Sapphire Curse Read online

  “I’m protecting my patient.”

  “You’re going to get yourself killed.”

  Lifting her chin, she asked, “Are you going to kill me?”

  Something untamed bubbled in his voice. He said, “I would find it pleasurable.”

  She tried to strike him with her glowing hand, but he caught her wrist with ease. He didn’t apply pressure. He wasn’t trying to hurt her, but what was spinning in his mind was unclear to Darcy. The light from her fingers illuminated both of their faces. His expression only gave enough to let her know he was dissecting her.

  Hers eyes were wide and unmoving. His changed. The cloud over the color dispersed like fog being swept away. Then his pupils rounded. When the monstrous mask was gone, left behind were fields of rich hunter green in his eyes.

  She said, “I don’t do games. If you’re going to kill me, go ahead.”

  His thumb grazed her wrist as his lips rolled inward. As he spoke, his accent softly wove into his words. It was French, subtle and hidden under all the darkness. He said, “Then I wouldn’t have the chance to figure out what you are.”

  He threw Darcy’s arm to her side. Her light vanished. She tried to bring it back, but her hand didn’t cooperate. Perhaps it was from the shaking or the fact that she heard the man’s strange voice suddenly from the other side of the room.

  She stumbled as she turned about on her heel. She pulled both hands up and gritted her teeth as she brought the light back, this time to all ten fingers. The man was there holding the woman who seemed much smaller cradled in his arms.

  “You can’t take her,” said Darcy. “She needs care.”

  He moved toward the door. Darcy jumped at him. He was taller, faster, and stronger. None of it stopped her from facing him, whether she could handle him or not. He curled his lips and said, “You are stupidly brave.”

  “You think you’re going to walk out of here with her,” she laughed.

  The woman’s head rolled to the side as she moaned. Darcy moved toward her, but the man growled. The sound was bestial.

  To the woman in his arms, he softly said, “I need your help for a mere moment, Winny. We’ve caused a scene we need to erase.”

  Winny nodded, so feeble it seemed the weight of her own head might break her neck.

  “You’re crazy!” Darcy shouted. “She could die with you!”

  He simply laughed. Slowly, he turned to face her. “So could you, ma sirène,” he said as he pulled Winny’s bloodied body closer to his chest.

  Darcy’s eyes rolled back like they were lured by the pied piper’s wicked song.

  “What is your name?” asked the man.

  “Why do you care?” she asked. She stumbled into the table and clung to the edges.

  “If you keep being so sweet, you might charm me. Tell me your name.”

  She drew a breath through her nose. Over the blood and chemical scent of Lucia’s lair, she smelled honeysuckle. The air transported her thoughts to childhood. There was a hike with her father in the woods, her first encounter with the flower. The present started to blur.

  She murmured, “Darcy.”

  He repeated her name with his accent clear, “Darcy.”

  She said, “I don’t know what you’re doing. Gas. Neurotoxin. Whatever it is, I’m not letting you get away with this.” She went straight down to her knees.

  As the man opened the door, the lights in the hallway twitched. He said, “If you don’t get yourself killed, I’m sure we’ll meet again. Perhaps I’ll take you up on your offer to do it myself.”

  The door closed, and everything went dark. Every breath tasted like a summer field until the lights came on again. The door opened. Darcy was ready to bring out her light if needed. It wasn’t the monster or the woman he ran away with that entered the room. It was Lucia.

  “Whoa,” said Lucia as she carried in a cup of coffee. “You look like death.”

  Darcy was flustered. It wasn’t the bang to her head that affected her but the fact that there was no bloody head on a table or body detached from it on the floor. There was only one table in the room with an occupant. It was an elderly man without a wound.

  “Where are the other three?” asked Darcy in a daze.

  Lucia replied, “Coffees? Your shift is almost over. I prescribe sleep instead of caffeine. Or whiskey. I always prescribe whiskey.”

  “There were three bodies in here when you left,” said Darcy. She was sure of it, but there was no sign of them.

  “Unless you chopped them up and hid the pieces, I’m not sure how that’s possible,” said Lucia.

  “Where is the blood?” asked Darcy. If Naoki’s body had finished melting, the floor should have been a sea.

  “The custodian cleaned it, remember?” asked Lucia. “You’re the one that knocked over my organs. They were good too!”

  Darcy rubbed the back of her head. Her neck was sore and her hand stiff, but why they felt that way wasn’t clear. She knew it, but she didn’t know it. Her trust in her own memory was as weak as the lingering scent of honeysuckle. She asked, “You didn’t have any other guests in here all night?”

  Lucia said, “Just you, and you were no fun. I didn’t get to cut into anything.” She looked Darcy over, and the wicked grin slipped away. “You okay?”

  “My mind is a little frazzled,” said Darcy.

  “You did doze off,” said Lucia.

  Could that be the explanation? It was a dream—a very vivid, awful dream. Darcy tried to piece things together. She remembered the woman and the two men, the one that walked out and the one whose head had melted in her hands. There was no sign of them, not in this room and not in Lucia’s memory.

  Darcy sighed, “It must be the move catching up to me.”

  “You should head home,” said Lucia as she downed half of her coffee in one take. It seemed the caffeine hit her soul immediately. She picked up her tools, eager to dig into her guest.

  Watching her feet slide toward the door, Darcy nodded and said, “I think I will. Sleep may help clear my head.”

  “I doubt it. Everyone is scrambled here.” Lucia rolled her finger in small circles by the side of her head. “Welcome to Cape Emerald, Dr. Shaw.”

  2

  There was no record of three bodies coming into the hospital. The campers that had reported the incident were tourists and nowhere to be found. The hospital security footage showed the ambulance arriving, but the screen went on the fritz before Darcy could make out what came off the truck. The driver said that trip was just to return to flirt with Lucia. The only evidence of anything from that night was the sapphire attached to a metal star, and even now Darcy was starting to question how she came to have it.

  She had only a couple hours before she had to be at the hospital, and there was a stop to be made on the way. She didn’t have an address, but Lucia had given her directions. The details entailed going up the hill past the pharmacy and turning left at the tree that looked like Elvis. Then a right just after the bridge. Don’t turn again or risk running into people that don’t like to be ran into. Straight on through would get her to the quaint baby blue house in the woods.

  Darcy parked at the edge of the gravel next to a bed of bushes that had lost their summer blossoms. There was half an acre of open lawn before everything around the home was consumed by woods. Adornments outside were homemade and nature-inspired like twigs and branches woven into suns and moons. There was an old red truck parked in the grass near Darcy’s car.

  Tapping on her collarbone, Darcy drew a breath and walked only on the round stones leading up to the covered wooden porch that spanned the width of the house. After she knocked on the white front door, she debated scurrying away. Her feet wouldn’t let her. They had come far to get here. She started to knock again, but a man opened the door before she could.

  The man’s neck drastically leaned forward. Darcy was of average height and had to look down to catch his earthy brown eyes. His nose was large and wide, the most prominent feature of
his wrinkled face. He wore a brown button-up vest and a yellow polka dot bowtie.

  A drought plagued Darcy’s throat. She asked, “Mr. Redwood?”

  “Sorry,” he said as he squinted. “Do I know you?”

  “I doubt it. We’ve never met.”

  “I don’t remember the last time I had a visitor. It’s nice to know people around here still think I’m alive.” There was a hop in his voice, something spunky.

  Darcy slipped her hands in the back pockets of her jeans. “I actually haven’t lived here long,” she said.

  “Do you fancy talking to little old men knocking on death’s door?”

  “I talk to a lot of people flirting with death. I’m a doctor.”

  “Aren’t you a little young?”

  “I graduated high school and undergrad early.”

  “I bet your parents are proud.”

  “He was,” said Darcy, warmly. Her father had been ecstatic to tell anyone that would listen that his girl was going to medical school when most her age had just gone to prom. “I wanted to check on your wife. She was at the hospital recently. I helped Dr. Porter review the case.” She bit down on her tongue to keep from rambling.

  He peered at her, and his bushy eyebrows sank. “Thank you for coming. It’s nice to know we have at least one doctor that isn’t an ass. Why don’t you come on in?”

  Darcy stepped inside the warmth of the Redwood home. On the walls along the L-shaped stairs were antique clocks, the kind that required winding and gentle care. They all had moving parts—little gnomes that popped out of doorways or a girl making her way across a hopscotch game.

  Darcy moved toward the clocks instead of following Russ. She went up two steps when a small gray clock caught her eye. The clock was round with an embossed crescent moon in the center. Darcy waited to see what trick it would have, and it didn’t disappoint. Soon a wooden figure of a green witch on a broom ticked across the moon and into a small opening that then shut behind it.

  On the end of an awed breath, Darcy said, “Wow. These are amazing.”

  “My father made that one,” said Russ. He rested his hands on the stair rail.

  “He was very talented,” said Darcy. She moved up another step. The clock was an exact replica of the house. “This is perfect.”

  He straightened his bowtie with pride and said, “My father was good, but I’m better.”

  Her teeth skimmed over her lower lip. She asked, “Did you pass on the skill to your kids?”

  His reaction was a silent one at first, like he had to play it in his mind. His lips curled and then flattened out, but he didn’t scowl or go cold. He had become accustom to the feeling over time.

  Russ said, “I taught my son. He didn’t get a chance to pass it on.”

  “I’m sorry.” She meant it when she said that kind of thing. “Was he your only child?”

  “No.” He turned his head toward the clocks and held his breath. Ten ticks and tocks later, he had yet to divulge any details.

  There was another clock that drew Darcy to it. It was a scene out on the water looking toward land. The ocean was carved and beautifully painted with the lightest brushes of white at the tips of the waves. In the background was a line of trees and cliffs. The colors were rich and dark as though a night sky was cast upon them. Atop the center of the scene was a wooden lighthouse. With each tick of the clock, a small opening in the lighthouse opened and then shut, revealing and then hiding an actual light.

  Russ patted on the railing to grab Darcy’s attention. Then he pointed and said, “She’s this way.”

  He led Darcy through an open doorway. Every nook and shelf and corner of the room had a knickknack or picture. The room was a pentagon. There was a large window that stretched from the floor to the ceiling and five feet across. At either side of the window were thick curtains tied with ivory sashes. Darcy could get lost in this room for days exploring. Then her searching gaze settled in the center of the room where Mary Redwood rested in her chair.

  The chair was on a rug with a celestial design of gold woven into a maroon background. Mary’s hands that rested on the arm of the floral chair were small and feeble with spots of age on skin as thin as tissue paper. It was then that Darcy realized every trinket and treasure in the room faced Mary from all five sides. She had her own treasures—her wedding band and a locket with a pale blue stone on a golden chain.

  “Mary, sweetheart,” said Russ. All the age and struggle melted away from his voice when he spoke to her. He shuffled to her side and stroked her thin silver hair that he teased with a comb every morning. “A doctor is here to check on you. You’ll like her better than Dr. Porter.”

  Mary Redwood didn’t greet Darcy or respond to her husband. She couldn’t. Her husband readied her in a fresh cotton dress every day, and she spent the hours sitting among the antiques. Her gaze was stuck straight ahead and angled slightly downward. She had as much age in her face as her husband. Her features were more petite, a smaller nose and ears. Her lips were fuller, but they couldn’t give mischievous grins because they were constantly moving as though small bubbles popped in her mouth.

  “Hey, Mary,” said Darcy, softly. She knelt on one knee.

  Nothing but Mary’s lips moved.

  “You look good,” said Darcy. She leaned right and then left, giving Mary a quick look over but not touching her. “How long has she been like this?”

  “She had a stroke thirty years ago,” said Russ as he took hold of his wife’s hand. “This may not be how we imagined growing old together, but I have loved her every day.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek.

  “You’ve taken care of her this whole time.”

  “When you truly love someone the way I do my Mary, nothing can make you give up.” His smile was genuine, heartfelt, and tired.

  Darcy pulled a small flashlight from her bag and held it up to Mary’s eyes, not yet turning it on. “Her file said she had a fever and was falling over for the last week,” she said.

  “Only her head,” he said. “I told Dr. Porter not to be dramatic about it. There are people here who think I can’t care for Mary on my own. They’ll see how able I am if they try to take her from me.”

  The flashlight clicked on. Darcy moved it between Mary’s eyes. The pupils shrank as they should. “Nothing else to be concerned about?” she asked.

  “If there were I’d be calling the hospital. I’ll ask for you next time instead of that blockhead.”

  “You’re welcome to call me anytime.” Darcy put one hand on her knee to push herself up. The other hand she placed on Mary’s arm. Instead of standing, Darcy stumbled to the floor.

  The house was still. Nothing had grabbed her. Her balance had been fine, but a sharp streak of pain had shot up her arm and into her chest. It wasn’t the pain that kept Darcy on the ground. It was Mary.

  Sounds rolled from Mary’s tongue. There were clicks at first and then moans and mutterings. Russ shuffled quickly to her side and took up her hand. It was then that the chaotic sounds could be understood in pieces.

  “Ash. Ash. Ash.”

  Russ tried to calm Mary, but the sounds poured.

  “Pen. Pen. Pen.”

  “Mary,” said Russ, stroking her hair. “Are you alright?”

  Mary’s voice then became clear, though it seemed far too deep and profound to be coming from such a fragile woman. She said, “Death.”

  Mary’s head fell back, and her eyes shut. Darcy scrambled to her feet and took hold of Mary’s head to straighten it again. Then Mary’s soft eyes opened, and her lips continued fumbling. She was as calm as before, simply a weak elderly woman taking in her room of treasures from her parlor chair.

  “What was she talking about?” asked Darcy. Mary had startled her, but it didn’t make her want to run. Curiosity won over as usual. Not knowing how Russ would take it, Darcy held herself back from touching Mary again.

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t spoken in years.” He patted Mary’s hair. The wrinkles of his fac
e softened when he rested his gaze on his sweet Mary. “She seems alright now, don’t you think?”

  Darcy paused. Mary didn’t shake or sweat. Her mumbles were her norm. Darcy said, “I suppose so.”

  “I think it’s best if Mary gets some—”

  Four knocks at the door cut him off.

  “I’ll get going,” said Darcy. “It sounds like you have company.”

  “I sure hope not,” Russ grumbled. “The list of people I like in this town is in the obituary records. Though I think I may like you.”

  “Back at you,” said Darcy. She stood straight up and tucked her hands into her pockets as she headed toward the front door, leaving Mary’s quiet mutterings behind in the parlor but fresh in her mind. Darcy opened the door as a man in a police uniform held up his hand, ready to knock again.

  Thin dreadlocks were pulled back, covering his ears. His uniform fit to his narrow build. Every feature of his face was well defined as though he had been precisely chiseled. His nose had a wide bridge and a tip that pointed forward like his chin. Though he was confident and commanding standing on the porch in his uniform, he wasn’t intimidating. Especially when he smiled at Darcy.

  “You’re a pleasant surprise,” said Lance Anders. He couldn’t close his mouth once he had spoken. It hung there, caught on something much like his gaze.

  Russ rapped his knuckles on the door. He said, “I thought we had an arrangement. Whatever anyone said about me, you pin it on Mr. Gutfrey.”

  Darcy chuckled, “Not a fan?”

  Russ huffed and said, “He nickels and dimes my truck, making up problems that don’t exist.”

  Lance said, “I’m not here to take you in. I’m asking anyone who might know something about Randal Mason to call me.”

  Folding her arms at her chest, Darcy questioned, “Lucia’s assistant?”

  Nodding, Lance said, “He hasn’t been seen in several days.”

  “Maybe he just skipped town for a while?”

  Lance playfully pointed and asked, “Are you an investigator?”

  “I’m a curious person,” said Darcy, folding her arms at her chest.