The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (28 page)

Milton rose and smoothed his five-thousand dollar suit. “Thank you, Mr. MacAllen, for your cooperation. If you’ll excuse me, I have a few items to see to before this evening’s festivities.” He closed the door firmly behind him.

Clint stood too. “I take it you want to meet and walk up there together.”

Dean smiled absently. “Yes, yes, of course. I imagine the girl will arrive early, so we should be safe parking at the old woman’s cottage and arriving close to…eleven o’clock, wasn’t it? Ten fifty will be fine.”

“Okay,” Clint nodded. “See you at ten to eleven.”

His hand was on the door handle when Dean said, “Wait. There’s an errand I’d like you to handle first, a delicate matter I can’t trust to anyone who isn’t privy to the situation.”

The hill was shrouded in twilight when Cayden parked her bicycle in the garden behind Gran’s cottage and went in to feed Rob Roy. The mean old tom had become oddly affectionate since she’d taken over his care. It could have been appreciation, but Cayden doubted it. The first time he’d rubbed against her leg, she’d nearly jumped out her skin. She’d been sure he’d frightened her intentionally. As the days had passed, she’d come to doubt that, as well. He was enjoying a can of tuna in the lonely little kitchen when she left him.

Wound up as she was, she’d dawdled until it was full dark before making her way up to the grove and into the glade. The quiet was not a welcoming one. The oppressive silence added an extra edge to her anticipation at seeing Clint.

Moira had shared the amulet’s nature in their conversation that morning after it had heated in warning again, its pulsing so intense it compelled her to dig up the MacAllen’s phone number. Clint’s mother had had such a terrible daydream about Clint, she’d been forced to leave work. Unable to reach him, Moira had been relieved when Cayden told her they were meeting tonight. Cayden had been surprised the phone connection had been so stable when she’d felt so unstable, not at all surprised to hear Moira’s nightmares were darker, or that Clint hadn’t been returning her calls.

For the sake of the mother she wished were her own and the daughter she carried, Cayden was grateful saving Clint from the Cumberlands’ snare was the means to the end of saving the Crossing. It might be too late not to love him, but had the situation been otherwise, the temptation to leave him to his fate could have overwhelmed her.

Because the Rite of Commitment was as familiar to Cayden now as that of any seasonal celebration, she completed the first elements quickly. She sat in the circle, her back against her tree, watching the fire and waiting for Clint to arrive so she could complete the rite. Whatever happened, she’d done her imperfect best all along, and she’d no longer fault herself if it didn’t happen to be enough.

The crashing and snapping of brush outside the clearing set her heart speeding. She jumped to her feet. The grove tensed around her, its air thickening. She needed a moment to register what was wrong.

There was far too much noise. Clint was large, not clumsy.

Cayden’s heart had already sunk to the bottom of her stomach before the two men broke into the clearing. She didn’t need to see them silhouetted in the firelight to guess who they were.

The voice that asked, “Where’s Clint?” was calm, reflecting the self-control she’d finally achieved.

She recognized the finely-clad clown from the travesty that had been the planning commission’s hearing. The taller man was at least Gran’s age. Milton Cumberland, to be sure.

He stopped his wheezing, coughing, and hissing at his son to fix her with flinty pale eyes and a scary smile. “I’m afraid Mr. MacAllen won’t be joining us this evening.”

“He set me up.”

It was a statement of fact, made in almost the same detached voice as her first words. Still, she hadn’t intended to say it aloud. Wouldn’t have, if she hadn’t been staggering under the blow of everything it meant. A blow that would have literally brought her to her knees a couple of weeks ago. The betrayal itself shattered her to the edge of a faint. The knowledge she wouldn’t be able to use the amulet all but stopped her heart.

“You entertained the hope Mr. MacAllen’s loyalties could be divided?” She didn’t immediately recognize the barking hack as the old man’s laughter. “And here I’d been concerned I’d underestimated you.”

The flash of anger felt good, powerful, coursing through her body, but it was distracting her from something important. Something she should remember.

The younger man spoke with a soft, sympathetic voice. “Don’t be sad. You’ll no longer need to worry about the Crossing.”

Cayden remembered where she’d heard that cultured smoothness, along with his father’s imperious tone. Voices in a dream, arguing. The old man coughing, saying, “Offered freely and spilled properly, the blood of three men born of ancient witches’ line can break the old Warder’s spell.”

The Cumberlands were of the blood, Gran had told her. Being Moira’s son—

“Don’t you need Clint’s blood, too?”

Both men examined her closely. Dean turned to his father with a distinctly nervous expression. “She’s not supposed to know. And you were wrong about her not having any power, too.”

Power. How nice of Dean to remind her. They’d wanted her to believe she was helpless, and had very nearly succeeded. Persuasion was their magic. She’d best not forget that.

The old man spared his son a vicious glare. “You idiot. She’s just a short fat girl with an appalling sense of fashion and a history of instability, who finds herself unable to cope with the loss of the only man who ever paid attention to her and the only place she ever truly called home.” He spoke as if she weren’t standing right there, his voice slippery when it should have been hoarse, intended to lull her, no doubt.

The effort was a fair one, and it could have worked in spite of her having come to reasonable terms with her body type a long time ago, and her new-found faith in herself. Ol’ Milt’s crack regarding her taste was what had blown it. If she’d been a cat, her hair would have been bristling. It probably was anyway. While her style might be considered deviant by some, her certainty in its impeccability was unshakeable. She was, whether she liked it or not, Muriel’s daughter after all.

She put her hands on her—granted—ample hips and felt the folds of the silk skirt below the fitted bodice of her favorite dark green dress. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Cumberland. My grandmother didn’t tell me you were crude, merely inconsequential.” Gran would surely forgive her the liberal paraphrasing, especially since it was said in a steady, haughty tone under such stressful circumstances.

Cayden was so proud of herself she didn’t immediately question why her outrage hadn’t blasted the Cumberlands off the hill. The chill of Milton’s widening smile as he saw the realization dawn made her shiver despite the muggy heat.

“We are in possession of Mr. MacAllen’s blood, willingly given, along with his oath.” He pulled a small leather case from his jacket pocket, removed a vial, and held it between his thumb and index finger. The old man’s thin, pale lips seemed spread beyond their natural limit as he gazed on it. “You can’t summon the Crossing’s power against anyone whose blood is contained in this vessel. There is nothing to stop us.”

Cayden was momentarily relieved when he closed his fist around the vial and leveled that grimace at his son.

Then Milton spoke, his voice harsh again, grating along her frayed nerves. “I want her to watch. I want her to feel the despair our family has known for generations. She’s been stabbed by the sharp blade of betrayal. Now let her soul know crushing defeat, before her body knows it in the old mine shafts beneath us. Why do you look so shocked? Did I neglect to inform you that in order to subjugate the power beneath us, we need the blood of one more, and that you, my son, will be the one to spill it?”

Somehow, it hadn’t occurred to her they planned to kill her. Had Clint known? Would he care?

In wretched supplication, she lifted her face to the nearly hidden moon, her arms to the great lines of power that throbbed under her bare feet. Her hair stirred, her small fire roared to a blaze, the wind howled through the trees around the clearing.

Her hopes rose on that tide of power. Her focus was clearer and stronger than it had ever been. She had one purpose: to send them somewhere, anywhere. She drew in a deep breath as she brought her arms together in front of her, palms pushed out. The earth shuddered. Sparks and colors chased each other behind her closed eyes.

In the hush that followed, Cayden slowly opened them. Her fire was small once again. The Cumberlands no longer stood in front of her. She dropped to her knees in relief and exhaustion, panting.

Without warning, an arm wrapped around her throat from behind, the other twisted one of hers, lifting her up. The physical pain and lack of oxygen caused a roaring in her head, making it difficult to hear the low whisper in her ear.

“I don’t want to kill you. Don’t let him make me kill you.” Dean’s arms were stronger than they looked in his slick suit. He would be the type to try to make up for his size by working out.

“You see, the ward is broken.” The old man’s voice was so cool and dry, it could have come from a grave to still her wandering thoughts.

The roaring grew and her vision faded to white.

Chapter Nineteen

C
lint looked back at his truck. He hadn’t found a single unbroken streetlight to park it under anywhere on the block, so he’d settled for as close to the address Dean had given him as possible. Just because the street was presently deserted didn’t mean it was going to stay that way. Why a man with as much money as Dean would use a PI located on the South End was a mystery his explanation didn’t solve. So what if it was closer to Longmeadow than the more reputable outfit J. Milton used for official business? He couldn’t picture Dean’s limo ever driving down this street, and why would Dean care how far a PI had to drive to meet him?

Something wasn’t right. Why couldn’t he have picked up the package earlier, like before it got dark and the two-legged cockroaches scuttled out of their holes? Even if the guy was on time and there weren’t any problems, getting out to East Granby before eleven was going to be tight. He wanted to be at that meeting, even if it was just to see the look on Cayden’s face when she learned he wasn’t under her spell anymore, or maybe to prove it to himself.

With one last look at his truck and all the barred and boarded-up windows lining the street, Clint pushed the buzzer where the office was supposed to be. Dean hadn’t given him any information other than the address, no name for either the man or the company. The sign on the door was years past legible. Nothing happened. He pounded on the door and waited. If he hadn’t seen a light burning through a filth-smudged window on the second floor, and Dean hadn’t insisted he needed whatever was in that package tonight, Clint would have left.

After a couple of minutes of intermittently pounding while being eyed by three shadows across the street, he gave up and turned around to leave. He stopped at the sound of a heavy door being wrestled from a humidity-swollen doorframe and a thick Boston accent saying, “Ya heah foah dah package?”

“Yup.”

“C’mawn up.”

Clint checked his watch and followed the man up a narrow flight of stairs, evidence of their former black-treaded linoleum visible only at the outer edges. The man had no neck. From the back, he looked like a fire hydrant wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants.

The office was cramped. Stacks of cardboard boxes lined the walls. The top ones had files stuffed in them every which way. Clint didn’t want to hazard a guess what might be in the other boxes, not that he could see much in the light from the grimy bare light bulb in the overhead fixture.

“Take a load awff.” Fire Hydrant gestured to a folding chair in front of the battered metal desk.

Clint remained standing and crossed his arms.

Fire Hydrant had small eyes, a flat nose, and thin lips. “Suit yah self.”

“Why don’t you just give me what I came for? Then we can both get on with our evenings.”

“Don’t have it. Guy’s late.”

“Any idea how much later he’ll be?”

Fire Hydrant shrugged and lit a cigarette.

Clint didn’t bother to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Well, can you find out?”

It was hardly unexpected that several cell phones occupied the drawer which popped open after Fire Hydrant slammed the top of the desk with his fist. Burners, no doubt.

When it seemed Fire Hydrant wasn’t going to make a selection anytime soon, Clint was tempted to comment. He walked over to the window instead. The cigarette smoke in the hot, stuffy room combined with some nameless discomfort to make him feel vaguely nauseated. He worked on the latch for long enough to consider breaking the glass. It refused to budge until he gave it Fire Hydrant’s desk-drawer treatment. An animated discussion from the street below caught his ear. His truck, unfortunately, was just beyond the window’s scope. He turned around to be treated to a view of Fire Hydrant’s copious dental work.

“He’ll be heah any minute.”

Five minutes later, Clint sat down in the chair.

After another five spent watching Fire Hydrant twirl his key ring on his pinkie, Clint got up and said, “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Mistah Cumahland said yah to wait heah foah da package.”

“Then I guess I’ll have to tell him it didn’t arrive, won’t I?”

He shoved the door open just ahead of Fire Hydrant, who’d sprung up surprisingly fast, and ran down the stairs. The heavy door slammed behind him at the same time he saw his truck. Or rather, the skeletal remains of what had been his finally-paid-for truck. Even with more than fifteen years in construction, Clint lacked the vernacular to fully express his opinion of the situation.

An ominous squawk was followed by an equally ominous splat. His windshield didn’t have to be intact for Clint to know it had been the target or who the bomber was. For some reason, likely many, it struck him as hilarious. He doubled over with what was probably hysterical laughter. Maybe the bangers who’d shuffled off when he’d stepped outside would think he was crazy, which would be a good thing if it added to his chances of them leaving him alone while he tried to figure out what to do.

“Hey, gimme dat back, yah fuckin’ deef!” Fire Hydrant continued through the open window in an impressive vein unimpeded by any shortage of expletives.

A black shadow swept low and dropped something with a clatter on the cracked sidewalk in front of him. Nevermore’s scratchy voice said, “Clueless keeper bastard late.”

Since he’d stopped laughing, the night was quiet enough to hear the retreating flap of wings. Clint bent down to pick up the key chain, which held an ignition key. Hopefully, it belonged to the unmarred Escalade parked at the curb.

A tap on the remote resulting in a corresponding beep confirmed it. Clint didn’t hesitate to hop in. Whatever the source of the money Fire Hydrant wasn’t spending on rent, Clint was pretty sure the guy wouldn’t call the cops over a borrowed SUV.

It pissed Clint off no end that of all the players in this shit game, the only straight shooter had been a goddamn maniac crow. What the hell did it mean that they shared the same goal now, when their motivations couldn’t be further apart?

Beneath his breath, he whispered, “Sorry, buddy,” as he adjusted the seat and the mirror to accommodate his larger frame in preparation for breaking the majority of traffic laws between the South End and East Granby. “Still a poor, clueless, bastard. But that is about to change.”

The Escalade screeched to a stop in front of the little cottage. A slight tremor under Clint’s feet when they hit the ground and an intense flash of fire from the top of the hill halted his headlong rush. A week ago, he’d have kept running. A week ago, he probably wouldn’t have noticed that the grove was unnaturally bright in the moonless night, or felt the prickle of magic calling him.

Buchanan’s Crossing, whatever it truly was, wanted him here, as had Nevermore. If the Cumberlands hadn’t, was he playing into the wrong hands by showing up?

The dilemma slowed his steps up the hill. He paused when he saw the firelight through the trees, heard the murmured voices engaged in an argument. Some of his tension eased. He wasn’t exactly sure how he felt about the Cumberlands at the moment, but that flash had worried him. They were okay, if even less happy with each other than usual.

He crept forward to get a better view without being seen. They had their backs to him, facing a fire. A ritual fire. The lines of the diagram gleamed pale with a light of their own. So, Cayden’d had plans for him. While he couldn’t say he was sorry to have disappointed her, his tension returned when he couldn’t locate her anywhere in the clearing.

A sudden movement on the ground caught his eye. Dean jumped and yelped. His Italian-loafered foot jerked up, then kicked back with a vengeance.

A muffled grunt of pain came from behind a log. Cayden? He started forward, his instinct to protect her overriding whatever his brain might have to say. He retained the presence of mind to move quietly, though, so he heard Dean hiss toward the ground, “Stupid girl. Give me that.”

Cayden was on her side, legs drawn up protectively over her ribs and stomach. Clint recalled the position from the losing end of many a fight in his miserable youth, though not with his hands tied behind his back. Dean was bent over her, trying to pry her fingers open, presenting Clint with a perfect target for his boot.

He was glad he’d dressed casually for the meeting, though he’d done it to keep from alarming Cayden, not so he could kick Dean’s ass. Funny how things worked out.

Being small, Dean flew a couple of yards before landing sprawled and sputtering in the dust.

Clint was there in two strides, dragging him up, ready give him a serious what-for, when behind him from the other side of the fire, Milton said, “What have we here?”

His laugh was more of a hacking cough, but when he spoke, he sounded as though he were in the boardroom, scolding some junior VP. Clint waited to hear the rest before finishing with Dean.

“A hairpin? It may be quite pretty, but hardly an épée or even a witch’s dagger. How disappointing.”

He didn’t look the least bit bothered that Clint held his son inches off the ground by his Versace suit jacket collar, ready to tear him limb from limb.

Cayden’s face behind the gag in her mouth stopped Clint from throwing the punch. When she turned from Milton to look at him, the angry fire in those big beautiful eyes dulled to bitter accusation. Sharp, unexpected guilt sliced into his lungs.

He let Dean drop with a thump. “Untie her, now. Remove the gag too.” He booted the little weasel toward her.

“I assure you, Mr. MacAllen, the restraint was necessary.” Milton’s voice was cool and clear in the warm thick air. “She’s more dangerous than she appears to be.”

Clint agreed with Milton, until the trace of an itch in his finger pricked his memory. “I thought the blood thing took care of that.”

“Didn’t stop her from ramming that pin into my ankle,” Dean whined, making no move to do what Clint had told him to.

Milton scowled at his son. “Our combined blood broke her previous spells. It does not prevent her from casting new ones. There is one final step that will accomplish that. She was kind enough to make the proper preparations for the transfer of power prior to our arrival.”

That explained what the ritual fire was for, if not his part in Cayden’s plan. When he looked at her, she turned away from him.

He spat at Dean. “Do it anyway, I want her to explain herself. I’m damn well sick and tired of being played. By all of you.”

As soon as Cayden’s hands were free, she cradled her stomach and moaned, still curled up tight. He punched Dean’s mouth. He would pick him up and do it again and again until the bastard was nothing but a lump of pulp in a blood-soaked designer suit, after he took care of Cayden.

He leaned down toward her. “How bad is it? Did he crack a rib?”

“The baby.”

Cayden was gulping for air at the same time he was struggling to keep his balance on a tilting world. First came the shock. “The what? Oh God, Cayden. Why didn’t you tell me?” Then the anger. “You lied to me. I had the right to know. You’ve both been lying to me the whole time.” The kick he gave Dean’s ribs connected with a crunch. Lastly, fear rolled through him. “Are you okay? Is my son okay?” He reached back down to her.

She shied away from his hand. “Don’t touch me, you…”

For a second he thought Cayden might actually swear at him.

But she just swallowed and went on. “You know what you are and to whom you belong.” She dared to stare at him like he was worm spit.

“Of all things, I never figured you for a hypocrite. You’re a lying witch who cast a spell on me. You don’t get to look at me like I’m the asshole.”

She was breathing hard, and he had to lean closer to hear her response. “I don’t cast spells and I have never lied to you. You asked me if I was carrying your son. I’m not. I’m carrying your daughter, and I don’t know if she’s all right.” She let go of the words as if they tore her insides out.

They slaughtered him. “I would have thought it would be too early to tell. We need to get you to a hospital right away.” He turned to kick Dean again, but he’d crawled out of easy range, and Clint wanted to stay close to Cayden.

Milton cut in, “You believe her? I hadn’t taken you for such a gullible fool, MacAllen. Her spell has been broken; you no longer have an excuse. I was right to have Dean keep you busy elsewhere this evening.” Another coughing fit seized the old man.

So the state of his truck was the result of Milton’s manipulation. Good to know, even if he was too old to have his ass kicked. Clint was glad Cayden knew it, too, that he hadn’t meant for her to be alone here with them, that he hadn’t set her up. Only, God help him, that’s exactly what he’d done.

He shouted at Milton. “If I wasn’t such a ‘gullible fool,’ none of us would be here, would they? Well, except for you.” He frowned at Cayden. “The old buzzard does have a point. How am I supposed to trust you? How do I know who’s telling the truth?”

She glared at him with a spark of her former fire. “Lies and the power of persuasion are the Cumberlands’ magic, not mine.” She’d crawled to curl up against the thick oak near the fire. He’d unconsciously followed her, so he was close enough to see the ring she pulled out of her pocket. “If you want to know truth from lie, you need only wear this, Keeper.”

Keeper
. Nevermore was always calling him that, had called him that tonight in fact, and with about as much affection as Cayden was showing right now. So if it wasn’t the obvious, what did it mean?

He recognized the copper ring in her outstretched hand. It was the same one she’d tried to give him the first night he’d talked to her, and again later. He’d thought it had to do with her spell and his headaches.

As Cayden’s cool green scent drifted to him on the unmoving air, his finger itched for the ring and his hand reached out to claim it.

Milton’s commanding voice carried across the fire. “Don’t touch it! It will put you back under her spell. You may be gullible, but you’re also careful, MacAllen. Think, man! If you’re so certain the brat is yours, you can also be certain it wasn’t an accident. Even if it did happen to be a careless mistake, don’t compound it with another.”