Donn's Legacy, page 28
Frustration welled up inside me. I half crouched on the mattress, unsure where to go from here. Should I go on the offensive? Leap off the bed and attack him? Or focus on getting away?
Noah tilted his head, and for a moment, he looked almost nostalgic. “You look so much like her, you know. I’ll admit I had a bit of a schoolboy crush. But she was too old for me. Even Anson said so. But then, what did that old man know? He said my ideas were insane.”
“What ideas?” I asked, edging the opposite direction. If I couldn’t get out through the window, maybe I could make a break for the front door. I just needed a distraction, something to keep him from chasing after me.
“Oh, you know. A little of this. A little of that. Anson didn’t like the idea of mixing rune systems or inventing my own. I told him they were just symbols—it’s the intent behind them that matters. And when I finally found a way to reach the astral plane, after all the time we spent working together, he told me I should stop.” Noah shook his head. “Can you believe that? Stop. Like anyone could just stop. Now that you’ve done it, you understand.”
I swallowed. I did understand. Even now, lurking beneath the fear and panic that gripped me in this moment, I wanted to do it again.
“Anson was a purist. And a fool. And now he’s in—” Noah pointed toward his room, and his smile vanished. “NO!”
He leapt away from me, diving through the hallway. The light on the walls flickered oddly, and I slid to the side to see what had sent him bolting away from me.
The carpet was on fire. The alien head lighter’s defective button had gotten stuck, and it spat blue flame toward the cedar chest. The blaze had spread quickly through the small bedroom and licked at the walls. The cedar chest was already charred. Any second now, the fire would eat through the barrier and start consuming jewelry boxes.
I backed away from it, toward the frigid air that poured in through the open window behind me. Noah was right; at this moment, the cold felt like the most freeing thing in the world. It was about to save my life. But as I threw one leg up onto the windowsill, I glanced back through the open doorway.
Noah stood on the other side of the rising flames with a comforter in his hands. Sweat dripped down his face, and he winced against the heat as he used the blanket to swat at the flames in a desperate attempt to put them out.
It looked like it was working.
If he saved the cedar chest, every spirit inside would stay trapped in its prison. Noah would take them and flee, and even with his real name, I would still be powerless to find him.
I might be free, but my mother never would be.
He lifted the blanket, spreading it between his outstretched arms. As he lunged forward with it to smother the fire eating the cedar chest, I bolted back across the kitchen and into the flames.
I had to stop him.
No matter the cost.
My feet crossed the threshold. An explosion pierced my ears, and a blast of spiritual energy knocked me off my feet. I flew backward into Fang’s room, tumbling across the carpet before slamming into the wall beneath the window. The impact knocked my breath out of me, and when I sucked in air, it seared my throat. Black smoke billowed out of the cedar chest. Through the haze, I could just make out Noah’s body, crumpled against the far wall in his room.
Someone grabbed me beneath my armpits and hoisted me up and through the window. I fell to the ground and clutched at the frosted grass, gasping in the cold—but clean—air.
“Graham?” I asked, raising my head.
I was sure he must have found me and pulled me to safety, but there was nobody around me. I was alone in the field, apart from the green-eyed black cat, who leapt out the window after me.
A shrill noise split the early morning air, jolting me to my feet. The fire alarm screeched, paused, and screeched again. Windows on every floor of the building lit up, one by one, and panicked voices echoed out of the stairwells.
As I watched Fang’s neighbors evacuate, invisible fingers touched my cheek. I felt someone cup my face between their hands, then a gentle pressure at my back as though I had been pulled into a hug.
“Mom?”
The pressure increased. I reached my arms out, wanting to hug her back, but my arms passed through the empty air in front of me to circle around my own torso. I squeezed anyway, hugging myself as tightly as I would have hugged my mother if I had been able to see her.
After a long time, I felt her let me go. She brushed my cheek again, and as her fingers left my face, I sensed her rising upward. Her energy drifted toward the sky like the smoke pouring out of Fang’s bedroom window.
Tears ran down my cheeks. I knew, deep in my heart, my mother was moving on to a place where no psychic power could reach her. She had lingered on our plane long enough, far longer than she would have done if she’d had a choice.
That last embrace was the goodbye she hadn’t been able to give me before she died.
I sank down to the cold ground and let my grief wash over me. Strangers surrounded me, and one of the evacuees wrapped me in a quilt that smelled like freshly washed laundry. Graham came running across the lawn toward our clump, and the panic in his eyes abated when he found my face in the crowd.
He gathered me to him. “Are you all right? What happened?”
“I’m okay.” I searched for the words to explain what I had just experienced but couldn’t find them.
“Horace?” he asked.
“It was Noah.” Shame and anger filled me, momentarily overshadowing my sadness. “I was so stupid. I thought I would be able to sense him—feel his energy. But all the time, I’ve been wearing this to block him out.”
I ripped the black tourmaline necklace off and let it fall to the ground. Thin tendrils of negative energy pawed at my psyche, but any dangerous or angry spirits Noah had kept trapped in that cedar chest were rising to the sky, hurried into the next world by the flames that freed them.
Gingerly, I felt for any trace of Noah in the apartment. I found none but couldn’t be certain what that meant.
“Do you want to go home?” Graham asked.
“Not yet. I need to see.” I opened the blanket, inviting him to join me in its warmth.
He stepped inside and wrapped it back around our shoulders. Together, we watched as the firefighters arrived and put out the flames. And as the sun rose behind the trees, we watched them carry a stretcher out of Fang’s apartment.
The corpse was hidden from view by thick black fabric.
As soon as the body bag was out of sight, I shrugged out of the blanket and returned it to the woman who had given it to me, then stooped to pick up my necklace. Because it had come from Elizabeth, I couldn’t bear to leave it behind. But it went into my pocket, not around my neck.
Horace was dead. I didn’t need it anymore.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
The front door of my shop swung open. A bell tinkled overhead as Graham carried in a large cardboard box and lowered it to the ground with exaggerated relief. He put his hands at the small of his back and pushed. His spine cracked audibly, and he sighed.
“If I had known I would have to schlep shipments all over town for you, I would have begged you to open a pillow store,” he teased.
I stood up from my desk, which doubled as the checkout counter, and winced. “Sorry. I’m still not used to using this address.”
“What’s in the box?”
“New journals. A few people have asked for them.”
He plucked one out and inspected it. “Not bad.”
Through the window behind him, the usual Sunday brunch crowd trooped up the sunny footpath toward the Ace of Cups. The weather outside was still chilly, but the snow was melting, and springtime was steadily marching across Donn’s Hill.
I grabbed my pricing gun. If I was quick enough to inventory the new products, I could have them shelved and out by the time the tourists finished their mimosas.
Business had been brisk in the two weeks since my grand opening. It was a relief, especially after everyone in my life had warned me about the risks of going into retail. But those warnings always came with offers to help, and Penelope had generously shared the keen eye for design that made the Oracle Inn such a smashing success as I planned the renovations on the former tarot-card parlor.
Now, after four months of work, only one piece of the shop was still technically unfinished. Tomorrow, an artist would be coming to put the final touches on the gold-leaf design that covered the front window: a cat wearing a crown of sunlight posed atop a stack of books. The words Tortoiseshell Books and Gifts arched above her head. New - Used - Trades stretched beneath her.
The bell above the door jingled again.
“Hey, Mac.” Stephen Hastain helped himself to a cup of the complimentary coffee. “Got any of those new mysteries in?”
“Yep, I left a few for you in Henry’s Room.” I jerked my head toward the back of the store, where I had converted the former office space into a comfortable reading room. Shoppers could borrow a lovingly used paperback and settle into one of the overstuffed chairs for as long as they pleased or just put their feet up and enjoy the knickknacks and wall hangings that had decorated my father’s office in Colorado.
Graham helped me shelve the new arrivals, and we sat down at my desk to split a slice of cake from the Ace of Cups over tea and coffee. Alexi had started making decaf chai just for me, and the blend she used went criminally well with the cream cheese frosting on her chef’s housemade carrot cake.
Striker hopped up onto the desk and sniffed at the plate. Before I could lift her back down to the floor, her little pink tongue darted out and left a wet splotch on the frosting.
I sighed and scraped off the portion she had tried to mark as her own. Her bright eyes followed it all the way into the garbage.
“Brrrllll,” she complained.
“I’m not rewarding your bad behavior with a treat,” I told her. “At least, not a treat you can’t even digest properly. Go find Fang. He knows where your crunchies are.”
The young Soul Searchers production assistant had taken to hanging out upstairs in what used to be Elizabeth’s day spa. Her former waiting room had been transformed into a large, open classroom where anyone could share their knowledge of herbalism, hedgecraft, or any other esoteric topic. On days with no scheduled classes, Fang liked to use the craft tables to make seasonal wreaths and home decor. His passion for crafting had been born when his apartment burned down and he was forced to remake his possessions on a budget. I felt free use of my space was fair penance for the role I had played in destroying everything he owned.
In the back half of the second floor, I knocked out the walls between the treatment rooms to make a single space large enough to hold a low, round table. Eight cushy floor pillows, low-hanging ceiling drapes, and recessed lighting helped create a comforting ambiance in Evelyn’s Room.
With months of practice under my belt, I had finally been able to channel a spirit again. That time, without Camila’s spirit supercharging my abilities, the ghost had politely hovered in front of me and spoken through me from the outside, rather than taking over my entire body, and the Soul Searchers had gotten it all on film. When the Afterlife Festival crowds arrived in a few weeks, I fully expected my shop to be one of their top destinations.
Striker hopped off the desk with a huff. The bell above the door tinkled again, and Kit nearly tripped over my gluttonous feline as the cat scampered toward the stairs.
“Whoa!” Kit steadied herself on a display of Donn’s Hill postcards. After shaking a fist at Striker, she poured a cup of coffee and hoisted herself up onto one of the low, sturdy bookshelves that housed our nonfiction materials.
“Did you guys make it to the airport on time?” I asked.
Kit nodded. “Yep. Amari said she’ll call when she gets to Dallas and again when they get to Rio.”
I took a deep breath to soothe the envy that spiked in my chest. This was the fourth time Kit and Amari had gotten to film internationally. As much as I would have loved to join them, I had enough going on here. Plus, when they were both in Donn’s Hill, they lent their considerable talents to the Soul Searchers. Kit’s camerawork got better every week, and Amari seemed to be able to talk anyone into letting us film wherever we wanted.
“It’s a long trip,” I said. “When are you heading out?”
“I’ll go next week, once you and I are done filming at the old mill. Amari has a bunch of stuff to get set up before we can really start shooting.”
“Tell Mark to check his email when you see him, okay?” I folded my arms across my chest grumpily. “I’ve been waiting for a reply for like a week now.”
A group of customers came in then, putting an end to our conversation. Kit hopped off the shelves and talked a couple from Moyard into buying a tarot card gift set, and Graham helped me ring up a stack of used books for a local teenager whose horror addiction I was stoking on a weekly basis.
When the shop quieted again, I leaned my head against Graham’s shoulder. “Hey, do you still want me to tell you whenever I feel anything strange? Like, any weird urges?”
“Of course.” His face was instantly serious, heavy brows knit together above his glasses. “What does it feel like? Another invitation rune?”
I shook my head. “No, not like that. It’s more of a… craving.”
The edge of his tension cracked. “Oh, really? Don’t tell me it’s pickles and chocolate ice cream again. That combination can’t be good for you.”
“It’s not for me.” I rested a hand on top of my growing belly. “She’s the one with terrible taste. Do you mind grabbing some for me from the store?”
He leaned over the desk and planted a kiss on my forehead. “Anything for you two.”
I watched him saunter out the door, then turned my attention back to the store around me. Even if I was the kind of psychic who could see into the future, I would never have been able to predict that my decision to pull up stakes and move to Donn’s Hill would lead me right here, to this precise moment. In just under a year, I had gone from skeptic to psychic to paranormal investigator. I’d graduated from carrying my life in a backpack to owning my own business.
And soon, I would go from losing my parents to becoming one myself.
I wished they could see me now. I wished they could hold my daughter when she arrived and marvel at the traits they passed on to her through me. Would she inherit my father’s thick hair and freckles? Would she share his love of books and his passion for unearthing the secrets of the past?
Would she have my mother’s blue eyes? And would my gifts—my mother’s legacy—pass on to my daughter too?
Would ghostly Travelers sit at her bedside, telling her stories as she slept?
I smiled and leaned my head back against the wall behind my desk. Frightening though my road had been, I looked forward to her walking it with me.
Thank you for reading Donn’s Legacy! If you enjoyed the book, I would deeply appreciate a short review wherever you love discovering new books. Reviews are crucial for any author, and even a line or two can help another reader discover this story.
All the best,
Caryn
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Well, it’s tradition now that I start by thanking Kelly, AKA the inspiration for everything great about Graham. When I threatened to dissolve into a pool of panic that would require me to start sleeping in a bucket, you propped me up and reminded me that there are a lot of reasons to remain a solid being. There’s no way I could have done something as productive as write and publish this book if you weren’t pushing me forward. I love you!
Enormous feathery thanks to my incredible friend Menum. You and your five crows helped me get my butt in gear and find some momentum, and you regularly inspire me to share my art (such as it is) with the world.
I started writing these books while I was dealing with the pain of loss, and in the years since I finished Donn’s Hill, we’ve lost many family members, including kitties. Thank you, Mom and Dad, for grieving with Kelly and me and for always helping us make the impossible decisions about when it’s time to say goodbye.
There’s a group of truly talented ladies without whom this book would barely be readable. Thank you Kelley Lynn, Jennie Stevens, and Beverly Bernard for your detailed and thoughtful edits. Thanks also to my eagle-eyed ARC readers who caught a few last-minute errors: Travis Poole and Brandy Rood.
Finally, thank you. Yes, you, the person who stuck with me through three books about Mac and Striker and is now reading these acknowledgments. Writing is my favorite thing to do and creating things comes with its own kind of high, but the thing that makes it even better is knowing that somebody out there will read the story, and my words will become images in their minds that are probably much cooler than what I was picturing when I wrote them. Thank you for reading. I wish I could give you a hug.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Caryn Larrinaga is a Basque American mystery, horror, and urban fantasy writer. Her debut novel, Donn’s Hill, was awarded the League of Utah Writers 2017 Silver Quill in the adult novel category and was a 2017 Dragon Award finalist.
Watching scary movies through split fingers terrified Caryn as a child, and those nightmares inspire her to write now. Her 90-year-old house has a colorful history, and the creaking walls and narrow hallways send her running (never walking) up the stairs. Exploring her fears through writing makes Caryn feel a little less foolish for wanting a buddy to accompany her into the tool shed.
Caryn lives near Salt Lake City, Utah, with her husband and their clowder of cats. Visit www.carynlarrinaga.com for free short fiction and true tales of haunted places.
ALSO BY CARYN LARRINAGA
THE SOUL SEARCHERS MYSTERIES
