A Rumor of Gems [Hardcover]

Enter the port city of Arcato: an old and magical town set somewhere in our modern world, a town where gemstones have begun to mysteriously appear . . . gemstones whose mystical powers aren't mere myth or legend but frighteningly real, casting their spells for good and ill. And the gemstones aren't all that's awry: gods and tricksters have also been loosed, sewing chaos in the streets of Arcato.

Caught in this maelstrom of magic and chance are four people whose lives become inextricably intertwined: Lucinda de Francesco, an embittered young woman who has no interest in falling under the influence of gods, gems, or any man; Alasdair, a shaman of sorts who can read and invoke the power of the stones; Sebastian Keane, an antiques dealer who pursues Lucinda with charm and persistence and other mysterious means; and Micheal Fortunato, an 11-year-old boy who--under the influence of gods and gems--may have become a killer.

A Rumor of Gems is a suspenseful, sexy story about the myths that linger in the shadows of our world. If you've ever been seduced by the beauty and power of gemstones, come find the magic at their heart.

Ellen Steiber is a consulting editor for the New York publishing industry and is also the author of many fine works of mythic fiction for children and adults.

Her stories make use of classic folk and fairy tale themes to explore distinctly modern concerns. Works in this vein include "The Fox Wife," based on Japanese myths (Ruby Slippers, Golden Tears); "In the Season of the Rains," based on Lilith myths (Sirens); "In the Night Country," based on a Grimm's fairy tale (The Armless Maiden), "The Cats of San Martino" based on an Italian fairy tale (Black Heart, Ivory Bones), "Argentine," based on Mexican Day of the Dead legends (The Essential Bordertown); and "The Shape of Things to Come," based on a Guatemalan folktale (The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror, Vol. 14), and "Screaming for Faeries" (The Faery Reel). She is curently working on the sequel to A Rumor of Gems.

Ellen is also an accomplished writer of children's and Young Adult fiction, with numerous books to her credit, such as Shadow of the Fox, based on Japanese folklore, and The Raven Queen (in collaboration with Terri Windling), based on English faery lore. In addition, Ellen has written many popular series books over the years. She was a ghostwriter for a classic girls' mystery series (we're not allowed to tell you what it was due to the publisher's insistence on confidentiality), and she has written several X-Files novels for kids, based on the television program.

Raised in Newark and West Orange, New Jersey, Ellen attended Carnegie Mellon University in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania; then moved to New York City where she worked in the publishing industry. As an editor of young-adult and middle-grade fantasy, she developed series by Bruce Coville, Sherwood Smith, Liz Rees, Suzanne Weyn, and Debra Doyle and James D. Macdonald. More recently she edited the illustrated novel, The Katurran Odyssey, by Terryl Whitlatch and David Michael Wieger. In 1991 she fulfilled a long-standing dream and moved to the American Southwest. She now lives in Tucson, Arizona, where her interests include mythology and folklore, Anusara yoga, and ongoing research into the lore of gems and stones. For more information on A Rumor of Gems, please visit her website or her blog: Gemstone Cowgirl.

Chapter One

There were rumors of gems appearing in the city: topaz turning up in the sneaker of a three-year-old; discarded emeralds found glittering on a restaurant dish that a waiter was about to clear; a convenience store cash register filled with opals instead of dimes; the dark soil in a window box suddenly shining with bits of polished lapis and garnet---enough to make necklaces for every woman in the tenement where the window box sprouted pink and yellow sweet peas.

There was no confirmation of the rumors. No one came forward with a coffee cup filled with rubies, and who could blame them? Except for a woman who'd won the local lottery, no one displayed sudden wealth. No one reported stolen jewels. No one fenced them through the underground. And yet the rumors continued---a girl in the park spilling out a sack of marbles and watching spheres of aquamarine and moonstone roll out in their stead; a punk pulling a knife on a onetime friend only to find he held a small, obelisk quartz crystal in which the image of an even smaller tiger roamed. (He kept the crystal and the tiger. The onetime friend fled.) Not all such appearances were welcome. An old man opened his cigar box to find no cigars but a rod of dark green tourmaline. He junked the stone and brought himself another box of cigars.

They were just rumors. And yet they persisted. Winter was finally releasing its hold, the sky held more light, and the people of Arcato began to walk with a sense of hope that had not been present for years. Although few admitted to believing the tales, there was hardly a soul who did not secretly hope that he would open his refrigerator door and see a topaz in place of a tomato, or that she might pour from a bag of cat food and have a cache of diamonds tumble out. The promise of riches was in the air.

Riches, however, were not what the appearance of the gems betokened. They were messages of a sort, calling cards. They were left by one who could not help himself. Alasdair scattered gems wherever he went, even when trying to be discreet. They fell from his pockets, trailed from his sleeves, hid in the brim of his hat, and brushed his eyelashes as they fell. He knew this for a problem and so he did not move about much during the day. When he did he wore layer upon layer of clothing to keep the showy little things concealed. And still the gems came. They had a penchant for escape. They liked the light of the sun. They liked to be seen. They were impossible to contain.

To the people of Arcato the rumors of the stones were an infusion of hope, a promise that what was desired might one day be met. To Alasdair the stones in their irrefutable reality were a sign that he could not stay long in the city, even under the cover of darkness. He would have to return to the place he had come from though he had left, swearing up and down that he would have nothing to do with it again. Even then he'd known his words for a lie. He was as bound to the place as the moon to the earth. He could feel its pull moving along his skin, streaming through his blood like a tide, whispering to him when he slept. He would have to go home. But the rumors were still considered the stuff of children's stories. No one took them seriously. He still had time.

In an apartment on a granite ridge near the top of the city, he closed thick velvet curtains and shed the layers of clothing for a simple robe. He pretended not to notice as the gemstones tumbled to the carpet. He turned on a lamp, knowing its narrow spectrum would annoy them. Their reaction was predictable. As if to show him just how inadequate lamplight was, the diamonds arranged themselves on his desk, sending out streams of rainbow-colored light, inviting him in their most dazzling fashion to be seated. And write a letter home, of course. The rubies took themselves off to the kitchen where they sorted themselves into various corners so that the white appliances glowed with the warmth of high mountain sunsets. The sapphires gathered in the bedroom, darting deep blue fire against the wood-paneled walls, reminding him of rooms he'd grown up in, of the chamber where he'd first made love.

For Alasdair the stones outdid themselves. They went beyond reflecting available light. They drew energy from their very centers, sent out colors beyond those normally seen by the human eye---colors he would recognize, colors he would long for. They were determined to please him. They were bound to seduce him. They were his only to lead him back. He turned on the old TV set, welcoming the black-and-white screen.

Beside him a tiny jade dragon climbed from the end table to his shoulder, its claws sinking into his robe as it climbed. It settled contentedly on his collarbone, where it blinked its eyes once and then watched the sitcom. Although he did not find the show funny, the dragon did. He could tell by the occasional amused flutter of its pale green wings.

Lucinda de Francesco had never had patience for stories of the Easter bunny, the tooth fairy, or gemstones appearing in teacups. She took the rumors for mass hallucination, a phenomenon that she believed explained a great deal of the stupidity around her. It was the only thing that could account for the enduring popularity of certain politicians, religions, and hairstyles. Then again, odd and inexplicable things had been happening in Arcato for some time now. Quite a number of people claimed to see things that simply weren't there---a full crew loading an old steamboat that had been dry-docked for years, a busker in a doorway where a building no longer stood, a line of stilt walkers striding across the surface of the river's grey-green waters. Lucinda gave no real credence to any of these claims. She trusted that what she saw was real and that the gems were not. She refused to look for the glitter of sapphires beneath streetcars or pearls pouring out of vending machines. So when she found a piece of pale green jade, carved to look like a small, perfect dragon---complete with wings, scales, claws, and a long, curled tail---she thought only that someone had been fool enough to lose something valuable. She tucked it in the pocket of her shirt, wondering if she should advertise it, deciding immediately that she didn't want to be bothered with the phone calls or letters that would come in response. Besides, it was a pretty thing.

At home she put the dragon on top of her bookcase. The carving was so small, she couldn't see it up there unless she walked right up to it. This bothered her. Before she went to sleep she took the dragon down and set it beneath the Chinese lamp on her bedside table. In the glow of the electric light the jade was translucent. It made her think of early spring, of clouds and water, of things that flowed.

Lucinda stripped off her clothing, leaving on silver bracelets and rings, anklets and earrings, necklaces strung with lockets and beads, milagros and charms. She hated sleeping in clothing and couldn't sleep without jewelry. Her last lover had complained that her earrings kept sticking him in the jaw. She'd shrugged and told him she didn't see why she was the only one who should be penetrated. They'd had angry sex and she'd left his bed before dawn, vowing he'd never see her again.

She got into bed and opened the book she'd been reading for the last three months, a novel about a man and a city and how the two wore each other down. She never could seem to get very far into it. She read another page, too tired to stay with the story, too restless to stay in bed. Going to her bookshelves, she began to skim through books of poetry---Millay for her astringent sonnets, Shelley because Lucinda had always felt at home in his drugged visions, and Keats and Neruda because their poems were just so astoundingly gorgeous---but tonight none of them soothed.

She got dressed again and though it was nearly midnight, she left the apartment and went down to the streets. A light rain had fallen, and the sidewalks smelled damp and chalky. Shallow pools of water, coated with a film of rainbow oil, caught the reflections of the streetlamps. In one she thought she saw the image of a small green dragon.

She wound up on Consolación Street, walking past the Teatro Descardo to Indigo, one of the smaller clubs. It was a chilly weeknight and the street, usually crowded at this hour, was deserted. Indigo's bouncer barely glanced at her before opening the door; she wondered if there was anyone he refused tonight. "Maxine here?" she asked, before stepping over the threshold.

He nodded. "She'll find you."

Inside a band played half-heartedly and discordantly on the stage. Lucinda bought herself a shot of tequila at the bar and sat down in an empty banquette, her attention roving between the band and the audience. She couldn't remember ever seeing this place so empty. She could actually count the number of people dancing. The most noticeable were four young women dancing directly in front of the stage, seeming oblivious to the fact that the music barely had a beat.

Lucinda lifted her glass to a tall, gaunt woman, holding a drink in one hand, a lit cigarette in the other, who came toward her, hips swaying. Maxine, who owned Indigo, bent, kissed Lucinda's cheek, and took a seat at the table. "Lousy night to be out."

"Better than staying home."

"It's too subdued for my taste." Maxine wore rings on every finger, dark stones all. Faceted onyx, garnet, peridot, black tourmaline, and what she'd told Lucinda was an alexandrite glittered as she pointed her cigarette toward the sparsely populated dance floor. "I should have closed an hour ago. Don't know why I'm paying a band for this."

"You've got customers," Lucinda said, nodding to the girls.

"Those four don't count. The band comp'd them."

"They're sleeping with the band?"

"Or hoping to." Maxine took a drag on the cigarette. "Look at them. Can you remember when going home with the lead guitar player was everything?"

"I always had better luck with drummers." Lucinda swirled the tequila in her glass, her...