After I’d skimmed the boring and obsessive history of the illustrious Morcrofts (one of whom I’d actually met in the late seventeen hundreds—total yawner), the book got more interesting and branched into a more general history of immortals. This guy, Sir Thomas Morcroft, claimed to trace his family back almost two thousand years, but of course the earliest records were oral histories handed down for centuries. If you’ve ever played a game of telephone, you’ll understand my skepticism at believing that these tales even remotely resembled the truth. But Thomas included many of his dealings with other immortals and recounted what he knew of certain families or individuals. He’d tried to be a true historian, and it was interesting. If dense.
I wondered how far back my own history had gone, how much my parents had known about their pasts. My father had had a library—a rarity at the time but appropriate for the local king. All the books had been burned to ashes, of course, in the fire set by Erik the Bloodletter. Had any of the books been our family’s saga? Or my father’s own diary? If only there were some way, some other source to find out where my family had come from, what they had done.
When my head started aching (so far, seven different spellings for the word chronicle), I put a candy wrapper in place as a bookmark and turned my attention to a book about crystals.
Though my interest in crystals and gems is most heightened when they’re set into gold and worn on my person as decoration, they are intriguing in and of themselves. I mean, this planet is basically made of dirt and water. Yet all over the world, physical events have changed some of the dirt into stunning crystalline formations in every possible color. Very early on, humankind attached special importance and value to these unusual rocks. And now, knowledge and interest in them can easily fill years or decades of study.
Which I, you know, was not willing to sign up for. But I was perfectly happy to flip through some books, look at the pretty pictures, and brush up on the most pertinent info.
Take salt, for example. From the earliest of times, salt has been considered sacred for a multitude of—
The workroom door opened, but I was busily making notes and wanted to keep going long enough for whoever it was to see me busily making notes. Then I looked up, ready to enjoy the virtuous feeling of being found studying on my own, only to see… Joshua. He seemed more rested and was wearing clean clothes, his hair still wet from a shower. He still didn’t look civilized. Like someone else I know.
He left the door open behind him, his marbled hazel eyes taking in me, the room, the boarded-up windows. Reyn always did that, too—scoped any room he was in. It had taken me a while to realize why: He was unable to not plan escape routes. In case a rival horde sprang on him with no warning. Here in modern-day western Massachusetts.
“What do you want?” I said, launching the first sally.
“Asher said I could look through some of his books.” Joshua’s voice was low and even, not as raspy and ruined as Jess’s, but not even close to the modulated, sophisticated tones of his brothers.
I waved a hand at the low bookcases framing the window seats. “Wear yourself out.”
He moved the way Reyn did, with controlled animal grace and implied power. I had personally seen Reyn in action as a marauder, hundreds of years ago—he’d been terrifying, bloodthirsty, violent. He and his clan had been the scourge of the northern countries for several of my lifetimes, until I finally moved far enough south, out of their range. It was still odd for me to see him as the Reyn of today, the puppy-totin’, cow-milkin’, um, sword instructor, kissing master, and heart-stealer that I’d gotten to know a bit.
Now here was Joshua, clearly not a northern raider, not a Viking, but with all the Viking berserker qualities I recognized. Here because of me.
“I meant, what do you want with me?” I spoke to his broad back, the maroon henley sweater stretching over his shoulders as he knelt to see a lower shelf. He pulled a thick book out of the shelves, flipped through a few pages, and then came to sit at my table in a chair opposite me.
“Really?” I said. “You’re going to sit there and pretend to read, right across from me, and I’m not going to suspect a thing, right? Are you serious?”
His quiet gaze would have gotten to me if my skin wasn’t as thick as a rhino’s. “River said you bluffed a lot.”
“What? No, she didn’t! I’m not—I don’t bluff!” Of course, I bluffed all the time, but I couldn’t believe River was telling everyone.
“Ottavio said you were yappy and annoying, like a Chihuahua.”
I saw red. For one thing, Chihuahuas are awfully cute, and have been totally maligned in modern culture, in my opinion. “Well, Ottavio’s a pompous windbag, so there you go. And don’t even start with Daniel’s pearls of wisdom.”
Joshua opened Asher’s book on herbal spells and began to read. I didn’t for one second think he was truly here to read, but I took a deep breath and focused on the page about rubies while I regrouped. We both looked up when Brynne passed the doorway lugging a vacuum cleaner, but only I saw her lean back in the doorway and make an OMG face, shaking one hand as if Joshua was too hot. Then she pressed her hand to her forehead and pretended to swoon out of my sight. Daniel was definitely a thing of the past, but I had no idea what she saw in Joshua. His major qualities were the ones I found the least attractive in Reyn.
Speaking of which. “So how do you know Reyn?” I asked.
The colors of his eyes were like… oil on water, shifting and unfixed, green and brown and a deep shade of gray blue. Unnerving and not nearly as compelling as, say, eyes that were a deep golden color, the gold of buried treasure, of my amulet itself.
“How do you know him?” he countered, like a second grader.
“His father killed my family and burned our castle down,” I said evenly. “My mother killed his brother and then caused the death of his father, a couple brothers, and seven of their men. Your turn.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes, and he looked at me more deeply. I gazed steadily back at him. Inside, my breathing had quickened and my heart had sped up, as it always did when I even got close to the memories of my family. But I’d wanted to shock Joshua; I’d wanted to strip this situation down to the bone and put it into perspective.
“Reyn and I have been on… opposite sides of quite a few battles,” Joshua said slowly. “I was a mercenary, and so was he.”
Oh, a mercenary. A soldier for hire. There’s a surprise.
“Wait—hold the phone. Let me get this straight,” I said. “You guys were fighting for money, fighting battles not even your own, and you were on opposite sides, so now, however much later this is, you’re going to be assholes to each other? These weren’t even your wars, defending your own families or whatever. You were there for money. But you’re right, and he’s totally wrong? And vice versa?”
Joshua regarded me stonily.
“Oh my God, you’re such morons.” I rubbed my eyes and pushed my growing-out bangs off my face. “Such freaking idiots. Just quit talking to me. My God.” I shook my head and focused on my book again, the words swimming across the page as I blinked angrily.
Joshua shifted in his chair, got another book, and spent minutes watching me, which I could feel like a caterpillar on my skin, but I spared him not a glance. Instead I wrote down some spells of protection that used crystals and made a list of crystals that I hoped we had in the storeroom.
I found a long section about moonstone, which I regarded as “my” stone. It had been my mother’s stone, too—perhaps our family’s stone for centuries. Another thing I would never know. As I read about different rituals using moonstones, River’s words about having a larger project came back to me. I hadn’t come up with anything. I could barely clothe and feed myself, much less take on anything bigger. In the old days, I’d been all about getting ahead, piling up the coinage. Most enterprises I’d attempted had been successful: my lace shop, in Napoli. My decades as a thief. My oil-baron shenanigans in Texas. But the last real “project
” I’d had was a hundred and fifty years ago, in California, during the gold rush.
If you weren’t alive during the gold rush, I don’t think you could really understand what it was like. It truly was a fever, sweeping around the world. I was in France when the newspapers started to be full of stories about the rivers of gold in California. Followed quickly by reports about California becoming part of the United States. Coincidentally.
Well, I was up for an adventure, so I took a ship to New York, then a train as far west as I could go, then joined one of those picturesque wagon trains you’ve heard about, and headed to California.
Once we left from Ohio, the journey took four months. Out of fifty-two wagons, there were three women, and I was the only unmarried one. But I’d had money enough to buy some sturdy horses, a well-made wagon with a canvas roof, and a bunch of practical supplies. Such as a large German shepherd and a whole bunch of guns.
By the end of the trip, there were fifteen wagons left. More than thirty people had died. We’d passed uncountable numbers of discarded belongings; dead horses, oxen, and cows; broken wagons; human remains that there was no time to bury. When we reached Sacramento, I weighed about ninety pounds, had long since given up bathing, and my three dresses were essentially rags. But my cargo was intact, my horses were alive, and my dog, Heinz, had proven his weight in—ha ha—gold.
I settled north of Sacramento in a shantytown called Hastings Bar. When I first got there, Hastings Bar consisted of ten canvas tents, four men to a tent. Within three months, it was a town of almost twelve thousand people, with hundreds more coming every day. I say “people,” but really, they were almost all men. There was no police force, no court, no law except what the locals organized themselves. Of the twelve thousand people, all but about five hundred lived in tents, winter and summer. The houses and buildings that were there had been thrown together in a hurry by men who thought only of gold with every board they sawed and every nail they sank. But my establishment was sturdy enough.
My name had been Charity Temple, and I told everyone I was a widow. I ran a combination hotel/brothel, and in eighteen months I made close to a million dollars. In 1850s currency.
That had been a successful project, larger than myself.
I was grinning a little, remembering how I’d pulled a rifle on a would-be thief—the look on his face had been priceless—when I realized that Joshua was still sitting across from me, his eyes boring holes in my forehead.
“What do you want?” I asked, irritated.
“I want you to leave my sister alone.” Heat and danger seemed to shimmer off him.
I frowned. “How about we all agree that River is a big girl and can decide for herself?”
“How about you leave here and never come back? How about you run back to your master and tell him he’s got a bigger fight on his hands than he could possibly imagine?”
If I were a regular person, I would probably find his threatening scowl and implied threat intimidating. But you go through enough wars, famines, attacks, etc., and it takes more than a mean look to make you quake in your boots.
“You know, one day your face will freeze like that,” I said, sounding bored and standing up. “Then, my friend, your career as a gigolo will be over.” I swept out of the room as he was still trying to find words.
I needed to move. The sun outside was trying to shine a little more brightly, but here at River’s Edge there was a frowny face wherever I turned. Without asking anyone, I grabbed the keys to one of the farm cars (the little car I’d bought had been totaled), and drove off toward town.
Like, our big, exciting town, right? The one street. The bright lights and madcap excitement. I parked in front of Early’s and rested my head in my hands on the steering wheel, trying hard not to feel pathetic, and failing. I mean, even failing at this. Just too sad.
Time for some candy.
Early’s was a big, old-fashioned general store, with the same wide plate-glass windows as Pitson’s on one side and then the smaller shops like MacIntyre’s Drugs on the other side. Early’s stocked clothes (not cute clothes—practical clothes), animal feed, books, magazines (but no comfy place to sit and read them), candy, kayaks, shoes (not cute shoes), seeds, garden tools—most anything that anyone around here might need or want. Unless you were me.
I came in here regularly either on errands or for myself, to stock up on cheap tabloid magazines and candy.
As I perused Ye Olde Candy Aisle, I noticed all the hearts and cupids littering the place. What day was this? I wandered over to the newspaper stand and glanced at a date. February 7. So Valentine’s Day was rocketing toward us. But you know, all this stuff was really… cheap and typical. There was nothing interesting or crafty or homemade. Surely some people here would want something like that? There needed to be a little shop with craft supplies for ambitious knitters or scrapbookers or whatever things people did to keep themselves off the street.
As I checked out, I thought about Dray. I hadn’t seen her since before I’d gone to Boston. She’d been pissed at me. I’d been pissed at her, having seen her jacking stuff at Early’s when I’d been convinced that Saint Nastasya was helping her turn over a new leaf.
Anyway, I wondered if she was okay—if she was still living with her loser family, or if she’d managed to get out of this town like I’d told her to do.
And since I was down here, and Meriwether, at least, didn’t hate me, I decided to pop in and see her. I checked my watch—it was after five; she should be at work. The bell over the door at MacIntyre’s jingled as I went in. I heard Old Mac talking in the back, but I walked quietly along the aisles until I saw Meriwether—who was talking to a boy. The boy’s back was to me, but from Meriwether’s face I could tell that he wasn’t asking her where the jock powder was. She was smiling and blushing, keeping her voice down.
When I caught her eye, I gave her a silent thumbs-up. Just then the boy looked down, and Meriwether quickly mouthed Lowell at me. Lowell was the boy she’d had a crush on, who had taken her to the Christmas Dance that Dray and her friends had crashed and ruined.
I gave a big smile back and silently edged away and left the store. My heart was lightened by Meriwether’s budding romance. I was such a softy. Not really. But this was still fun. I was opening the car door when my eyes fell once again on the abandoned shops. I dropped the candy bag on the front seat and headed across the street.
CHAPTER 11
You… what?” River’s eyes were wide with surprise.
I slid into a place at the dining table—dinner was almost over, since I’d gotten held up in town. Rachel passed me the bread, and Asher ladled some soup into a bowl.
“I bought those abandoned shops on Main Street,” I repeated, gulping down some tea. My nose was still cold, and the warm mug felt good in my chilled fingers.
“What do you mean, bought?” Brynne asked.
“I mean I called the agent and bought the shops,” I said, dunking the bread into the chicken matzo-ball soup. Oh, God, it was so good. Hot, chickeny—yum.
“You couldn’t have gotten a mortgage so quickly.” Ottavio’s eyes were—wait for it—suspicious. About my dangerous, property-buying ways.
“I don’t need a mortgage. I wrote them a check. I have lots of money.” I gave Daniel a meaningful look, like, keep your stinking hundred million dollars.
“Lots of money?” Ottavio seized that information. “And where did you get this money?”
Even I was startled when Amy pelted Ott with a piece of bread. Don’t get me wrong, I was loving the hard time she was giving him, but it was like throwing rocks at a land mine. Sooner or later there would be an ugly explosion.
Ott’s face turned purple, and he opened his mouth, but River sighed. “Please, Ottavio.”
I cut up my matzo ball with my spoon. “Weirdest thing. Some guy named the master transferred millions into my account.” I stopped cutting and looked up. “Wait—is that bad?”
“What are you planning to
do with the shops?” Charles asked before Ottavio could reply.
“I confess I was thinking more along the lines of you taking up watercolors,” said River.
Watercolors. Because I’m so good at sitting still, right?
“I was thinking that I would throw money at the shops until they become cute, and then open this town’s sorely needed cozy coffee emporium,” I said, and poured myself more tea from the insulated pitcher. “There will be three shops left. I can’t help but notice—and don’t take this the wrong way, I know you love it here—but West Lowing desperately needs a source of fashionable footwear. And where is the local craft nook, with Tuesday night Stitch ’n’ Bitch sessions? Again, a distinct lack thereof.”
I inhaled more soup and took another piece of bread. All of this real-estate mogulry had made me starving. “And a good consignment shop, or perhaps an ice-cream parlor, would not come awry.” I tilted my head and assumed a dreamy expression. “That’s my big project: to save West Lowing. As I myself am being saved.”
Reyn swallowed something wrong and coughed.
I shot River a glance. “I’m still being saved, right?”
“Still giving it the old Girl Scout try,” she said wryly.
“I think it sounds superfun,” said Brynne. “And of course you would do anything to get out of painting the barn.” She grinned at me, and I shrugged cheerfully.
“I’d like to point out that this is a totally nonevil thing for me to do,” I told the brothers with sickening earnestness. “It’s creating something, making jobs for people, helping the town’s economy.” I batted my eyes innocently.
Ottavio looked like he’d swallowed a frog, but he didn’t need Heimliching this time, so that was good. Daniel’s face was a mask of irritation, probably from finding out that I didn’t need his money. Joshua’s weary, cynical eyes looked at me with steady speculation.