The Artisans

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author makes no claims to, but instead acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the word marks mentioned in this work of fiction.

Copyright © 2015 Julie Reece

THE ARTISANS by Julie Reece

All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America by Month9Books, LLC.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

Published by Month9Books

Cover and typography designed by K. Morris

Cover Copyright © 2015 Month9Books

For Blake

Fierce defender of those she loves

“The boundaries which divide Life from Death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends, and where the other begins?” ~ Edgar Allan Poe

The winter of two thousand nine brought influenza, taking twenty-seven souls from Colleton County, South Carolina. The good people of Sales Hollow deposited their corpses in the ground. The following spring, Hurricane Isaac hit the coast, and the earth gave them back.

Scandal covered the news. It seemed the proprietors of Coffee Funeral Home took money from several grieving families to cremate their loved ones, including my late mother, Ida Elizabeth Weathersby. They buried the bodies in their own backyard. Granted, the Coffee family plantation consisted of sixty acres. Still, the urn filled with pasty white sand was a poor substitute for my mother’s actual remains, and the undoing of my stepfather, Ben.

While the sheriff handcuffed Wade, Jerry, and Thomas Coffee and led them away, the deceased, who had resided up until that point in shallow graves behind the crumbling Coffee family tennis courts, were identified through their dental records.

Some things you never see coming. Like Ben’s attempt to smuggle a gun into the courthouse at the Coffee brothers’ arraignment, his subsequent arrest, release, and emotional breakdown.

Other things are glaringly obvious. Like the crippling pain of someone you care for. Dreams wither and waste away much the same as an apple core curls under the hot southern sun.

What sacrifice is too great when you love someone?

I decided there was none—the day I gave my freedom away.

Chapter One

Sweat drips from my temple as I push a needle through my friend’s torn flesh. Years of sewing custom clothing enable me to make tiny sutures in his skin, close the three-inch gash in his shoulder. I hope it won’t leave another scar.

Dane sits on the closed toilet seat in my bathroom. The space is too tight, the air between us close and cloying. I toss my head, shaking damp hair away from my eyes. Blood trickles down his bicep as I pierce him again. Today makes the third time I’ve sewn him up. He doesn’t complain about the pain. I don’t ask what pissed his father off this time.

Dane Adams introduced himself in my English Literature class a year ago when he first moved to Sales Hollow from Nashville. He missed the drama concerning the Coffee brothers, my mother’s corpse, and Ben’s trial. After Ben got out of the psyche ward, my name became synonymous with social pariah. People don’t look me in the eye anymore. Pity, guilt, fear … whatever the reason, I make them uncomfortable.

Dane doesn’t treat me that way.

Angry and incessant buzzing breaks my concentration. I scowl at the window where a fly is trapped between the screen and the world outside. I can’t set him free. The windows are painted shut. Refocusing on my task, I complete two more stitches, tie them off, and cut the thread. Not bad. I tape gauze loosely over the angry wound and straighten. He grabs my fingers, giving them a tender squeeze.

Sorrow mixed with gratitude shines from his dark brown eyes. I clear the knot from my throat. “All fixed up, bro.”

I take a step back allowing Dane to stand. The guy dwarfs the little space. He leans around me, lifting a white cotton tee from its place on the sink countertop.

“Wait, you’ll tear your stitches.” I help him stretch the fabric over his head and cover his impressive torso.

When he showed up earlier, he was wearing the new, camel-colored leather jacket I made him. Double lapel over a red button up paired with dark stonewashed jeans and boots. Sharp. He can’t afford to pay me for the clothes I make him. I wouldn’t take his money if he could. The dumb guy spent ten minutes hanging out, bleeding, until finally admitting he needed stitching up.

I glance at my wrist for the hundredth time. The watch is my own design, fashioned from discarded parts into a silver, steampunk beetle. The wings slide to reveal a clock face. Two forty-five
AM
.

“How long has he been gone?”

The ‘he’ referred to is my stepfather Ben. I raise my eyes to find Dane studying me. He lifts an eyebrow, waiting. My shrug is my only answer.

A heavy breath leaks out as my friend leans against the wall. “You should have called me when he went missing.”

Hoping to avoid an interrogation, I head out of the bathroom and into the storage area of our leather repair shop. The lease doesn’t cover our living here, of course, but since we lost our apartment two months ago, we had no place else to go.

Dane follows and I face him. “It’s not your job to protect us all the time. You’ve got your own problems. I can handle this.”

“As if.” He snorts. “Don’t I always find him? You need me. Besides, I’m scary as hell.”

I can’t help my smile. He
is
scary as hell. Severe facial bone structure makes him look perpetually pissed off. He’s tall and skinny but in a wiry, muscular sort of way. The boy can bend metal pipes with his bare hands. I’ve seen him.

Our rent is overdue. I glance at the fabric piled on the work counter. Resentment sprouts like weeds in my chest. “I have a clothing order to finish …”

“I know you’re broke, but can you sew while you’re worried about him?” Dane tosses his long, rust-colored dreads over his shoulder revealing the fresh bruise on his neck.

Anger burns a hole in my gut, but there’s nothing I can do to help him. Or anyone else it seems. “I can’t always drop everything and go looking for Ben!” I slink to my sleeping bag on the floor. I don’t know why I’m yelling. The people I’m angry at aren’t in the room to hear. “Sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry, Rae. I get it.” He scratches his chin. “Leave him be for one night. He’ll turn up.”

What I haven’t told him is that I’ve already been looking.

All night long, I searched Ben’s usual haunts—the liquor stores, card games, and bars he frequents—with no sign. Jacob, who owns the pawnshop Ben visits, said the hot game in town was one held near the docks at Maddox Industries, a textile warehouse district turned seedy clubs and bars. The name Maddox is like a shadow over our town, drawing a collective shudder. Everyone has heard the rumors: money, crime … bodies in the river.