Her son’s green eyes met hers in the rearview mirror and locked. Then he nodded once and said, “Okay.” He sat up, blinking as he nudged his brother. “Hey, Bear, wake up. We’re home.”
Day Three
Cambio Springs
Her mother sat on the edge of her bed, and Jena could feel her stroking the hair back from her forehead before she even opened her eyes. She took a deep breath and woke. The window of her childhood room was cracked open to let in the cool night air and the sky still wore the pearly light of a newborn day.
She cleared her throat and looked up at her mother. “The boys still asleep?”
Cathy Crowe nodded, her delicate hand falling away from her daughter’s forehead. “They’ll sleep for a while. They were exhausted.”
“Thanks for waking me up.”
“No problem.” Cathy nodded toward the window. “You going out for a while?”
“Just for a little bit. I want to be back before they wake up.”
“Okay.” Her mother rose and walked to the door. “Don’t lose track of time.”
“I’ll keep an eye on the sun.”
“Okay.” Cathy slipped out the door, but her hand held on. She peeked around the corner one last time. “It’s good to have you back, sweetie.”
“Thanks, Mom.”
The door closed and Jena pushed back the covers. She went to her suitcase and got out her running clothes to change. But instead of putting on the sneakers she’d worn in Oregon, she slipped on a pair of flip flops. Then Jena Crowe opened the window of her childhood room wide, swung her long legs over the windowsill, and hopped into the garden.
She walked down to the end of the small street on the edge of town where the oldest houses were built, each house resting on a large piece of property that stretched back from the street until it butted up against the red wall of the broad canyon where Cambio Springs had been built. She passed Lowell’s parents’ house on the right, his aunt and uncle’s house on the left, but she kept walking.
Past the houses. Past the park gates. Back to the natural hot springs that lay in a curve of the rocks. The red walls soared up and green trees lined the base of the cliffs, dipping long branches into the water of the seven springs that dotted the canyon floor. Jena paused, listening as something large rustled in the brush, but she only smiled and continued walking.
Paths had been trimmed and lined, a few of them paved, where the people of the Springs rode bikes, walked, and let the children run in the winter when the days weren’t so hot. Jena passed all of them until she came to a dark slash cut into the canyon wall where a small stream of water trickled out. She stepped over it and into the ancient cave.
Petroglyphs still marked the walls, high where no human hands should have reached. The sound of steady water filled her ears as she reached over to the niche near the entrance and lit a stubby candle, the low light of dawn not filtering in enough to light her way.
In the back of the cave where the rocks met, water bubbled up out of a sandstone pillar, three feet high with a basin cut into the top. Like a natural water fountain, the water pushed up out of the rock and trickled over the side, flowing into a small stream that fed into the springs outside. But this water, she knew, wasn’t hot or mineral-rich. It would be cool and clear. The water in the cave was the safest and sweetest water in the world.
Jena heard the call of a mockingbird from somewhere outside the cave and she smiled. Then she took off her sandals and let her feet touch the cool sandstone floor. She slipped off her clothes and put them in another niche cut into the wall. Then, she walked over, bent down, and drank.
The sweet water touched her tongue and slid down her parched throat. Visions of clear skies and open horizons called her. She could almost feel the wind in her face as she took deep, hungry gulps. It splashed over her face, wetting her chin and cheeks, meeting the hot, salty tears that flowed from her eyes. Then Jena took one last desperate draught before her knees gave out. She knelt on the floor, pressing her body into the cold sandstone pillar, hugging it as she wept in sorrow and relief. She felt the water spill over her arms, and she crawled to where it flowed over the side of the basin, curling her naked body under the stream, letting the water soak her skin as she watched the sky at the mouth of the cave grow lighter.
“Don’t lose track of time.”
She rose, standing tall in the shadows of the cave where generations of others like her had found comfort and strength. She felt the water soak her veins, reaching into a long-hidden part of her soul. She closed her eyes and felt the cool, morning air around her and the water splashing her feet. Then Jena stretched out her arms and let her head fall forward in surrender.
The unbearable lightness started in her heart, which began beating rapidly. The bones in her body felt insubstantial, as if the air around her was leaching though her skin, filling her up. It crept through her limbs and down to her toes as she followed the path of the slick sandstone where the ancient spring led her into the cool morning air. Jena felt the light touch her face and the wind lift her arms.
Then she raised her head, opened her eyes, and wasn’t.
The russet-feathered hawk spread its wings and leapt into the morning air, letting out a shriek as it flew over the town. It pumped its wings, catching the current of air that streamed through the canyon as it flew higher and higher over the desert floor. It dipped and climbed, arching over the trees, the houses, and the rocks that spread out for miles around them.
The hawk kept one watchful eye on the angle of the sun as it flew over the desert. Then Jena Crowe let out another piercing cry and soared.
The End
Look for the first full length Cambio Springs novel in Spring 2013.
ALSO BY ELIZABETH HUNTER
The Elemental Mysteries Series
ElementalMysteries.com
~~~
Join five hundred-year-old rare book dealer, Giovanni Vecchio, and librarian, Beatrice De Novo, as they travel the world in search of the mystery that brought them together, the same mystery that could tear everything they love apart. Elemental Mysteries is a paranormal romance/mystery series.
~~~
Praise for the Elemental Mysteries:
“Elemental Mysteries turned into one of the best paranormal series I’ve read this year. It’s sharp, elegant, clever, evenly paced without dragging its feet, and at the same time emotionally intense.”
—Nocturnal Book Reviews
A Hidden Fire
“A tantalyzing paranormal romance, full of mystery and intrigue. One of the best books I’ve read in a long time. Sign me up for book two!”
—Nichole Chase, best-selling author of Mortal Obligation, Book One of The Dark Betrayal Trilogy
This Same Earth
“This Same Earth had me smiling throughout most of the book with its fabulous storyline. I was so caught up in the romance and the nail biting suspense that I flew through the book in less than 24 hrs… This series is one of my fav of favorites, and I know it will be yours too!”
—Mandy Anderson, I Read Indie Book Blog
The Force of Wind
“Holy cats! There doesn’t seem to be any stopping Elizabeth Hunter. The Force of Wind, the third installment of her Elemental Mysteries series, is a force to be reckoned with.”
—Leisha O’Quinn, A Tale of Many Reviews
A Fall of Water
“What I love the most about A Fall of Water is that Elizabeth Hunter has continued to grow the characters I know and love, while still introducing new ones into the story to keep it fresh.”
—Rebecca Edney, Bending the Spine
~~~
A Hidden Fire: Elemental Mysteries Book One
CHAPTER ONE
Houston, Texas
September 2003
Giovanni Vecchio woke, the infrequent dream seeming to echo off the narrow walls of the small room where he rested. He sat up and stared at the photograph of Florence, which hung on the opposite wall, and the sun-seared sh
ops of the old bridge mocked him.
“Where is your home?”
“Ubi bene ibi patria. Where I prosper is my home.”
“Do not forget: nothing endures, save us and the elements.”
Rising, he unlocked his reinforced door and stepped into the large walk-in closet where he dressed in a white oxford shirt and a pair of slim, black slacks. He spied the grey cat from the corner of his eye.
“Good evening, Doyle.”
The cat turned his copper-eyed stare toward the tall man who spoke to him.
“What did Caspar bribe you with tonight, hmm? Salmon? Fresh anchovies? Caviar?”
The cat gave a small chirp and walked out to the luxurious bedroom beyond the closet to settle on the king-sized bed there. Giovanni’s thoughts still brushed at the dark dream and a faint memory teased the back of his mind.
“Tell me about death.”
“The philosopher said death, which men fear as the greatest evil, may instead be the greatest good.”
“But we do not fear death, do we?”
Despite the hours he had rested, he felt weary. He reached for his favorite grey jacket and walked out of the room.
“Caspar,” he called as he entered the kitchen, still straightening his collar. “I want you to drive me to the library tonight.”
The older man raised a curious eyebrow but put down the newspaper he had been reading.
“Of course, I’ll get the car.”
Giovanni gathered his messenger bag and followed Caspar out the kitchen door. They walked through the small courtyard where the dim light of the early evening still illuminated the burbling fountain, and the air was rich with the fragrance of the honeysuckle vine.
“Balance! Temperance! Find it, my son, or you will die.”
He paused for a moment and watched the flow of water as it trickled over and around the rocks in the base of the fountain. Just then, a sharp breeze lifted the spray and it arched toward him, dusting his face with the cold drops. He let the heat rise to his skin and the vapor met the humid night air.
“Oh wow, Char wasn’t lying.”
Giovanni brushed the hair out of his eyes and glanced up from his notebook, looking around for the quiet female voice as he paused in the entry to the Special Collections reading room at the Houston University library.
“Pardon me?” he asked in confusion to the girl in the corner.
The black-haired girl behind the counter smiled. He noticed a slight blush coloring her fair skin.
“Nothing,” she said with a quick smile. “Nothing at all. Welcome to the Special Collections reading room. You must be Dr. Vecchio.”
Giovanni frowned as he tucked his notebook into a leather messenger bag. “I am. Is Mrs. Martin unavailable this evening?” He scanned the young woman sitting behind the reference desk on the fifth floor of the library. Since the department had opened their once-weekly evening hours a year ago, the bookish Charlotte Martin had been the only employee he’d seen behind the desk of the small, windowless room that housed the rare books, manuscripts, and archives.
“She’s not able to do evening shifts anymore. Family reasons, I think. Something about her kids. I’m B, her assistant.” Her voice lacked the twang typical of most Texans, though the flat intonation with only a hint of accent was fairly common among native Houstonians, especially those of younger generations. “She left me notes about what you’ve been working on, so I’m perfectly able to assist you in your research.”
Despite her rather common accent, the girl’s voice held a faint quality, which told him at least one of her parents was a native Spanish speaker. Her thick, black hair was pulled into a low ponytail at the nape of her neck, and she was dressed in a black button-down shirt and slim skirt. He smiled when he saw the tops of her tall Doc Marten boots almost touching her knees.
“Are you a student?” he asked.
Her chin jutted out in a barely perceptible movement, which matched the quick flash of intelligence in her eyes. “I’ve worked here for almost three years. I’m sure doing a quick computer search or fetching a document is well within my abilities, Dr. Vecchio.”
He could feel the smile crawl across his face. “I meant no disrespect… I’m sorry, what was your name?”
“Just call me B,” she said, glancing down at some handwritten notes.
From where he was standing, Giovanni could see the familiar scrawl of Mrs. Martin’s handwriting.
“B? As in the second letter of the Latin alphabet?” he asked, walking closer to the desk.
“No, the Etruscan. I’m wild like that,” she muttered and glanced up. “She also put a small note here at the bottom of her instructions regarding you.”
“Yes?” He waited, curious what the librarian thought bore mention to her replacement.
“Hmm, it just reads, ‘He comes in every week. You’re welcome.’” The girl’s eyes ran from his handmade shoes, up his tall figure, finally meeting his startling, blue-green eyes. “Thanks indeed, Char,” she said with a smile.
He smirked at her obvious look of approval, noting the small ruby piercing in her nose that caught the florescent lights of the reading room. Her eyes were lined in black, her skin was fair, and though she did not have classically beautiful features, he thought her dramatic looks would be eye-catching even from a distance.
“I saw you Friday night!” she blurted. “I was coming in to meet a friend after her shift. I saw you heading out.”
Glancing away from her toward the door, he brushed at the dark curls that had fallen into his eyes again. “That’s possible,” he noted. “I like working in the evenings here.”
She shrugged. “Well, obviously.”
“Why?” he asked. “Why obviously?”
She raised her eyebrows. “Because you’re here now? Instead of the middle of the day?”
He blinked. “Of course.”
“So what do you do?”
“Me?”
The girl snorted and looked around the otherwise empty room. “Yeah.”
He opened his mouth and almost considered telling her the truth, just to see what the unusual girl might say.
“I do… research.”
She stood, as if waiting for him to continue. When he didn’t, she smiled politely and held out a hand. “Well, it’s very nice to meet you.”
He paused for a moment then held out his own hand to shake hers.
“Nice to meet you as well…” He frowned a little. “What’s your real name?”
“Why?”
“I…” Giovanni had no idea why he wanted to know, except perhaps, because she didn’t seem to want to tell him. So he flashed her his most charming smile and cheered internally when he heard her heart speed up.
She rolled her eyes. “My ‘real’ name is Beatrice. But I hate it, so please just call me B. Everyone does, even Dr. Christiansen,” she added, referencing the very formal Director of Special Collections for the library.
“Of course,” he said with a small smile. “I was simply curious. For the record, however, I think Beatrice is a lovely name.” He made sure to pronounce her name with the softer Italian accent it deserved.
She rolled her eyes again and tried to keep from smiling. “Well, thanks. What can I get for you this evening, Dr. Vecchio?”
“The Tibetan manuscript, please.”
“Of course.” She handed over a small paper slip so he could fill out the formal request for the item. Then she reached into the desk drawer to hand him a pair of silk gloves necessary for handing any of the ancient documents in the collection.
He took a seat at one of the tables in the windowless room, laying out his notebooks, a box of pencils, and a set of notes for Tenzin written in Mandarin. After a few minutes, Beatrice walked through the door from the stacks. Carefully placing the grey paper box containing the fifteenth century Tibetan book on the counter, she turned back to make sure the door to the air-controlled room was closed and locked before she walked around the desk and toward Giovanni
.
“There is a book you need to copy for me,” Tenzin asked.
“Why do you need it copied? Isn’t there a translation available somewhere?”
“No, I want this one. It’s in Houston. Didn’t you just move there?”
He frowned. “I didn’t move here so I could copy books for you, bird girl.”
“How do you know? Maybe that’s exactly why you moved there.”
“Ten—”
“I have to fly. Be a good scribe and copy it. Use the… what do you call it when you send me things?”
“The fax machine.”
“Yes, use that. I’m going into the mountains for a while. Have Caspar send them to Nima for me when you’re done.”
“I’m busy right—”
She had already hung up.
He noted again how well preserved the manuscript was as the girl opened the acid-free paper box. The manuscript was a series of square, painted panels that contained spells purportedly used by goddesses for healing. The carved wooden covers and gold and black ink were startling in their clarity, and though it held the musty odor typical of old documents, he noted with satisfaction very little scent of mold or mildew clung to it.
“Please wear your gloves at all times and handle the pages as little as possible. Please keep all manuscript materials inside the box as you examine them. If you need further assistance in examining the document, please…”
Listening absently to the rote instructions the girl offered, his mind had already moved ahead to his task for the evening. He’d copied the first third of the small volume over the summer. He estimated careful transcription of the manuscript would take another four to five months at the rate he was working. Fortunately, time was not an issue for him on this project.