Rose Petal Graves (The Lost Clan #1) (3 page)

Negongwa, along with his entire family, lay beneath our property. Negongwa, my great, great, great, great, great, great, great-grandfather.
The Wytchen Tree
spoke about our ancestors. My mother had always been fascinated by our lineage. She hadn’t bought this book to learn more about trees; she’d bought it to learn more about her roots.

It was rumored that the Gottwa tribe possessed supernatural powers. Some said they were related to the Pahans or “little people,” but others described them as Pahan hunters. When they settled by the Great Lakes, they planted wytchen trees around their land that served as both a natural border and a shield against faeries, witches, and disease.

I snorted. I couldn’t help myself.
Faeries?
Seriously. When Mom told me stories of our ancestors, she’d always made them out to be magic-wielding semi-deities. But that was Mom, who’d believed there were more dimensions to our world, dimensions our ancestors could penetrate thanks to magic but which were lost on us rational humans. Most of my friends would lap up Mom’s stories and insist we go sit in the circle of rowan trees at twilight, above the graves, and call on the dead. I’d done it—several times—and nothing had happened.

I closed the book and brought it back to the cardboard box, dropping it on the pile of Styrofoam peanuts. Some drifted out like clumpy snowflakes, sticking to my comforter and gray jeans. As I brushed them off, something whacked my window, making me jump. “Just a tree branch,” I murmured to myself.

The snow was coming down hard, sheets of white slanting out of the dull sky. The branch struck my window again. This time, I was prepared so I didn’t react. I just watched the wild spectacle, mesmerized by the power of nature.

The power of nature.

I glanced at the book again. Perhaps there was power in a tree. I shook my head to dislodge the irrational idea. If a tree could really repel disease, wouldn’t it be planted next to every hospital? Wouldn’t houses be built only from that material? The future doctor in me couldn’t believe there existed a miracle barrier against disease. As soon as the blizzard blew over, I would head to the post office and send the damn book back.

I heard Dad and Cruz talking downstairs, so I shoved the box underneath my bed and went to join them. “You’ve met Cruz,” I said, gathering my hair in a ponytail.

Dad turned toward me. “I was just telling him that he couldn’t drive in this weather.” He squinted. “What happened to your face?”

“I painted the kitchen door. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Wouldn’t have changed much if I had, would it?” he said gently, but there was a reproach there. He’d always thought that I was too headstrong. Mom said it was a wonderful trait for a girl to possess. Dad didn’t agree. That wasn’t to say he would have wanted me to be submissive, but perhaps more soft-spoken.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” Cruz said.

“Impose?”

“I told him he should stay in the guest room.”

Super.
“What did you find?” I asked Cruz, to avoid dwelling on the fact that a complete stranger would reside under our roof tonight.

Dad furrowed his blond eyebrows, which accentuated the new lines that had appeared on his forehead and around his eyes.

“She suffered a stroke from a blockage in her carotid artery.”

“Show me.”

Cruz narrowed his eyes. “I already sewed her up.”

Dad’s hand settled on my arm. “Cat, please, let this go. It’s already so hard. Leave your mother in peace now.”

“She didn’t die because of a clogged artery,” I said. “She was healthy, Dad. So healthy.”

My father squeezed my arm. “People have strokes all the time.”

“But she was forty-four—”

“I know, Cat. I know.” My father’s voice was gentle but firm. He pulled me into a hug. I banged my fists against his chest, which made him hug me tighter.

“It’s not fair,” I sobbed. “Not fair.”

“You sure you want to be a doctor, honey? Because you’re going to see a lot of things that aren’t fair.” He caressed my hair, running his fingers through it like he used to when I had nightmares. And like when I was a little girl, the gentle stroking soothed me. “How about I dig up something for us to eat while you show Cruz to the guestroom?” he suggested.

I wanted to suggest that we inverse rolls, but Dad was already on his way to the kitchen. Wrapping my arms around my chest because it was damn cold in the house, I crossed the living room. “It’s over here.” I almost tripped over the upturned corner of the rug. “I need to nail it to the wood,” I muttered, mostly to fill the deafening silence.

“You seem cold. Do you want me to build a fire?”

“I can do it.”

“I’m certain you are capable of it, Catori, but I’m also certain you have other things to do. Like take a shower.” His gaze struck my paint-splattered forearms.

“Fine.”

Cruz smiled.

My grandparents’ old bedroom contained a queen-sized bed pushed against a wall, a nightstand, and a small dresser. It was modest, but cozy. For years, I’d asked my parents if I could move into it, but they’d refused, suspecting that my incentive to live downstairs was based on my desire to break their rules.

“Bathroom is through here,” I said, pushing through a door that led to a room paved in mosaics with a claw-foot bathtub and chrome and porcelain sinks.

I tucked my hands in the back pocket of my jeans. “Only bathtub in the house.”

He rested one of his hands on the curved ceramic edge. I must have imagined his skin glowing the other night because it didn’t tonight.

“How long do you think you’ll be staying in town?”

“A few days.”

“The snow should stop by tomorrow, so you should be fine to leave then.” He frowned, probably because he picked up on my not so subtle attempt to get rid of him. “Let me get you a towel and some fresh sheets for the bed.”

As I headed back into the bedroom, Cruz’s voice rang out, “Did you put a tarp up on that plot you dug up?”

“What plot?”

“The one between the rowan trees.”

“What, are you a botanist too?” I asked, pulling out a set of pressed white sheets and fluffy navy towels.

“My dad taught me about the fauna and the flora. He was a nature-lover.”

“Was?” I placed the towels on top of the dresser and the sheets on the bed.

“He and my mom died in a car accident when I was a teenager.”

“Oh.”

He shrugged. “You grieve, and then you forget the pain and you move on.”

I didn’t think I could ever forget the pain of losing my mother, but it wasn’t worth debating with Cruz. For all I knew, he hadn’t been that close to his parents.

“So, did you cover that plot?” he asked as I turned to leave. “With all that snow falling—”

“That’s not where we’re putting Mom,” I said.

“Then why did you dig it up?”

“Mom did. The headstone started caving and she was afraid there would be a landslide. She wanted to solidify the foundations.”

“So that’s where the old casket downstairs came from.”

“What old casket?”

“Didn’t you see it? It was in the middle of the room.”

“No. I…I didn’t.” All I had seen was Mom.

“Could you open it for me?” he asked.

“There’s probably nothing left inside besides bones. ”

“Still, I’m curious. Aren’t you?”

“Seeing my ancestor’s remains isn’t at the top of my bucket list.”

“Your ancestor? One of the twelve rumored to be powerful?”

I snorted. “You’ve heard the stories?”

“Stories? You don’t believe them?”

“Are you really asking me if I believe in faeries?”

“I am, Catori.” His green eyes seemed to glow brighter.

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I don’t. And I don’t think anyone in their right mind should believe in little people wielding magic sticks.”

“Little people?” He chuckled. “Why would you assume they’re little?”

“They were called
pahans
, which means ‘little people’. Haven’t you seen Tinker Bell? She’s tiny.”

“And she’s also a piece of fiction,” Cruz said, still smiling.

“Just like all faeries. Anyway, I should get cleaned up. I’ll see you at dinner.”

CHAPTER 4 – ROSE PETALS

“It wasn’t me,” Blake said. I could hear he was at work from the sound of oil sizzling.

“What do you mean it wasn’t you?” I asked, putting my cell phone on speaker so I could pull off my jeans.

“Maybe your dad cleaned it up?”

I frowned as I turned on the shower. “Maybe,” I said, but considering the state my father was in that morning, I doubted it was him. “Is your grams keeping the place open tonight?”

“Yes and it’s packed. Who knew blizzards could be so good for business?”

“People are getting dinner and a show.”

Blake laughed. “Did the new medical examiner already leave town?”

“Nope.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “Is he still at your place?”

“Yep.”

“Is he staying the night?”

“Yep.” I picked up the tweezers from the mug in which I kept my makeup, the one with the quote written in rainbow colors that read, “Don’t count the days. Make the days count.” Bee had given me that mug for graduation because of the calendar I kept pinned to our fridge on which I would tick off the days until college. She knew how excited I was to leave home. I plucked stray hairs around my eyebrows, then dropped the tweezers back into the mug.

“He knew there’d be a snowstorm,” Blake said. “He should’ve left your place earlier. He did it on purpose.”

“Look, I got to go.”

“Call me later?”

Steam blurred my reflection in the mirror. “Sure, but don’t worry.”

“I care about you, Cat. I cannot
not
worry,” he said, as I dragged my finger through the condensation.

I’d drawn a heart. “I’ll be fine,” I said, wiping it off. Blake had feelings for me. He’d had feelings for me since the summer I’d turned thirteen and we’d kissed in his tree house. “I’ll call you later,” I said, and then disconnected.

I placed my phone on the edge of the sink and stepped into the shower. The dried paint liquefied, and trickled off my skin in white rivulets. I scrubbed my body with the lavender-scented bar of soap Aylen cooked up in her kitchen. Making soap was her hobby; she was a naturopath by profession. Like Mom, she believed in the power of nature, which had led to heated conversations around the dinner table when I’d announced my desire to be a
real
doctor. Aylen had taken my comment to heart. Although she was quick to forgive me, she was also quick to point out the flaws in modern medicine.

As I dried off, a plate broke in the kitchen. When I heard my dad swearing, I hurried to get dressed, pulling on a fresh pair of jeans and a red sweater. I hurtled down the stairs, just as a glass shattered. My father was crouched on the floor, scooping up the pieces of porcelain and glass with his bare hands.

“Let me take care of that, Dad,” I said, helping him up. Both his palms were bleeding.

“She’s not coming back, Cat. Never coming back,” he murmured. His eyes were puffy and bloodshot.

I guided him toward the sink and ran cool water over his hands, then I blotted away the blood and water, sprayed antiseptic on the cuts, and plastered bandages that would probably not hold.

“Am I interrupting?” Cruz asked from the doorway. He was holding a bottle of wine with a peeling, yellowy label.

Dad sniffled. “No, no. Just clumsy, that’s all.”

“I brought wine,” Cruz said.

“That’s very kind of you,” he said softly.

“The wine opener’s in the top right drawer,” I told Cruz, as I walked Dad to the living room and sat him down. I passed him the box of tissues and fluffed a pillow behind his back, then returned to the kitchen to clean up, but Cruz had already swept away the mess, which reminded me… “Did
you
clean the car?”

“I did,” he said, twisting the screwpull into the cork.

“Why?”

“Do I need a reason to do something nice?”

I bit my lip. “No.” The cork popped out. “Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Now where are your wine glasses?”

“Over here,” I said, opening one of the cupboards. I took them out and brought them to the living room.

“Should I be serving you alcohol?” Cruz asked, as he poured a glass for Dad. “Aren’t you a minor?”

“I’m nineteen.”

Dad snorted a laugh. “Good luck telling Cat what to do.” He took the glass from the table and sipped it. “This is very good. What is it? Pinot?”

“It’s a 1973 Bordeaux.”

Dad sputtered and some wine dribbled down his chin that was in dire need of a shave. “Nineteen seventy-three? It must be expensive.”

“It is, but a good bottle should never be drunk alone.”

“Don’t you have any friends?” I asked, swiping the second glass from the table.

One side of his mouth perked up.

“Catori,” Dad hissed. He only ever used my full name when he was angry. “That’s not nice.”

“Well, do you?” I asked again.

“Do I strike you as a very unsympathetic person?” he asked.

“Sort of.”

“That’s enough,” Dad said.

“What? I’m allowed my opinion,” I said.

Cruz laughed. I wasn’t expecting him to laugh.

“You understand why we stopped after one child?” Dad said.

I rolled my eyes and sat down beside him.

“They used to tell me they wished me luck with finding a husband,” I told Cruz.

“Used to? We—” Dad stopped short. “
I
still think that.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb.

“Look at that snow,” I said, before Dad could break down again. For a while, we all watched the spectacular white downpour in silence. Then I stood up and popped one of Dad’s old CDs—the best of Etta James—in our obsolete CD player. The warm, rich voice eased the cold melancholy almost immediately.

“Where are you from?” Dad asked Cruz.

“Originally from Minnesota, but I live on Beaver Island now.”