The Scent of Forever Read online

  She pounded the Enter key to send her post to the forum, then shut down the computer before she could change her mind.

  Leaning back in her chair, she scanned the great room of the dome home her parents built to overlook the creek. The house was a ridiculous monstrosity with superior acoustics that amplified the sounds of their toxic marriage until a car accident silenced them both. It contained no attic, no basement, and no real storage spaces, not that it needed any; they’d lost everything in a fire that claimed the farmhouse in 1979.

  She remembered the attic at the old place with its tall stacks of dusty boxes. Those containers probably held clues about the torc’s origin, but they were long gone, along with the attic. Any information would have to come from the courthouse.

  Is it open today?

  She glanced at the wall calendar, still stuck on “January.”

  It’s Monday, right? She flipped to the right month. Yeah, it is.

  She dressed in a tee shirt Mike detested.

  I hate that orange shirt. It clashes with your red hair. Besides, it’s a little snug, don’t you think? Do you want the whole world to see your muffin top?

  She slipped it on, then ran her hands across her belly. Her bellybutton certainly didn’t sit in the middle of six-pack abs, but it wasn’t surrounded by pudge, either. All in all, she was pretty fit for a woman nearing forty.

  She wondered what Mike thought of Chelsea’s tummy now that it had extra skin and stretch marks.

  The torc squeaked as she hooked its clasps behind her neck. It was heavier than she expected, and natural-looking above the swells of her breasts, like it belonged there.

  Weird.

  She brushed her fingers across the green stone, setting something ablaze that spread across her body like a cozy blanket. She smelled a dozen things at once: coffee in her empty mug; fabric softener on her shirt; soap in the bathroom, even though it lay twenty feet away. Her heart thrashed, ramming blood through her veins. She grew tearful for no good reason.

  Remember me. Remember me. Remember me.

  The words echoed like a clanging bell.

  Who was she supposed to remember? Why were there suddenly so many smells? Where did the torc come from? How did it end up buried in the cabin? Did her ancestors put it there? They surely did, but why?

  The answers darted beyond her reach like an elusive word. In the midst of uncertainty, one belief blossomed, a conviction she felt to her core, though it defied logic and made her question her sanity: this wasn’t the first time the torc ringed her neck. It had belonged to her before, at some distant point in the past.

  ~ ~ ~

  The copper dome of the neoclassical courthouse rose high above Mifflintown. There were plenty of available parking spots under the great oak trees; not much happened at the Juniata County Courthouse on a Monday morning.

  A quick check in the rearview mirror assured Ann that her scarf hid the torc. It was dangerous to wear it, but so was leaving it at home.

  She noticed the scent of grass and roses as she climbed the stairs and passed between two massive columns. These pleasant odors lasted only until she entered the courthouse. There, bleach overpowered all else.

  A spotless, checkerboard corridor led her to the Register of Wills’ office, where a girl with a highlighted bob and hot pink lips sat at a computer. Her brass desk plate indicated her name was Tonya Turns.

  “May I help you?” She blushed and clicked off a Facebook page.

  “I hope so. I’m researching my ancestry.”

  “Oh, um, Joyce is better at that stuff.” Tonya glanced at a clock above an empty desk. It read 9:10 a.m. “She should be here any minute. I can try to help you. Follow me.” She ambled toward the far wall, the scent of bubble gum trailing behind her.

  They approached a room labeled “Archives,” where two filing cabinets with tiny drawers flanked the entrance like Beefeaters at the gates of Buckingham Palace.

  “Oh, my gosh, card files,” Ann exclaimed. “I haven’t seen those since high school.”

  “They had these in your school?” Tonya replied. “Really?”

  She looked about twenty-one. Chelsea’s age. Chelsea, the baby maker. Ann smiled politely and fantasized about throat-punching her.

  “Who are you looking for?” Tonya asked.

  “Francis McConnell.” Ann thought that was her great-grandfather’s name.

  “Um, okay . . .” Tonya stared at the cabinets.

  Is she looking for an On switch?

  An extraordinarily tall woman—presumably Joyce—burst into the office and flopped her quilted purse onto her desk, along with a plastic bag that smelled like a ham sandwich.

  “I’m so sorry,” she gasped. “There must be an Amish funeral today. I got behind about twenty buggies. Can I help you?”

  Tonya looked visibly relieved. “She’s looking for Francis McConnell.”

  Joyce brushed past her. She slid out one of the small drawers, then rifled through the cards, saying, “In a couple of years, this will all be available digitally. For now, we do it the old-fashioned way.” She extracted several index cards. “Here we go. Francis McConnell, probated 1898. There’s an earlier McConnell, too. No first name given, but probated in 1849. Let’s have a look at both.” Her pen scratched across a pad as she wrote down the estate numbers. “Now then. This way.” She waved Ann toward the archives room, where thick, canvas-covered books rested horizontally on high shelves. There were no chairs at a central counter, only a big sign in all capital letters demanding visitors return books to their proper places. Below that, someone wrote, “Yeah, your mom doesn’t work here.”

  “Two three seven.” Joyce reached overhead to roll a volume off a squeaky, wheeled shelf.

  “Good thing you’re tall,” Ann said, thinking Joyce probably heard that all the time.

  “Fairly certain it’s how I got the job.” Joyce eased the book down on the counter. “These are so old,” she said, gently opening it.

  A cloud of history wafted up to Ann’s nose.

  “Here it is,” Joyce said. “The estate of Francis Henry McConnell.”

  “His middle name was Henry? Is that a clue as to his father’s name?”

  “Not necessarily. Was he the eldest son?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It would help if you did. Naming patterns of the nineteenth century were fairly consistent. A firstborn son would have been named for his paternal grandfather. Second sons were named after their maternal grandfathers, and third sons were often named for their fathers.”

  Even Joyce had to stand on tiptoe to slide out a yellowing volume labeled “1838-1850.” She opened it carefully. “Donald McConnell, no middle name given. He died intestate, so there are a lot of filings, including one by your Francis. See here.” She pointed at the faded scrawl. “He signed as one of the sons and heirs. That means he was Donald’s son.”

  Ann pulled a notebook from her purse and wrote down the name.

  Joyce tapped the book. “You’ll want to read through all of these filings and jot down the names you find. Families tend to recycle them. Sometimes a sibling’s estate can shed light.”

  “I’ll do that. Thanks.” Ann set her notebook on the counter and wished for a seat.

  Joyce said, “Anything prior to 1838 will be located in Mifflin County, since Juniata was formed from Mifflin. You might want to check at the historical society, too. I’ll leave you to it. If you need any help, just holler.”

  Back in her office, Joyce addressed an unseen visitor. “Oh, hey, Alex.”

  “Morning, Joyce,” a man replied. “Tonya, is that a new blouse?”

  “Gosh, no. I’ve had it for, like, a hundred years.”

  “And if you have it for another hundred, you’ll be just as lovely in it.”


  Tonya giggled.

  Oh, brother. Ann rolled her eyes and tried to guess what Mister Smooth looked like. Bleach-happy janitor in faded Dickies coveralls.

  He strode into the archives wearing an expensive suit and carrying a briefcase.

  “Oh!” He halted on the threshold, flabbergasted. “Forgive me, I’m not used to having company in here. Good morning. I’m Alexander.” He opened his briefcase at the far end of the counter, then tossed a business card like a Frisbee.

  “Morning.” She offered him a fleeting smile and dropped the card into her purse without reading it. He was cordial enough and flat-out smoking hot, but she was here to gather information, not hook up.

  Reading her correctly, he said, “I’ll leave you to your business.”

  Thank you. That would be super awesome.

  After extracting all useful names and dates from the ancient book, Ann tucked her notepad into her purse. She carried the book to the wall where it belonged, but she was an inch too short to reach the wheeled shelf.

  Shit.

  “Allow me.” Alex rushed behind her. She felt the heat of him against her back as he thrust the book into its proper place. His cologne—a dizzying blend of sea air, crushed pine, and an odd smoke—turned her legs to jelly and kicked her heart into a canter. At her breastbone, the stone in her hidden torc scorched her skin.

  What the hell?

  Ann fought to regain control. She locked her gaze on the S-T volume in front of her, her skin turning clammy, her feet glued to the floor. Was he going to cage her there forever? Who the hell did he think he was? She had to run before she fainted—or worse, before she fell into his arms. She whirled on her heels, prepared to challenge him, but Alexander was not behind her; he stood scanning the shelves on the far side of the room.

  “What?” she muttered.

  He looked over his shoulder. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh. Nothing. Thank you.”

  He nodded and smiled. “No problem.”

  She bolted out of the archives and through the Register of Wills’ office.

  “Have a good day,” Joyce shouted after her.

  Once inside her Durango, Ann rested her forehead against the steering wheel to catch her breath.

  What the hell was that? She pulled Alex’s card from her purse, and his scent came with it.

  Alexander P. MacDonald, Attorney-at-Law.

  She retrieved her cell phone from the center console, then dialed Maggie’s number.

  “Hi, you’ve reached Maggie. Leave me a message.”

  That’s right. She has that Smolder interview today.

  “Maggie, it’s me.” Ann’s voice was shaky. “Call me when you get this message. Something really weird just happened.”

  Chapter 3

  It took eight hundred seventy-seven years to reach the surface of the rock. For the first five hundred of those hellish years, Semjaza screamed. He screamed until he thought his basalt prison would fracture and release him, but the greedy rock showed no weakness, no mercy. It held him fast, rendering him a reluctant witness to its eternal battle with sea and wind.

  In the five hundredth year of his confinement, Semjaza, formless and trapped, fell silent, at last. His anger at his father’s punishment cooled, not out of remorse, but because rage sapped him of precious vigor. He vowed revenge. Revenge required escape. Escape required composure and patience, two qualities he lacked.

  He learned to bide his time quietly, if grudgingly. In the stillness of defeat, he sensed what he missed in his fury: the vibration of life around him. He absorbed lower lifeforms at first, hardly satisfying. Spleenwort, sea lichens, plankton, jellyfish, and mussels—none of it was safe.

  He managed the poached energy carefully, using some to push his essence upward in tiny increments and storing the rest for snatching larger quarry. On a banner day three hundred years ago, a turtle and two sea ducks fell prey at once. He used the boon to annihilate a passing school of pollock.

  Energy-rich and buzzing with vigor, he tapped into the volcanic rock’s only conductive vein. It arced along the Irish coastline and led to the sea bed, where it branched into metal-rich seams that circumnavigated the world. Through that network, he palpated the world.

  The conductivity of the earth’s metallic bones allowed him to find his corporeal shell, still buried where he left it in the twelfth century. He located his lover several times, too, and always with her torc. Once, he found her rotting in Scotland. Then, in a shallow grave in Norway. Most recently, she lay preserved in the peaty bogs of Northern Ireland.

  When her torc left her grave, Semjaza knew she walked the earth again, for she always returned to that golden beacon.

  Did she sense her rarity? Did she know divine genes infused her human DNA? Could she recall anything from her past lives? If so, she might detest and fear the memory of the night he took her, not that it mattered. He certainly enjoyed himself. That was more important than anything.

  He would savor her slippery gash again, once he escaped the rock. It wouldn’t be long now. He knew where her torc was, or rather, where it had been until two days ago, when it left the dank earth of an American forest. That meant two things: she was back, and she was in America.

  The timing couldn’t be better. With barely a crust of rock left above him, he would soon be free to look for her. He’d drag her back to the Irish coast, if he had to, and pick up where he’d left off in the twelfth century. He would have her again and again. She might even enjoy it.

  All he needed was a suitable host to convey him. He would have one shortly, thanks to his gluttony. Someone would investigate the dead seals littering the shoreline. When they did, Semjaza would be ready.

  He would go to her then. This time, the child he stuffed into her womb would thrive. They would produce a daughter together, just like last time. He would take the girl, too, when her time came. In three generations, he would have children of nearly pure, divine genes, the foundation for a superior race capable of annihilating what his father loved most—humanity.

  Chapter 4

  Nigel Lynch stifled a gag and eased the boat closer to the rocky shoreline. He was hungover and tired of retrieving bloated seal carcasses, but fellow volunteer, Sinead Callaghan, wasn’t, and he was this close to getting in her knickers.

  “Aw, it’s a wee one,” Sinead squealed, her words flavored with an Irish lilt that drove Nigel mad. She leaned over the side of the boat, exposing Nigel’s only reason for accepting a summer internship with Free the Sea. He licked his lips and scrubbed a hand through his salt-stiffened hair.

  A little farther . . . Yes!

  God, what he wouldn’t give to pound that.

  “Hand me the hook.” Sinead twisted around, her arm outstretched.

  Nigel tore his gaze from the curves of her ass. “Take the wheel. I’ll haul it up.”

  She flashed him a smile. “Aw, a proper gent.”

  Chivalry had nothing to do with his offer. Dead seals splattered, and it was his job to keep the boat clean. Sinead had a knack for fucking up the job.

  She took the wheel and brought the boat alongside the seal.

  Glints of sunlight on the lapping waves turned Nigel’s mild headache into a migraine. He ignored his discomfort, tossed the hook, and snagged the seal.

  “Did ye get him?” Sinead asked.

  “Yeah.”

  She’d been tipsy and all-systems-go last night in the pub, until that minger Finuala Downey hauled her off the dance floor and suggested going for a takeaway. That left Nigel with a titanium boner and one less Viagra. He was down to three pills, with no refills left and only two weeks until his flight home to London. Maybe he’d take some of the old boy’s dosh and buy more pills in a back alley. If Nigel F. Lynch, Sr. could afford to buy his third wife a new se
t of tits, then he could hardly refuse his namesake a little fun.

  Nigel rolled the seal inboard. It slid onto a tarp.

  “It’s still limber.” Sinead squatted to examine it.

  Nigel stared at the cleft between her thighs.

  Imagine that going down on me.

  “Any signs of trauma?” he asked.

  “Nothin’ obvious.”

  Twenty other seals had been the same. Nobody knew what was killing them. Nigel really didn’t care. Pollution and parasitic infections were the working theories, but none of the experts flown in from the Sea Mammal Research Unit could find hard evidence.

  Sinead wilted onto a seat. “Poor thing was only after bein’ born.”

  “I’m sorry.” He knelt to put his arms around her, wondering if there was enough Viagra left in his system to manage the job. “It’s so frustrating.”

  It wasn’t, really. He knew frustrating. Frustrating was what was happening downstairs, or rather, what wasn’t.

  As the boat swayed, the swells of her breasts mashed against his chest.

  “Nigel?”

  “Yes, pet?”

  “What’s that?”

  He pulled away, then followed her gaze to the shoreline, where a gray blob rolled in the surf.

  Sinead retrieved a pair of binoculars.

  “Oh, Lard Jaysus, no,” she exclaimed. “It’s a minke whale. See it?”

  Hole. Lee. Balls. A whale. The holy grail of beached sea life.

  Sinead would be weak with grief.

  Awesome!

  “We have to get to it.” Nigel hoped Sinead found his enthusiasm genuine and admirable.

  “We’ll never make it through the sea stacks, let alone find a place to anchor.”