The Protector (Lone Wolf, Book 1) by Bridget Essex Read Free Book Online Page A

my elbows a little firmer on the counter taking all the weight off my
leg as I placed my chin in my right hand and purposefully gazed past her.   I regarded the violin with a nod.
    “That fiddle was made by a
traveling music man about two hundred years ago, up in Maine,” I told her,
jerking my chin in the violin’s direction.   “His name was Alfred McNalis, and he was self-taught in the art of
instrument making, but he ended up making quite a few very impressive
violins.   He just had a gift for it—and
this was violin, in particular, was one of his finest pieces.   But legend has it that he bargained that
violin to the devil to save his life.   There was a fire, and the house he was staying in burned down,
everything completely destroyed, including everyone else who’d been staying in
the house…but old Alfred and his fiddle were perfectly unscathed, not a
horsehair missing from his bow, not a button out of place on his jacket, and he
kept raving while he held up the violin, ‘the fire never even touched us.’   Later on, the fiddle was badly burned in
another fire, but that was long after its creator had died.   Alfred was over the age of a hundred when
death finally caught up with him, a feat practically unheard of in those
days.   And everyone says it’s because he
sold that fiddle to the devil.”
    “That’s a pretty impressive story,”
said Layne with a wink.   “Now how much
of that is actually true?” she asked, but she was grinning lazily, indulgently,
as she strode over to me and leaned her left hip against the counter, arms
still crossed, and looking down at me with bright, flashing eyes.
    “I…I don’t know,” I said, gulping
at her nearness.   This close, the heat
radiating off of her was something I could actually feel, even though we stood
about two feet apart.   “There are a lot
of legends surrounding music and musical instruments,” I said with a shrug
after clearing my throat.   “Probably not
much of it is actually true,” I said, all in a rush.   “But it makes for a good story, doesn’t it?”
    “You know, come to think of it…why
are there so many stories about devils and violins?” asked Layne, her face
taking on a quizzical expression now as her eyebrows furrowed.   “I mean…that song, the Devil went down to
Georgia.   That violin guy who sold his
soul to the devil so that he could play perfectly.   Stuff like that.”
    “Because,” I said, pushing off from
the counter, and pressing my palms flat against the wooden countertop.   I didn’t even think about it as I said:   “the violin makes such a beautiful sound
that people couldn’t explain it any other way than the fact that it must be
supernatural.   How else could such
beautiful music come from something that is, essentially, hollow wood and
wire?”
    Layne’s eyes narrowed as she
watched me for a long moment.   Her jaw
was clenched, and she looked like she wanted to say something very important,
pain flickering behind her eyes, but Verity was pushing back through the door
again, a beat-up violin case in hand.
    “Sorry it took me awhile to get
to—I was storing it in my safe in my back office,” said Verity in a hushed tone
as she set the case down gently on the counter.   She was practically glowing as she leaned forward and
murmured:   “I think you’re going to love it, Elizabeth.”
    Verity always kept her eye out for
violins for me.   She knew my style, knew
what I needed in an instrument, and had a lot of connections in the stringed
instrument world.   All I knew about this
violin was that it was about a hundred years old, and masterfully crafted—she
hadn’t told me anymore than that.   She
knew that I needed it to play in the orchestra, so I knew the instrument would
be of superb quality.
    But I couldn’t have imagined it
would be quite like this.
    There are a lot of violinmakers who
have copied one of the most talented violinmakers who ever lived:   Stradivarius.