The amber stone, p.1
The Amber Stone, page 1
Table of Contents
The Amber Stone
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Epilogue
Also Available
About the Author
Copyright Information
The Amber Stone
Dara Girard
Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC
www.iloripressbooks.com
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author.
***
Dedication
To my family of readers and friends.
Prologue
Late 1700s
Martin Hamilton could feel the hard earth against his bare feet as he ran towards the cool, dark allure of the Caribbean Sea. Behind him he heard the sound of dogs, and the yellow glow of torches shone against the night sky. The rebellion was lost and there was no way to escape the island. He’d soon be captured and his life would finish at the end of a rope.
But he’d rather die by his own hands. If he could get to the water, that would be his victory.
“Not that way,” a voice said.
He halted, but when he looked around he saw nothing.
“Come,” the voice said, then he felt a hand on his arm.
He knew the rough grip of that hand. When he looked up, he could barely make out the dark features of his friend, BC. They’d once worked on the same sugar plantation, but Martin never knew his full name. He wondered if he’d even been given one.
BC turned sharply to the right and Martin followed him. He knew better than to ask questions, but when they reached the sea, his courage left him.
“I can’t swim,” he said, knowing there would be no escape for him.
BC smiled, his teeth white in the moonlight. “I can. Just hold your breath,” he said then dragged Martin into the water.
Martin held his breath until he thought he couldn’t hold it anymore. Soon he thought he’d see his mother again in the afterlife.
His mother. A woman who’d died with memories of Ireland—the land she’d never see again—on her lips. A servant since the age of six, she’d been bred by an African rebel and the master of the house. Her offspring had been scattered, but Martin had made his way back to her, their time together too brief.
He reached the surface, painfully gulping in the air he needed. Then his eyes adjusted to the dark, damp stillness around him and knew he was in a cave. He pulled himself out of the water.
“Continue down this tunnel,” BC told him in a hushed voice. “It will take you far, far from here. If they catch you, you were not there.”
Martin stiffened at the suggestion. He knew that he must never admit to being part of the rebellion if he wished to live. But he didn’t want to deny his rage; the deaths he’d witnessed.
“It’s a new battle you’ll fight,” BC said, as if reading his mind.
Martin nodded, understanding the meaning.
“Go,” his friend said, then pressed a smooth, round object in Martin’s hand before he disappeared into the water.
Chapter One
Middle 2000s
“I told you not to come back here.”
Teresa Clifton wasn’t surprised by the cold reception. The Wright Herb Shop was the last place she wanted to be. When she entered the store, what always bothered her the most was what was missing. She saw rows of jars and potted herbs and heard the light hum of mood music playing, sometimes a flute, sometimes a harp, but she didn’t smell anything. Not the faint fragrance of lavender or vanilla, or even fresh mint or wood. The lack of any fragrance made the atmosphere feel hollow—like a sham. Synthetic rather than genuine. But the atmosphere wasn’t the only thing wrong with the store. Helene Wright was the other.
The moment Teresa entered the shop, Helene had made her way over to her with the focus of a heat-seeking missile. She was a stocky woman who could never be thin, the curves of her body exuding a warmth she didn’t have. She and her husband, Dr. Thomas Wright, owned the store and had run it for years. She had a face as cute and cuddly as a teddy bear and a personality as prickly as thorns. Few saw past her bright smile to the iron behind it. Teresa had once fallen for her charm, but now knew better.
The Wright Herb Shop was located in Bedford, an upscale part of town perfectly situated in a place where people could easily afford the marked up prices and the advertised classes for yoga, aromatherapy, massage and acupuncture that hung on the wall. It was expertly designed to give a homey, earthy feel, the tones muted, with crystals near the window catching the thin winter light peeking through the grey clouds. She had helped with the design.
But despite the prime location, the rows of jars filled with fancy leaves and oils, the polished wooden floors and railing that led to the upper level, Teresa felt a lack of true care for its patrons. She hadn’t stepped inside the herb shop in years, but had come for one reason.
She looked at the bottle in her hand and held it up. “I’m worried about this company. Two months ago I suggested Marla Wessler at the nursing facility take valerian root to deal with her anxiety and insomnia. Instead she still hasn’t been able to sleep and developed a rash.”
Helene blinked, looking bored. “And you’re telling me this because—?”
“Another friend of hers at the home is taking garlic supplements, but also wasn’t seeing improvements until I showed her how to use garlic cloves in the kitchen. Her doctor has been amazed by her improvement.”
“Again, I fail to see—”
“I don’t think these supplements are real.”
Helene quickly looked around the room to make sure no one else had over heard them, then grabbed Teresa’s arm and shoved her towards the door. “Get out.”
“I think Valley Ray Supplements are fraudulent.”
She opened the front door. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
“Why are you using them instead of Marchant like you used to?”
“Because they are a popular local company and no one else has been complaining.”
“But—”
“Are you a doctor?”
Teresa gritted her teeth. “You know very well that—”
“You don’t want to mess with me, Teresa. That would be a mistake.”
“This isn’t about you. People could get hurt and—”
“You may have gotten away with fooling my aunt and most of the people here,” Helene smoothly interrupted as if Teresa hadn’t spoken. “But I know the truth,” Helene smiled. It was one of her signature expressions and she only used it when she wanted to offer a warning instead of a threat. The smile was simple—it emphasized the smoothness of her skin (‘due to our special line of creams,’ she liked to say without mentioning that she’d never had problems with her complexion), and the light in her eyes had enough mystery to make one nervous about her intentions. “Come back here again and I’ll make your life hell.” She removed imaginary fuzz from Teresa’s coat. “Think about that.”
“If you’re not careful, one of these bottles could make someone sick. And they could possibly die.”
“Yes, well you would be an authority on that, so I’ll keep it in mind.” She looked past Teresa at two clients coming to the door and smiled. “Excuse me, I have work to do. Some of us have to earn a living.”
Teresa gripped the bottle in her hand. Helene was right. She had no proof, only her suspicions and there hadn’t been other complaints. Perhaps Mrs. Wessler and her friend hadn’t been using it correctly, but something felt off. She didn’t know what. She left the shop feeling defeated.
The following morning she sat on a boulder, lost in her thoughts, as she stared out at the waters of Hollow Cove, glancing at the older couple several yards away who’d braved the winter chill to enjoy the view. She was about to turn away when she saw a man rise out of the water like a son of Poseidon, an immortal warrior ready for battle, with the arrogance of expected victory swirling around him like a cloak. His body—the color of cocoa butter with a dash of cinnamon—cut through the fingers of the wave like a seal, producing a series of little ripples. Teresa clutched the rock she sat on, her knuckles paled as she watched, mesmerized, wondering if her mind was de
Teresa shook her head, trying to analyze what she had seen. She had only recently begun coming to the bay again to calm her sudden restlessness and feelings of helplessness. Her confrontation with Helene was just one of a series of recent failures. It had been four months, but she still felt shell-shocked by the death of her friend Bess Richman, who’d collapsed from a massive heart attack at only fifty-three. It opened up the wound of losing her parents nearly three years before from pneumonia. And then there were the nightmares that attacked her sleep in their vicious and haunting ways. She sought solace here, desperate to find a way to calm her nerves.
Hollow Cove was a hidden alcove off of Catlon Bay and was not a place frequented by many. After hiking a harrowing rocky path down a nearly vertical hill, the beach itself was rocky except for a small section of soft sand for people to laze on. In the distance, rocks rose up like monolithic sculptures varying in shape and size like new recruits to the army. Further down the cove, caves created great hiding places for children and lovers wanting to find a private place.
Though not a place of beauty, Teresa came to this part of the bay to drink her morning or evening coffee and to collect different debris that washed up on the bank—shells, twigs, bottles. She sometimes hoped to find that proverbial note in a bottle carrying a message from a distant place—a sailor lost at sea, a lover waiting for his darling to return. Or she would write poetry in the little notebook she kept in her pocket and try to make sense of her life. Most of the time her trips were uneventful—until today.
Today was the first time she had ever seen a swimmer. If people wanted to be by the water, there was the commercialized area located downtown, with boardwalks, restaurants and a meticulously clean beach. Now, it was a dot in the distance, with buildings rising like concrete trees. Wealthy homes were spotted around the water like great toy houses.
However, Teresa preferred the quiet, the feeling of being alone in a special hidden place; hearing the morning tide crawl up the sandy beach and sink back like an indecisive guest. Who was this intruder that swam on a day that was probably 50 degrees? She acknowledged the coming hints of spring that whispered its arrival, with buds stretching their arms, green grass appearing under the slush of dirty snow, and warmer afternoons, but it was still a cold late February.
Teresa wrapped her blue wool coat tighter around herself. February mornings at the cove were brutal, but the cold wind invigorated her. She watched the man tread towards the shore, his blue trunks clinging to firm legs and a nice solid bottom. Taking her eyes off him, she saw what at first looked like a moving rock come up to greet him. It turned out to be a little grey cat.
The cat nuzzled against his wet leg and he sprinkled it with some water, which it seemed to delight in. It stood on its hind legs to catch the falling drops as if performing a dance. The man bent down to stroke the cat, then looked up to the sky—a clear blue sky that for many days had been white with clouds. The sun was continuing its ascent so half of his face was hidden by shadow. He smiled gently. The sound of seagulls could be heard above.
Teresa wondered what secret thoughts he hid behind that expression. If she were standing half-naked and wet on a cold winter day she would be thinking she was losing her mind, but the man seemed unconcerned as he wrapped a towel around his neck and stretched out his body, lunging and twisting like an athlete getting ready for a race.
She crouched down, hoping he wouldn’t catch her staring. He could be an athlete, she reasoned. His torso was heavily muscled, his shoulders wide, his legs firm. He was hairier than she usually liked men to be—dark hair curled, forming a V on his chest—but he was in excellent shape. He turned back to the water like a merman missing his home and mumbled something to his feline companion. The cat seemed to nod in response.
The man was just about to leave when he turned and looked at her. Teresa gasped, shocked by the awareness that seemed to cut through the distance between them. Her heart pounded in her chest as if she had run a marathon. He did not smile, wave or frown. He just studied her as she had him a few moments before, his gaze questioning her presence there. Teresa grew uncomfortable by the direct way he looked at her. She offered a shy smile, just to break the moment, but he did not return the expression.
She turned away, pretending to find better things to occupy her attention. Teresa had a strange feeling that she knew him; that he knew her. To her dismay, the feeling of awareness did not leave her. She quickly glanced up to see if he was gone. He wasn’t. Her pulse quickened when she realized he was coming towards her. She resisted a wild urge to get up and run, but felt paralyzed in place and anxiously waited for his approach.
“It’s nice weather we’re having,” he said in a casual tone as if addressing a friend.
She peered up at him and smiled, trying to keep her eyes on his face instead of his chest. “Yes, quite.”
He stared at her for another moment. She couldn’t quite read the expression in his eyes because of the shadows. He glanced quickly at her lap, then back up at her face. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Do you usually like spilling coffee on yourself?”
She stared at him with a blank expression. “I beg your pardon?”
He nodded towards her lap. Teresa looked down and saw that coffee was seeping from her thermos and dripping on her skirt. Already a large stain was spreading like a milky brown blob.
She leaped to her feet. She had completely forgotten about her coffee. “Oh no,” she cried, trying to brush the stain away.
“You’re only making it worse,” he said, grabbing her wrist. “Here.” He dabbed at the stain using his towel with a gentleness she had not expected. “This skirt needs to go straight into a washing machine.”
Teresa didn’t respond. She couldn’t. The touch of his hand had left her immobile. She felt her restlessness disappear, replaced with an eerie calm. That had never happened before. Usually by focusing and touching someone else—a gift she’d discovered in her early teens—she could sense something about them, at times even seeing visions of their past, but this time, just the feel of his hand around her wrist opened up an unexpected connection and awareness about him. She knew he had the hands of a healer, that he’d suffered a terrible loss and now saw life through his head and not his heart. His heart had been broken. She suddenly felt shocked and embarrassed by all that she sensed, as if she’d stumbled upon someone’s intimate diary.
She stared at his bent head, wishing the waves would wash her and this entire incident away.
He stood, tossing the towel over his shoulder. That’s when she saw it. A silver necklace, with a charm—accented with tiny amber stones—glittering in the sun, lying flat on his chest. It was elegantly made with no particular meaning to an observer, but a pattern of lines melding into one. She’d seen it before...she knew it. But how? Where? Why did it fill her with both anticipation and dread? Who was this man?
She took an involuntary step back, tripping over the rock she had been sitting on and falling backwards. Fortunately, she grabbed her skirt before it fell over her head.
“Are you all right?” the man asked, leaning over her. He sounded concerned. Teresa was now certain he thought she belonged in a nuthouse.
She quickly righted herself, ignoring the stranger’s offered hand, unsure she could bear his touch again, and brushed sand from her skirt, trying to get her bearings. She briefly looked at the necklace once more then turned away. “Yes, thank you.”
“Did my cat scare you? He’s harmless...usually.”
“No, not at all.”
“You’re fine then?”
“Yes.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but shrugged his shoulders in an impatient manner and nodded. “Good day then.”
She was about to say ‘good day’ too before she heard a splash.
He paused. “What was that?”
“I don’t know.” She knew it was something big, but she couldn’t imagine what. The few people around them didn’t seem to be bothered, but she sensed something was wrong and he did too. A terrible feeling of dread shot through her a second time, then she looked out and saw something floating in the water. She pointed. “What is that?”
