Legacy of the Witch (3 page)

Who is he?

“It’s about time,” he said. “You’re over an hour late.”

I blinked, my semi-formed excuses flying from my mind as my
brain sought ways to handle this new situation. He seemed…angry.

He looked past me at my car, frowned a little. Like he knew a
ten-year-old Pinto didn’t belong here, but then shrugged as if it didn’t matter.
“What, no excuses? No apologies?”

“I’m, um…sorry. I got lost.”

His eyes narrowed on me, and I had to avert mine.
Do I dare just run with this? What if the person he’s really
expecting shows up?

I looked his way again. He wasn’t in uniform, I noted. Jeans
and a button-down shirt that he’d been in the process of buttoning up before I’d
interrupted him. The bit of his chest I could see tried to capture my eyes, and
I had to jerk my gaze elsewhere and hope he hadn’t noticed.

And still there was this ache in the pit of my stomach that I
couldn’t make sense of.

His eyes had shifted past me again, as if checking to be sure I
was alone. Then they returned to me, and he looked from my head to my toes.
Finally he gave a nod. “Okay. Come on in. I’ll show you what we’ve got to work
with.”

“All right.”

I walked in when he stepped aside and took a look around me.
The place was more breathtaking on the inside than on the outside. There was a
giant fireplace on one wall made of perfect rectangles of gleaming granite.
Leather furniture, lush and brown. Hardwood floors lined with oriental rugs. I
could see straight through to the dining room and the kitchen beyond it.

“This place is…fantastic.”

He nodded. “Thank you. You need anything before we get to work?
Bathroom? Coffee?”

I lifted my brows. “Can I have both?”

His lip quirked up at one corner, an almost smile that made my
heart turn over. So familiar. And dear.
How?

“Through there.” He pointed toward a hall leading off the back
of the living room, but I got stuck looking at his hand, the strength and
breadth of it. The long, slender fingers. Then I snapped out of it and followed
where that gorgeous hand was pointing. “Thanks. I’ll be quick, promise.”

He nodded and closed the entry door behind me as I walked
through the house, looking all around as I did. It shouldn’t seem suspicious, I
thought. The place was breathtaking; who
wouldn’t
look it over?

I’d seen no alarm panel near the door. But I saw no sign of my
grandmother’s treasure box, either. When I reached the far end of the living
room, I headed down the short hall and spotted the bathroom immediately.

The lights came on automatically, revealing a spotless half
bath, with tan fixtures, a beige rug, nothing on the walls besides a medicine
cabinet over the sink, and light-colored wood trim, like pecan or something.
There were merlot towels on the rack and a bar of hand soap on the soap dish.
Irish Spring.

Closing my eyes, I leaned back against the door. “What is it he
thinks I’m here to do?” I couldn’t even imagine. Maybe he’d hired a maid or a
nanny or a party planner or…oh, a house sitter! That would be marvelous, a house
sitter. Then he could just get out and leave me to search for the witches’
box.

I took a few minutes, washing my hands with the green soap and
thinking about the guy in the commercial, standing in the hills of Ireland and
slicing off the edge of the bar with his pocketknife to show us that it had
those striations clear through, though why we should care, I couldn’t fathom.
The stuff smelled great, though. Drying my hands on the seat of my pants because
I didn’t want to mess up one of those gorgeous towels, I looked into the mirror
and realized I needed a touch-up.

I shrugged my bag off my shoulder and fixed my makeup, then
tried to untangle my jet-black hair. It was dead straight and completely out of
style. I couldn’t make it “big” no matter what I did to it. Or curly,
either.

I popped a breath mint for good measure and opened the bathroom
door, then peeked into the living room.

He wasn’t there.

I stepped out, looking around, walking through the room and
taking my time. There wasn’t a lot of clutter, and I saw only a few places where
the chest might be hidden. A closet near the front door, a pair of end tables
with doors on the front that must have storage space inside.

I moved past the staircase, into the dining room, noting the
large hutch—two possible drawers there—and the china closet. That had a drawer,
too. Then into the kitchen where, of course, every cupboard was a
possibility.

Stainless steel fixtures, white appliances and more of that
same light wood. The countertop looked like marble and matched the pattern of
the floor. White with black swirls. There was a note stuck to the fridge with a
magnet in the shape of an American flag, and I moved a little closer.

6/21, 6:00 pm, help arrives.

Today’s date. It was 7:30. Obviously he thought I was the help
he’d been expecting.

Footsteps behind me made me jump guiltily and turn around.

“Sorry if I scared you before. I’m antsy about this. Deadline’s
breathing down my neck, and it’s taken me three months to realize I don’t know
what the hell I’m doing. So…”

“Don’t worry. Now that I’m here it will…be done in no time.”
Just as soon as I figure out what
it
is,
I thought.

He moved past me to the counter, poured coffee into two mugs,
then moved aside with his in his hand. “Help yourself to cream and sugar.”

I moved forward, standing awfully close to him, but he didn’t
move away. I added cream and sugar to my mug and inhaled as I stirred. “It’s
good,” I said after my first sip.

He nodded, his eyes on me and way too intent. “A little late
for this, I guess, but I’m Harry,” he said, and extended a hand.

“Amarrah,” I said.

“I probably shouldn’t ask, Amarrah, but are you…Middle
Eastern?”

I lifted my brows and withdrew my hand before it reached his,
instantly offended, as I so often was since Operation Desert Shield had begun.
“That’s because I’m Iraqi. Do you have a problem with that?”

“Not at all,” he said. “In fact, that makes you even more
qualified to help with the project, don’t you think? It’s good to meet you,
Amarrah.” He reached forward again. This time I let him clasp my hand in
his…

…and something happened in my brain. There was a flash, and I
was that little girl again.

I was standing in the garden off the harem
quarters, with a pool and a fountain. Walls surrounded it, hallways leading
in all directions. Three walls were formed by the quarters themselves, and a
fourth stood between me and the outdoors, higher than my head.

It was over that wall that he
came.

Harmon, the soldier’s son. He leaped the
wall and landed softly on his feet. It was well after dark, and I was
surprised to see him.

And delighted, because I knew I was
beautiful now. My lovely harem mistresses, Lilia, Magdalena and Indira, had
braided baubles into my hair, lined my eyes with kohl, dressed me in their
own cast-off trailing garments of soft fabric in exotic colors, even draped
me in their old jewels. I looked like one of them, and not all that much
younger.

Harmon said, “I’ve been watching for you
to come out, so I could see how you are doing.” And then he stopped, looking
me up and down, his eyes widening. His mouth opened, but no words
emerged.

I pressed a palm to my chest, spreading my
trailing skirts with one hand and twirling so they flew around me. “Do you
like it?”

“I can barely breathe,” he
said.

I frowned at him. “Does that mean you like
it?”

“It means I like it. Yes. You are more
beautiful than I could have imagined, Amarrah. I almost wish I wasn’t
already promised to another.”

I lowered my head. “You are?”

“A foreign general’s daughter. But…but our
wedding is a long way off. I don’t want to talk about that now.”

“No? What do you want to talk
about?”

He shrugged. “When you can slip away, so
we can see each other for more than a few minutes.”

My heart warmed. He liked me, I knew it.
“What about right now? My chores are finished. I was just on my way to bed.
No one will notice if I disappear for a short while.”

He smiled, nodding and holding out his
hand. “We’ll walk outside the city, into the desert, under the stars. It
will be magic.”

I took his hand, and I thought that it
already was.

Chapter Three

I was staring down at our joined hands as if I’d gone
into a trance, and I couldn’t let go.

“Amarrah?”

“Yes?”

“I hope I didn’t offend you. I’m glad you’re Iraqi. I wasn’t
being sarcastic.”

“Of course not.” It wasn’t until that very moment—as I shook
off the dream or vision or delusion or whatever it had been and refocused on the
immediate situation—that I realized how this would look if he caught on to my
deception. I was Iraqi. He was a decorated veteran of Desert Shield. And I was
here under false pretenses. I might easily be labeled a spy, and given the
current climate in the U.S. where my country was concerned, I could land in
serious trouble.

I would have to find the witches’ box quickly, then get out
just as quickly. No time for exploring this odd feeling that I knew him, that he
was somehow a part of…of all of it. Everything.

But he only shrugged. “I’m particularly fond of the Iraqi
people,” he said. “I got very attached to a lot of them while I was there.” He
lowered his eyes. Painful memories washed through him. I felt it as clearly as
if he’d spoken them aloud. “Your English is flawless.”

“I’ve been here since I was thirteen.”

“Ahh. Your family immigrated?”

“Died,” I told him. “I came here to be with distant cousins,
the American branch of my family.” I sipped more coffee. “How did it look? My
country? I haven’t been back in over ten years.”

Again he lowered his eyes. “It’s rough. The bombing has taken a
toll.” He put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Amarrah. It’s a beautiful
place. I’m sure this is tearing you apart.”

“I try not to watch the news. Or any television, because the
news constantly interrupts. But it sometimes feels as if I can hear the cries of
my people.” I blinked against the emotion I rarely gave voice. How was it that I
was discussing these feelings with him when I never discussed them with anyone?
Ever. “Can we talk about something else, please? The work I’ve come to do,
perhaps?”

He studied my face for a moment, and I thought he was searching
for something to say to erase the pain that undoubtedly showed in my eyes. But
he must have decided nothing could do that, because he gave up with a sharp nod.
“Sure. Let’s get right to it. This way.”

Turning, he walked out of the kitchen, through the dining room
and over to the wide staircase. His big, sock-covered feet moved soundlessly up
the thickly carpeted steps.

I started to follow, then paused.

He doesn’t think I’m a prostitute, does
he?
I replayed everything he’d said so far in my mind, or tried
to.

Sensing my hesitation, I think, he turned. “Anything
wrong?”

“No, of course not.”

“Well, come on, then. The office is right up here.”

Office. Phew. Okay, great. I got myself moving again and
remembered to keep a keen eye out for the box as he led me down the second story
hallway, past a handful of closed doors I presumed were bedrooms to an open one
at the far end.

His office must have been intended as the master suite. He’d
converted it, and beautifully. A huge desk took up one corner, rich dark walnut,
clearly an antique. A squat fat computer monitor sat atop it, the tower on the
floor nearby. A smaller, more modern desk sat in another corner, also sporting a
computer, and there was a table in between that held a printer, a fax and a
small copier.

The carpet in here was the same thick plush beige as the stairs
and hall, soft and cushiony under my feet. Big windows filled the triangular
peak facing front, letting in tons of light.

“There’s a walk-in closet there, with most of the office
supplies. And the master bath has everything you should need.” Then he frowned.
“Did you leave your bags in the car? The agency did tell you this job includes
room and board for the duration, didn’t they?”

This was getting better and better. And scarier, too. I was
expected to stay here? For how long? And with this man, who seemed to get inside
my brain, unleashing parts of the story I’d never known before. Parts my
gidaty
had never told me. Parts I hadn’t made up to
tell her. Parts that felt more like memories of that dark-eyed man-boy, Harmon.
“Yeah. Uh, yeah, they’re in the car.”

The telephone on the big desk rang. He held up a finger to me
and went over to pick it up, while I prayed in silence,
Don’t let it be the agency he just mentioned.

He spoke briefly, then hung up. “I’m sorry. I have to go out
for a bit. So I guess you get a reprieve. Look, your room is back down the hall,
first door on the left. Mine’s at the opposite end. Take some time to get
settled in. Make yourself at home. And maybe?” he picked up a stack of printed
pages “…give it a read. See what you think. All right?”

“All right.”

“Thanks, Amarrah. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

And then he left. I watched out the window, where I had a clear
view of the driveway and the two-car garage that matched the rich gleaming wood
of the house itself and sat kitty-corner to it, with a covered walkway in
between. One of its doors rolled up slowly, and a sporty looking red Jeep came
speeding out of it, darting down the drive and out to the road, its motor
growling loudly with each shift.

He was gone, and I was alone in the house.

The phone rang. I picked it up hesitantly. “Sergeant Brockson’s
residence,” I said.

“Hi, there. This is Linda from Sumner Temps. I need to speak
with Harrison Brockson, please?”

This must be the agency! “He’s not here, but I can take a
message and see that he gets it.” I twisted the twirly telephone cord around my
forefinger as I listened.

“All right. Please give him my apologies. The temp we had lined
up had a family emergency—gave us no notice at all. We’re scrambling to find him
another—”

“Actually,” I interrupted, thinking fast, “we have several
agencies finding us several temps, and I’m new here, so can you be more
specific? What job exactly was this temp you were sending supposed to do?”

“I didn’t realize he was working with more than one
agency.”

“Well, not for the same job, naturally,” I said.

She sniffed. I thought I’d made her angry. “She’s supposed to
be doing some proofreading and copyediting, that sort of thing. I believe he’s
writing a memoir?”

“Oh,
that
temp,” I said as if I
knew. My gaze flew back to that stack of pages with a sharpened interest.
“Actually, we were going to call you and cancel that one anyway, so it all
worked out just fine.”

“Oh?” The woman sounded surprised. “Did he…hire someone from
another agency?”

“No, no, an old friend came in from out of town for an extended
visit, an English Lit professor, actually,” I said, thinking of my own English
Lit professor, Susan O’Shaughnessy, and how much I admired her snow-white
complexion, red curls and sharp mind. “So she offered to help. Thanks for
calling,” I said, not wanting to explain further or answer any more questions.
“You have a great day.”

“You, too,” she said, and I hung up the phone.

I clapped my hands together and turned my attention to the
stack of papers on the desk.
A Soldier’s Story, by Sgt.
Harrison Brockson
.

I blinked. He was writing…his own story. What a perfect way to
get to know more about him! My eyes sped over the first few lines. It was indeed
a memoir. His experience in Iraq. My homeland. And maybe it would even include
the story of how he’d come to find my heirloom chest.

I was dying to do just what he’d asked and read the manuscript,
but I was here for a reason. And reading this man’s book was not it.

I had to find the witches’ box.

Except I didn’t. Two hours later I’d searched the entire house,
and there was no miniature treasure chest to be found. No safe anywhere, no
mysterious hidden or locked rooms. I’d learned a little something about Sergeant
Harrison Brockson, though. He was a neat freak. The place was as spotless as if
no one really lived in it, like a model home or something. He was also a fitness
nut. One entire room was devoted to workout equipment, and none of it was used
to hang jackets from, like the solitary treadmill at my temporary apartment,
where all the roomies insisted on keeping the thing, and none of them ever set
foot on it.

Harrison
used
his equipment. There
was a bathroom off the gym, with stacks of towels, and a minifridge full of
nothing but ice cubes, bottled water and Gatorade. His workout clothes had a
drawer all to themselves in his dresser, and he kept his running shoes in the
box they’d come in, in the closet, next to the fireproof security box—and no, I
couldn’t see what was inside that. But it wasn’t big enough to hold my treasure
chest.

Okay, no luck, but I’d learned something about the man. He was
neat and athletic. And a war hero, if the medals and framed citations were
anything to go by. But not vain about it. They were all piled on closet shelves,
collecting his home’s only visible dust, not displayed on walls or in
cabinets.

He had uniforms in his closet, freshly cleaned and still in the
dry cleaner’s plastic. Still on active duty, then?

There were a few family photos, a couple with their three
little blond-haired, blue-eyed boys seemed to be his favorite subjects, as there
were several of those around. One of an older couple taken on their golden
anniversary—the man was in uniform. Had to be his parents. But not a single
photo of the fiancée from the antiques show on TV.

Interesting.

I wound up back in the office, staring at the stack of pages on
the desk. I’d intended to reclaim my ancient chest and be out of here by the
time he returned, but that hadn’t worked out. And if I was still here when he
got back, I supposed I ought to have read the thing, since that was ostensibly
what I had come here to do.

Besides, I was burning with curiosity. So I sat down, kicked
off my shoes and began.

And pretty soon I was turning the final page, and shaking my
head in awe and wondering if this man was really someone from whom I had the
nerve to steal. He’d written about his experiences the way I suspected a police
officer fills out his reports at the end of the day. Just giving facts without
embellishment—minimizing his own heroics, if anything. But he’d carried a
wounded comrade through heavy gunfire to a helicopter to get him to safety. He’d
breached the enemy line to rescue a young man who’d somehow become pinned down
on the other side. He’d run into a burning building to rescue an innocent
family.

Nothing about how he’d felt. Nothing about the thoughts running
through his mind, no emotion. Just simply-stated facts, like he was writing down
a grocery list.

He’d played it all down, probably left out a lot. And even from
that cold recounting, I could tell he was a hero.

Always has been…

That odd voice inside my head whispered the thought, and even
before I could start to analyze it, my mind was whisking me into the familiar
world of the harem.

I’d been sent out by Magdalena to fetch
some water from the river. We had a water boy who filled our tall, ornate
jugs and left them just beyond our doors each morning. But Magdalena said he
must have been rushed this morning, because the water was muddy.

This was another example of the kindness
of these women I had so grown to love. Magdalena could have sent a message
to the palace, asking for clean water, but that would have resulted in the
water boy being beaten, or worse. And she would rather drink mud than cause
the boy pain.

So I was sent out with a single jug, a
strap running from its slender neck to its base so I could carry it over my
shoulder.

I wasn’t supposed to leave the harem
quarters, but since my mistress had sent me, I thought it would be all
right. And she’d told me, too, to take my time about it. So I had. I’d
knotted my long skirt up around my waist, so it hung only to my thighs, and
I waded into the sacred river, enjoying the cool rush of its waters over my
legs. I waded far out from the sandy shore and into the pebble strewn depths
where the water was clearer, and I filled the jug there. It was heavier than
I had expected it to be, and as I turned to heft it up onto my shoulder I
slipped on a rock and fell with a huge splash and a soft squeal. And then
the current swept the jug away, and with its strap still around my shoulder
and one arm, it swept me right along with it.

Faster and faster it seemed to drag me,
and each time I pulled my head up for a gulp of air, the jug yanked me down
again. I was choking, flailing my arms uselessly, trying to save myself but
growing more and more exhausted, until I was certain there was no hope for
me. I was going to drown in the sacred waters.

And then, from nowhere it seemed, strong
arms grabbed hold of me, lifting my head above the water, dragging me
shoreward as I coughed and gasped. I felt relief as the jug was scooped up
out of the river, disentangled from my body. And then I was scooped up, too,
and he was carrying me, sloshing through the shallows of the river toward
the shore.

I blinked water from my eyes until I could
see, and was not surprised to see Harmon, the young man I was already sure I
would love forever. His jawline, so sharp and strong, his nose already big
like a man’s nose, very straight and proud. Surely he had the blood of kings
in his veins, I thought. For no king could be more beautiful.

As we reached the shore he lowered me to
the ground, removed the jug from his strong shoulder and stood it nearby,
and then he was kneeling beside me, pushing the hair from my eyes, speaking
to me in the voice that sent chills right up my spine. “Are you all right,
beautiful Amarrah?”