Song of the Ancients (Ancient Magic Book 1)

SONG OF THE ANCIENTS

SANDY WRIGHT

Book One of the Ancient Magic series

SONG OF THE ANCIENTS

Copyright © 2015 by SANDY WRIGHT

All Rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or re-produced in any form without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief passages embodied in reviews, book club quotes, and articles.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogue are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Cover Design by Kim Killion, Hot Damn Designs

Cover photo by Paul Mason (paulmasonphotography.com)

For information, contact:

Kal.Ba Publishing

1305 W 7th St

Tempe, AZ 85281

[email protected]

www.kal-ba.com

ISBN ISBN 978-0-9862278-5-1

For Mom

Chapter 1: Paths and Portents

He was waiting outside the shop when I arrived, leaning against a worn brown leather steamer trunk, arms crossed to block the cold. Long pale fingers drummed impatient riffs against the sleeves of his long black coat. Perfect pianist hands.

He cleared his throat and extended those marvelous fingers in introduction. "Nicholas Orenda. May I come in? I have a consignment for you." He tipped his head toward the trunk.

"Samantha Danroe." I shook his hand and unlocked the door. "Let me help you."

Once we carried the steamer inside, he eased his six-foot frame onto the overstuffed sofa by the front window, while I turned on the lights and hung the OPEN sign.

Surrounded by evening gowns and Victorian ladies' boots, my new client had an air of old world elegance, a tall, rather severe mannequin who seemed quite at home in my world. He crossed his legs and studied a rack of dresses. His gaze moved from the elaborate bodices up to a shelf of hats, then slid deliberately over to the top of my head. He studied my hair, and I put a hand up to find unruly red tendrils had escaped since I had piled it on the top of my head that morning. His gaze continued to slide, down my black sweater and Bacall-era tweed trousers, not leering, but coolly appraising. By the time he raised his eyes to meet mine, my cheeks were burning.

I turned away and opened the blinds in the front window. The bright morning light revealed dark stubble below his cheekbones. The effect narrowed his face and gave it a sharp, hollowed profile that made me short of breath. Observant face. Calculating. Self-assured. Possibly dangerous.

Taking a calming breath, I sat on the far end of the sofa from Mr. Orenda, keeping the trunk between us. He pulled a pronged key from his coat pocket and unlocked the tarnished brass clasp. "Let me know if these items are consignment quality," he said. When he raised the curved lid, the scent of smoky sage and lavender drifted up from the contents.

The trunk was full. Victorian-style dresses, expertly tailored. Skirts of soft silk and heavy velvet in subdued greens, wines and black. I held up a delicate bit of tiered lace and examined the needlework. The lace appeared to be handmade, gossamer spider webs joined by tiny, perfect knots. Not two hundred years old, but excellent craftsmanship, and perfect for Past Lives, my vintage clothing store. The shop sold both period pieces and quality reproductions.

"Yes. They're lovely. I'm sure I can sell them for you." I pulled a box of satin hangers from behind the counter, and began to hang pieces as I listed them on a sales receipt.

"Are these your…wife's…belongings?"
Oh, that was lame.
But I was surprised to note I actually cared about his answer. It had been a long time since I'd looked at any man with interest. Nicholas Orenda was handsome in an aristocratic, severe sort of way, but his supreme self-confidence was what intrigued me.

"No, my aunt Bella's things." A slow smile spread across his face, genuine appreciation without a hint of smugness. Nicholas retrieved the key from the latch and took my hand, pressing the key into my palm and closing my fingers around it. He wore no jewelry, I noted. No wedding ring.

A hot blush again spread up my neck. I had his attention, but I wasn't sure what I wanted to happen next. I was so out of practice. "Should I make the receipt out to you or your aunt?"

"To me," he said, sitting forward on the sofa. "But I believe there's one more."

I turned back to the trunk and pulled out a hooded black cloak. It felt warm, as if recently discarded, and the edge of the collar was torn. The silver neck clasp formed a crescent moon. As I stroked the dark fabric, the material seemed to undulate under my fingers.

My mind went numb. I saw only black. Then the darkness took on depth, becoming a night sky with a sliver of moon.
A woman's fingers clutched the soft fabric of the cloak around her shoulders. She sprinted across a stretch of open meadow under the endless stars, heading for the safety of the woods ahead.

Behind her, I heard dogs baying and the muffled voices of men following the hounds. She had eaten herbs to make her invisible to the hunters, but her scent still lingered.
Hurry!
I urged her.
There is not much time!
Tree branches ripped her hood, making her stumble. She wrestled with the clasp at her neck. Wrenching it loose, she dropped the cloak on the pine needles and held her hands over the garment. "Round and round this cloth I weave," she whispered, "an order: Find the one to receive. Who it is you clearly will see. As I will it, so mote it be!" Pointing her finger at the garment, she collected her energy and hurled it through the fingertip into the fabric. The moon clasp at the neck glowed white for an instant.

Next to me, Nicholas Orenda cleared his throat. The vision disappeared, replaced by morning light shafting through the front window. I blinked slowly. The cloak was still draped across my lap. It wasn't moving, but the memory of the vision made me shiver. It had seemed so vivid, so real.

"Is there a problem?"

His voice had changed, his tone shifting from friendly to serious. He smiled, but his eyes seemed wary.

"What a strange feeling." I shook my head, feeling only half–present. "I suddenly seemed someplace...someplace else."

"Are you ill?"

"No. No. I'm so sorry." I wet my lips and forced my mind back to the present, to the cloak and the stranger beside me. "Your aunt has exquisite taste." I rolled the torn edge under my fingers, assessing the damage. "We can consign all of them, but this one will need repairs." I held the hood out to him. "It's beautiful, but there's a flaw."

"The cloak is not for sale," Nicholas interrupted. "It's for you." He pushed the garment back into my arms. A subtle vibration spread through me at the contact. It ended in a beaded chill on my skin, as if a breath ran across my arm. I shivered again, and dropped the cloak on the sofa between us.

He stared at me, his lips pressed into a tight line. Signing the receipt, I hesitated. Somehow our casual meeting had taken on an unpleasant edge. I kept my voice friendly but businesslike and forced myself to look at him directly. "You're very kind but I can't accept this gift. You don't even know me."

He gave a small shrug, still studying my face. "It's not my decision to make. The cloak chooses its owner."

* * * * *

I went through the motions of working the rest of the day, greeting customers but barely noticing my surroundings. My hand kept drifting back to the cloak hanging next to the counter, to finger the smooth material.
Why did I see a strange woman when I touched you? What did Mr. Orenda mean, you chose me? What happened to your owner?
It remained still and silent.

"
Hola, chica
. How was business today?

The voice made me jump.

The owner of Mystery Hound, the bookstore next door, stepped inside. The cold night air slipped in with Kamaria, tugging loose a strand of her salt-and-pepper braid.

"Business is good, actually." I gave her a distracted hug, and pulled the door closed tight. "A new customer brought in a full trunk to consign. It should make my week."

"Senor Orenda?"

I nodded.

"He also came by the Hound." She pinched her fingertips together and kissed them. "If only I were younger." She eyed the newly-priced garments on the rack beside me. "
Exquisito!
These will be gone in no time."

"No doubt." I locked the cash register and turned to Kamaria. "But he was rather unsettling. He gave me this." I held up the cloak.

She shrugged. "You are a beautiful young woman." She leaned closer. "It's been a year, Samantha. This man knows nothing of your past. Take his gift. Enjoy his attention."

Since I set up shop next to her a month ago, Kamaria had become my substitute mother. I'd gotten married right after I started college, determined to achieve all my dreams at once. Instead, I was recovering from a cheat of a husband, and Kamaria was determined to get me dating again.

"He said it wasn't a gift. He said the cloak chooses its owner. And I had the strangest feeling when I picked it up."

"Oh?" She raised one dramatic eyebrow. "Well, when you've lived here longer, you'll understand. Sedona is a focal point for energies. Unusual things happen." She squeezed my arm. "And if you're receptive to power, it seeks you out."

I'd heard similar remarks about Sedona. The residents were quite taken with their town. "Next you'll say the place is
magical.
"

"It's
true
. The earth in Sedona is magical," she said. "We get our dramatic summer lightning storms because the rocks contain much iron. Energetically, this land is unusually active."

"Lightning is one thing. But magic? It's a little too New Age for me. Even if it does bring the tourists." I walked her to the door.

She paused. "Seriously, I believe you were given this cloak for a reason."

I started to protest, but the older woman shushed me gently. "I know, I know, New Age voodoo. But humor me and answer a question: Why did you come to Sedona?" She held up a finger. "Stop. The answer's not for me. It's for you."

On the way home I considered my abrupt move to Sedona. Why
had
I chosen to move halfway across the country to start my new life? I wanted to be as far away from my scumbag ex and his girlfriend as possible. At a primal level I had known my spirit would dry up and blow away with the autumn leaves if I stayed near him, on the outskirts of our old life.

Moving was running, yes, but also a relief. With every mile I drove farther from green, humid Missouri, across the plains and into the dry, rocky landscape of Arizona, I felt my burden of guilt lessen, burnt off in the glaring desert sun. When I saw the turn-off for Sedona, I exited the freeway. Near town the sand changed from tan to adobe red.

Past Lives. Catchy name
. I stopped at the "For Sale" sign, and typed the number in my phone.

My offer was ridiculous—little more than half the asking price—but the broker accepted with no counter and included the inventory. It happened so fast, I never even met the owner. The broker said she was out of the country and couldn't meet with me, but he gave me all the store's records for the last seven years.

In a matter of days, I'd invested my divorce proceeds in a vintage clothing store, in a town where I knew no one. It was so unlike me to make such a big decision on a whim. I'd been here barely a month. I didn't know why yet, but this was where I belonged.

Chapter 2: Synchronicity

I always looked forward to casual Sunday breakfast with my business manager, Rumor, since I could simply throw on a sweatshirt and jeans and meet her at the Coffee Pot Café. A hoppin' place on weekends, every table filled by nine. But Rumor, always efficient, had us on the waiting list. Although just three years out of college, her practicality and astute business sense were the first things I'd noticed when I bought the shop. She had been filling in for the vacant owner, and after working with her a week, I asked her to stay on, and thanked the karma gods for sending her my way.

Any plans this evening?" Rumor quizzed me between huge bites of Western omelet. "Perhaps with a certain dark stranger you just met?"

"Sounds like you've been talking to Kamaria." I shifted my gaze to the waiting customers who spilled out into the parking lot, clustering under the sparse trees. I hoped a good number of those tourists would visit Past Lives. With the upcoming Halloween surge—and consignment customers like Nicholas Orenda—our little boutique might turn a profit.

"She said he gave you a gift, although not much of one. I saw your ratty cloak." Rumor gave me a meaningful look over the rim of her coffee cup. "I bet you'll see him again."

"Sure I will, when his stuff has sold and he wants a check."

Rumor shook her head, her pin-straight black hair falling per-fectly back into place. I ran a hand over my unruly mop, which needed a ponytail to keep it from escaping in every direction.