Across the Universe (A Saint's Grove Novel)

Across the Universe

A Saint’s Grove Novel

Smashwords Edition

Elise Marion

Across the Universe

Smashwords Edition

Elise Marion

Copyright 2016 by Elise Marion

Edited by Zee Monodee

Cover Art by Najla Qamber (www.najlaqamberdesigns)

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 are a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or people, living or dead, is coincidental.

The Saint’s Grove Series

Immortal Ties by Jennifer Malone Wright

Heart’s Aligning by Miranda Hardy

Her Forbidden Knight by Carly Fall

Racing Time by Elizabeth Kirke

Crossing Time by M.H. Soars

Across the Universe by Elise Marion

The Ghost and the Belle by Rose Shababy

All Dragons’ Eve by Casse NaRome

Worlds Apart by Amy Richie

Heart by Sharon Stevenson

Enchanted Souls by Tia Silverthorne Bach

Thy Heart’s Desire by P.T. Macias

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Prologue

Saint’s Grove, Virginia

1935

In the corner of the sprawling hotel suite, a tall grandfather clock ticked away the seconds, in concert with the crackle and pop of the fire—the only two sounds that could be heard in the cavernous room. The man standing before the fireplace with one arm braced against the mantle stared into the flames, as unmoving as the oversized furniture, a fixture among many others, as if he’d turned to stone.

Isaac Parker could swear his insides had, indeed, been turned to stone. As the seconds turned to minutes, which melted into endless hours, he hardly discerned one moment from the next. Time had become meaningless to him, as fleeting as the bat of an eyelash. How ironic, that it seemed to be the only thing he had left—an abundance of time, and no notion of how to spend it.

Casting a cursory glance about the suite, he took in its rich, wood-paneled walls, custom-made furniture, and various expensive accoutrements. He rented this space, yet, it mirrored the opulence of his life in Boston. Having nothing but his work to fill the endless days had allowed him to build wealth beyond anything he had dreamt of in his youth. There existed no object he could not afford, nor a person whose loyalty he could not buy.

But it was all meaningless without her.

Reaching into the pocket of his trousers, he retrieved the watch he’d been carrying for a little over half a century and flicked it open. The time read eleven forty-five. Adjacent to the clock face, the timepiece held a miniature photograph, preserved by glass casing. The only image he owned to remind him of what he’d lost, though he did not need a photograph to remember her smooth, tawny brown skin, fathomless dark eyes, and lips made for kissing. Even after fifty-two years, he only needed to close his eyes for a moment and concentrate in order to conjure her scent.

Had it really been so long? By now, he had reached his seventy-sixth year, though his face remained frozen in the visage of a twenty-four-year-old. Not a single gray hair sprouted on his head, nor had one wrinkle marred his mahogany skin. For this reason, he’d been forced to leave his home of Saint’s Grove—the place where he’d intended to settle and make a family. If he’d remained any longer, the jokes about his seemingly endless youth might have turned into actual suspicion. It was why he’d taken a room for the night under a false name, instead of returning to the abandoned Parker House. He had business to attend to, but not the sort one conducted during the day. If things went his way, he would have no reason to return.

Snapping the watch closed, he replaced it in his pocket, leaving the fireplace without bothering to smother the flames. Rounding a large walnut desk, he took up his overcoat from the back of the matching chair and pulled it on, neglecting the buttons. From the desk’s surface, he retrieved a velvet-lined box in which rested his pistols and gun belt. After swiftly clasping the belt about his hips, he jammed a pistol into each holster, allowing his coat to conceal them. His dagger came next, sliding into the narrow sheath at his right hip, just in front of the gun dangling on that side. Setting his fedora onto his head, he left the room without a glance back.

The hotel lobby had gone quiet for the night, with one lone staff member manning the front desk. He wasted no time exiting through the front door, his hand skimming the wrought iron banister as he descended the stone steps. Street lamps illuminated his path, casting yellow circles of light upon the street. He endured a short walk to the town square, only a few blocks from the hotel. Much had changed about Saint’s Grove, but the town square remained frozen in time, cobblestones lining its walkways, and intricate wrought iron etching the windows and stairwells of its old storefronts.

The green arcade stretched before him, boxed in by four rows of shops on each side. During the day, the square bustled with activity, but at this hour, Isaac found it empty. Others might have found the solitude jarring, but he’d spent many nights simply walking alone, knowing he had nothing to fear. It had become difficult to be afraid of anything when there didn’t exist a single thing in this world that could kill him.

This, he knew for a fact, because he had made several attempts on his own life without success.

Oh, how he had tried.

Leaning back against the stone slab upon which sat the statue of Saint’s Grove founder, Peter Saint, Isaac folded his arms across his chest and waited.

After a while, he became anxious, reaching into his pocket to retrieve his watch once again. Eleven fifty-five … not much time left. The woman had told him to meet her here before midnight, and the hour had almost arrived. Where the hell was she?

Soft footfalls approached from his left, easing his nerves.

You’re late, he grumbled, turning to find a petite form in a hooded cape coming toward him through the darkness.

Nonsense, she replied in a low, lyrical voice. I always arrive precisely when I intend, and not a minute before.

Isaac narrowed his eyes, searching out the features of the woman from the dark depths of the hood. Wide blue eyes stared back at him, set in an almost childlike face framed by mousy brown hair. Hard to reconcile the innocence of Pearl’s appearance with the nature he knew lurked just beneath the surface. It didn’t matter how many times she’d insisted she was the good sort—as far as Isaac was concerned, a witch was a witch. His hand curled into a fist at his side, and he had to remind himself that this witch was not the one who had destroyed his life.

Are you ready, Mr. Parker? Pearl asked, breaking him out of his reverie.

He nodded. I am. Did you bring the items I requested?

Reaching into the pocket of her dress, she produced a parcel wrapped in brown paper. Silver bullets, a sampling of various herbs laced with gunpowder, sharpened wooden stakes, and an amulet that will protect you from demonic possession. Everything you’ll need to shield you while you go about your business on the other side.

Nodding, he opened the parcel and retrieved the amulet, slipping it on around his neck. He then folded the other items back up in the brown paper and shoved them into the pocket of his coat.

Thank you for your help, he replied.

She nodded, her expression becoming regretful. It is the least I can do. After what Edith did to you, I feel responsible. She is one of us, but we are ashamed to call her a witch. You must know, Mr. Parker, we are not all like her.

Isaac shrugged. Maybe not, but you’ll forgive me if I don’t take your word for it.

Pursing her lips, the little thing placed both hands on her slender hips and scowled at him. Perhaps a simple ‘thank you’ would suffice.

Unable to help a chuckle, he extended one hand to her. Thank you, Pearl.

Giving his hand a quick shake, she then stepped away from him. Remember, Mr. Parker … you have only seven days from the time you step through the rift.

I won’t forget, he assured her as the sound of a low, persistent hum began to fill the town square.

Frowning, he glanced about, searching for the source of the noise. Pearl seemed unperturbed by it as she continued watching him with her large eyes.

There is one last thing you should know, she said, just as a crackle of lightning whipped across the air in front of him.

Isaac flinched but stood his ground, not certain if any move he made would disturb the event Pearl had predicted. It occurred to him that it could be a trick, but he pushed the thought aside as another crackle came, illuminating the night in a bluish-white flash. Even if it turned out to be a hoax, it wasn’t as if he had anything to lose.

What’s that? he asked, bracing himself for what was to come.

Pearl’s gaze locked with his and she sighed. If you die on the wrong side of the rift, there can be no coming back. Ever.

A fist of worry formed in his throat, but he swallowed past it. Death had never scared him, because he possessed knowledge many others did not. For a being like him, life would always come again.

However, the prospect of dying and not being able to come back without finding her again …

For the first time in a long time, the sensation of fear trickled down Isaac’s spine.

"I will come back," he declared as a bright light in the form of a crack began to grow, expanding until his vision had been flooded by it.

His body shook from vibrations caused by an unseen force, and the hum grew louder, becoming a steady screech. Yet, Pearl’s voice reached out to him through the clamor just before a bright flash took him away.

"I hope so, Mr. Parker."

Chapter One

Saint’s Grove, Virginia

Present Day

Glancing through one of the large glass windows offering a view of the town square of Saint’s Grove, Anika Butler could see that the crowd had begun to swell. She looked down at the cell phone resting on the glass jewelry case next to her cash register—she needed to get a move on. While she didn’t usually place herself in situations where she would be forced to act socially, the affair taking place in the town square tonight had intrigued her. Not every day one got to witness a total lunar eclipse at the exact same time six of the solar system’s planets would align. The eclipse and clear night would offer the perfect setting for viewing the once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, which the town had turned out in large numbers to witness.

Taking up her phone, she slid it into her back pocket before retrieving her key ring and beginning the tedious process of closing up for the night. Even though the many glass cases lining the shop walls remained locked to protect the priceless antiques inside, Anika always double-checked them before leaving every night, as well as the jewelry case holding Cartier rings and Harry Winston wreaths dating back to the 1930s and beyond.

After securing each glass case, she took her time ambling toward the front doors of the little shop—replacing glass miniatures and porcelain china that had been misplaced by curious hands throughout the day. Reaching the front of the shop, she locked the double front doors and pulled the metal sliding gates shut over them, locking them as well. The added security of the gate, plus an electronic alarm system, hardly seemed necessary in small towns like Saint’s Grove. Everyone knew everyone here, businesses typically passed down through families. Crime was rare, and even then, usually consisted of kids egging houses on Halloween.

Still, she’d spent years stocking her shop with some impressive antiques, from Wedgwood china and first edition classic books, to Civil War era weapons and Victorian furniture. It made sense to protect her assets. Besides, during the summer months, Saint’s Grove became overrun with tourists whose intentions she could never be certain of.

Who are you kidding? she muttered to herself as she passed through the shop toward the back staircase spiraling up to the small apartment where she lived alone. Nothing interesting ever happens anywhere near you.

The fact that there was no one here to argue with her solidified the point. Her quiet life could be downright boring, with the only exciting events consisting of auctions from which she returned with a particularly interesting antique to add to her collection. These auctions often offered her the opportunity to travel, yet, even this aspect of her life she found herself experiencing alone.

As she crossed through her small living room and kitchen, she glanced through the window toward the town square below. The sounds of voices and laughter became muffled by the glass while the retreating sun set the small space aglow with orange-tinted light. Being alone didn’t necessarily bother her, even as she listened to the sounds of old friends chattering over picnic baskets. After several attempts at making friends with her neighbors, and even dating a few, Anika had come to the conclusion that she had been born a loner. She didn’t find being surrounded by people particularly stimulating, nor had she ever been able to move past the first few awkward encounters with the men in her life to attempt a relationship.

She never quite felt like herself around others, and the constant awareness that she didn’t fit in anywhere kept her from pursuing friendships or attachment.

Entering her bedroom, she found her cat, Mr. Butters, curled up in the center of the bed. He opened his eyes—just barely—and observed her with a narrowed, yellow stare. With a low purr, he closed them again and burrowed back into the haven of his curled body and bushy tail. Mr. Butters was the only male who had shared her bed in years, and with zero prospects on the horizon, it didn’t seem like that would change any time soon.

You’re all the man I’ll ever need, Butters, she murmured, reaching into the closet to retrieve her favorite worn sweater.

Autumn in Saint’s Grove tended to be mild at best, but Anika had always been cold-natured. After pulling the sweater on, she approached her dresser and reached for one of the rubber bands she kept there. Within seconds, she had her shoulder-length curls pulled into a puffy ponytail at the back of her head. On her way out of the room, she picked up her favorite fleece blanket and a book. Taking the stairs back down, she turned toward the short corridor leading to the back exit, coming up short when she passed the open door of her storeroom.

Faltering in the open doorway, she clutched her blanket and book, her gaze drawn into the dark, dusty room. In the small closet, she stockpiled items which would go on display in the store once space freed up for them, along with the occasional vanity purchase—pieces she’d bought because she couldn’t bear to leave them behind but knew she would probably never sell.

One of those items drew her into the room, where she yanked the chain above her head to illuminate the space. A single yellow bulb flickered to life as she knelt in front of the covered painting. It had been sitting in her storeroom for months, a piece she’d procured at an auction in Charleston, West Virginia.

During the sale, she’d bid on many items which had once been part of the illustrious Parker estate. Parker Foods was one of the largest distributors in the country, and the family had made United States history as the wealthiest African-American-owned business, as well as one of the longest-standing. The auction had occurred after one of the manors owned by the family in Charleston had been sold. The Parkers no longer needed the residence and had apparently wanted to unload some old décor and knick-knacks.

She’d won a few of the bids, but hadn’t fought as hard for them as she had this painting. Pulling the white sheet aside, she revealed the gilded frame encasing a portrait of Isaac Parker, the man who had taken Parker Foods from a general store and food delivery service in the 1880s to a thriving wholesale and distribution company, realizing his father’s dream and expanding it into an empire.

Long dead, Mr. Parker had left his company in the hands of his brother, Reginald, who had, in turn, passed it down to his son, Reginald Parker, Jr. The story of the family intrigued her, but she could not deny her reasons for purchasing the painting had anything to do with history.

Dressed in a well-tailored jacket, crisp dress shirt, and cravat, Isaac stared back at her from the painting, a slight grin curving his full mouth. Anika rested on her knees in front of the portrait, allowing her gaze to trace the lines and planes of his chiseled, angular face. His skin gleamed, a smooth, unblemished shade of umber, and dark, playful eyes peered at her from beneath dark brows. His hair lay close to his head, cropped short and slicked with pomade, turning wooly curls into smooth waves. Everything about his mode of dress and posture portrayed an air of pride and wealth, while his expression spoke of a personality brimming with arrogance and humor—undoubtedly in equal measure.

Anika could never quite pinpoint what had drawn her to the painting, nor could she figure out why she became seized with the urge to stop and stare at it anytime she passed the storeroom. She found herself giving in to that urge more and more these days, unable to stop trying to solve the mysteries in Isaac’s bold stare or discern just what secret he held in that smirk of his.

Anika, girl, you are insane, she muttered, reaching for the white sheet to re-cover the painting. The only man in the world to ever hold your interest, and he’s been dead for more than half a century.

Standing, she turned to leave the storeroom, but the glint of a metal object on one of the wooden shelves caught her attention. It had come along with a box she’d procured from the local museum, full of artifacts discovered right here in Saint’s Grove. The items hadn’t interested them enough to be displayed, so she’d been allowed to purchase them. Pieces with a connection to local folklore always sold well, especially to tourists who wanted to take a piece of Saint’s Grove home with them.

She’d had a hard time determining just what this thing could be—a long shard of silver