Lucky Break (9 page)

His love for her was obvious, his enthusiasm for Elk Valley clear. I could have happily spent hours reading through his notes. But I had an assignment, so I made myself resituate the papers before I got sucked in any further.

I sat down in a squeaky and threadbare chair, pulled open the bottom desk drawer. There were folders of research, article drafts, published articles, copies of Taran's curriculum vitae printed on thick stock.

I reached in and felt the back of the drawer for anything that might have been taped or secured there—I'd watched my share of criminal investigation shows. There weren't any secret packets, but I did find a folder that had slipped down behind the others.

I pulled it out.
Threats,
was written in his tidy script across the tab, and so they were. There were nasty emails from students, rude letters from overbearing parents, an accusation—unfounded, according to Taran's notes—that he'd plagiarized a twenty-year-old unpublished conference paper. Many of the papers were yellow with age. But there was one at the very back that was still white, still crisp.

I pulled it out, my heart accelerating as I realized what I'd found. It was an e-mail to Taran dated a week ago.

Taran:

I know you don't want to talk about the Trust anymore but you have to understand. You will destroy everything we have built just because of her. That is how this valley fell apart in the first place and we cannot go back to that. Do the right thing here or what happens after will be your fault.

—Rowan

I wasn't sure what the “trust” was, but I read a thinly veiled threat from Rowan over it. I put away the folder, carried the paper into the hallway, found Ethan, Gabriel, and Tom already there.

“Find anything?” I asked.

“Nessa doesn't think they took anything else out of her office. She wanted a few minutes to herself.”

I nodded. “I might have found something,” I said, and handed Tom the paper. “What trust is he talking about?”

Tom frowned, handed the paper to Ethan. “Probably the land trust.”

“What land trust?” Ethan asked.

“From what I understand, Taran's plot—the property on which the house and guesthouse sit—is held in a revocable trust in Taran's name.”

“If Nessa and Taran are married,” I said, “why is it in Taran's name?”

“The land has always been in the McKenzies' names. They filed homesteading claims before the Marchands got to it. That's one of the reasons for tension in the valley. The shifters have the land; the vampires have the money.”

“Compound interest,” Ethan and I simultaneously said.

Tom nodded. “And there's the practical issue—Taran couldn't have put the trust documents in Nessa's name—not when she'd never age. It would have been too obvious she was different.”

“And put her in danger,” Ethan said.

Tom nodded.

“So what was Rowan afraid of?” I asked. “What was he afraid Taran was going to do?”

“I believe,” Tom said, “it's time to ask him just that.”

***

In comparison to Nessa's houses, the shifters' home was humble. Several buildings on a small, fenced acreage, with a dozen cars parked here and there across what would have been lawn. Chickens pecked in the dirt, and weeds and vines scrambled over a chain-link fence on the edges of the property.

Was that part of the animosity? Jealousy, that the vampires had so much and the shifters had so little? Or did their connection to the earth make the material elements of their existence irrelevant?

Rowan walked outside, Niall and Darla behind him. Niall and Darla looked surprised—and disappointed—to see us alive.

“Sheriff,” Rowan said, his gaze slipping warily to us. “Gabriel. Is there a problem here?”

Tom paused, looked at Gabriel, who nodded his permission to proceed. I guess Tom had decided his alpha had authority enough.

“First things first—are you aware Niall and some of his friends shot at these vampires, burned down the Marchands' compound, and attempted to burn them out? One of your people also stole some legal papers from Nessa's house, decided they proved she'd killed her husband.”

Rowan's expression stayed blank but for a twitch in his jaw. His gaze found Gabriel's. “That was not approved by me.”

“We'll discuss that later,” Tom said. “In a calm and reasonable fashion, with the Marchands and the McKenzies at the table, we'll discuss whether reparations are appropriate.”

Niall opened his mouth to speak, but Rowan silenced him with a hand.

A surprisingly reasonable approach,
Ethan silently snarked. I had to agree.

“Then why you are here?”

“Because of this.” Tom walked forward, handed Rowan the paper, now enclosed in an evidence bag.

Rowan looked at it suspiciously, but his body stiffened with each scan of his eyes across the page.

“I didn't write this.”

Tom wasn't buying it. “It's got your name on it. It's from your e-mail address.”

Rowan offered the paper back to Tom. “Be that as it may, I didn't write it.”

“You talked to Taran about the trust?”

Rowan's eyes flashed with something. “Yes.”

“What about it?”

His jaw worked. He was clearly unhappy about the subject of their talk—or revealing it here. After a moment, with magic settling in the air like dust, he fixed his gaze on Nessa.

“They were working on their relationship. He thought things were getting better. He was going to change the trust. He wanted to put it in her name, make a gift of it to her. It was supposed to be a promise for their marriage.”

Nessa's lips parted with obvious shock, with fresh grief. I guessed she hadn't been aware of Taran's plan.

Ethan's eyes narrowed. “Has that happened before? Property in the valley held by a vampire?”

“No,” Rowan said, and he left little doubt that he'd have preferred it stay that way.

“So what did you plan to do about it?” Tom asked.

“It's his land, not mine. What could I do?”

“That's magnanimous.”

“It's practical,” Rowan countered. “The trust is in his name. Not mine, not hers. It should have stayed that way. But it wasn't my call to make, legally or otherwise.”

“Killing him would ensure he couldn't change the trust,” I said, and silence fell heavily.

“I didn't kill my cousin,” Rowan flatly said. This time, he said it to Gabriel.

“Who else has access to your e-mail account?” Tom asked.

“Nobody.”

“So you sent the e-mail yourself?”

“I'm telling you, I didn't send the damn e-mail. I didn't even have my laptop. I let Darla use it for school.”

It wasn't until Rowan got the words out that he realized the implication. He stiffened and very slowly glanced back at Darla, who stood silently behind him, her chin lifted defiantly.

“You used my account?”

She didn't respond.

“Answer me!” he demanded, magic pouring across the yard with a hornets' nest of buzzing anger.

“I heard him tell you about changing the trust. That's
wrong
. Bloodsuckers don't belong here. They've never belonged here. The land belongs to the McKenzies. We were here first, and he had no right to give it away. I tried to talk to him, but he wouldn't listen.”

When she paused, Rowan glared at her. “Finish it. Do the honorable thing and finish it.”

Darla stared at him for a moment, before carefully shifting her gaze to Gabriel, looking for a sympathetic ear. But Gabriel's expression was filled with as much rancor as Rowan's, and that was apparently enough to convince her.

“I sent the e-mail from your account,” she confirmed. “He ignored it, so I went to the house to talk to him. He told me it wasn't my business, that he was doing the right thing for his family. He turned around—turned his back on me. On the McKenzies. I couldn't let him do that. Not after all that we've been through since Fiona. So I picked up a paperweight—it was the closest thing I could find . . . And I hit him with it.”

“Oh, Taran,” Nessa quietly said, covering her mouth with a hand as she choked back tears.

“I ran out the door so no one would see me,” Darla said. “I dropped the paperweight somewhere along the road, and I went home.”

“You've killed one of our own,” Rowan said, face wan with shock. “You've killed
us
.”

Tom stepped forward, pulling handcuffs from his belt. He fixed Darla's hands behind her back, snapped on the cuffs.

“Darla McKenzie, you're under arrest for the murder of Taran McKenzie.” He recited her rights and handed her over to the deputy, who shuffled her into the car.

Niall ran forward, eager to protect his sister. “You can't take her! She hasn't done anything! This is the vampires' fault! It's the vampires' fault!”

Two McKenzie shifters intercepted him, put out hands to stop his progress.

“Rowan, this has got to stop,” Tom said, obviously tired. “No more reprisals. No more fear. No more hatred. I've let it go on too long, and that's on me. But now it's on all of us. If you won't sit down together and talk, I'll call the governor and ask for the National Guard, and we'll see how far black helicopters get us.”

For a long moment, Vincent and Rowan simply looked at each other.

“I have no objection to a discussion,” Vincent said.

Rowan nodded. “We'll sit with you.”

That, I hoped, would be the beginning of something new.

***

The guesthouse smelled gloriously like pasta, tomatoes, rich garlic, and spicy meat.

Damien, thank God, had been busy.

He'd already piled food on the dining room table—bowls of pasta and sauce, freshly grated Parmesan, steaming meatballs, and crusty bread for dipping.

I stared at the table and sighed with sensual approval.

“You'd better propose to her quickly, Sullivan,” Gabriel warned, taking a seat at the table. “Before she proposes to Damien or the food.”

Ethan made a sardonic sound, pulled out a chair for me. I sat down and began to stuff my face.

I didn't stop until I'd had thirds, until I'd eaten enough to pooch out my stomach like I'd swallowed a volleyball. A delicious volleyball.

That's when all the blood rushed to my stomach and my eyes began to close.

Gabriel pressed a napkin to his mouth, then tossed it onto the table. “You'd better get to bed before you fall into your food, Kitten. We'll keep watch today.”

“You're sure?” Ethan asked.

He nodded. “You've done your part to help us. Least we can do is return the favor. We'll head out at dusk when you're awake. I presume you're going back tomorrow?”

Ethan nodded. “The jet will be waiting at dusk.”

“Perfect timing,” Gabriel said.

“Do you ever sleep?” I groggily wondered. Most supernaturals didn't have vampires' sensitivity to the sun but slept during the day, anyway. I'd assumed they wanted to be awake for the action—or the havoc.

“Not as much as you do,” Gabriel said, grinning. “We prefer cat naps.”

I smiled back, covered a yawn with the back of my hand. “Of course you do.”

“Get to bed.”

I didn't argue with him. While Ethan cleaned up, I hit the bed in my clothes and was out before he returned.

I woke with a start, my body jolting upright. I blinked, oriented myself, realized I was very naked.

My clothes hung neatly on a bedside chair. Ethan must have taken them off before the sun rose.

The room was dark, shutters still over the windows, the sun's journey though the sky not yet complete. Ethan slept soundly beside me, and the rest of the guesthouse was utterly silent, utterly still.

I rarely stirred before Ethan, and it was odd to experience twilight's quiet while he slept soundly. The question was—why? I threw back the covers, scrubbed hands over my face, tried to remember the dream I'd been having or the noise that had stirred me.

I rose, walked into the bathroom, splashed freezing water on my face until my brain began to function, then walked back into the bedroom, looked around. My gaze kept shifting back to the Barrymore landscape, to the representation of the valley on canvas.

And then I thought of Christophe's journal entry:
Fiona is painting. She isn't very good yet, but she is trying very diligently.

My heart began to pound. “Could it be that simple?” I asked, eyes widening.

“Sentinel?”

Ethan's voice was groggy. When I looked back, he sat up, fingers combing through his hair, sheet pooled at his abdomen. “What's wrong?”

I looked back at the painting. “I think I know what happened to Fiona McKenzie.”

***

We asked the pilot to hold the jet and gathered together on a rugged hill at the head of the valley, the same hill we'd emerged onto the night before. Tom, Rowan, and a few of his trusted shifters. Vincent and Nessa. Me and Ethan.

“Well, Merit,” Tom said. “This is your party. Go right ahead.”

I nodded, glanced at Vincent. “You said some of Fiona's possessions were missing, so they believed she was dead. What was missing?”

Vincent frowned. “I don't see how that would—”

“Just humor me,” I gently said.

“I don't recall precisely. A sweater. The brooch. Her good boots.”

“What about art supplies—paints or sketchbooks?”

“Not that I recall,” Vincent said, frowning. “But she wasn't an artist.”

“Actually, that's not true,” I said. “Fiona was learning to paint. Taran had some of Christophe's old papers, and Christophe mentioned it. Fiona knew how much Christophe loved the valley and the Barrymore paintings, and she knew that he planned to give her the brooch. She wanted to give him something in return. Something he'd appreciate.”

I paused, let that sink in for a moment. “I think she decided to give him the landscape that he loved. Both of the paintings—the big one and the little one—were of the valley and from this hill, slightly different angles. I think Fiona got up before Christophe and came out here with her good boots, her sweater, maybe the brooch because she thought it would be hers one day. Maybe for inspiration. She settled in to paint, and something happened.”

“What?” Vincent asked, obviously intrigued.

“I don't know. But that's what we're here for.”

Very well done, Sentinel,
Ethan said.

Thanks. Let's see if we can do some “well done” for Fiona.

Tom looked at me, and everyone else looked at Tom, waiting for his verdict.

“You heard the lady,” Tom finally said. “Get out your flashlights, and let's have our search party.”

***

We searched for an hour and found nothing. We'd picked carefully across the rugged terrain, across loose gravel, jagged rocks, and warrens of rabbits and foxes that had made the valley their home. We'd identified two more entrances to the mineshaft, the bones of what we believed was an elk, and very little else.

That is, until I literally stumbled onto it.

I mistook a rock for a shadow, my toe catching beneath the overhang. I fell forward and hit the ground on my hands, sending sharp pain radiating as tender skin met ragged gravel . . . and realized the rock was a long sheet of granite that partially sheltered a hole in the ground.

I scrambled for the flashlight I'd dropped, shined the light into the opening.

It was narrow, but eight or ten feet deep, covered by the granite shelf. And in the bottom lay the remains of a body, a simple dress in pale pink fabric with tiny green leaves, leather boots, and a small leather satchel. By the look of it, both of her legs had been broken.

A century had passed since her death, and dirt had fallen over her bones and dress like snow. But so many years later, she was still Fiona.

I stood up, whistled, and let the rest of them find me.

“What is it?” Tom quietly asked. Wordlessly, I shined my flashlight into the hole. There were gasps, curses, prayers.

“You found her,” Nessa said, reaching out to squeeze my hand. “You found her.”

“I think she broke her legs in the fall,” I said, using the flashlight to point.

“The space must have been too small for her to shift,” Ethan quietly said.

“So she couldn't heal herself,” Vincent said, remembering what I'd told him.

I nodded. “She wouldn't have been able to climb out, and the overhang would have made it nearly impossible to see her. I didn't see her until I hit the ground. And there's something else,” I said, pointing my flashlight at the glimmer on the lapel of her dress—at the gold and gems of the laurel brooch. She'd been wearing it when she fell.

“Did she run away?” Rowan asked. “Did he kill her? Did he put her here?”

Rowan was not, among other things, an optimist.

Tom looked into the hole again, sighed. “We'll get the forensics team up here, and we'll see what Ms. McKenzie has to tell us.”

***

We waited while the scientists were called, the lights prepared, plastic sheeting arranged so her body could be carefully extracted.

After taking copious pictures, they used long tongs to bring up her remains and her effects, including a canvas bag of her art supplies: nibs and holders, some colored chalks, a small bottle of ink. It also held several sheets thick, folded paper that had miraculously survived. I crouched by the plastic, used a stick to carefully unfold the first page.

Some of the ink was faded to invisibility, but the visible words were enough to get the point across.

Christophe, my love, I have done——. I have disappeared into “—— warrens” of this beautiful—— wild land. I've—— myself—— stuck, without room to change or——. For that, above all——, I—— sorry.

I aimed to sketch our valley, to—— reveal it—— pigment as well as—— Mr. Barrymore. It—— my gift—— you. I try to—— amusement,——, in how easily our plans are torn—— by fate. And six days later—— I am.

I fear this is my final——, that immortality is not a—— I—— receive. If you—— not find——,—— pray that your mind will be soothed, as mine——, that—— passed so many months together.—— weep for me in sadness, but in joy, in—— of all that we have seen of—— world. Seek solace—— family; let them comfort and console—— not fear for me. I am not afraid—— for the darkness comes for all of us.

—— love, and—— eternally, Fiona

“Six days,” Rowan said, when he'd taken his turn reading the words, his voice choked with emotion. “She was here for six days.”

Hot tears fell from my cheeks like coins of tribute. Fiona hadn't run away, and Christophe hadn't killed her. She'd taken a hike, intent on drawing a picture of the valley for Christophe, had fallen and been injured, and hadn't been able to make her way out again.

Christophe couldn't weep for Fiona anymore, couldn't experience the dual joy and despair of having found her. So I wept for him, for her, and for all those who'd come after them, locked in a battle no one had ever intended to fight.

“Let's give her a moment of silence,” Tom said, and every person on the hill stopped moving as we counted down a minute in silence. Tom sniffed when the minute was up, wiped dampness from his eyes, as well.

“I'd like to say some words,” Rowan said.

Tom nodded, and we moved aside to give him space.

Shifters were romantics in the classical sense, their connection to the natural world deep and profound. I'd heard Gabriel recite Yeats, invoking a poem from his
In the Seven Woods
, so it shouldn't have surprised me that Rowan chose another Yeats verse.

“‘And then you came with those red mournful lips,'” he began, voice clear and ringing. “‘And with you came the whole of the world's tears, / And all the sorrows of her labouring ships, / And all the burden of her myriad years.'”

Rowan paused, teeth gritted while he made an obviously heroic effort to hold back his emotions. A quick shake of the head, a drawing of his hand across his jaw, a haggard intake of breath. When he was sure of his control, he clasped his hands in front of him, began again.

“‘And now the sparrows warring in the eaves, / The curd-pale moon, the white stars in the sky, / And the loud chanting of the unquiet leaves—'”

Despite his efforts, his eyes welled, and he sniffed angrily, as if his body had betrayed his emotions. “‘Are shaken with earth's old and weary cry.'”

That was his implicit signal, and his shifters howled their mourning dirges, their voices unified and so utterly sad.

When they finished, I wiped the tears from my eyes. “Christophe's ashes,” I quietly said, breaching the silence and looking at Vincent. “Where are they?”

It took him a moment to answer. “In our tomb, in the graveyard at the other end of the valley.”

“He should be with her now.” I glanced back at him, at Rowan. “After all this time, after all this misery, they should be together, in love.”

For a long and quiet moment, Rowan and Vincent looked at each other. The air was heavy with the weight of their anger, their regret, their fear, both of them waiting for the other to give ground.

To my relief and surprise, Rowan spoke first. “She should be in the ground, among the trees, so the cycle of her life can continue. Maybe . . . we can find a place that would work for both of them.”

One of the younger shifters opened his mouth to protest, but Rowan put up a stifling hand, and he was bright enough to quiet down.

“I would be happy to discuss it,” Vincent said.

It was a start.

***

We started back to the road, walked silently through darkness, grief still thick in the air.

“Look up,” Ethan said, and I tipped back my head.

The clouds had broken and revealed a masterpiece: the midnight blue of the universe, streaked by the scattering of diamonds that made up the Milky Way. Stars twinkled like brilliant stones in the darkness, as we flew through the universe on our blue and green globe.

“Beautiful,” I said, tears nearly blooming for the second time.

Beautiful, but sad. This had been a battleground and was a place of war and loss, where hatred had rooted, been sown, for generations.

I glanced back. Vincent and Rowan, vampire and shifter, stood side by side, their gazes on the glowing spectacle above us.

I wasn't naive enough to think resolving the mystery of Fiona McKenzie's whereabouts and solving Taran McKenzie's murder would be enough to erase all the history that had happened here. There'd simply been too much strife, too much sadness, too much violence, and sups weren't much for turning the other cheek. History couldn't be rewritten.

But it could be accepted, acknowledged. It could serve as the foundation for something new. Something
better
. We'd done what we could here. The rest would be up to them.

And as for us . . . I thought of Catcher and Mallory, Luc and Lindsey. Of our apartments in Cadogan House, of the Hancock building and the Ferris wheel at Navy Pier, the reflection of streetlights in the Chicago River.

Chicago wasn't perfect. There was strife and violence that had proven difficult to overcome. But those trials and tribulations were mine to share, and mine to help heal.

I slipped my hand into Ethan's. “That's enough vacation for me. Let's go home.”