Sapphire Nights (Crystal Magic Book 1)(6)
“The bed’s behind the Mexican blanket over there. It’s all simple but functional.” Mariah set down the cat, who sniffed the baseboard, intent on tracking down intruders. “I’ll bring up the cat stuff if you want to take a look around and settle in.”
She needed to investigate her suitcases and boxes. Whatever fugue state had held her all night must be dissipating with dawn. Maybe she had a laptop. As weary as she was, she was even more scared now that she knew she had no family or friends to tell her who she was. Maybe pure terror was blowing out the cobwebs in her brain.
Mariah brought up the cat food and dishes and glanced at the ghostcatchers in the corners. “It looks clear in here. Cass doesn’t like having the nets in her house, but she agreed they might be good for guests. I’ve never found a ghost here though. I think Cass put a spell on the foundation when they were building it.”
Sam was so weary, that she almost expressed gratitude for the thoughtfulness of spelling away ghosts. She rubbed her brow, found a small mole-sized bump, and realized that other than a glimpse in a dim rear-view mirror, she didn’t even know what she looked like. “Thanks for everything, I really appreciate it. How do I reach you if I have questions?”
“You’ll just have to leave a message with Dinah. I’m in and out of there all day, helping when it’s busy. There are some basic groceries in the kitchen. You can pick up more at Pasquale’s once he opens. Everything is there on the town square. Get some sleep and come on back to town.” Mariah slipped out, closing the door behind her.
Sam was alone again. And life was most definitely not normal yet.
She stopped in the bathroom to get rid of the coffee and looked in the mirror over a vanity made from an antique Mexican wash stand. Apparently she was a tall thin woman, younger than she felt, with fly-away ash-blond hair, a mole above her left eyebrow, an average nose and mouth, and blue eyes. Her crinkled cloud of hair probably needed a ton of product to control it.
She saw no bruises, bleeding, or knots that might indicate she’d been hit over the head.
Emma curled around her ankles, purring reassuringly. Sam scratched behind the cat’s ears and returned to the bedroom and her suitcases. They were battered old hard-sided ones that looked older than she did and could have been picked up in a thrift store. Whoever Samantha Moon was, she wasn’t rich.
Inside the first one was a case of toiletries, underwear, pajamas, and a collection of old t-shirts, tank tops, shorts, and jeans. She apparently dressed like an impoverished college student.
Inside the second case was a newer—although not new—navy blazer, no-iron white blouse, and a long gray skirt, all wrapped in plastic to prevent wrinkles. If she was to make a guess, she’d call them job-interview clothes. Underneath was a layer of khakis, leggings, and long-sleeve shirts for cooler weather, plus one broomstick, tie-dye skirt in shades of olive green. She might as well be a time-traveling hippy.
There was no computer or any other piece of technology.
“Well, Emma, we’re up a creek now, aren’t we?” she asked the cat, who had jumped on the bed to examine her meager wardrobe.
“Hmmmm,” Emma purred, before nesting on the plastic-covered clothes.
It would be good to believe the cat had told her she was home. She loved the studio already, but then, she was probably crazy.
Sam removed the suitcases, cat and all, to the floor. A little orange fur wouldn’t hurt that motley assortment of apparel. Digging out a ragged gray sweat suit, she changed out of her jeans and sweater and slid between the sheets.
Maybe she would wake up and all would be right again.
Chapter 3
Hours later, Sam woke abruptly to loud pounding and sunshine pouring through the windows beyond the blanket wall. The urgent thumping on the timber door could have been made by an ax. Panicking, she reached for her phone—and realized it wasn’t there, that she didn’t have one.
How did one call 911 without a cell phone? Oh, cable, landline. Dragging herself from the lovely feather pillow, she glanced around. An old push-button phone was on the lower shelf of the nightstand.
Emma yowled a warning, leaped from the suitcase, and ran from the room.
Calling 911 would likely bring Deputy Walker.
Grabbing a hair tie out of the toiletry bag she’d left on the dresser, sliding on a cheap pair of rubber flip-flops, Sam slipped into the front room. She tried to peer through the stained glass of the sidelights to the balcony but could only see shadows. The thumping momentarily stopped and a loud bell tolled.
Sam glanced up at the ceiling. Sure enough, a mission bell hung overhead, attached to a rope that probably went outside. It rang again.
She tugged open the heavy door and was rewarded with a sharp rap on her head. Without thinking, she grabbed the offending weapon and yanked it away, then rubbed her head and glared. “Ow, what did you do that for?”
Nearly as tall as Sam, a skeletal woman dressed in a concealing veil and black drapery scowled at her and retrieved her gnarled walking stick. “You didn’t answer. I need Cass urgently. Tell me where she is.”
“Not here. And hello to you too.” Hmmm, this Sam person might be a smartass.
“I know she’s not here,” the—witchy was the best description—woman snarled. “But you must have seen her. Where?”
Since the last address Sam remembered was the one in the GPS, she responded, “Monterey.” She was about to slam the door, then remembered she was a stranger here and needed help. Never close the door on someone she might need to ask for help—it seemed a good proverb to live by, whether or not she’d made it up herself.