Solomon's Seal Read online

  “You’ll be paid five hundred thousand when the ring is in my possession.”

  I blinked.

  He stared back at me and made no move to correct himself.

  I swallowed a sudden lump in my throat. “Do I get an initial deposit? Good will gesture?” So I know you plan to pay up?

  “Ten percent now, as well as most expenses paid during the trip. I’ll cover airfare there and back, accommodations—which, you understand, will be camping at the site—as well as meals, all for the duration of the hunt. I will provide any necessary equipment, where necessity is defined by me.”

  That could bite my well-toned derriere later but offering me that much money suggested he was dead serious and I would want for very little during this excursion.

  “I’ll also have a contract drafted up, detailing my expectations and what you’re agreeing to,” he continued. “That way everything is clear.”

  There could be any number of reasons why he wanted me to sign a contract. One was so I couldn’t take the ring and then try to sell it to the next highest bidder when I got it. Another was so he had legal recourse to come after me if something went bad, even though I was being sent to steal something and there was no way he’d take me to court.

  That place down deep in my gut I’d developed and listened to over the years tightened and twisted, warning me this was a very, very bad idea.

  But, quite frankly, I wanted some semblance of my old life back.

  “Regardless of your decision, I do have a gift for you for meeting with me this evening.” Ashford raised his hand and gestured over his shoulder; Laurel James moved immediately to retrieve something from behind the monitor, and handed it to him.

  Ashford carried the flat, rectangular box over and set it on the tabletop in front of me. I glanced at him in question, but was only met by a tight smile pulling at the creases around his mouth.

  I gently lifted the lid.

  And tried not to look surprised, but it was incredibly difficult.

  “So,” Moses Ashford said, “do we have an agreement?”

  ❇

  I sat at my kitchen breakfast bar with just the lamp over the stove on, still in the dress I might keep after all.

  Prudence leaned across from me, elbows on the counter, staring at the contents of the box. “Martin wouldn’t have sold it to him, would he?”

  I gently lifted Locust’s knife from the red silk it rested on. It was heavy, the stone blade worn away. In fact, it barely looked like a knife any longer, but I had no doubt as to its authenticity. “Martin wouldn’t sell it to anyone. Ashford made it clear, too, that he’s not into the do-gooder type of employee. Maybe he pulled the customs trick on Martin. I can’t say for sure, but he’s handed it to me to turn into Grant for my payment, whether I take his job or not.”

  “Are you taking it?” Prudence was staring at me—I could all but feel it. She probably didn’t have a good reaction to this adventure either.

  “I...don’t know. I said I’d let him know tomorrow.”

  Silence hung between us while I stared at Locust’s knife some more.

  “I know the money is good, but...” Pru sighed. “But we’re doing okay. You don’t need this paycheck.”

  Pru was tutoring on the side via her laptop and Skype, bringing in extra money, but I didn’t want to rely on that and her disabilities check when things got rough.

  “This seems like a bad idea,” she continued. “He knows a lot about you, apparently, but I couldn’t find anything on Moses Ashford when you texted the name earlier. Nothing at all—no one knows him and he’s unlisted. No online paper trail. It’s like he doesn’t exist.”

  Worse and worse. So, fake name? Wouldn’t be the first time. What I didn’t believe to be fake, however, was his money, and certainly not the Navajo artifact sitting right in front of me. And it was that money that spoke to me, the possibility of being handed something that could change things for my family permanently. Seeing my dad again hung in the back of my mind, a painful reminder of what life used to be like.

  I put the lid back on the box. “I’ll get this to Grant in the morning after I get Em to school and deal with that troll teacher. Then figure out this Ashford thing. I have time to sleep on it.”

  If I sleep at all after tonight.

  5

  The She-Demon of Norwood School for Girls

  I walked Emaleth up the steps of Norwood School. It was fifteen minutes before the first morning bell was to ring, which should give me just enough time to apologize to Miss Jennings without having to endure too long of a lecture. We passed the throngs of little girls, all dressed identically in burgundy and gold plaid skirts and burgundy blazers, though my daughter sported a new silver and turquoise cuff bracelet I’d picked up while stuck in Arizona. Of course I broke down and gave it to her that morning and couldn’t wait another day; all it took was a look from those liquid brown eyes and a few bats of her long lashes, and I was putty.

  Em waved at a few of the girls, noticeably with her bracelet on display. A showoff—couldn’t imagine where she got that from. The mothers still doting over their daughters before retreating to their cars all gave me looks.

  It was common enough in the twenty-first century for young woman to have children out of wedlock. It was not common for them to be disgraced minor celebrities who are still willing to send their daughters to expensive private schools.

  I dressed to fit in with the rest of them, of course: plain black slacks, a charcoal gray wool coat, all as expensive as I could afford and only worn when I needed to Make An Appearance. My hair hung long and straight, whispering against my coat when I moved. I dyed it dark brown to look similar enough to Emaleth’s thick brunette locks so that no one made remarks anymore about how she must take after her father. I generally had a sarcastic reply to such questions which tended to embarrass her; now I avoided them and pretended I wasn’t naturally strawberry blonde.

  We moved up the stone steps and through the double set of doors into the old school. The day we left behind us was gray and dull, air tinged with the scent of approaching rain, and inside wasn’t much cheerier. Even the plaques with the school colors seemed drab somehow.

  Em didn’t say a word while we walked through the school. She likely knew I was tense and this was why I gave her the souvenir early: it bought her silence while Mommy Faced the Dreaded Beast.

  Honestly, I’d been shot twice in the past few years, fractured my wrist, scraped off probably enough skin to cover another human, and barely managed to avoid being arrested at least a dozen times and successfully arrested twice. Send me in to face a disapproving first grade teacher? Even my toes were trembling.

  Thankfully I wore expensive boots to mask it.

  We made a right and I faced the door to room 109, my stomach in knots as if I were the six-year-old and meeting the principal instead. Miss Jennings was at her desk already, sitting prim and proper while she typed on a laptop. I gestured for Emaleth to wait outside the door and stepped into the room.

  “Although the door is open, I believe it’s customary to knock.” Miss Jennings didn’t look up from her work, fingers never missing a keystroke.

  In my head, I always heard her with a British accent, but she was Canadian through. The part that killed me about the woman was that she couldn’t have been much older than me: I was twenty-four, and I’d bet money she hadn’t yet hit thirty. Hair was blonde and always in a French twist, stature petite. I shouldn’t’ve been intimidated by her. I had two years of Krav Maga on top of a body that endured strict dance and even gymnastics training until I was a teen; I had taken down mercenaries in the field twice this woman’s size. But no, I had to be pleasant and proper and not drop her head first out the window, so she freaked me out.

  We were only on the first floor, though—it wasn’t like she’d fall far.

  “Should I go back out and knock and pretend like I didn’t just walk in after seeing the large WELCOME sign on the door—which, I assume, means one
is welcome to enter—or shall I file that tidbit away for next time?”

  That caused Miss Eloise J. Jennings to stop typing and dignify me with a look.

  My daughter was more than likely cringing in the hallway, or perhaps pulling out her iPod to drown out my embarrassing remarks.

  I smiled pleasantly, took several more steps into the room, and draped myself on a student’s desk in front of the teacher’s. “I’m terribly sorry for missing the meeting Tuesday night. I was very busy working overtime. You know how it is, on your feet all night.”

  The staff at Norwood suspected I was a stripper. Admittedly, I did nothing to contradict this assumption.

  Miss Jennings took off her glasses, folded them, and set them with precision on the desk beside her laptop. “You’ll have to book another; there are things to discuss.”

  My smile didn’t waver but a fresh dose of dread plummeted again in my gut. “Oh?”

  “Emaleth is failing three of her classes.”

  Although Norwood’s first semester started two weeks earlier than public school, that was still... Ugh, I hate math. “It’s only been three and a half weeks.”

  “Precisely,” she said curtly.

  If Prudence was here, she’d be rattling off something about how first graders shouldn’t be graded. Of course, she’s a hippy who begged me to pick a Montessori school when I insisted on going private, citing her experience as a teacher—before her illness—as her expertise. “We’ll work harder on her homework.”

  “Her homework isn’t the problem, Ms. Talbot. The problem is her inability to focus on her assignments and her propensity to distract the other students.”

  “She’s social. I’m sure she means no har—”

  “It took fifteen minutes just yesterday to settle the class into working after lunch. Apparently she was telling stories about her mother”—the woman took on a slightly higher-pitched tone and I could all but see her using air quotes—“fighting a jaguar. Last week.”

  “It wasn’t so much a jaguar as a jaguar shaman.” And I got almost two grand for his staff. Score one for me. “Jaguars are endangered—it would hardly be responsible of me to fight one. Also, it was two weeks ago.”

  Miss Jennings’ eyes narrowed severely and a beat of silence passed in which I assume she was trying to set me on fire. She was a Pulse denier; I could fight said jaguar shaman on the desk in front of her and she’d insist the whole thing never happened. “Her constant lying is inappropriate behavior.”

  Outside in the hallway, shoes made the slightest scraping noise on the floor. Probably my poorly-focused, highly creative little angel ready to throw a fit over being called a liar. You can say anything else you like about that child, but never call into question her truthfulness. I suspected Pinocchio traumatized her or something when she was little.

  “Let me speak plainly,” she continued. “Your check on Monday bounced.”

  I swallowed thickly, feeling my face drain of color and that sick sensation take up in my stomach again.

  “Your child is in no way qualified for a scholarship. You will pay the amount owed to the school—with interest—by Friday, or you will take Emaleth elsewhere. Is this in any way unclear?”

  For a single, beautiful moment, I imagined her dangling off the roof by her feet, begging me to let her up again. And this was why my smile to her was genuine. “Absolutely clear, Miss Jennings. Have a wonderful day.”

  I rose and walked with smooth, steady steps back outside the classroom, even though my heart beat wildly in my chest. I was to the door before the forceful push of her fingers on the keyboard resumed.

  Fucking bitch. I am going to kill her. I am going to kill her. I am—

  Em stood just outside the classroom door, leaning against the wall and peering up at me guiltily. I said nothing, just folded my hand over her shoulder and led her back toward the front of the building. It wasn’t until we were out of the drab school environment and in the chill September air that I stopped her at last and knelt so I was eye level.

  She clutched her bracelet and her eyes grew huge. “Are you gonna take it back?”

  “No. It’s yours.”

  “I didn’t tell lies.”

  “I know. But most mommies don’t fight jaguar shamans.”

  “When I grow up, I’m going to fight jaguar shamans,” she insisted.

  I was kind of hoping she’d aim for something safe like being an accountant, but that was a ways off. “Still. Maybe tone down those stories. Tell them Mommy’s a dancer instead.”

  I am such a shit disturber.

  “I’ll try to pay more attention.” Her dark eyes picked up a sheen, red edging them, and my heart broke a little more.

  “Make a game of it,” I said, clutching her shoulders and hoping it was comforting. “If you pay attention and pull up your grades, you win. If you don’t, the She-Demon-Jennings wins. And we don’t want her to win, do we?”

  A smile fought her pouty lips. “No.”

  “That’s my girl. Now, I am going to go deliver something that Uncle Marty stole from me the other day so I can pay my bills, and you will wait for the bell to ring so you can go in there and show off your bracelet while you work really hard. Gimme a hug.”

  Some kids didn’t want to hug their parents at that age; mine remained blissfully unaware thus far that it was borderline uncool to be seen doing so, and happily threw her arms around my neck.

  “Have a good day.” I smoothed her hair and patted her back. “And don’t tell your teacher I called her a She-Demon.”

  ❇

  “They’re going to kick her out.” I paced in the kitchen and despite the fact that I’d just mopped the floor, water soaked my socks again and I was too flustered to worry about it.

  Prudence sat at the breakfast bar, her energy calm and a sharp contrast to mine. “What about Grant—”

  I stopped abruptly and spun to face her. “He waited until after I shipped it to text that he was ‘less than impressed’ with how things went in Arizona and the fucking cheap bastard—who covered the costs on the Jeep Martin blew up initially—decided to take that out of my pay. He gave me less than three thousand dollars. Three thousand. Less my fee to fly, even.”

  “I think you need to have a cup of tea and stop pacing.”

  “Fuck your fucking tea!” My lips pressed together and I took a deep breath, regretting the outburst. “Look, I know what you’re going to say. You hate her school, you hate what I do for a living—”

  “No, I don’t—”

  “But I have to give the school that for the rest of her September tuition and now there’s nothing for October, and—”

  “They offer biweekly. Give them fifteen hundred now, and that’ll give you a few weeks to figure out it.”

  But we were less than three months from winter. Electricity costs doubled when it was time to put the heat on and I couldn’t have my kid walking the house in a snowsuit all the time. Heat was more important than private school, I knew, but...

  But I hated this.

  I took a step and my heel landed again in the puddle of water from the fridge—I couldn’t help it and gave into a frustrated scream, swung my foot out and kicked the cupboard.

  All that did was shoot pain through my big toe straight up to my ankle and jarred the cheap cupboard door enough that it cracked, hinge coming loose.

  “And now I have to fix the fucking cupboard.”

  Pru was still and silent for several minutes longer, then she slowly rose, rounded the breakfast bar and me, and went for the stove. “I’m making tea.”

  With a heavy sigh, I slumped down on a barstool and pulled my sock off. Chipped a toenail and it was blooming with a blue bruise, but I didn’t think I’d broken anything. I swiped angry hot tears from my eyes.

  Water rushed from the faucet as she filled the kettle. “We could take the door off completely and put a curtain over it.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?”

  She set the ket
tle on the stove and spun the dial. “The cupboard.” Again she spun the dial. And again. And frowned.

  Oh god. “What?”

  “Probably just a fuse. Let me go look for one.” She left me in the kitchen to go be the grownup and fix stuff while I sulked.

  Maybe the stove was broken. Maybe everything was broken. I hated thinking about bills and tuition and new appliances and everything.

  I tried very, very hard to be an adult—I’d had to, having a baby so young—but I was twenty-four and I’d jumped straight from living in a mansion with my daddy and my every need taken care of to having to figure out how to navigate the world like an adult woman and a mom when I couldn’t remember what it was like to have a role model for either.

  And I wanted a new house. Hell, I wanted my own house. I’d never lived in a place so small, not counting the previous three crappy apartments I had. First was in my third trimester with Em and I had to leave the friend’s house I was staying at—I got the best place I could afford while rationing what remained in my bank account, which was a total shithole. Briefly I upgraded to a much nicer place while I lived with a guy, but there are certain things I won’t sell my soul for and a nicer place to live was one of them. That was when Martin accidentally introduced me to the world of magic artifacts, a year after the Pulse happened, and got me sucked into a whole other world. I got an apartment slightly better than the first with Pru later before “upgrading” to this house, all funded with money from my private clients and her disability checks. So it could be worse, I knew—I’d seen worse firsthand, with ceilings about to cave in and flying roaches and radiators that shook like they were going to explode.

  Still. Money meant freedom.

  Freedom from stress and worry—we could live where we wanted and have no barriers, no more sacrifices. Money meant a new house. My bedroom growing up was the size of this damn bungalow. And it wasn’t bad. Emaleth had a good life, if I did say so myself. She never went without.

  But I wanted more for her. I wanted riding lessons and dance lessons and music lessons and the best clothes and the best toys and the best schools...I wanted a fund set up so she could go to any university she wanted one day and stay long enough to get a PhD or three. She deserved everything she could ever want.