Relic (3 page)

But the Father Superior stepped up from the shadows and spoke one phrase. “Suffer the little children to come unto me.”

It was all he needed to say. The friars opened the gates.

When they had settled Ella and me into their spare quarters in the nuns’ wing, I pulled Ella into my arms on the lumpy, straw-filled mattress. The room was barren, cold, and deathly quiet. So quiet, we had no choice but to face everything that had happened, everything we’d lost.

I was now all Ella had in the world. How could I possibly take care of her? How could I be her mama and papa when I was practically a kid myself? Lying there with my sister, I’d never felt so small or helpless. I didn’t want her to see my tears, but then I noticed that she was crying softly. She looked up into my eyes, trembling.

“Jeb,” she said, her voice hoarse and weak with sorrow.

The sound of his name on her lips broke me. I took her into my arms, unable to stop the flood of grief. Clinging to each other on the little bed, Ella and I wept well into the night.

Chapter Two

The first two weeks passed in a haze of sorrow. By the third week, however, I had to face the reality that Ella and I had relied on the generosity of St. Ignacio for long enough. The mission had barely enough to live on as it was. And while the Father Superior’s kindness seemed to know no bounds, I couldn’t ignore the resentful glances from the other friars. So, one hot spring morning, dressed in a too-big brown dress I’d been given from the mission’s donation box, I made my way on foot into town.

The main hub of Burning Mesa spread around a crisscross of several long streets, with all the usual trimmings of these little bastions of civilization in the desert. Not the height of advancement one might expect in 1867, but they made do. I spotted hotels, a postal service, a smithy, general stores, laundry, ladies’ shops. And of course, the local saloon. As I passed the crowded hall, laughter and the tinny strains of music wafted out into the dusty streets, almost welcoming. A flashy painted sign proclaimed the structure to be The Desert Rose and promised vittles, spirits, and entertainment. Judging from the woman standing in one of the open windows on the second floor, dressed in only a silk night-robe, I figured it offered a few other things as well.

I hurried down the street, not wanting to be seen lingering in front of a house of ill repute. I hadn’t gone but a few paces when I saw it. Gleaming white and bathed in sunshine: a relic refinery. A bona fide relic refinery. My knees locked, and like a flash of light, I could see myself, so many nights, tucked in my chair by the flickering fire, my hands curled around Papa’s worn relic almanac. I could see myself bent in the garden, my knees smudged with red dirt, pretending the carrots and radishes were relics, dusting them off and informing the lucky prospector of the finds he’d made. I recalled every time I’d stood in the windy shadow of our little farm and tried to imagine a fairy darting through the sage in a streak of shimmering light. Or a sphinx perched in the shadows of our sandy cliffs.

It made me truly sad to think they’d never come back. The mermaid, the behemoth, the griffin. Even the frightening ones, like the werewolf and the troll and the banshee. From the time I was barely old enough to flip through the pages of Papa’s almanac, I’d mourned that I’d never have a chance to see one of those creatures alive.

Men of science said it was a star, blazing into our world and crashing to the earth centuries ago, that wiped them out. Pastor Abrams spoke of ancient days when humans and magical creatures lived together. Mankind envied the creatures’ powers and relentlessly tried to steal the magic for themselves. They killed countless numbers in their quest, until God decided the whole earth had to be destroyed for the greed and envy it contained. But the noble magical creatures offered to sacrifice themselves instead. And so the Great Flood wiped away any remaining trace of magic, leaving only the bones buried under layers of sand and stone. Of course, no one
really
knew why the great creatures had left the earth. Only that they were gone for good.

That was why I loved the idea of relics so much. They were all we had left of a world that was young and vibrant and brimming with magic. And we were lucky to have them. These bones, still potent with the powers of their former owners, were a gift for us poor souls stuck in a mundane, aging land.

Mama, on the other hand, hated relics. I’d never understood why. She threw an awful fit when Papa bought the kraken amulet, and she’d scolded me whenever she caught me reading the almanac. She said a respectable lady cared nothing for relics. But I still dreamed of a job in the trade. Many women did. Everyone knew that a female’s careful eye for detail and differentiation made her a welcome asset in refineries. Some of the best relic experts were women. And in the deepest shadows of my heart, I knew it was my calling.

There, on the dusty street of Burning Mesa, that calling took hold of me and moved my feet toward the refinery. It felt like a strange dream. My heartbeat pulsed in my ears, and my hands shook as I pulled back the smooth white doors. A little bell clinked in announcement of my arrival. Holding my breath, I stepped in.

My senses grasped for everything at once. The beam of sunshine that cut down from a high, round window, shimmering faintly with particles of dust. The metallic smell of soil and old books. The glints of multicolored light scattered around the room, reflecting off the relic elixir bottles of every size and shape and color that lined the shelves to the side of the main counter.

The room was large, but it felt smaller with the clutter of trinkets and wares for sale. Glass cases on the walls displayed blank rings, empty amulets, and weapons, all ready for relic enhancements. Paintings hung everywhere, showcasing some of the finest relic specimens that had been found in the surrounding areas. Water, fire, sky, earth—it seemed that every type of magic had passed through this refinery. There weren’t any pictures of shadow relics, of course, seeing as how those were illegal, but it wouldn’t have surprised me if a few had been exchanged, examined, or sold here under the cover of night.

I let out a trembling breath. I was really here. A genuine relic refinery. I moved farther into the room, wanting to examine every inch of it. With a little gasp of delight, I spotted the workstations behind the wide front counter. The gleam of the cogs and lenses and gears of the identification devices and polishing machines made my heart leap. I rushed up to the counter to get a closer look.

But something made me stop in my tracks. A pulse of energy, like the throb of some external heart, passed through my body. I blinked hard, startled by the strange sensation. And then I heard a sound. A rushing noise, like wind passing through the aspen trees in a forest. Whispers. Voices, not quite human. As if drawn by a magnet, my gaze rose to the end of the hallway behind the counter.

I couldn’t see more than a dark line of iron, but I knew what stood there in the shadows. The vault. The secure safe where they stored every relic that passed through the refinery. They were there now. Rows of raw bone and polished pieces. Shards of antiquity, still pulsing with magic.

They were calling for me.

“Someone will be with you in a few minutes, miss.”

The voice sliced into my awareness, and my thrumming thoughts popped like a soap bubble. All at once, I was snapped back to the sights and smells of the refinery. One of the experts waved at me from behind the counter and then moved into the back offices.

I nodded vaguely, blinking away the unsettling moment. I cast a glance around to see if anyone else in the room had heard what I heard. The only other person in there at the moment was a short, heavyset man standing in front of a room labeled
Consultation
. The man had ruddy cheeks and a wide nose, and he peered at me with small, calculating eyes. His arms were folded across his chest like a wary watchman, though I could tell he wasn’t one of the refinery’s guards. His expensive-looking silk vest and fine shoes gave that away.

Something about his vigilant manner piqued my curiosity. Perhaps he
did
know something. I strolled over to a public relic almanac displayed on the edge of the countertop. Pretending to be absorbed in the pages, I shot a swift glance into the consultation room.

There was a table, a few chairs, and a black case with its lid latched closed. I could see an aged hand resting on it. An expert, probably. His voice was a soft, cautious murmur. Another man sat across from him, saying nothing. All I could see was his hand, covered in a pristine white glove and folded casually around a decadent walking stick. I leaned in ever so slightly to catch a glimpse of the rest of him.

He was by far the most expensive-looking man I’d ever seen. And younger than I would have expected a wealthy relic buyer to be. He couldn’t have been much older than his mid-twenties. He was tall and lean, with rich black hair that curled slightly around pale olive skin. Creole, I recognized that immediately. Probably a Haciendo.

The Spanish had settled in these regions more than two hundred years ago. I imagine they started out struggling to make a living in the barren land, but when they discovered relics in the mountains and hills, they’d become rich as kings. We didn’t have much to do with the Hacienda folk in Haydenville, but I’d heard enough to know they owned pretty near every town from Texas to California.

I couldn’t take my eyes off the Haciendo. He was so regal, like the paintings I’d seen of kings from distant lands. He motioned to the case, and with excruciating care, the expert clicked the silver latches open. One, then the other. His fingers hesitated for a moment at the crease of the lid. I held my breath. The expert lifted it slowly.

And then the door to the consultation room swept shut with a decisive
bang
.

Startled, I met the cold gaze of the heavyset man. He narrowed his eyes, and heat rushed to my face. I turned back to the almanac, flustered but trying not to show it. I was only looking. There wasn’t any need for him to be so rude. Besides, I didn’t quite like the idea of being alone in the room with him.

Luckily, at that moment, a tall, lanky woman in a smudged apron stepped up from behind the counter. I tensed, fearing she’d be sharp with me as well, but she had a warm smile.

“A rare beauty, isn’t she?” the woman asked and shook her head wistfully. “We haven’t seen one of those around here in many a year.”

I realized she was talking about the page of the almanac I had been staring at blindly. Siren bone. There were several paragraphs describing the powers this relic retained, but I already knew it by heart. Siren was one of the rarest kinds of water relics because it also gave the wielder the ability to influence thoughts. To draw people to you like the tides.

The illustration in this almanac was lovely, dark blue with shimmers of crystal white. The artist had done a fine job capturing what must be a brilliant sparkle when fully polished. It was a much finer painting than the one in Papa’s.

I brushed my fingertips over the picture and realized with a pang of sadness that I would never see my old relic almanac again. In that moment, I’d have given anything to trade this fine, detailed book for those worn pages.

The feelings were too painful to dwell on. And they reminded me of why I had come into Burning Mesa in the first place. It wasn’t to daydream in the refinery.

“It is beautiful,” I said in soft agreement, closing the book.

The expert smiled. “So what can I do for you? We charge a fair price for identification. And we’ve got competitive shipping to Denver or Wichita, if you’re in the market for selling. Or are you perhaps looking to make a purchase?”

I swallowed a bitter laugh. One only had to glance at my ratty dress and rough, working-class hands to know how unlikely it was that I could even afford a relic chip. “No, I’m not here to buy anything.”

The expert nodded, and I squirmed at her expectant pause. Suddenly, I felt foolish for coming to the refinery. I knew well the years of training that experts had to go through. It was folly to even approach the hope of working there.

My feet itched to turn away, but something in me refused to give up without at least asking. “I’m actually looking for work,” I said, biting down the shame.

The expert’s brow furrowed. “I—I’m real sorry, miss, but we aren’t fixin’ to hire—”

“I’m not asking much. I’d sweep floors and wipe your windows. I’d do anything, really.”

“I’m sorry, but there’s nothing.” The expert sighed. “We’ve had to let all our apprentices go as it is.”

“I see.”

“It’s tough here in Burning Mesa. Lots of folk are pulling up roots and heading east. There’s just not enough work to go around.”

I nodded through the pain. “Thanks, anyway.”

“Grace?” A small man peeked his head out from one of the back rooms. “Can you spare a minute?”

“Coming,” the expert called back. She turned and shot a final sympathetic glance my way. “Sorry again, miss.”

After she’d left, I lingered for a moment at the counter, wanting to soak in as much of the magic as I could. Who knew when I would be this close to so many high-quality relics again? I peered down the hallway toward the safe, hoping to feel the pulsing energy or hear the windy, whispering voices. But there was nothing. Clearly it had been my imagination running away with me. I turned to the exit, a persistent lump squeezing at my throat.

A shadow fell over me, and I looked up. The heavyset man with the fancy vest and cruel eyes now stood between the door and me. He folded his arms across his chest. “I think you and I need to have a little talk.”

Chapter Three

My body stiffened. Did he mean to cause trouble? The man may have been finely dressed, but something about him seemed coarse and rough. I took a step back.

“I didn’t mean any harm,” I said. “I was only looking.”

He smirked a little. “Oh, that? Never you mind that, miss. I’d like to speak with you on a different matter, if that’s all right.”

I frowned, unsure what he could possibly want to discuss.

“Name’s Percy Connelly,” the man said with a strange grin. “You see, I was just waitin’ for my employer here to finish up, and I couldn’t help but overhear your inquiry.”

Was he going to mock me for seeking work in a refinery when I was so clearly unqualified? Warn me to leave town and not try to take any jobs? Something about this man made me uneasy.

“See, it just so happens that my employer has a job opening,” he said, “and I think you could be the perfect gal for it.”

I straightened.

“A fine job,” Mr. Connelly went on. “Well payin’. Room and board included, with enough extra money for your needs, plus stylish clothes and other such things you women like. Why don’t you and I take a walk, and I’ll tell you all about it?”

I looked again at Mr. Connelly’s rich apparel and for the first time noticed the jeweled rose pinned to his lapel. A desert rose…

“Where do you work?” I asked sharply.

“I’ll be happy to explain as we walk.”

I started to back up. “If you’re offering what I think you’re offering…”

Mr. Connelly chuckled, following me, closing in. “Come now, miss. You strike me as a real mature gal. Almost a woman. You understand the way things work. It’s good for the men to have some pleasant company. These hot desert nights can be mighty lonely for a hard-working miner, and to have a pretty girl like you there to—”

“How
dare
you speak to me about such things!” I said. As hot blood rushed to my face, I was reminded just how alone I was in the world. That a man like this could approach me with an offer so degrading. Did I appear as desperate and forsaken as I felt inside? How many more lowlifes would close in to try and scavenge what little dignity I had left?

“Now now,” Mr. Connelly said, his expression hardening. “Don’t get all high and mighty. I’m offering you work. Didn’t you say you needed it?”

My back was to the counter. He was so close, I could smell his bad cologne. Humiliation and despair blended with cold rage inside me.

“Get away!” I cried. “Now!”

Mr. Connelly’s upper lip curled. “Let me tell you something, missy. This is the only job you’re going to get in this dying town. And believe me when I say that there are plenty of girls who would welcome the opportunity. But go ahead, turn me down. You’ll end up like them, sellin’ your body in the shadows of the train depot, makin’ one-tenth of what you’d earn at The Desert Ro—”

I slapped him. Hard.

He blinked, and his shock turned to fury. “Why, you little brat!” He grabbed my wrist, his grip frighteningly strong.

“Take your hands off me,” I demanded, pulling back.

“I’ll teach you to—”

“Stop!”

With a surge of energy, I tore my arm free. The tension of his grip broke, sending me stumbling backward.

Right into the aging relic expert and the elegant Haciendo exiting the consultation room.

My body collided with the black relic case in the Haciendo’s arms. As I crashed to the ground, the case hurtled into the glass display on the wall behind us. A shattering sound filled the air.

Inside the broken display, the relic case’s contents lay bare among the glittering shards of glass—the most incredible piece I had ever even dreamed of seeing. A shimmering unicorn relic. A full horn, all bright and polished and pure white. It glittered in the softly lit room like a beacon. Or a spear of sunlight.

For a moment, I could only stare at the relic in breathless awe. But then the Haciendo’s gasp broke my trance. He dropped to his knees for his unicorn relic, frantic. My gaze shifted focus to the razor-sharp blades of glass on the broken display case, like jagged teeth. Mr. Connelly, the relic expert, and I all cried out in alarm.

But our warnings had come too late. The Haciendo grabbed for his relic with blind desperation, scraping his hands on the serrated glass as he pulled it out of the shattered display case. Red marred the pure white of the unicorn horn. The Haciendo’s fingers clawed with sudden pain, his gloves ribboned in blood. With a strained cry, he released his grip on the relic.

Gasping, I lunged to catch the piece before it crashed to the ground. I only wanted to prevent something so precious from being damaged, but the Haciendo’s eyes flashed to me, bright with rage. In a daze, I looked down at my hands, tightly wrapped around his unicorn relic. I was about to release it when the air in the room shifted. Heaviness pulled at my very core, as if the whole earth were spreading within my chest.

And then the whisper returned to my ears, soft like a sigh. The distant whinny of a unicorn rushing through my mind on an ancient wind. Power surged down my arms, into my fingers. The iridescent shaft of the horn began to glow, shimmering white and gold and lavender.

I snapped my hand back, stunned. But the anger in the Haciendo’s face had melted away. For a moment, no one moved. No one spoke. Then, slowly, he pulled his blood-stained gloves off and revealed perfectly unscathed hands.

His eyes flicked to me with an unreadable expression. Then he looked up at the expert.

The ancient Chinese man could pass for a laborer in his simple black pants and tunic. He had a thin white beard as long as I’d ever seen, and an equally long braid trailing down from the back of his head. His dark, almond-shaped eyes peered at me without expression.

I turned to the Haciendo, grasping for words. “I didn’t mean to use it.”

I stared back at the shimmering horn, still in a daze. I’d read a great deal about the gravitational forces that accompanied earth magic, but what about the whispers? The echo of the unicorn’s voice in my head? It had to be my mind playing tricks on me. Or perhaps this was what powerful magic felt like. After all, I had healed the Haciendo without even trying. The experience was both frightening and thrilling at the same time.

I looked back up at him, heat coloring my cheeks. “Are you all right, sir?”

His face smoothed into a calm, almost charming smile. “It would appear so. Thanks to you.”

“Thanks to the relic,” I said. “I’ve never seen one so powerful.”

The Haciendo and the expert exchanged a swift but meaningful glance. “Indeed.”

“I’m sorry about the glass. I didn’t—”

“No need for apologies, señorita.” His voice was smooth and rich with a Spanish accent. “This was clearly an accident.” He turned to the aging expert. “I shall send one of my men to pay for a new case at once, Moon John.”

Then, carefully, the Haciendo lifted the unicorn relic from the glass, wiped the blood away, and laid it into its case. I noticed his hand tremble ever so slightly as he clicked the latches down.

The expert, Moon John, nodded. “I will clean up this mess.”

He headed to the back rooms, but just before moving out of sight, he shot a single, piercing glance back at me. A look that made my breath catch.

The Haciendo held out his hand to help me up with the casual smile of a young man perfectly at ease with the opposite sex. “May I?”

“Thank you.”

I stood on wobbly legs, my head still spinning at the rapid blur of the last few seconds.

When we had stepped away from the shattered glass, the Haciendo turned to Mr. Connelly. “Now,” he said firmly, “what did you do to this girl to make her recoil so violently from you?”

It surprised me to hear the Haciendo address a much older man in such an authoritative tone, but Mr. Connelly only glowered.

“Nothing,” he said. “She’s a clumsy little fool, that’s all.”

“That’s not true!” I said, outraged. “Your man here was speaking to me in a despicable way.”

Mr. Connelly grimaced, and that seemed to be all the Haciendo needed to know what I meant. His jaw tightened. “You must forgive him, miss,” he said. “Percy has all the tact of a mule.”

Mr. Connelly snorted. I glared at him and brushed off my skirt.

“Yes, well, he hopelessly misunderstood what kind of a lady I am, sir.”

“I have no doubt,” the Haciendo said. “And you have my deepest apologies for that. Miss…”

“Davis,” I said out of trained politeness.

“Miss Davis. Again, forgive my servant’s poor treatment of you. Percy’s a good man, though he has a nasty temper.”

His genteel ways threw me off a bit, but I tried not to be too easily won over. He may have been rich and young and even handsome, with his raven hair and amber eyes, but I should not be associating with strange men without a proper introduction.

“Well, thank you for your apology, but since my answer is still a very emphatic no, I believe this conversation is over.”

“Suit yourself.” Mr. Connelly snorted. “I guess beggin’ in the streets sounds better?”

“I’ll find other work.”

The Haciendo sighed a little.

I turned to him, the heat of fear creeping into me. “Surely there’s other work. I may be only a girl, but I’ll wash clothes or dishes. Clean rooms in the hotel. There has to be
something.
”

“We are experiencing hard times here in Burning Mesa, Miss Davis. Indeed, there are many good men who would gladly take the jobs you describe, but alas.”

“It can’t be…”

“Might I accompany you back outside?” The Haciendo offered his arm, and I was so distracted by the bad news about work that I accepted it. We stepped back out into the heat and sand and sunshine of the street.

The Haciendo swept a brisk look at Mr. Connelly. “Fetch the carriage.”

Mr. Connelly turned me a quick glare before stomping off, leaving us in silence. The Haciendo cast his gaze out over the town and shook his head. “I am sorry. These are hard times for all of us.”

I broke away, dizzy with the disappointment the day had become. “I should go.”

“Go where?”

“I apologize again for what happened in the refinery. If you’ll excuse me.”

I turned to leave, but he gently gripped my arm. “Wait.” His eyes searched my face. I could see thoughts flickering behind them, but then a casual smile passed over his lips.

“You know,” he finally said, “I think perhaps I
do
have a job for you. If you will take it.”

I opened my mouth to chastise him again, but he set a preemptive hand on mine. “A most respectable one, I assure you. Complete with room and board.”

“What kind of job? You said there were none.”

“I’m creating a new one,” he said with a smooth smile. “As you may be aware, The Desert Rose is, in fact, an establishment for food and drink. That is its primary purpose. We work our bartender too hard, and I’ve long wondered if we didn’t need a hostess of sorts. Someone to serve drinks when needed, bring out food, clean a little. It’s honest work. And I promise you double what any other job might pay.”

“Why would you offer this to me? Do you think I’ll give in after a while and become one of your
other
employees? Well, I won’t.
Never
. I can tell you that right now.”

The Haciendo smiled. “I believe you.”

“Then why?”

“You have spirit,” he said. “A quality I greatly admire.”

His smile remained, but I noticed the faintest twitch in his gaze. There was more, something he wasn’t saying.

I started to refuse, but something held me back. The offer was tempting. Honest work at double the wage I could earn anywhere else? If I could even
get
a job anywhere else.

But looking again at the Haciendo, I hesitated. I barely knew him. How could I trust him? Besides, I didn’t like his employee, Mr. Connelly. Taking the offer was out of the question.

“I’m sorry. I’m not the kind of girl you’re looking for.”

He analyzed me, a smile curling the side of his mouth, then pulled a large ring from his coat pocket and slid it onto his pointer finger. My breath caught, and a hint of that same, strange heaviness of earth magic tugged inside me. Dryad bone could be polished spring green like that, but it wasn’t usually found in these parts. It must have been purchased from a costly foreign market.

The Haciendo dug a small seed out of the pocket of his red silk vest and held his ringed hand over it. On the palm of his hand, it trembled, then burst into a green coil. The coil stretched until a rose blossomed there in his hand. A desert rose. He smelled it, then tucked the stem in the hair above my ear so smoothly that I didn’t have time to stop him.

“If you change your mind, do let me know.”

It was a trick he’d doubtless charmed many girls with; he probably kept the seeds and ring in his pocket for just such a thing. But even still, color rushed into my cheeks. Noticing this, the young Haciendo flashed an easy smile.

At that moment, Mr. Connelly arrived with the carriage. The Haciendo stepped inside. “By the way, I don’t believe I ever told you my name. How rude of me. I am Álvar Castilla.”

He tapped his fist once on the inner wall of the coach, and the carriage drove off in a cloud of dust and sand.