Booke of the Hidden Read online

  Booke of the Hidden

  Jeri Westerson

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 2017 by Jeri Westerson

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email [email protected]

  First Diversion Books edition October 2017

  ISBN: 978-1-63576-049-1

  To my husband Craig,

  whose love and support is never hidden.

  Chapter One

  I didn’t believe in ghosts or the supernatural…but that weird noise in the wall was testing my convictions.

  The unpleasant scratching sound that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention had been going on for days. Look, I’m not some scaredy-cat to jump at every sound. But this? Ever since I moved into my shop-slash-house two weeks ago, this noise had been coming from inside the walls.

  “Probably rats,” I muttered for the umpteenth time. I hated stuff like that; rats, spiders, and snakes—the litany of creepy crawly things. I made a mental note to buy rattraps at the local hardware store.

  Pouring myself another glass of Chardonnay, I sipped and wandered around my soon-to-be-opened tea shop, fluffing a pillow here, adjusting a lamp there. I still had a long way to go, but I would be ready by Friday for my grand opening.

  Then my eye went toward an awkwardly smiling shelf. Warped and too unwieldy for my wares, it had to come down. I grabbed a crowbar from my toolbox, and with the crowbar in one hand and my wine glass in the other, I crossed to the shelf and took another hearty swig before setting the glass aside. Buoyed by the courage of several glasses of wine, I took up the crowbar again, and wedged the straight edge behind the warped wood. I yanked. Nothing. I yanked again, bracing my foot against the toe kick at the floor. Still nothing.

  “Stubborn son of a—” I jammed it in hard, braced not only my leg, but my hip against the counter, and pulled, making a lot of obscene sounds as I did so…and wham! Tumbled ass over tea kettle to the floor. Luckily, the crowbar was still in my hand and not embedded in my forehead. I looked up. The dust settled. Not only had I finally dislodged the misshapen shelf, but I had also yanked out a poster-sized portion of the wall as well.

  “Ah, crap! How am I going to fix this?”

  I dusted myself off and rose, rubbing my bruised behind, and stared forlornly at all the ancient plaster strewn about the floor and the gaping maw that was once my wall. The lathe behind the plaster had even torn free, and a few choice words I had never spoken aloud rampaged through my head.

  Maybe I could hang a picture over it. But no. Who knew what sort of varmints could crawl out of there? Hadn’t I heard them? You couldn’t just slap some drywall in there. It had to be fixed with plaster by someone who knew what they were doing, and that meant big bucks.

  I checked the ruined wall. “That’s funny.” This was an outside wall, and there were no buildings abutting it. And since the whole structure itself was wooden with clapboard sides, I wondered why there was brick in there at all. I turned around. The fireplace was on the other side of the room, and the one upstairs in my apartment followed suit, sharing a flue. So why was there brick inside this wall?

  “The Cask of Amontillado!” I said aloud in a scary voice. But even as I looked, maybe that wasn’t so funny. Curiosity was getting the better of me. I’d heard about treasure being bricked up in walls, and this was a genuine eighteenth-century building. It could play host to all manner of treasures. I’d already found some great antiques in the back room. There could be spectacular finds in a bricked-up wall. Pirate booty?

  Or…it could just be plumbing.

  Grabbing the wine glass, I took another drink. But instead of fortifying me, a spike of uncertainty intruded instead. What was I doing? I hadn’t even the vaguest idea of where to find a local plumber, let alone run this business. I had moved across the whole country, escaping. I had sunk every penny my mother had left me into this herb and tea shop, without a business plan and without really a clue. Sure, I’d learned a lot about tea and herbs in the last few years at Jeff’s shop, and a little about business, but that wasn’t the same thing as running your own store alone. And I had no friends here to commiserate about it. I didn’t really have them back home, either, because they were his friends. But at least I was familiar with Southern California. I didn’t know anything about Moody Bog, Maine.

  When I saw the ad on Craigslist, I had become intrigued. A rugged coast, a vast sweep of forest, and a quaint little New England town. I was captivated by the romance of it. And by the distance it was from California. But perhaps it was more than that, especially after I’d Skyped with the realtor, pored over the pictures she’d sent me of the shop with its living quarters above, the picturesque village—it seemed familiar, even though I’d never ventured out of Southern California before. I felt I knew those clapboard houses, those rustic porches, and the town square. Felt like…maybe I could make a new start there.

  And the price was right.

  But had I made too hasty a decision, giving myself only days to decide? My heart began to pound. Had I made the biggest mistake of my life?

  I took another drink—definitely feeling it now—and leaned into the hole, cautiously turning my head to look up into the wall’s dark interior and assess the damage.

  My phone rang in my pocket and I slammed the back of my head against the joist.

  “Ow!” I rubbed the bump I was sure was forming, took out my phone, and looked at the number. Crap. Jeff.

  Should I answer? My first instinct was to hurl the phone across the room, but I needed my phone. I blew out a breath. Figures that at my lowest ebb, he’d call.

  I hit the button and put it to my ear. I took another swig of wine. “Jeff.”

  “Kylie, baby. It’s so good to hear your voice.”

  I said nothing. Just stood there, phone at my ear, leg jiggling. His beach-boy twang always melted my resolve. Blond hair, blue eyes, sultry smile. He got away with a lot with his good looks and honeyed words. It took me a long time—too long—to see past it.

  He began again. “I was hoping you were around so we could talk. You know. Just talk.”

  I sighed. “Jeff…”

  “A month is enough cooling-off time, don’t you think? Come on, baby.”

  “It’s been two months, Jeff. And I’m in Maine now. I told you.”

  “Whoa. No shit? I thought that was just talk.”

  “No! I left three weeks ago, and I’m making a go of it with my own shop.”

  There was a pause. “Your own shop?”

  “Yes. I’m opening my own herb and tea shop.”

  Silence again. “So let me get this straight.” His laid-back voice suddenly changed, flattened. “You’re taking all of my expertise, all that I taught you, and you’re opening your own place?”

  I changed the phone to my other ear and twirled the wine glass stem in my fingers. “You didn’t teach me that stuff.”

  “I’ve had this place for years and you just up and steal all my ideas?”

  “It’s an herb and tea shop, Jeff. This isn’t rocket science.”

  “I can’t believe this. This is such an act of betrayal.”

  “Oh my God, you have such nerve saying that to me! All you ever did w
as betray me. You forged checks on my personal checking account—”

  “Only a couple of times!”

  “Not to mention the women.” I huffed a breath, took another swig of wine, and emptied the glass.

  “What women?”

  I stomped to the kitchen, grabbed the bottle from the fridge, and splashed more wine into the glass, cradling the phone with my shoulder. “Really, Jeff?”

  There was a pause. “Okay, okay. Just chill. We…we need to talk this out. You need to come home.”

  “This is my home now, get it? Not Huntington Beach.”

  “Kylie, sweetheart—”

  “Don’t. Just don’t. I’m…I’m hanging up now.”

  “Babe, wait!” He laughed a little. “What makes you think you have the chops to do this on your own? Let me in. I can help.”

  I gripped the phone, my patience running out. “I can do it, Jeff. I don’t need you. Hanging up.”

  “Wait—”

  Click. And I turned the phone off for good measure.

  My arms were shaking. I brought the glass to my lips and drank until I emptied it again. Bastard. Don’t have the chops. “Well you know what?” I was slurring, but so what? “It’s my freakin’ place. Mine! And I can do whatever I want.”

  I glanced at the hole in my wall. “And you know what, Jeff? If I want to look at what’s in this wall, I’m gonna do it. Because I can!” I swung around unsteadily, squinted toward the back room, and headed there.

  “Sledgehammer, sledgehammer,” I chanted. I knew I saw one in the back room where I stored my tools. Found it! It was heavier than I remembered, and when I lugged it back to the wall within a wall, I stared at the old brick. This was from the seventeen-bleeding-hundreds. Was I going to ruin another perfectly good wall, which might, after all things considered, be a sewer line, just because of my burning curiosity, anger, and a whole lot of wine?

  Raising the sledgehammer, I decided that yes. Yes, I was. “Here comes treasure!”

  With both hands, I cocked the thing back and slammed it against the bricks. “Ow! Son of a bitch!” The sledgehammer dropped to the floor, missing my foot by inches, and I did a little pain dance. Shaking out my fingers, I glared at the bricks. Definitely a crack. I was encouraged, and I forgot the discomfort long enough to retrieve the sledge again.

  Another whack, bracing for the shock this time, and a wider crack formed.

  I decided one more should do it, and then gave it my all. The sledge’s head hit. I heard a crack that time, and a loud hiss as gases expelled. Oh, shit! I knew it. I destroyed the sewer line!

  And did those gases stink! Like, three-hundred-year-old stink.

  I took several steps back, dropping the hammer as I did so, and covered my mouth. Oh, God, what had I done? The dollar signs were quickly accumulating in my mind. A little voice in my head started to say that Jeff was right, but I punched it down with my mental sledgehammer.

  As both the smell and gases cleared, I got a view of the crumbled brickwork. No, not a sewer line. But something was definitely in there. Now those dollar signs were dancing in my favor. New England treasure! It looked like a box. No, wait. Not a box, but a…

  “A book?”

  I shivered and drew closer. When I was right up against the calamity of broken plaster and scattered brick, I could now plainly see, as the dust settled, that inside the strange bricked-up space was a book. A big book. And an old one.

  “Damn!” Not treasure exactly, but a quick post on eBay and this just might pay for the damage. And more.

  I looked in before I reached for it—didn’t want any spiders dropping down on me—and lifted it out. Heavy. I laid it down on the nearby counter. It was at least twelve inches wide by eighteen inches tall. They made ’em big in the olden days. The cover was of ancient leather, worn at the edges, and even my unpracticed eye could tell that it was hand-bound. An ornate metal latch sealed the book. But the title in gold leaf took me aback a little.

  Booke of the Hidden. What did that mean?

  Finding the thing bricked up in a wall—a very old wall—and now this title, sent a chill rippling over my skin. Of course, I was alone, and of course it was dark outside. The wind was actually picking up, and the rattle of dried leaves stirring outside and clattering against my windows didn’t help.

  Licking my lips, I lifted the latch and cracked open the cover.

  A whoosh of cold air blasted me in the face and ruffled my hair. I screamed at the suddenness of it and dropped the book. I turned a glare back at the open hole in the brickwork and blamed it for the unexpected wind…but with another chill in my bones, I had to admit, that the wind hadn’t come from that direction.

  My gaze fell to the book once more. Booke, I corrected in my head.

  That wind had not come from the wall, but from the open Booke itself. But that was impossible. That couldn’t have happened. So it must have come from that suddenly opened passage in the wall. The wind that was blustering outside came down this new makeshift flue and whooshed around the strange configuration of the room…

  I was running out of excuses.

  Whoa. Just slow down there, Kylie. I was sobering fast. I didn’t believe in this kind of stuff, and windy holes and “olde bookes” notwithstanding, I wasn’t about to start.

  “It’s just a drafty old place, that’s all.” My voice seemed loud in the quiet, creaking building. “The important thing is this Booke.” It could be valuable. Had to be, especially with the story of being holed up in the wall. Who would have put this in a wall, and why?

  I knew I could get some extra cash on eBay just for its strange story alone. Where was my phone? I grabbed it from my pocket and shot some pictures of the hole in the bricks and then the Booke on the counter. That would certainly add some veracity to my seller’s points.

  But first, the Booke. It was about three inches thick with either parchment or handmade paper making up the pages. I didn’t believe in spooks, but I did hesitate when I touched it. “Come on, Kylie. You are not afraid of this.”

  My fingers reached for the cover again, and I jumped out of my skin as a knock sounded on the door.

  “Holy cats, what now?” I twisted around. The shape through the wavy glass door stood out against the moonlight. Distinctly male…and tall, with what looked like a black duster coat whipping in the wind around his calves.

  I tossed my discarded sweater over the Booke—no need to let the cat out of the bag before I could get it appraised—and cautiously approached the door. With my hand on the knob, I said, “We’re closed, sorry.”

  He didn’t seem to have heard and knocked again, harder this time, rattling the glass in the frame.

  Muttering under my breath about pushy villagers, I unlocked the door. “I’m sorry, but I’m not opened yet—”

  Suddenly shouldered aside, I stumbled back as he strode in, looked around as if he owned the place, and then turned his gaze on me. I sucked in my breath, not only from being so manhandled, but also by the man’s face. On a scale of one to gorgeous, he surpassed the scale. His hair was black and long, ruffling around his face like a model on a romance novel. His eyes were dark, too, and fastened on me with steely concentration. And when he opened his mouth—Double tap! English accent!

  “Who are you?” he said.

  “Uh…wha…I…”

  He took a step closer to me and furrowed his brows. “Who…are…you?” he enunciated, as if I were an idiot.

  Okay, so he was rude. But the package was still worth staring at. He was wearing a duster, one of those long coats that cowboys wore in movies. It was black leather and furled around him like a cape. In fact, except for a pendant around his neck, all of his clothes were black. The pendant hung to his chest and gleamed silver, and the beastly face on the pendant seemed to be made of dark gunmetal, with rubies for eyes. The whole thing was quite a look. And on him—the dark, broody type—it worked. At least to my wine-soaked mind it did.

  I squared my shoulders. I worked hard to avo
id a slurred enunciation. “I happen to be the proprietress of this new establishment, Strange Herbs & Teas.” Take that, Jeff! “I’m Kylie Strange. And you are…?”

  He swept past me, turning his glare around the room. “Where is it?”

  “Excuse me?” I sidestepped in front of him. “I don’t know who you are—”

  “That’s not important.”

  “Okay, but don’t you think it’s a little forward barging into a place of business—that clearly isn’t open yet—and starting to make demands?”

  He stopped his perusal of the shop and fastened his glare on me again. “Miss Strange, did you say?”

  “Kylie.” I was not giggling coyly. “Uh…Kylie. I don’t believe in formalities—”

  But he interrupted me again. “Miss Strange, I know it’s here. And I—” His gaze caught the gaping hole in the wall. “Aha! I’m not wrong.”

  What the hell? How could he possibly know about that?

  He whirled on me. “I demand to know where—” But his focused pronouncement was interrupted by a prolonged and trumpeting sneeze. He looked up, somewhat abashed. “I beg your pardon.” He licked his lips…and the sight caught me. “What I meant to say—” Another volley of sneezes followed and he stumbled back. When he’d controlled himself he looked up at me accusingly. “Did you say…tea?”

  “Yes, it’s an herb and tea shop.”

  “Beelze’s tail!” he swore. He put his hand over his face. “I’m allergic to tea!”

  “You’re an Englishman and you’re allergic to tea? Isn’t that against the law or something?”

  He sneered and raised his arm, aiming his finger at me. “Mark my words: If you have it, you are doomed.”

  With that, a swirl of his duster, and another few sneezes that completely ruined his exit, he stumbled out the door.

  I walked toward it and slammed it shut, the bell above it tinkling merrily. “Freakin’ villagers!” What was with this place?

  And then I spun back around, staring at the sweater-covered Booke. I glanced back over my shoulder toward the door, half-expecting Mr. Englishman to be skulking there. But he seemed to have disappeared. “I’m ‘doomed,’ am I? My life savings might be doomed for sinking it into this insane town…” I approached the door and locked it. Then on second thought, I threw the deadbolt and the chain.