Cassidy Jones and Vulcan's Gift (Cassidy Jones Adventures #2)

Prologue

Rory Michaels sat in a wingback chair studded with aged brass nails, staring morosely at the dying embers in his study’s fireplace. The embers were remnants of a fire that had burned bright and vibrant, as he once had, too.

 “I have lived too long,” he whispered into the silence.

His gaze dropped to his hands folded neatly in his lap, displaying wrinkles and other imperfections marking his years. Examining them, he mused about the vastness of their experiences. With his hands, he had muscled a plow through hard, rocky ground; cupped the face of his young bride; and gripped an M-1 rifle, his finger easing the trigger back. They had held the heads of dying comrades on blood-soaked soil, cradled the fragile body of his newborn son, and meticulously mixed metal compounds that would one day lead to his fortune.

A single hand had swung a forging hammer, shaken the hands of presidents and world leaders, and helped carry the caskets of loved ones to open graves. And now a single hand had struck the face of a deceiver, a deceiver he had loved like his own. His palm still felt the sting.

Tormented, he reflected on the confrontation that had just transpired.

When the deceiver had entered his study half an hour earlier, Rory had a moment of doubt as he looked into the blue eyes that had always shone with kindness and affection. However, he had the facts, had them verified, and knew the insidious bloodline this one descended from. There was only one reason this person would be in their midst.

“Here you are, Rory.” The deceiver had handed him a cut crystal snifter with a shot of brandy, smiling a smile that had once warmed his heart, as the brandy would do. Rory sipped the brandy, relishing the comforting burn in his throat. After the sip, he downed the shot. It was time to get this over with.

“Let me take that for you, Rory.”

Releasing the snifter into the deceiver’s hand, he had silently watched the deceiver walk to the granite-topped bar and rinse the glass in the small bronze sink. Grabbing a dishtowel, the deceiver carefully dried the snifter. “What is it you’d like to discuss with me?”

Rory heard the steel cords in the deceiver’s voice. He had never heard them before, and he wondered what other new discoveries he would make this evening.

The deceiver returned the glass to the shelf over the bar and slowly turned around. “I’m all ears.”

Rory marveled at the transformation in the blue eyes, turned hard and cold like glass. “You have your grandfather’s eyes,” he observed, a bitter taste coming into his mouth. “His were edged with madness, too.”

“He was a great man,” the deceiver said, as though they were in agreement.

“He was a menace,” Rory corrected harshly. “Do you understand the evil he planned to unleash with this so-called gift from Vulcan?”

“Perfectly, dieb.”

 “How dare you call me ‘thief’!”

“That is generally what someone is called who takes something that doesn’t belong to them,” the deceiver replied in a lethal tone. “It is mine, and I want it now.”

 Rory let out a humorless laugh. “It is the Devil’s, and that is where it has gone.”

 “You’re lying. Not even you, oh righteous dieb, would destroy the recipe for ultimate power.”

 “Your eyes will never look upon it.”

 A slow, cruel smile curved the deceiver’s mouth. “Over your dead body?”

With a burst of fury, Rory launched at the deceiver, striking a hand across the face he had once cherished. The deceiver took the blow, and turned eyes full of mocking hatred back on Rory. The lips held a cruel smile.

 Rory felt ready to collapse. “Get out,” he whispered hoarsely, returning to his chair.

“This isn’t over,” the deceiver vowed, moving toward the door.

 “Yes, it is.”

The smile widened. “Yes. It is.” With this puzzling response, the deceiver stepped out of the room and pulled the door shut.

Coming out of his thoughts, Rory noticed that the last of the embers in the fireplace had burned out, being reduced to ashes. Contemplating the deceiver’s last statement, he realized that he had underestimated the motivation of this individual. When he had called the meeting, he’d been sure this was a case of a lost sheep in need of a shepherd’s staff to hook its neck and navigate it to the right path. He had anticipated repentance, but instead learned the sheep was a wolf in disguise.

With this sad realization, Rory’s heart clenched with grief, and then it quite literally clenched.

Pain riveted through his chest. “Brandy,” he wheezed, clawing wildly at his heart. “What poison is this?” Gasping for air, he fell forward and collapsed to the floor.

“My child,” he panted, rolling in agony. “You’ve murdered me.”

Copyright 2011 by Elise Stokes

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