Force Majeure: The Lifeward Legacy, #1

By Jennifer Sanders and Ashley J. Barner

Magic... and murder?

Reclusive witch Hulda van Dusen has spent the last five years hiding at home with her beloved Grandpapa, but suddenly he's gone, and the circumstances don't add up.

A series of monstrous, magical attacks makes it clear: someone wants her dead too.

But Hulda's a fighter, and has magic of her own—as do her genius brother and pyromaniac sister. And putting the puzzle together with the help of some new friends might just teach her how to live again—if it doesn't kill her first.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Notus Publishing
• Release date: May 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733983419

Book preview

Chapter 1

IF THERE WAS ONE UNIVERSAL thing to be said about lawyers, Hulda van Dusen thought to herself, it was that given a stage, they loved to perform. She shifted in her seat surreptitiously and tried not to think about the way her borrowed dress was itching. She’d raided her late grandmother’s closet for this woolen torture device; Hulda herself didn’t own much black clothing. Too stereotypical.

Her siblings flanked her on either side: older brother Zohar on the left, looking very tanned and trim and fit; and on the right, the youngest of the three van Dusens, Jubilee call-me-Lee-or-else, in black jeans and an old black sweater that looked like she’d dug it up from a Goodwill bin, which maybe she had. It wasn’t like it mattered anymore anyway, Hulda thought. Grandpapa would have cared what they wore, but Grandpapa was gone.

A warm hand briefly rested on her shoulder. Hulda turned to see the familiar face of Grandpapa’s best friend, Henry Talmadge, smiling at her reassuringly. She tried to return the smile but it was a watery effort at best, and then his face blurred entirely and she had to rummage for her handkerchief before she embarrassed herself in front of everyone. He patted her arm sympathetically, and then with a general harrumphing and clearing of throats, the reading of the will began.

It started with a brief eulogy, even more austere than the one delivered at his funeral a few days before, this time focused on his career and philanthropy, with the result that the most important part of his life was reduced to a single sentence: Jacob van Dusen is survived by his three grandchildren.

She fidgeted distractedly. Survived by. Was that what she was supposed to do now?

The dispensation of the business was lengthy. Hulda let herself drift, numb to whatever was being said. Grandpapa had set this in motion years ago, so nobody was surprised. The management of Mojo Cola would continue without a hitch, she and her brother and sister would continue to receive a ridiculous annual stipend from their majority stock, the board proxies Grandpapa had appointed for them would remain in place, yada yada yada. Jacob van Dusen had made certain that his legacy, as represented by the second-largest soft drink company in the world, would go on ad infinitum, even without his steady hand at the wheel.

That wasn’t the legacy that worried Hulda, anyway.

After that, gifts and bequests to various charities and friends. The Hudson Valley Regional Assembly came in for a tidy sum—no surprise there—and a trust was set up to maintain the rose garden at the Vivaldi Hotel in Grandmama’s name, which was a surprise and nearly set Hulda off again. Henry was singled out for a remembrance, and at the sound of his sniffling Hulda reached behind her chair to squeeze his hand.

The lawyer took a moment to sip some water, and Hulda’s skin went clammy. Moment of truth time—and just enough to send up a small prayer that none of this was real before her fate was well and truly sealed. Zohar’s warm fingers were around her nerveless hand, and Lee reached out like she would touch her arm, and then withdrew again.

"I give, devise and bequeath the balance of my estate, real, personal and mixed, of whatever kind and nature and wherever situated, of which I may die seized or possessed, or to which I may then be or thereafter become entitled, or in which I may have an interest, or over which I may have any power of testamentary disposition, including any lapsed legacy herein, to be equally divided between my grandchildren, Zohar van Dusen, Hulda van Dusen, and Jubilee van Dusen. All distribution to my grandchildren shall be made per stirpes.

Further, I give, devise and bequeath to my granddaughter, Hulda van Dusen, the real property located at One Aldwyn Way, Woodfield, and the Woodfield Trust account number 4598226, which bank account was established for the care and upkeep of the foregoing property.

The words washed over Hulda in a flood of legalese, but she understood the gist well enough. Grandpapa had left her his house—and his place in the community, as well. There it was: she’d been clearly marked as her grandfather’s successor. Zoey gave her a hug; Lee offered her a small smile and a discreet thumbs-up. Where she’d been numb before, now Hulda was all pins and needles, the uncomfortable sensation of coming back to life after having been too deeply asleep.

The rest of the reading blurred past. She was aware of eyes on her—assessing, judging, finding her wanting despite her years of training, her lifelong apprenticeship at Grandpapa’s side. Her brother glanced at her with something that looked an awful lot like relief, her sister with no discernable emotion at all. Hulda suppressed a shiver. She’d known this was coming; they all had. She’d just not thought it would come so soon.

Zohar drove them back to Woodfield, Lee in the front seat complaining about his choice in radio station. Hulda sat in the back with Henry, watching the landscape roll by, the route out of Manhattan mostly marked by the color of the slush on the freeway, which lightened by degrees as they got out of the city and approached home. The older man took her hand, his skin warm and dry. Are you all right, my dear? he asked, his gaze worried behind the glint of his tortoiseshell glasses. It’s quite a responsibility, taking over the farm—and everything else.

Hulda spared him a brief smile. I’m all right. Just... there’s nothing to say, really. I knew it was coming.

Grandpapa had been so much more than a grandparent to the three of them, he and Grandmama. After her parents had been killed by a slippery road and a sleepy driver, Grandpapa had taken them in and assumed the mantle of parent to three heartbroken kids in the midst of his own grief. It couldn’t have been easy, but like everything else he did, he made it look as natural as breathing.

These last years it had been just the two of them, Hulda and Grandpapa, rattling around in the big farmhouse that had belonged to her grandmother’s family since time immemorial. Grandmama herself was gone, leaving a void that could never really be filled, and Zohar and Lee were off living their lives on their own terms. But Hulda had stayed—to keep Grandpapa company.

Hulda impatiently brushed away the tears that tracked down her cheeks. Lying to yourself is still lying, echoed her grandmother’s voice inside her head. All right then, drag the truth into the light and have a good look at it. She’d been hiding, Hulda admitted to herself. By the time of Grandmama’s final illness Hulda had been glad to have a reason to turn tail and run home, away from everything. And here she’d stayed ever since.

She’d learned a lot, though. Grandpapa had had plenty to teach, and she’d absorbed it all like a sponge: a good thing, considering present circumstances. Her siblings didn’t care about the farm; they weren’t tied to the land the way she was. They didn’t care about the other stuff, either. Better you than me, was how Lee had summed it up in her inimitable style, sotto voce, while they were heading toward the car. So maybe they were okay with it.

Hulda just wasn’t sure she was.

Henry patted her hand. You’re being brave. We none of us really knew this was coming, Hulda my dear. Not like this.

The scenery outside the window swam a bit. A week—it had only been a week since she’d come home from a rare venture out to find ambulances and medics swarming the farmhouse, a frantic Henry waiting to intercept her, and her grandfather—the mighty Jacob van Dusen, captain of industry, pillar of the community; charming, charismatic, beloved Grandpapa, who should have gone on forever—a crumpled, still form on the ground. She hadn’t had to look twice, hadn’t needed the well-meaning EMT speaking in low, respectful tones, to know he was gone. A massive heart attack, they said. Instantaneous. No pain, as though that would somehow comfort her, ease her guilt. But nothing would ever change the truth that sat like lead in Hulda’s belly.

She should have been there. She could have saved him.

She must have sobbed aloud, because Henry was gathering her close, his heavy wool overcoat smelling of old books and the smoke of an open fireplace. He kissed her forehead in a gesture so like her grandfather’s that Hulda’s heart physically ached. My dear girl, you are not to blame. No one saw this coming, not Jacob himself, not anyone. The end comes to us all. There was nothing you could have done, believe me.

She nodded, sniffed, scrambled for self-control. I know. I just—I didn’t—he was always so well. I thought we had plenty of time, and now... Her fingers curled into fists against his chest.

Henry rubbed her back. Don’t think about it now, child. There’s been enough to deal with today.

Matty Reed cursed, long and comprehensively, as her car’s low gas warning dinged again. She had decided to take the scenic route into Woodfield with her GPS app to guide her. It would have been a great idea: she had plenty of time that evening to get settled at her new apartment, and as a rural police officer, she needed to learn to navigate the area. It would have been a great idea, that was, if her phone hadn’t gone dead. It seemed there was a wiring problem in her car, and the cigarette-lighter plug wasn’t charging the phone. Her gas light had come on more than half an hour ago, by which time she had discovered that the roads between the exit she had taken and the town of Woodfield were not easily navigable to non-locals. They twisted and turned, transforming suddenly into narrow gravel lanes and coming to unexpected dead ends. It wasn’t long before she completely lost her bearings. Finally, when she was right in the middle of some woods that she might have called beautiful if she had been in the mood for aesthetic enjoyment, the car made a sort of coughing noise and died, the vehicle slowing to a stop.

Matty thumped the steering wheel and let out a curse that would have scandalized her mother if she had heard it. With a heavy sigh, she put the car in neutral and got out, pushing it to the side of the road and jamming it into park. Something cold touched her cheek: large snowflakes were beginning to fall out of the quickly-darkening sky. Time to find a local with a phone and call a tow-truck and a cab.

Matty glanced around with a long-suffering sigh: she hadn’t seen another car for a while, and there was nothing on either side of the road but woods. She had passed a gated driveway a short way back: she would have to walk up to the house and ask to use their phone.

Shivering, she reached back into the car to pull out a pair of gloves. The temperature seemed to be dropping, and the snow was already beginning to come down heavily. She hesitated for a moment, then got her sidearm out of her lockbox and slipped it onto her belt, pulling her coat over it. Better to risk freaking someone out if they saw it than to go wandering around the countryside unprotected, with no vehicle and no phone.

The driveway was farther back than she had remembered. It was flanked by two tall stone pillars bearing a decorative wrought-iron gate. Swanky. Matty shrugged and started trudging down the long, curving gravel drive, which was quickly turning white.

She shivered and bent her head into the wind. Shit, it was cold. The wind was cutting right through her jeans, and the fronts of her legs were quickly going numb. Snow was seeping into her sneakers by the time she finally caught sight of the huge old rambling farmhouse. The porch light shone out welcomingly through the increasing gloom. Thank God—hopefully somebody was home.

She climbed the steps of the porch, trying not to slip in the snow, and knocked at the door, the sound dampened by her gloves. She jiggled back and forth from one foot to the other as she waited. In a minute the door swung open. What’s wrong, did you forget your—? Oh. Hi, can I help you? The young woman holding the door open was about Matty’s age. She had thick auburn hair, tied back in a braid that fell past her waist. Her cheeks, under their light dusting of freckles, were pink with embarrassment, her eyes red and puffy like she’d been crying.

Matty tried to keep her teeth from chattering, with limited success. Hi, I’m sorry to bother you, but my c-car’s out of gas, and icing on the cake, my phone’s dead. Could I—?

Of course, her hostess said, beckoning her in and then managing to shut the door against a gust of wind. The floor of the entryway was wet with snow already. Matty was shivering so hard she felt like she was vibrating.

The woman peered into Matty’s face. Are you all right? Matty nodded silently, teeth still chattering. Cold out there, isn’t it? Come into the kitchen; the phone’s in there. I’ll get a fire going and make some tea or something while you call.

She led the way through a butler door into an enormous kitchen: very up-to-date, with granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, though the huge trestle table and Windsor chairs were clearly old and slightly battered. A pair of overstuffed armchairs sat by a large stone fireplace, not yet lit; Matty dropped into one of these, trying desperately to rub some warmth into her arms.

Her hostess laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. Warmth spread through Matty’s shivering form and she found herself relaxing. Can I get you a blanket or something? the woman asked kindly.

No, thank you—I’m warming up, Matty said, feeling her shoulders droop with relief.

I’m Hulda van Dusen, the other woman added.

Like Jacob van Dusen? Matty recognized the name from a recent news report—and then remembered what else it had said about the local billionaire philanthropist. A look of pain crossed her new acquaintance’s face.

Jacob van Dusen is—was—my grandfather, Hulda said quietly.

I’m so sorry for your loss, Matty said quickly.

Her hostess looked away for a moment. Thanks. Let me see to the fire and get you something to warm you up, and then you can make your phone call. Hulda suited action to words, bending over the fireplace. She fussed with about eight matches before one of them finally caught the kindling under the log. Sorry, she offered her guest a small smile. I’m not used to... Um, these matches are stubborn. Do you still want tea? I’m pretty sure I can manage a kettle. Decaf, herbal, Earl Grey? Or a Mojo, I have a ton of that.

Of course they did. Her grandfather had founded the world-famous soft drink company; they were sure to have plenty of the stuff. Uh, tea’s fine—whatever you’ve got. My name’s Matty Reed, by the way, she added belatedly.

Hi, Matty. That’s an unusual name. Matty smiled as her hostess turned her back to get down the tea. This, coming from a woman named Hulda.

The phone’s in that wooden box on the table. My grandparents were pretty old-fashioned about some stuff. They thought telephones were rude. Hulda’s smile widened just a bit, a fleeting dimple appearing at the corner of her mouth. I’ll just put the kettle on. There was a large, restaurant-grade stove on the opposite side of the room, and she busied herself at it, clearly trying to give Matty some privacy.

Matty found the landline—and thankfully, it had a phone book with it. She looked up a local cab company and called the number. The man promised to get to her as soon as he could, before the snow got bad. We’ve had a lot of calls in the area, he added. What’s the pick-up address?

One second. What’s the address? she asked Hulda. 

The redheaded woman glanced up from pouring out the tea. One Aldwyn Way. You can just tell him it’s the van Dusen farm.

Matty relayed the message, and thought she heard him whistle on the other end. Okay. That’s a little way out, and we’ve got a couple people to drop off here, but I should be there in about half an hour or forty minutes. Can I call you at this number when I’m close?

Matty agreed and finished the call. Hulda brought the mugs over by the fire, along with a jar of honey. I’ve got sugar if you’d rather, and milk. Possibly a lemon, though I make no promises.

Oo, thank you. The honey’s fine. Remind me to always break down in front of your house! Matty joked. They said it’d be half an hour or so until they got to me.

The local cab ‘company’ only has one car, Hulda returned with an amused smile. "So you’re new to Woodfield? Sorry, I don’t mean to pry; it’s just we don’t see a lot of new faces around here. Well, I don’t, she qualified with a smile. Are you just visiting, or staying awhile?"

Actually, I just got a job in town, Matty answered, sipping at the tea. With the Woodfield Police Department.

Her hostess was clearly impressed. Wow. That’s great! What will you be doing?

I got promoted to lieutenant detective, so... detecting. Matty grinned. What about you? What do you do? She could have bitten her tongue. What did a soft drink heiress do with her time? Was it rude of her to ask?

Hulda looked down at her lap. My grandfather was pretty active in the local community. I’m sort of... expected to step into his place. That’ll be most of my time, I expect.

What kinds of things did he do? Matty asked. Hulda had mentioned him, so she felt she could, too—maybe Hulda would want to talk about him.

He was the head of a—a local organization called the Hudson Valley Regional Assembly. You’ve probably never heard of it; it’s not famous or anything. He used to arrange various services, mediate disputes, do some tutoring, stuff like that. Hulda was watching the fire as she spoke.

Do you enjoy that kind of work?

Hulda shrugged. I guess. It’s what I know, anyway.

They sat in silence for a minute. Wow—it’s really coming down, Matty observed at last, squinting through kitchen window at the quickly darkening yard. It’s weird—I didn’t see anything about this in the forecast for Woodfield when I checked it this morning.

No, me either—I was just thinking that. My grandfather used to say that foretelling the weather was an example of ineffective sorcery. Hulda grinned and slanted a glance at her companion. He wasn’t wrong.

Matty chuckled. Sounds like he was a smart man.

There was a pause, during which Hulda looked out the window at the falling snow, and rubbed her nose, which was rapidly turning pink. Her voice was rough when she spoke. Yeah. He was. She huffed out something that might have been a laugh, but probably wasn’t. It’s still weird to talk about him in the past tense, you know? I can’t quite... She looked back at Matty, and sure enough, her dark eyes had filled with tears. He was more like a father to me than a grandfather. To all three of us. Our parents died when we were just kids, and Grandpapa and Grandmama took us in, brought us up. None of that ‘nanny’ stuff, either. They were very hands-on. She smiled and looked down at her lap. Sorry. That’s probably more than you wanted to know.

No, that’s okay. So you have two siblings?

Mmhm. I’m the middle child, the—what is it—peacemaker? The mediator? Hulda laughed softly while she scrubbed at her eyes with the heel of her hand. My older brother Zohar teaches at the University of Sedona in Arizona, and my younger sister Lee does independent research. Anthropological, I guess you’d call it. She’s not associated with any institution, though. She just does it because she likes it. Another chuckle. How about you, any brothers or sisters?

Nope, Matty answered, just me and my mom. Anthropology, huh?

Hulda shrugged. Sort of? She likes to go off the grid and live with indigenous tribes of various countries, record their oral histories and traditions. Most recently she was in Indonesia, I think.

Wow. Matty huddled down warmly in her chair, her hands wrapped around her mug, and wondered what she would do if she had the fortune of one of the van Dusen siblings. She’d probably be at a resort in Cancun, not roughing it in the wilds of Indonesia, she admitted to herself with a quirk of her lips.

Hulda stretched. So where are you from?

Weller’s Point, Pennsylvania. I grew up there.

Oh, I’ve passed by there a couple of times. Pretty place. What’s your mom do?

Children’s librarian. Matty gave a little snort. "She named me for Roald Dahl’s Matilda."

Hulda grinned. "I love that book."

I like it better than the name! the detective answered. The movie was pretty good, too. I liked that they let her keep her powers in the end.

Oh, did they? I never saw the movie, but I like that ending much better. I always felt bad for Matilda. Hulda chuckled. I’ll have to see if I can watch it online.

They sat in companionable silence for a while. Matty found herself glancing at the clock over the stove. Is that time right?

Hulda groped for her phone. It ought to be—yeah, it is. She held up her cell to show Matty. They should have been here by now.

Just then, the kitchen phone rang. Matty jumped up and answered it. Hello? Yes. ...Oh. ...Um, yeah. She listened in growing dismay. Yeah, I guess I’ll... figure something out. Okay. Yeah, this number. Thanks. Bye. She hung up. They’re not coming.

Wow, the roads must be really bad. I hope Zoey and Lee stay put in town.

Yeah. Matty felt a little stunned. I guess I’ll— But she couldn’t come up with an alternate plan.

Crimson crept up the redhead’s pale cheeks. Uh, you can stay, if you want. I mean, you don’t have to if it’s weird, but I bet you’ll have trouble getting anyone to come out before the storm’s over. Anyway, you’d be welcome, if... um... I’m not making a pass at you or anything, she added hurriedly.

Matty burst out laughing. I didn’t think you were! Actually, I would be really grateful for a bed for the night. I get the impression you’ve got a lot of those.

We’ve got some room, Hulda acknowledged, smiling.

Matty chuckled and picked up the phone again. I was supposed to call my mom and tell her when I got to town. I guess I should let her know what’s going on. She dialed her childhood phone number. It was only when she held the phone up to her ear that she realized something was wrong. She hung it up and picked it up again, but there was no dial tone. Uh... your landline’s dead, she called over to Hulda.

Really? That’s not... Hulda hurried over, pulling her cell phone from her jeans pocket again. I’ve got no bars, either. That’s weird. Snow on the lines wouldn’t knock out the cell towers. She looked at Matty, a worried frown creasing her brow. This isn’t good.

Just then, there was a sharp buzzing sound and a series of pops. A strange blue electrical arc flickered around every light in the room before they all went out abruptly, leaving the two women in shadows and silence.

The fusebox is in the mudroom, let me just check. Although... Hulda ran into another room and was back within moments. Nope. The power’s out. It’s going to cool off in here pretty quick, is my guess, even with the fire.

We’d better— A guttural, animal-like scream from outside shattered the silence. Shit! Matty exclaimed involuntarily.

Hulda startled visibly. What was—? She ran to the door and dragged it open. Is somebody out there? she called.

Gun in hand, Matty slid past Hulda and onto the porch, peering into the heavy snow and the gathering darkness. Who’s there? she shouted.

Hulda followed her outside, eyes wide. What was that?

Don’t know. It sounded weird, Matty answered briefly. Hello? she shouted again. There was no reply. Police! Identify yourself!

A low moan was the only response. Someone’s hurt, Matty said, and stepped off the porch, squinting into the driving snow.

Let me, Hulda ran past her. Zoey? Lee? She must have grabbed a flashlight—Matty could clearly see a faint glow coming from her hands. The eerie moan came again.

Get behind me, Matty ordered. Are you hurt? she called, walking further into the snow.

Hulda’s steps faltered. I don’t see— The wind had picked up considerably, the snow turning into tiny pellets of stinging ice, effectively blinding the two women. Hulda put up a hand to shield her eyes, and the glow Matty had seen earlier seemed to be coming from her skin. I don’t see anybody. I think we should get back to the house, she shouted against the keening of the wind.

There was a sudden roar, a mephitic stench, and then something erupted out of the whiteness. Matty saw a hugely tall, sickeningly gaunt thing loping toward them, gaping maw