Crux

“I have to say that Ms. Reece has to be one of the most talented authors on the planet. I know I’m gushing right now, but I loved this book that much.”

— ChristieR (Reader)

“Action-packed with a memorable cast of characters, Crux will easily appeal to teen and adult readers, whether or not they love urban fantasy.”

— Mrs. ReaderPants

“Julie Reece’s CRUX is a refreshing and gritty young adult novel with glimmers of the paranormal, glimpses of the historical, and more than a dash of romance and mystery.”

— Surrounded by Books Reviews

“What a dream to read. I laughed. I cried. I clutched my kindle, wishing I could read faster, frustrated when I couldn’t get to the end fast enough.”

— Jocelyn Adams - Author, The Glass Man

“… the author’s writing has an almost lyrical tone to it, a flow to her prose that can lure you along without you even realising you’ve been captured.”

— J.A. Belfield - Author, Darkness & Light

“So, what did I think about Crux? How best to say this … it was awesome!”

— Emi Gayle - Author, After Dark

CRUX

Julie Reece

J. Taylor Publishing

CRUX

Published by J. Taylor Publishing
www.jtaylorpublishing.com

Copyright © 2012 Julie Reece

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, events, locations, or any other element is entirely coincidental.

ISBN 978-1-937744-06-9 (Paperback)
ISBN 978-1-937744-07-6 (EPUB)

First Printing: July 2012

For Harrison, the warrior

1

A tall blond handsome-for-an-older-type guy rushes toward me on the already crowded sidewalk, hauling an enormous black suitcase.

He plows ahead as though he doesn’t see me, clearly on a mission to get somewhere—fast. In his haste, he knocks my shoulder.

“Easy!” I say, rubbing my throbbing muscle through my coat sleeve.
A girl can’t even walk down the street without getting mowed over by a—

“Find the One. Give it away,” he calls out.

My eyebrows rise as a memory clicks in place.
Oh, my gosh!
Jeff Branner? My eighth grade science teacher? I do a double take. Can’t be him, can it? He’s way too tall.

“Fortune means nothing. This time we must not fail.”

Fortune?
I like money.

A man with gray hair in a three-piece suit keeps pace behind the ‘Jeff’ guy. So do three young guys wearing army jackets, an old, Hispanic lady with a fox stole around her neck, and a mom pushing a sleeping kid in a fancy stroller. I’m not normally the groupie type, but his money comment, along with his trail of disciples, has me more than intrigued.

Hesitation grips me. The clock on the bank across the street reads eleven forty-three. The nice folks from St. Andrew’s Mission hand out food to street people at noon on Sundays. Their chili does a good imitation of runny dog chow, but I haven’t eaten for two days.

Yet the guy’s pull on me is irresistible. I turn toward him, conflicting ideas warring in my brain. Giveaways only happen on game shows and in the movies. That can’t be it, I reason. He could be some homicidal maniac with me his next victim.

Curiosity gives me a final shove. I abandon ideas of a hot meal, and jog to catch up with the others.

The young brunette pushing the stroller scowls at me over her shoulder.

‘Jeff’
surges ahead like a locomotive. We trail him, and his suitcase, three blocks before venturing down a side alley, away from the larger crowds.

He finally stops at a set of stone stairs, peers up and down the alley, empty aside from our little group. An iron gate wrapped in chains and padlocks seals entry to gothic oak doors at the top step. Ruby glass adorns both inner panels. The craftsmanship indicates wealth, but the building appears long abandoned.

Why is he stopping here?

The stench of urine permeates the surrounding concrete, suggesting homeless sleep in the alcove at night. The smell insults the pretty scene, but what can be done? This is Atlanta.

Jeff faces us, sweeps his dirty-blond hair back from his forehead. A five o’clock shadow darkens his jaw, while an expensive, taupe trench coat envelops his body down to his calves. His face contorts as if in pain. If I had my sketchbook, I would draw him and try to capture the exquisite expression of torture on his face.

“I’ve failed in my duty, ruined my life with pride and greed.” Despite his faded accent, he speaks in a clear voice. He rubs his hand over the back of his neck. “I’ve had everything, every pleasure money can buy. It wasn’t enough. I wanted the world.”

Don’t we all?
I’m tempted to smile until
I glance at the strangers around me.
Their expressions are pensive, expectant. They’re taking the crazy guy seriously.

“I sought the wrong path for years, and now I’m going to die,” Jeff continues.

Well that sucks.

“I hereby bequeath all my worldly goods to you …” He stops waxing eloquent to focus on us, maybe for the first time. “One, two, three …”

I hear him count us off under his breath.

“… to you seven good people, from all walks of life.” His gaze lands on me. “I charge you to manage this, in the hopes you will be better stewards than I. But I warn you, if you think only of yourselves, you’ll find my gift a curse.”

Ooooh, that’s ominous.
I eye the big, black suitcase. Anything could be hiding in that sucker. I guess it’s why the lot of us stand here like desperate fools. It occurs to me to feel sorry for the nutcase. He says he’s going to die and is clearly miserable for the choices he’s made in his life.
Preachin’ to the choir, man.

Jeff kneels. He hunches over the suitcase and unzips the top. My stomach muscles clench. The three guys in army jackets square their shoulders. The young mother to my left licks her lips. Mr. Fancy Business Suit in front of me takes his hands from his pockets and cracks his knuckles.

Really? You guys know there’s probably nothing more than newspaper inside, right? Pop Tarts, a body …
I move around the Suit to get a better view of the speaker’s actions.
Hypocrite.

My movement breaks the maybe-this-isn’t-really-happening spell. Everyone inches closer, tensing.

Jeff places his hand over the case and gazes at us. Incredible sadness tugs the corners of his eyes down. “It’s cursed. I caution you again. Do good, or it will haunt you.”

I believe him.

He throws back the lid, revealing stacks and stacks of hundred dollar bills.

My brain explodes in disbelief.
It’s real? Yes, stupid, real. Now move!

Jeff pries the money loose from packaged bundles and throws it into the air by the handful. Printed, green rain flutters down the steps and into the alley. The seven of us move in unison, grappling like Titanic survivors for a seat on the last dinghy. One of the army guys, a redhead, knocks the old lady to the ground. That seriously pisses me off. I stop shoving money into my backpack to help her up.

“You okay?”

She nods and jerks her arm from under my hand, stooping to gather more cash. I don’t know why, but her response surprises me.
You’d think a grandmother would at least say thank you.

As grandma returns to the bedlam, I run to the stairs and scoop more money from the pavement, filling my pockets this time. There is less of it now. The seven of us make quick work of the clean up.

Jeff comes down the steps toward me and squeezes my shoulder. “I saw that … what you did.”

Crap, what’d I do?
He towers over me.
My survival instincts kick in, and I wrench
my body from his grasp. If there’s a list of top ten things a person shouldn’t do, grabbing a homeless girl must be near the top.

“You helped that woman when she fell.” It sounds like an accusation.

“Oh, yeah … well. That jerk knocked her down. I wouldn’t count on him to be your next great philanthropist, dude.”

“No. But you might be.” He takes hold of my wrist, setting off my self-preservation alarm again.

“Look, Jeff, you can’t just grab—”

He pushes a velvet bag into my palm. “Put this away. Don’t let the others see. This is my curse, but it could mean salvation if you will serve something outside yourself. You are my choice. I ended up alone; no spirit came to warn this Ebenezer before it was too late.” His stunted laugh sounds deranged. “I think you may be different.”

The guy is so cryptic. I don’t know what the heck he’s talking about, but he scares the pee out of me. I slip the bag into my backpack while my eyes fixate on a vein pulsating up the side of his head. “Sure, sure, I’ll do my best by you. Thanks, man, for all of this, by the way.”
Mr. Crazy Guy.

Our little group has cleared all the money from the alley. The mom with the stroller is already gone. Jeff runs past those left in the alleyway, back toward the street. “Remember the poor,” he wails like a bad horror movie. “Remember, or face the consequences!”

The guy is nothing if not consistent. I watch grandma disappear around the corner, her speed indicating no permanent injury from the earlier scuffle. I follow, surprised to find everyone who shared my experience has simply melted into the throng of Sunday pedestrians.

The three army-jacket-wearing men lean against a wrought iron fence around a fountain. The trio includes the redhead from the alley, along with a flat-nosed, bald guy, and an older kid with greasy, black hair and a bad complexion. They lift their chins at the same time as if they’ve been waiting. I turn and head in the opposite direction.

“Hey, don’t be like that, Blondie.” One calls. “We only wanna talk to you.”

My chest tightens.

“Yeah, wait up,” a deeper voice continues. “What’d money bags say to you back there? Hang on a minute. No one’s gonna hurt you, honey. We’re just curious.”

Yeah, right.
I don’t look back. Instead, I push myself, weaving through the crowd as fast as I dare without breaking into a run. Running implies guilt, and I don’t need any snooping cops asking questions like: ‘Who are you? Where do you live? Why do you have thousands of dollars stuffed in your pockets?’
So annoying.

Behind me, footsteps shuffle at a brisker pace than those of a casual shopper. My neck muscles tense. I tug the strap off my shoulder, shifting my backpack to my chest where I hug it tightly.

“We’re going to have a chat now, Blondie.” The voice calls to the back of my head. “Play nice, and don’t do anything dumb.”

Ahead and to my left, a group of people sit outside a little café eating brunch in the crisp fall weather. In desperation, I jog to the rail encircling the porch, slip over the waist high wrought iron, and sit in an empty chair at their table.

All eyes rivet on me, the uninvited stranger who invades their quiet morning. I glance up as the three overgrown bullies pass by. They step to the other end of the bistro and plop themselves at another table.

Crap. Crap, crap, crap.

My involuntary hosts lean back, eyes wide, waiting for some explanation, I presume. It’s usually best to tell as much of the truth as possible. Sometimes, people are even decent. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, but can I sit with you?” I lift one finger. “Um, just for a minute. I’m alone, and some boys are following me. I got scared.”

Everyone stiffens, each giving the others a what-the-hell type glance. I am obviously ruining their nice, upper middle-class morning.
Aw, what a shame.
Well, we all have our little difficulties, don’t we?

A man in his forties—one who looks like he could model for Ralph Lauren’s men’s line—cocks a brow. His jaw locks as his eyes roam my ratty tan coat and messy hair. “Take it easy,” he says. “Where are they?”

When I don’t answer, he follows my line of sight across the porch to the three stooges glaring back at me. “It’s okay, just sit tight.”

“Should we call the police?” says the woman seated next to him. I notice her blue eyes, petite form, and scan the landscape of the other half dozen folks only to realize I have landed myself at the ‘beautiful people’ table.

“Mom, don’t overreact,” says a girl of maybe eighteen—same as me.

I smile at her, grateful for the support.

“Please, if it’s okay, can I wait here until they go away? I don’t want a scene.”

There’s an awkward silence. I guess the father-model decides we might as well get to know each other. He points to his chest. “I’m Scott Mathews.” His finger moves as he talks. “And this is my overreacting wife, Adele.” Mrs. Mathews pushes her husband’s shoulder. He grins at her. “Your champion defender here is my daughter, Kate. These are our closest friends, Tom and Jess Bowen and their sons, Dylan and Scud. Last, but not least, at the very end, is my son, Grey.”

There are attractive people in this world, and there’s the Mathew’s son, Grey. His hair is almost black, like his father’s. It falls in uneven lengths across his forehead. Glacial blue eyes stare at me through heavy lashes, reminding me of a Husky that used to live next to foster parents I’d had. He doesn’t smile. I’ve got no clue what he’s thinking, and I’m usually pretty good at guessing.

“Nice to meet you. I, I’m … um. Everyone calls me Birdie.” My cheeks burn as I stammer. My real name is Rebecca Orin, and I’d almost blurted it out. You
never
give anyone your real name.
Get a grip!
What would Grey think of me? Nothing, that’s what. I’ll never see him again. A person in my situation can’t afford to go gaga over some cute guy.

The gorgeous people stare at me. Did I fall into a TV drama? I feel ridiculous being introduced to Middle America while I, and the three army jackets, carry unknown amounts of cash on our persons—cash given to us by some psycho Wall Street type with a sudden attack of conscience.

Another uncomfortable silence ensues. Mrs. Mathews squirms in her seat, kneading her hands together. She lifts her head and blurts out, “Are you hungry?”

I glance at her half-eaten mushroom omelet with longing. “No, thank you. I’m fine, really.”

Liar. Stupid pride.
I want to get away. Go somewhere safe. Count my money and make a plan. The eyes of the redhead in fatigues are still on me. He reclines in his seat like he’s posing for the cover of ‘Thug Life’ magazine. Steel grates against concrete as Grey slides his chair back. He’s positioned where he could watch me
and
the redhead. “Your admirers seem to be sticking around, and we were just headed out,” Mr. Mathews tone stays light, but stiff shoulders betray his concern. “Can we call someone? Take you anywhere?”

No good. There’s no one to call, and I can’t very well count my loot over at the Delta Women’s shelter. Not in a room of forty bunk beds filled with hard-luck women.

I glance at Grey as he stares the redhead down. My cheeks grow warm. I don’t want to admit to these people I live at Delta. Not to the Beautiful Ones.

I tear my eyes from Grey. “Could you drop me at the library?”

Mr. Mathews peeks at his watch and frowns.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “You’re late for something? It’s really fine. I’ll just wait here a while, no prob.”

“I’ll take her,” says a curt voice from the end of the table.

My head snaps up to view Grey’s icy eyes trained on me. I squeeze my backpack tighter.