my meaning. “It was the chief at the time, not your uncle, if that’s what you’re getting at. Actually”—he scratched his chin—“now that you mention it, Officer Geraghty was the only one who believed me. He tried to bag the sculpture, but the chief ordered him not to.”

  It made me feel proud that my uncle wasn’t as narrow-minded as his fellow lawmen.

  “So this is the smoking gun? The thing that was left behind?”

  Blade nodded.

  I pointed to the bag. “May I see it now?”

  Blade gave me a small smile. He twisted his body around and reached his arms into the satchel. “It’s been packed away all this time.”

  When he turned back to face me, he was holding a small black skull. He placed it on the counter between us and sat down on the second stool.

  I studied the piece for a moment. It seemed to be manufactured from some sort of gemstone. Obsidian? I trained my concentration to the energy of the skull, cupped my hands around it, and closed my eyes, centering myself with white light. I waited for a signal, a message.

  Nothing came.

  I leaned closer toward the skull, touched it, allowing my hands to linger near the eye sockets, but didn’t get a vibration from it.

  I sat back and scratched my head.

  That’s when a bullet shot through the window, exploding the skull into a million little pieces.

  Chapter 12

  I launched myself at Blade Knight, toppling the author and sending both bar stools crashing to the tile. I clapped my hands to kill the lights and shouted for Thor to get to the Seeker’s Den.

  The dog whooshed past my right arm just as another bullet whizzed over my head, plunging into the door frame near my bedroom. Splintered wood crackled to the ground.

  “Stay down!” I told Blade. Crawling around him, I stuck my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and extracted my iPhone. I tapped the app and punched in the code to unlock the den.

  Thor and I had practiced this drill dozens of times so I knew exactly how many steps, dives, tail lengths, and arm reaches it took to reach my bedroom from anywhere in the cottage. I had to get to the closet—to the passageway and my lair. Thor was most likely waiting for the door to the Seeker’s Den to open by the time I had punched in the code. I quickly slipped the phone back in my pocket and the cottage was inky black again. Not even the microwave clock cast a glow.

  That was another trick I had picked up in training. It was amazing how a household staple as simple as a digital timer could get you killed.

  Blade’s heart beat loud through his shirt and I thought I heard a wheeze escape his throat.

 
; “It’s going to be okay,” I assured him. “Grab my foot.” I hustled in front of the author, dusting shattered glass from our pathway with the brim of my hat, except for one shard I held on to, and kicked my heel back so he could better find it in the dark.

  “Ouch!” he said.

  “Sorry.”

  I felt Blade’s hand wrap around my ankle and we both belly-crawled as fast as we could through the bedroom, the closet, and finally the open doorway of the den.

  Still lying on my stomach, I whipped out the phone and initiated the lockdown code for the first time. The door slammed shut and the digital keypad lit up in the pattern of the Celtic symbol triquetra. After a few seconds, a soft computer voice said, “Den secure” and the lights activated.

  I jumped up from the floor and rushed to turn on the laptop that hosted the security cameras, setting the shard of black glass on the desk. I opened the application and punched in some codes and three windows popped up on the screen. The camera guarding the back door was the one I checked first because that was the side of the house the shots had come from. Nothing. Next, I turned my attention to the video coverage of the space between the Geraghty Girls’ House and mine. The light was now off in their kitchen and I saw no one outside in the yard. I checked the time. Eight-thirty. They would be done cleaning up the dishes from dinner already. Fiona might be reading or crocheting. Birdie would likely be making a grocery list for the Samhain party. And Lolly would either be strutting around in a tangerine ball gown, a tiara pinned to her head, or she’d be on her third tumbler of Jameson and fashioning a special cape for the Samhain festival.

  I didn’t worry too much about the Geraghty Girls. They could take care of themselves pretty well and, aside from continuously casting protection spells along the property, the house itself had its own security measures in place thanks to the ingenious design of my great-grandmother and the carpentry talent of my great-grandfather. The Geraghtys called their safe room the Magic Chamber and it was nestled in the upper far left corner of the inn with a direct connection to the Seeker’s Den via the scrying mirror. If any of them had heard the shots, they would have contacted me there, but the signal was silent.

  I did a mental inventory of the perimeter of the cottage. The windows had all been locked, except now there was a hole in the one that was shot out, but it wasn’t a large window. At least not large enough for a person to climb through. The back door was locked, but I wasn’t certain about the front door since Blade had been the last one to use it.

  I looked up to ask him if he had bolted the front door behind him, but stopped short when I saw how wide his eyes were. The writer had a sheen of perspiration lining his forehead and he looked less collected than I had ever seen him. Granted, I hadn’t known the man that long, but I got the distinct impression that he was one Joe Cool.

  He gaped at me. Slowly his eyes drank in the weapons lining the walls, the crystals, herbs, the dog, laptops—all of it. Then he asked the question I suspect he’d been wondering since we first met.

  “Who are you?”

  I held up my index finger. “Rule number one, Blade. Rule number one.”

  I circled around to the wall, liberated a five-point Chinese star from the peg rack and slipped it inside the pocket of the belt Aunt Lolly had made for me, then grabbed a tranquilizer gun and tucked that in the back waistband of my jeans. Next, I reached for a Taser made to look like a smart phone and tossed it to Blade. He caught it effortlessly.

  There were only two shots fired. One aimed perfectly, the other way out of range. I didn’t think the perpetrator was loitering around the area or that we were in any real danger, but better safe than snuffed.

  “The question you should be asking is who was that?” I thumbed toward the door.

  Blade stared at the Taser in his hand. “I have no idea.”

  I plucked a fresh knife from the wall and slid it in the hollow heel of my right boot. “Well, either it was an art activist on a mission to rid the world of its ugliest sculptures or someone doesn’t want you poking around your parents’ murder.”

  He was still staring at the Taser. He flipped it over and read the back. “iStun?”

  “Clever, isn’t it? It’s pretty much foolproof.” I walked over to him “See these two small points here?” I pointed to the top of the device.

  Blade nodded.

  “The current fires from there. And here”—I pointed to a small button on the side of the stun gun—“is the trigger. Press the pulse points to an assailant’s neck and he drops like a sack of wet flour.”

  Blade nodded, still in a state of shock.

  I touched his elbow. “If it makes you feel any better, the shooter wasn’t aiming for either of us. Whoever it was just wanted to destroy that skull.”

  “Then why were there two shots fired?”

  I shrugged. “To scare us. The fact that both shots missed us, even in the dark, means that it was the skull the shooter really wanted to kill.” I tapped the stun gun in Blade’s hand. “But just in case, carry this at all times.”

  Blade nodded. He shifted to face me. “So now what?”

  “Now, I escort you back to the inn and figure out what to do next.”

  I whistled for Thor. The Great Dane trotted over to my side. I turned on the tiny camera imbedded in his collar and opened up the tiger’s eye locket that hung from his neck. I slipped the wireless recording chip inside and clicked it shut. My expectations of picking up video of a sniper crouched in the azalea bushes, confessing to blowing up the World’s Ugliest Piece of Crap, were pretty low, but I thought it couldn’t hurt.

  “Shouldn’t we call the police?” asked Blade.

  I had considered it, but I put the thought immediately out of my mind. If Leo knew what had happened here tonight he’d launch into overprotective mode and probably camp out on my doorstep 24/7, which, aside from putting a damper on my love life, would also set me up for Life’s Most Awkward Conversation when Pickle decided to pay another visit. That was an introduction I hoped to avoid at all costs.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea right now.” I faced him. “But that’s my choice, Blade. You need to make your own choices. If you’re scared, or you want to back out—”

  “No.” His voice was sharp, his eyes stern.

  “Okay then.”

  I shuffled back over to the laptop and picked up the shard I had salvaged. I flicked on the desk lamp and held the black piece beneath the bulb, frowning. I switched the light to a brighter setting and gave the piece from the skull a closer study. Deeper frown.

  “What is it?” Blade asked.

  “I don’t think the skull was very valuable. I thought it might have been made from the gemstone obsidian, but it’s just glass.”

  Obsidian comes in many different colors, with specific magical properties attached to each shade. Black obsidian is the most powerful of all. It can open a gate to the Otherworld, ground a spiritual energy to the physical plane, and has the power to tap into one’s subconscious mind. Or even, it’s been rumored, the human soul. It’s also believed to banish demons and can provide protection from impish spirits. Its most important function, however, is to remind us that birth and death are always present, one clasping hands with the other. For this reason, it’s associated with spirit guides and is known as the “stone of truth,” reflecting back the holder’s true self when gazed upon.

  “Are you sure? You can tell just from holding it up to that light? Is it an infrared bulb or something?”

  “No.” I held up the glass. “It says Made in China.”

  “Oh.”

  The light from the cedar room flashed on, a signal that someone was trying to reach me via the scrying mirror. I set the glass down, told Blade I’d be back in a moment, and went to answer the call, shutting the door behind me.

  I knew who it was before I even turned the mirror around.


  “Mom, it’s the middle of the night in Ireland, what are you doing up?”

  She yawned, her eyes heavy, yet every strand of hair was perfectly placed. She looked radiant as always. She was a lot like Aunt Fiona in that respect.

  “Hello, sweetheart. I had a bad dream and I just wanted to check that everything was all right with you.”

  “All good here, Mom. Go back to bed.”

  “Are you certain? It was a rather disturbing dream.” She made a face.

  I really didn’t have time to discuss sleeping patterns with my mother, but I decided to humor her for a few moments.

  “What was it about?” I asked.

  She frowned, her green eyes crinkling at the corners. “I don’t think I should tell you. It might give you nightmares.”

  “Lots of things give me nightmares. Most of the time, I’m awake for them.”

  My mother rolled her eyes.

  “Tell me what it was. You never know what it could mean, but it’s most likely nothing.”

  She considered this as I glanced behind me through the small window to make sure Blade wasn’t touching anything. I was still a little ticked about that business with the sword, which, I just realized, I probably should have brought home with me to reconsecrate. The writer must have moved because I couldn’t spot him. I swear if he touches one crystal, one set of Chako sticks, or even my punching bag, I’ll tranq him and dump him in the woods with the coyotes, I thought.

  Mom sighed. “I suppose you’re right.” She looked up at the ceiling as if searching for the right words. She settled on, “As it turns out, your head exploded.”

  I gulped, not prepared for that visual. “My head exploded?”

  “It was most unpleasant. Shot me right out of bed.”

  “I’ll bet it wasn’t a walk in the park for me either.”

  Wait a minute. The skull. She must have dreamt about the skull being destroyed.

  My mother saw the flicker of recognition cross my face. “Do you know what it could mean?” she asked hopefully.