Free Obsidian Curse by Barbra Annino Page B

“No. Just commercial fiction.”
    “And the artwork. Was it valuable?”
    Another shrug. “Not that I know of. Purchased at garage sales and flea markets. My mother was an artist. She appreciated and supported modern painters.”
    I leaned against the counter, struggling to find a clue, anything that would make this story fall into a rhythm.
    “There’s more,” Blade said. “When I finally emerged from the bunker there was something in our house that wasn’t there before. Something I was certain the killer brought with him and left behind. A sculpture lying right there on the floor next to our shattered coffee table.”
    This piqued my interest. “And the police couldn’t trace it to anyone?”
    Blade shook his head. “They dismissed me as an imaginative child.” His eyes shined a bit brighter for a moment. “I’ve been writing since I could hold a pen,” he explained. “Blade Knight isn’t my only pseudonym, it’s just the one that pays the bills.”
    I nodded. “So they dismissed your claim.”
    “They couldn’t fathom why anyone would bring a piece of art to a crime scene and leave it there. In fact, I remember the exact words of one of the officers.” He scrunched up his face and in a gruff voice said, “ Usually works the other way around, son .”
    I suddenly had a horrible feeling in my gut. “Who was the officer? Do you recall?”
    He looked at me, getting my meaning. “It was the chief at the time, not your uncle, if that’s what you’re getting at. Actually”—he scratched his chin—“now that you mention it, Officer Geraghty was the only one who believed me. He tried to bag the sculpture, but the chief ordered him not to.”
    It made me feel proud that my uncle wasn’t as narrow-minded as his fellow lawmen.
    “So this is the smoking gun? The thing that was left behind?”
    Blade nodded.
    I pointed to the bag. “May I see it now?”
    Blade gave me a small smile. He twisted his body around and reached his arms into the satchel. “It’s been packed away all this time.”
    When he turned back to face me, he was holding a small black skull. He placed it on the counter between us and sat down on the second stool.
    I studied the piece for a moment. It seemed to be manufactured from some sort of gemstone. Obsidian? I trained my concentration to the energy of the skull, cupped my hands around it, and closed my eyes, centering myself with white light. I waited for a signal, a message.
    Nothing came.
    I leaned closer toward the skull, touched it, allowing my hands to linger near the eye sockets, but didn’t get a vibration from it.
    I sat back and scratched my head.
    That’s when a bullet shot through the window, exploding the skull into a million little pieces.

Chapter 12

    I launched myself at Blade Knight, toppling the author and sending both bar stools crashing to the tile. I clapped my hands to kill the lights and shouted for Thor to get to the Seeker’s Den.
    The dog whooshed past my right arm just as another bullet whizzed over my head, plunging into the door frame near my bedroom. Splintered wood crackled to the ground.
    “Stay down!” I told Blade. Crawling around him, I stuck my hand in the back pocket of my jeans and extracted my iPhone. I tapped the app and punched in the code to unlock the den.
    Thor and I had practiced this drill dozens of times so I knew exactly how many steps, dives, tail lengths, and arm reaches it took to reach my bedroom from anywhere in the cottage. I had to get to the closet—to the passageway and my lair. Thor was most likely waiting for the door to the Seeker’s Den to open by the time I had punched in the code. I quickly slipped the phone back in my pocket and the cottage was inky black again. Not even the microwave clock cast a glow.
    That was another trick I had picked up in training. It was amazing how a household staple as simple as a digital timer could get you killed.
    Blade’s heart beat loud through his shirt and I thought I heard a