Sapphire Nights (Crystal Magic Book 1)(7)

“Blast and damn,” the woman muttered. “She’s done it. You’ll have to do. Come along.”

She was starving. She needed to examine the boxes in the trunk. She needed a computer. Now that she had a phone, she could try the number in the book.

“I’m hungry. You may come in and tell me what you want me to do.” Sam turned to go back to the kitchen, but witchy woman grabbed her elbow.

“No time. Without knowing her coordinates, I can’t astral project. Lives depend on us.”

She dragged Sam out the door and into a. . . golf cart?

Even if she could be heard over the grinding motor or keep her teeth from chattering from the wild bumps on a bad road without shock absorbers, Sam was too busy hanging on to ask questions. Whoever this wild woman was, she drove like a maniac in a vehicle not intended for speed—or for the gravel lane they swerved onto.

Whose lives depended on them?

With relief, she saw Mariah at the end of the road. Maybe she’d get answers now.

Staggering out of the cart, into the dusty chaparral of a plateau well above the town, Sam planted her flip-flops on firm ground and studied the terrain. She noted the natural flora of a dry, west coast plateau but didn’t see anyone dying or in danger of doing so.

Refusing to follow the command of a woman who wouldn’t show her face, Sam rubbed her temple and strained to recall how she’d ended up in this weird situation—but nothing came to her. She still wasn’t even certain her name was Samantha.

Other women appeared over the ridge, walking up some back trail. Sam didn’t have a good map in her head of the area yet and wasn’t even sure she could find her way back. Reluctantly, she started toward the one known in this landscape—Mariah.

In the process, she almost stumbled over a long fissure in the dry ground. Mariah stood at the far end of it, staring down in. . . horror? Fascination? It was hard to tell from this angle. Sam watched where she walked so she didn’t stub her toe on the cracked ground—until she saw the bone.

Instinct kicked in. With interest, she crouched down to study the brown and corroding ivory with one knobby end protruding. She was pretty certain it was a femur. She had no idea how she knew that—but that was a human body down there. She shuddered when she glimpsed the skull.



Without a qualm, Walker ran the Subaru’s Utah license plate through the system. He might be taking a sabbatical from his investigative firm and all his agents, but as a cop, he had access to official databases. No stolen vehicle reports. Owner information from out of state would take a little longer.

Sam might just be passing through. Tourists kept the town running, after all. But there was something about the way the women had latched on to the newcomer that said she might be more. Hillvale was full of weird women. Sam didn’t appear to be one of them, but that could be wishful thinking.

Face it, Walker, life is full of weird women, and you need to get past it.

He pinched his nose and shut up his inner demon. His self-enforced sabbatical from his real life was meant to quiet the craziness and return him to normal. He only had six months of this rural cop stint left to find out what no law enforcement agency had been able to uncover. He meant to leave no stone unturned—and that included listening to the women.

He steered the county’s official four-wheel drive Explorer up the mountain to the Kennedys’ ostentatious luxury hotel. Redwood Resort could have been as easily called Timberland, the name of the original ranch. The first floor had a log fa?ade, with log cabins dotting the woods surrounding it. He’d read up on the history. Back in the 70’s, environmentalist tree-huggers had nearly burned the place down in protest of the destruction of half a forest and the toxic creosote used to treat the logs.

Walker could see the argument on either side and didn’t much care which group was right. The main issue was that the Kennedys and the remnants of that early hippy commune had been at war ever since.

Kurt Kennedy had a security crew to patrol the grounds, since the county road stopped at the front door. Still, Walker liked to cruise in, check with Juan, head of security, and keep an eye on things. It was good publicity for the sheriff’s department and gave him an opportunity to observe new people.

This small town job was a no-brainer next to the corporate investigation firm he needed to return to.

It still had its moments. Today, the parking lot was spilling over with locals and tourists on foot instead of in cars. He had to stop on the side of the road and stroll the last few hundred feet, studying the crowd for its source. His damaged leg muscles needed stretching anyway.

Crazy Daisy was the center of attention, of course. Her face was unlined and ageless, but her graying dark hair stood out in a tangled nimbus around her head, giving evidence that she wasn’t young. She was of average height, probably weighed more than he did, but her flesh hung on her bare arms in folds, as if she’d lost a lot of weight. On any given day she could be garbed in beaded leather or red western attire, but the shedding feather cloak went with her everywhere.

Today, she wore purple and black satin and a ring of flowers in her hair—dead ones. She was busily sprinkling sparkling dust in a design at her feet.

“We are telling you, she will die! The prophecy has come true! Look around you, see what you have wrought with your iron and your steel, your destruction of mother earth! Evidence lies right up that mountain,” a voice declared in the thunderous tones of an experienced stage actor.