Myth and Magic

by Mae Clair

Genres: Fairy Tales, Folk Tales, Legends & Mythology; Magical Realism; Women's Fiction; Romantic Suspense; Supernatural suspense; Suspense

Synopsis

AS CHILDREN THEY PLAYED GAMES OF MYTH AND MAGIC… Veronica Kent fell in love with Caith Breckwood when they were children. As a teenager, she was certain he was the man she was destined to marry. But a traumatic event from Caith's past led him to fear a future together. He left Veronica, hoping to save her from a terrible fate. Twelve years later, Caith, now a P.I., is hired to investigate bizarre incidents at the secluded retreat Veronica manages. Returning to his hometown, Caith is forced to face his nightmares—and his feelings for the woman he’s always loved. THEN ONE DAY THE MONSTERS BECAME REAL. After the callous way Caith broke her heart, Veronica isn’t thrilled to see him again. But strange occurrences have taken a dangerous toll on business at Stone Willow Lodge. Forced to work together, Veronica discovers it isn’t ghostly apparitions that frighten her, but her passion for a man she has never forgotten. Or forgiven. Can two people with a tarnished past unearth a magical future?

Release date: June 9, 2015

Publisher: Lyrical Press

Print pages: 246

Sample

 

“Stone Willow Hounded by Dead Dog”

Veronica Kent frowned at the newspaper headline. She’d hoped for a diversion from monthly budget projections, not another tabloid report to fan her irritation, but should have known better. Stone Willow Lodge and Breckwood Industries made it into Kelly Rice’s Coldcreek Herald so frequently she’d been forced to become a regular reader in order to counter fallout. Managing the lodge for BI made it a necessity.

Standing, she pressed her hands to the small of her back and stretched. The clock on her desk read 9:14, an hour supported by the creaks and groans of the old house as the lodge settled around her. Her office was comfortable, a stroll down the hall from the main reception area, tucked around the corner from her suite. She should call it a night and curl up with a book on her couch. The budget reports weren’t due until the end of the week and quitting time had been hours ago. If she had any sense at all, she would have met Merlin at the Jade Club.

Her gaze returned to the newspaper and its revolting headline. Curiosity got the better of her and she sank into her desk chair, focusing on the article.

 

“Stone Willow Hounded by Dead Dog”

Unexplained circumstances continue to escalate at Stone Willow Lodge where everything from random thefts to rumors of supernatural occurrences plague the struggling corporate retreat. Yesterday, the mutilated carcass of a dog was discovered in a guest suite. Avoiding specific details, Sheriff Duke Cameron would state only that the grisly remains, likely those of a stray, were found by a guest Tuesday evening. Not your typical turndown service.

 

Damn, the witch! Veronica bit her lip, silently fuming as she continued to read.

 

Site manager, Veronica Kent, was unavailable for comment, but Breckwood Industries chief operations officer, Aren Breckwood, insists the corporation has the situation under control. According to Mr. Breckwood: “Our primary concern is for the safety and continued enjoyment of our guests.”

Stone Willow Lodge remains an established landmark in Coldcreek. The retreat incorporates part of the original Warren Barrister House, the site where Barrister brutally murdered his wife and children on a winter night in 1873. Coincidentally, an employee of the lodge claims to have seen Barrister’s ghost, while several guests have reported the apparition of a sobbing woman roaming the hallways at night.

Fantasy or hoax? Either way, Breckwood Industries has managed to ensure their dying retreat is in the limelight once again.

 

Veronica flung the paper on her desk. Kelly Rice had been a thorn in her side since high school when they’d butted heads over everything from boys to clothes to grades. Kelly was determined to share Stone Willow’s misfortunes with the rest of Coldcreek, writing up every mishap and problem as headline news.

Incidents had begun several weeks ago when one of the guests had spotted a “glowing apparition” by the lake. A woman in a long white veil, the guest, Kay Porter, had said. When she’d tried to speak to the mysterious woman, she’d retreated into the surrounding woods and vanished.

Other incidents followed: disembodied lights weaving through the trees, a room that stayed frigid despite attempts to heat it, locked doors yawning open, creaks and groans that had nothing to do with the settling of the lodge, even spoiled food and missing items.

Let me get my magic wand, Merlin Breckwood had joked. I’ll send the demons packing.

Her sometimes-boyfriend rarely took anything seriously. Probably why their on-again off-again relationship never lasted more than a few weeks at a time. Like his three brothers, Merlin had been named for a character from myth, something that had played an important part in their childhood. If only myth still held the same magic.

The phone rang a shrill intrusion, and she snatched up the handset in an attempt to quell her irritation. “Hello?”

“Veronica, it’s Melanie.” The hesitation in the other woman’s voice gave Veronica a sense of what was coming. “I thought you should know I ran into Merlin at the Jade Club.”

“Who was he with? A blonde or a brunette?” Surprisingly, she didn’t care. Twenty-nine and single. Her love life was going nowhere. “It’s no big deal, Melanie. Merlin and I are in the friend stage again.”

“Hmm…” Melanie didn’t sound convinced. A good friend, she was the wife of Aren Breckwood, Merlin’s older brother.

“I know exactly what Merlin’s like,” Veronica said. For all his outward sparkle, Merlin Breckwood was self-centered and thoughtless. A sad turn of events for a boy who’d been charismatic and fun-loving in childhood. “Merlin and I are…convenient. I don’t think we were ever in love. He’s free to see other people.”

“What about you?”

Her throat closed up as she thought of Merlin’s younger brother, Caithelden. “There isn’t anyone for me. Pretty pathetic, huh?”

She’d been eleven when her parents had moved to Coldcreek and she’d met Caith. He’d been the boy with the funny name until Derrick Trask taught her how to pronounce it—Caith-el-den—pausing on each syllable until she got it right.

Her eyes shifted to a small framed photo on her desk, a cherished keepsake of better days. Eager young faces smiled back at her: Merlin, and his dark-haired brother Caith, Trask in a battered green ball cap, and her, all freckles and straight blond hair, as gangly-limbed as a newborn colt. It was the last photo of the four of them together.

“I don’t want Merlin to hurt you,” Melanie said.

“Don’t worry. I told you we’re just friends. One of these days I’m going to find someone as wonderful as your Aren and have a storybook romance.”

“Well, you’re probably right about Merlin. As much as I love the little brat, he’s clueless about relationships. I say dump the cover boy and move on.”

Veronica laughed. “I’ll consider it. Right now I owe Aren budget reports.”

“Mr. Taskmaster.” There was a smile in Melanie’s voice.

“He’s adorable, and you know it.”

“True, but it would be nice to see him blow a gasket now and then. Just to know he’s human like the rest of us. I’ll let you go. I know you’re busy.”

“Okay. Talk to you later.” Veronica’s thoughts returned to Caith as she hung up the phone. He’d been sandwiched between Merlin and Aren in personality, not as extroverted as Merlin, not as willing to bend as Aren. His stubbornness was the reason he’d left Coldcreek and his family twelve years ago after a horrible falling-out with his father.

Merlin was a pale imitation and a convenient replacement. Was it any wonder he flirted with other women? He had to know her heart had always belonged to his brother. She was a pathetic mess, in love with a memory.

Her eyes dropped to her desk calendar. The anniversary of Trask’s death was fast approaching. Halloween. What might have been different if he’d lived? If they’d all grown up together, unscathed by tragedy? Caith might never have made the choices that drove them apart.

The phone rang a second time.

Thinking it was Melanie, Veronica snatched up the handset. “Hey, I thought you were going to let me get back to my budget reports?”

“Go to the lobby,” a man’s voice said.

“Excuse me?”

“Go to the lobby,” the unfamiliar voice repeated. “I left something in the fireplace.”

Click. The line went dead.

Suddenly uneasy, Veronica suppressed a chill. The familiar creaks and groans of the old lodge had stopped, replaced by unnatural stillness. She felt trapped, confined behind her desk, a target for a faceless assailant lurking outside. The hair prickled on the nape of her neck, sending a string of goose bumps racing down her arms. Crossing to the door, she held her breath then paused on the threshold, listening for telltale signs of intrusion. She’d always enjoyed the lodge’s remote location, tucked in the woods of northwestern Pennsylvania, but at the moment wished it weren’t so isolated. She couldn’t hear anything over the frightened thumping of her heart.

Some creep’s playing a game. He probably saw Kelly’s article and thought it would be fun to scare me.

It was working.

Before the incident with the dog, Alma Kreider, Stone Willow’s cook, had sworn she’d seen the ghost of Warren Barrister standing on the basement stairs. Veronica had heard eerie sobbing during a routine check of the vacant third floor two days earlier. Whether the occurrences were supernatural or contrived, they were mounting and unquestionably spooky.

Forcing herself to stay calm, she crept down the hallway, her tread light by nature. As a child, Merlin had compared her to a fairy queen, saying she looked the part with honey-kissed hair and green eyes. They’d been enraptured by myth and magic in those days, unaware there were real monsters in the world. Monsters like the men who’d murdered Trask and destroyed Caith’s life.

Shaking the memories aside, she stepped into the lobby. All looked as it should be. The back of the check-in desk was visible, webbed in patches of velvety shadow. Towering glass windows hugged a cathedral ceiling, crisscrossed by thick wooden beams. Scattered rugs in earthy shades of russet, cinnamon, and pebble gray added warmth to the wide-plank pine floors. A fire crackled in the massive mountain stone hearth. Lew Walden, the lodge’s caretaker, must have kindled it earlier. By habit, he’d return later to ensure it was out before retiring to his cottage at the southwest corner of the property.

I left something in the fireplace, the caller had said.

Veronica hugged close the collar of her bulky green sweater and padded across the waxed floor in stocking feet. She was still several feet away when her mind processed the sight.

A charred, cracked lump, broken by knobby protrusions of white, burned on top of the stacked logs. Something popped with the sound of cooking meat.

Choking on terror, she stumbled backward with a scream.

A severed human hand was swaddled within the dancing flames.

* * * *

“Drink this.” Aren Breckwood shoved a cup of hot tea under her nose.

Veronica caught a whiff of vanilla and chamomile, but the soothing aroma did little to calm her nerves. She set the cup aside on an end table. “I’m not crazy.”

“I never said you were.”

Seated on a couch in the lobby, she tried to ignore the commotion swirling around her. Phone calls had brought Aren and the police. The few guests in residence at the lodge were gathered at the foot of the sweeping staircase, whispering among themselves as they watched the confusion. Lew Walden trailed the sheriff and two of his deputies as they inspected the fireplace and scoured the lobby. The fire had long since been doused, nothing but charred wood found in the hearth. A good hour had passed since she’d discovered the severed hand, but the grisly sight remained ingrained in her head.

“I know what I saw.” She’d left the lobby only long enough to dash to her office and call the police. When she’d returned the hand was gone, the fire crackling undisturbed. “I’m not crazy.”

“I don’t doubt you, Veronica, it’s just—” Aren halted when she looked quickly in his direction. “All right, all right.” He raised both hands. “I know we’ve discussed it before. Something’s obviously going on here.”

“And you need to do something about it.” She stood, hooking her shoulder-length hair behind her ear. “BI needs to take control or there isn’t going to be a lodge left. Do you know how hard it is keeping the few guests I have? You and Galen have to do something. Soon.”

Flicking a glance over her shoulder, she took note of the officers milling in the background. “The police already think I’m delusional. This is the fourth time I’ve called without proof. Most of the incidents have been things we can’t prove or look foolish mentioning. If it weren’t for the dead dog in the Hummingbird Suite, they’d have me committed.”

Aren nodded. “Whoever’s pulling these stunts has it down to a science.” Frowning, he glanced around the room. “I left a message on Merlin’s cell. I thought he’d be here.”

“Didn’t Melanie tell you? He’s at the Jade Club.”

“Again?” He scowled. “It must have slipped her mind. She wanted to come herself, but bringing the boys—”

“Would have been a mistake. Noah and Matt don’t need to be exposed to this.”

Smart, pretty, and poised, Melanie had twin nine-year-old sons with Aren. Sometimes Veronica positively envied her friend’s life.

“You’ll call and let her know you’re all right?” Aren studied her sharply. “I mean…you are okay, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” She tensed, noting the approach of Sheriff Duke Cameron. There was little doubt she commanded the position of honor on his most-irritating-calls-from-whackos list. They’d grown up together but had never been close. Tall, with a slightly paunched middle and straw-colored hair, he was the same age as Merlin.

“Ms. Kent.” Beaming an ingratiatingly false smile, Duke halted at her side. “We, uh…we seem to be coming up blank here, Veronica.”

“Then you’re not looking hard enough. I know what I saw, Duke.”

“Veronica,” Aren interrupted.

She sent him an annoyed glance, but he directed his next words to Duke, trying to soothe ruffled feathers. “It’s not that we don’t think you aren’t trying, Sheriff, but these occurrences are getting out of hand.”

Duke chuckled nervously, probably weighing his options. It was no secret Coldcreek’s stability and wealth revolved around BI. It wouldn’t do to make an enemy of its chief operations officer. “As I’ve told you before, Mr. Breckwood, there’s just no proof. No signs of forced entry, no evidence left behind, not even traces of anything unusual in the fireplace. I can leave a man here for twenty-four hours as a precaution. We’ve done it before.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Aren said.

Veronica wasn’t so sure. The presence of an officer would provide an added measure of comfort to the guests, but the decision was up to Aren. Come morning, most would probably pack their bags and hightail it to the nearest exit anyway.

“What about the phone call?” she asked Duke. “Are you suggesting I dreamt that up, too?”

“We’re not suggesting you dreamt up anything, Veronica. It’s just…” Uneasily, he looked at Aren. “Based on our findings, there’s little we can do.”

“Understood.” Aren offered his hand. “We appreciate your time, Sheriff.”

Looking relieved to be off the hook, Duke shook Aren’s hand and departed with a quick nod.

“The man is worthless,” Veronica mumbled in disgust.

Aren chuckled. “You haven’t liked him since he sent you that valentine in the eighth grade and said it was from Caith.”

Leave it to Aren to remember something as silly as the valentine. Duke had sent it to her and signed Caith’s name, thinking it a clever joke. To this day she wasn’t certain who’d been more mortified, she or Caith.

She ignored the jibe, focusing on the problem. “We need to do something about damage control, Aren. After tonight, I wouldn’t expect much help from county services.” She hesitated, debating whether to broach an idea she’d entertained for the past week. With the police unwilling to help, there was only one alternative. “We need a private investigator.”

Aren blinked. For a moment he appeared lost in thought, then a slow smile spread over his face. “That’s brilliant, Veronica!” He gripped her shoulders and kissed her on the cheek. “This could all end up working out for the best. Excuse me. I’ve got phone calls to make.”

Puzzled by his odd behavior, Veronica watched him dart away.

 

 

 

Caithelden Lairen plucked the mail from the box at the end of his driveway and sorted through the letters. Two bills and a junk circular inviting him to take advantage of a twenty-percent markdown on costumes at the Halloween Emporium.

Not likely. He hated the wretched holiday, though anyone who didn’t know him would find it hard to tell. His front porch was decorated with cornstalks and hay bales banked by bright orange pumpkins. A plump scarecrow with a floppy brimmed hat sat slumped in a wooden rocker. Despite his negative feelings, he did his best to make Halloween fun for his son, Derrick. Right now the kid was home from school with a cold, bored out of his mind, but not well enough to be out in the crisp autumn air. The tribulations of an eight-year-old.

The wind shifted and he caught the scent of hollowed-out pumpkins and dry leaves, odors that kindled memories of his childhood in Coldcreek. His gut tightened in reaction and he shoved the association aside, heading up the crescent-shaped walkway to his house. Typical New England with white siding and black shutters, the pristine Colonial was nestled in an upscale Massachusetts suburb. Since striking out on his own, he’d done well for himself. Not bad for a guy who’d ditched the family name and business and chose to be a private investigator instead.

He had his hand on the doorknob and was ready to enter when a gray sedan pulled into the driveway. The man in the passenger’s seat lifted a hand and waved.

Aren?

He hadn’t seen his older brother since Aren packed up his family and headed back to Coldcreek, leaving Breckwood Industries’ Boston office in the hands of an underling. He’d grown weary of city life and wanted to go back to small town living. Or so he had said.

Dressed in a customary suit and tie, Aren stepped from the car. At thirty-eight, he wore his sandy hair longer than convention, the only edge to his appearance that didn’t scream corporate America. The man who stepped from the driver’s side was slightly shorter with neatly trimmed brown hair. Like Aren, he was dressed in a suit and tie.

Galen.

Caith couldn’t recall the last time he’d seen his oldest brother. Eight years ago when Derrick was born? That had to be it.

Why would Galen show up now…and with Aren? Had something happened at home?

He tried to quell the reactionary knot in his gut. More than likely, the brothers had merely been at BI’s Boston office for a meeting and decided to swing by. Interesting, given Aren must have coerced Galen into the visit.

“Hey,” Caith said as the two approached. “What’s the occasion?” He tried to keep the anxiety from his voice. “It isn’t often I get the two of you together on my doorstep.”

“Eight years was the last time.” Galen held out his hand and Caith shook it.

Aren was more demonstrative, giving him a slap on the back with his handshake. When he’d lived in Boston, they’d connected frequently. Aren had been there for him when he’d struggled as a single parent with a newborn son. Later, his odd shifts as a cop on Boston’s police force meant he’d frequently had to leave Derrick in the care of Aren and his wife, Melanie.

“Did something happen at home?” Caith was unable to get the thought out of his head.

“Nothing like that,” Aren assured. “We were at the Boston office and wanted to run something by you. Can we talk inside?”

Caith nodded, his natural curiosity piqued. Galen rarely left Coldcreek. He shoved the door wide. “Come on in.”

He led them to the living room, knowing Derrick was bound to make an appearance once he heard voices. He wasn’t the greatest housekeeper but did his best to keep it clean and inviting for his son. He wondered what Galen thought of the potted plants in the foyer, the overstuffed rocker next to the fireplace, and brightly-colored rug on the hardwood floor—all things a bachelor usually wouldn’t consider necessary.

Aren paused by the fireplace, his eyes skimming the framed photos Caith had placed on the mantle: Caith and Derrick on a fishing trip, grinning ear-to-ear; Derrick riding bicycles with Noah and Matt; Caith in uniform upon graduating Boston’s Police Academy; their mother Morgana Breckwood; and finally a very old, aged photograph of Caith as a child with Merlin, Veronica Kent, and Derrick Trask.

Merlin was only a year older. They’d been inseparable in those days, but hadn’t spoken a word in twelve years. What would he do if something had happened to Merlin? Or his father? He was estranged from both. Had been since he’d left for college at eighteen. “You want to tell me what’s going on?”

“Dad, I’m bored.” Derrick traipsed into the living room. Dressed in flannel pajamas, a brick-red robe, and unlaced sneakers, he looked like he should be in bed. His son was a mirror image of him with ink-black hair and winter blue eyes. But whereas Caith’s hair was straight and neatly trimmed, Derrick’s was a mass of unruly curls.

“Wow, Uncle Aren!” Derrick’s eyes nearly popped from his head. With a cry of delight, he bounded across the room to hug his uncle and dance around him. “I can’t believe you’re here. Did Noah and Matt come with you?”

“Sorry, no. They’re home in Coldcreek.” When Derrick’s face fell, Aren dropped a hand on his shoulder. “But maybe you’ll get to see them soon.”

“Cool. When?”

“That depends on your dad.”

Derrick looked excitedly at Caith, then stilled when he spied Galen.

“Hello, Derrick.” Galen smiled hesitantly. “You don’t remember me, but I came to see your father when you were born. I’m your Uncle Galen.”

“Are you from Coldcreek, too?”

“I am.”

Derrick switched his attention to his father with an eager smile. “Dad, are we going somewhere?”

“You’re going in the kitchen to finish lunch.” Caith shot Aren a silent rebuff before refocusing on his son. “You need to eat the soup I made for you. It’ll help with your cold.”

“I feel okay.” Derrick scuffed the carpet with a sneakered foot. “And soup’s boring.”

“So is staying in bed, but that’s where you’re going to end up if you don’t finish your lunch.” Dropping to an easy squat, Caith conversed with his son at eye level. “I have to talk to Uncle Aren and Uncle Galen. When you finish lunch, you can watch TV in the family room. Deal?”

Derrick nodded reluctantly. “Okay.”

Caith ruffled his son’s curly hair before nudging him toward the kitchen.

Behind him, Galen cleared his throat. “It’s not easy, is it?”

Surprised, Caith turned. “What?”

“Being a single father. Raising a son.” With a nod to the room and its comfortable, well-tailored furnishings, Galen sank into the nearest chair. “You’ve done well for yourself, even without the Breckwood name. I always wondered what made you pick Lairen.”

Caith tamped down a slow burn of anger. He wouldn’t get sucked into an age-old argument over his family name. “I got it out of a phone book. Stopped at Ralph’s Subs on Fifteenth and Dock, had a few beers, and decided to change my name.”

Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Don’t be cynical, Caith. We know why you changed your name.” His gaze shifted to the mantle and the pictures of Derrick.

Aren had always understood.

So it won’t happen again. So no one close to me gets killed by mistake. So Derry never has to go through what I did.

Caith shrugged, feigning indifference, and folded his arms over his chest. Perching on the arm of the couch, he braced one leg against the floor, the other swinging free, lightly tapping the hunter-green upholstery. “So, are you going to tell me what’s going on? I can’t remember the last time I had the family brigade in my living room. If Merlin were here, we’d be four brothers again.”

“We never stopped being brothers.” Aren paced to the bow window, then paused to study the sprawling front porch sheltered by chestnut trees. “Galen and I have a proposal for you, but you need to listen with an open mind. Do you remember the old Barrister House?”

Caught off guard by the change of topic, Caith frowned. “You mean that run-down place by Stone Willow Lake? We used to play there as kids. Wasn’t there some kind of sect connected to it?”

Aren nodded. “Yeah, I think there are several Web sites devoted to its history, probably even some cult followers still around if you look hard enough. They don’t bother us, so I don’t pay attention.”

“Us?”

“Breckwood Industries bought the place six years ago,” Aren explained. “We renovated and turned it into an anti-stress retreat for top-level executives. We’re low scale, nothing like the big corporate getaways. We run one and two week programs for small groups of employees—BI personnel and any other company that’s inclined to have their workers attend. No cell phones, TVs, iPads, laptops, or newspapers. Sessions include relaxation, mental focusing, and a number of outdoor activities. There’s no alcohol and no outside contact of any kind.”

“Sounds rigid.”

“We’ve done enough corporate studies to realize people in high pressure positions need an outlet or they reach a breaking point,” Galen picked up. “The retreat’s been remarkably successful. The BI employees who’ve completed the program have increased productivity in their respective departments. Their overall health has improved, their outlook on life, and their concept of work in general. Healthy, happy employees, particularly in upper management, translate to greater efficiency, which in turn generates increased revenue.”

“Yeah, I recall something about BI being interested in revenue.” Caith’s tone was pointedly flippant.

Aren spoke quickly as if to forestall a rise of testiness from Galen. “The retreat is called Stone Willow Lodge, after the lake. We maintain a manager, caretaker, and a cook on site. Also a maintenance worker, guide, and some seasonal employees who drive from Coldcreek.”

Caith arched a brow. “Guide?”

“He handles hiking, boating, and horseback riding. We also have a BI staff member who leads instructional sessions. For the most part, it’s worked well. Until now.” Aren paused, looking ill-at-ease. “Lately there have been occurrences we can’t explain. Rumors are starting to circulate about the legend of Barrister House. Our guests have reported seeing strange lights in the woods, horses spooked for no reason, items missing from their rooms.”

“Could be nothing more than a thief.”

“It isn’t only that.” Aren stuffed his hands in his pockets and paced in front of the fireplace. “Things have gotten serious. It started with minor incidents, but has grown progressively worse. The mutilated carcass of a dog was left on a guest’s bed. Alma Kreider, one of our employees, claims she saw someone in the ba. . .