The Crystal Warrior

The Crystal Warrior (Chapter 13)

According to Wulf it was a unique name, a name as beautiful and sensual as the crystal itself. Chalcey, stubborn to the last, disputed this quite vehemently.

As soon as she'd been old enough to understand how weird a name she'd been stuck with, Chalcey had demanded that her mother show her a piece of chalcedony. And she'd been majorly disappointed—so disappointed, in fact, that she'd burst into tears and begged her mother to change her name. There'd been nothing beautiful or sensual about the dirty-white geode her mother had produced. And not even the polished crystal Francesca had ordered in an attempt at appeasement had impressed Chalcey. Was she supposed to be pleased that while other girls' mothers named them things like Emily and Laurel and Susan, she'd been named after a creamy white egg-shaped stone marred with veins of freaky-looking lava-orange?

Wulf had soon banished her long held childhood dismay by describing chalcedony as he knew it. Blue chalcedony. A crystal that, once tumbled and polished, glowed with an unearthly beauty that had stolen his breath. The online image he'd shown her had finally smothered any belief that he'd been exaggerating. And for the first time in her life, Chalcey found herself liking the full version of her name.

About the only fly in the ointment were the relentless prank calls. Her answering machine was so inundated with them that weeding out the genuine calls had become a mission in frustration. If her studio wasn't so new, and she hadn't already invested in advertising and business cards, she'd have considered changing her number. She didn't believe Ray was the culprit—not even he could be so stupid. He had to know he'd be the prime suspect. Call her paranoid, but she was considering taking Jai with her to bank the class takings. No point taking unnecessary risks if there was some weirdo out there who looked on a dance studio as an easy target.

Chalcey perched on the edge of the desk in her tiny office to leaf through a bundle of mail. She examined the envelope from her accountant more closely. Funny. It didn't look like his usual bi-monthly newsletter that she usually tossed unread.

She ripped open the envelope and read through the letter. "Shit. Shit. Shit! It's not fucking fair!"

"What is wrong, Chalcey?" Wulf asked.

She tossed the letter aside and then slumped, hugging her middle. "Seems my accountant's screwed up my tax returns—only like, ever since I took him on. And with back taxes, the IRS says I owe six grand. Six frickin' grand! He apologizes for the mistake. Mistake? God! I am so firing his ass!"

She chewed her nails as she reviewed her woefully limited options, barely noticing when Wulf gently removed her fingers from her mouth. "I've got enough put away to cover upcoming expenses and the lease payment due in a couple of weeks," she said, "but not enough to cover this, as well. My bank manager and the finance company I approached have already turned me down. I am so screwed. Fuck."

Wulf cupped her hand around a mug of freshly plunged coffee and sprawled on her two-seater couch to drink his own. "Explain this finance company to me please, Chalcey. Is it akin to a moneylender?"

She took a bracing sip of coffee. "Exactly right. Except in this case, 'money-lending' is a misnomer because the miserly bastards aren't damned well lending me any. Both said basically the same thing. The area's not that flash and I won't attract the student numbers I need. Income from a dance studio is erratic, and I'm too inexperienced at running a business to be a good credit risk. I don't have any collateral so if I default on my payments they have nothing to sell up to recoup their losses. Yadda yadda."

"Are they in any way correct, or do they merely breathe wind through the holes in their arses?"

She inhaled her mouthful of coffee and managed to splutter, "Good one!" before a coughing fit got the better of her. "Gahhh.... Ahem! That's better. Well for a start, yes, the income from a dance studio can be erratic, but I'm hardly a profligate spender and I'm smart enough to squirrel away money from the boom times to offset a sharp decrease in class numbers. And as for my experience? They want experience, I can give them fricking experience. I've been ballroom dancing since the ripe old age of five and I've been a dance teacher at other studios since I was fifteen. I've always been able to attract new students to my classes—and keep them. On top of all that, I'm a damn good teacher and there're at least a half dozen studios that'd offer me a job tomorrow. But I don't want that. I want my own studio. All I need is a chance. I can make this work. I know I can."