by Kate Kessler
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2019 by Kathryn Smith
Excerpt from Dead Ringer copyright © 2018 by Kathryn Smith
Author photograph by Kathryn Smith
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover images by Arcangel and Shutterstock
Cover copyright © 2019 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.
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First Edition: October 2019
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Kessler, Kate, author.
Title: Seven crows / Kate Kessler.
Description: First edition. | New York, NY: Redhook Books/Orbit, 2019.
Identifiers: LCCN 2019009025| ISBN 9780316454254 | ISBN 9780316454230 (ebook) | ISBN 9780316454247 (ebook library edition)
Subjects: | GSAFD: Suspense fiction.
Classification: LCC PR9199.4.K4725 S48 2019 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019009025
ISBNs: 978-0-316-45425-4 (paperback), 978-0-316-45423-0 (ebook)
E3-20190910-DA-PC-ORI
E3-20190909-DA-PC-ORI
E3-20190906-DA-PC-ORI
E3-20190828-DA-NF-ORI
E3-20190822-DA-NF-ORI
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Acknowledgments
Discover More
Meet the Author
A Preview of Dead Ringer
By Kate Kessler
For Steve, because no one has ever
believed in me like you do.
And for Madz, my LBBBOG.
Love you, girl.
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One
The phone rang at four A.M., jolting Killian Delaney violently awake. Squinting at the bright screen, she grabbed the cell and brought it to her ear. “What?” she growled, the taste of whiskey clinging to the back of her throat.
“Aunt Killy.”
She sat upright at the voice. “Shannon? What’s wrong?”
Her niece—her fifteen-year-old niece who should be at home and in bed—made a small noise, like a rabbit. “Can you come get me?”
Deep breath. Her pounding heart had already shoved enough blood to her brain to clear the fog of too much booze and too little sleep. “Where are you?”
“New Britain.” She quickly whispered an address. “Please, hurry.”
“I’m on my way.” Killian hung up, threw back the blankets, and leapt out of bed. The scarred wooden floor was cold beneath her feet, but she barely noticed as she grabbed her bra from the footboard and pulled it on over her head. The parking lot lights illuminated the room with a watery yellow light that reminded her of prison in an oddly comforting way.
“What’s up?” the guy she’d brought home with her mumbled against the pillow. He was young and pretty and thought he was a better lay than he actually was, but then young, pretty boys usually did. She should have known better than to respond to his flirting, but she’d wanted a warm body and he’d offered his up for the taking.
She snatched his jeans off the floor and threw them at him. “Get out.”
He lifted his head, looking at her in surprise. “Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.” She pulled on her leggings and grabbed her socks from under the bed. “I’ve got someplace to be. You’ve got two minutes.”
He rolled onto his side, revealing his shaved chest and sculpted abs. “You’re a cold bitch, you know that?”
“It’s been mentioned before in conversation.” One of her socks was twisted weirdly. She jerked it around so the heel was in the right spot. “One minute, or I start throwing your shit out into the hall.” She pulled on a sweater and went to grab her boots. Behind her she could hear him swearing. If he called her a bitch again she was going to make sure he pissed blood for the next two days.
By the time she finished tying her laces the guy was gone. Killian didn’t even bother picking up the condom wrapper from the floor before she left. She grabbed her keys and headed out. She supposed she could have offered her hookup a ride, but if he was old enough to troll clubs for sex, he was old enough to get himself home. She had to get to New Britain. It was a fifteen-minute drive normally. She could make it in ten or under, but a lot could happen in ten minutes. A lot of terrible things.
She’d never heard that kind of fear in Shannon’s voice before. Usually the teenager was confident, sometimes even boisterous. Megan, Killian’s sister, was always getting after the kid for having too much swagger. She wanted her daughter to have less ego. Sometimes Killian wanted to remind Meg that the world would dent Shannon’s self-worth soon enough. She didn’t have to wish it on her. She didn’t say it, though. It wasn’t her place.
At least if Shannon was in real trouble, she had the sense to call. That was good. When Killian had been the same age she’d thought she could handle everything on her own. She’d learned the hard way that she couldn’t, and she’d been a helluva lot tougher than Shannon.
She buttoned her coat as she stepped outside. It’d rained earlier, leaving the air heavy with the smell of wet pavement and damp leaves. One of the kids in her building had carved a jack-o’-lantern and put it out on the front step. Its eyes were lopsided and it had a gap-toothed grin that reminded her of a guard she’d once taken a swing at. She resisted the urge to kick it.
It was eerily quiet as she crossed the lot to her car. The cherry-red Impala shone in the light. If things ever went south, all she had to do was get behind the wheel and drive—go somewhere and start over. Freedom, that’s what the car was. Her keys jangled in the lock, every noise amplified by the dampness in the air. Behind the wheel, she leaned her head back against the leather seat and drew another deep breath. Worry was a useless emotion. It got in the way of doing what needed to be done. Made you hesitate—which got you knocked on your ass. That’s what her coach always said when she was nervous before a fight. You just had to focus on the goal and stay focused until you knocked
out your opponent.
She exhaled and started the engine. The car came to life with a deep rumble that soothed her nerves and helped her gain that focus.
There was hardly any traffic on the streets. Killian drove as fast as she dared. A woman only a couple of months out of prison couldn’t afford to get pulled over. As she rolled up to a red light, she tapped her thumb against the steering wheel impatiently. Every instinct told her to run it. Her foot practically itched to push the gas pedal fast and hard.
“Come on.” What the fuck was it waiting for, Halloween?
The light went green. Her foot came down and the Impala lunged forward, roaring in gratification. The car was older than she was, but twice as dependable, and she thought maybe it had missed her just as much as she’d missed it.
She took Route 9 to New Britain. From there she had to depend on the GPS on her phone to find the right place. It was a dingy two-story in a not-so-great part of town. The front porch was sagging and in need of paint, and there were bedsheets hung in the upstairs windows in lieu of curtains. She parked behind a battered Toyota and climbed out. Someone was having a party—she could smell pot from the street.
The bass line of whatever music they were listening to was so heavy she could feel it beneath her feet as she walked up the short drive. She smirked at the bright white-and-red crotch rocket parked near the steps. Jason—her first and only love—would have offered up a complete psych profile of the owner with all the confidence of a true gearhead, but all she could think was that it was ugly. Like a Lego toy or something a toddler had drawn. She couldn’t imagine riding one, let alone owning it.
The worn soles of her boots scuffed against the rotting wood of the porch that dipped with every step. She rang the doorbell and waited. No one answered. Killian opened the screen door and tried the knob—it turned without resistance. She hesitated at the threshold. Was she breaking any laws by going in? Was she breaking parole just being there?
Didn’t matter.
The first thing that hit her when she walked into the house—other than the horribly loud music—was the wall of smoke. Cigarettes and grass—maybe a little crack tossed in. The back of her throat burned, as if it had forgotten she used to enjoy inhaling shit into her lungs. The kitchen was a mess, the counter and table littered with beer bottles, take-out boxes, and ashtrays. The place was a friggin’ luxury hotel for roaches.
Bodies were everywhere—some still conscious, and all young. They sagged against walls, slumped in chairs, or lounged on the dirty floor. A few gave her unfocused but suspicious glances as she walked by. None of them were a threat, so she kept moving, deeper into the house. Was this some kind of trap house?
She walked into the living room. More people were sprawled across couches and chairs. Beer cans and liquor bottles littered the stained carpet. Ashtrays overflowed. Someone passed a water pipe to the person next to them on a sofa. And in the middle of this tribute to bacchanalian ritual sat Shannon. Her heavy eyeliner had started to melt, and her lipstick was smeared. She looked like she’d been drinking. If that was all she’d been doing, then halle-fucking-lujah.
Killian walked up to her, aware that everyone in the room had by now noticed her presence.
“Who are you?” a guy with dreads asked, turning down the music.
None of them looked to be much of a concern, but she was on guard regardless. She pointed at Shannon. “I’m here for her.”
“Aunt Killy!” The girl jumped to her feet but was stopped from moving when another guy grabbed her arm. He was skinny but ripped, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. His head was shaved close and his sideburns sculpted into sharp slopes. A tattoo of a jaguar head decorated his right shoulder. Cliché much?
“You’re not leaving,” he said, tongue drunkenly thick.
Shannon looked at her aunt, her blue eyes pleading. God, she was beautiful—that wild hair and dark skin. Every time Killian saw her, she was more gorgeous than she had been the time before. Sometimes it almost hurt to look at her. This was one of those times.
“Yeah, bud, she is,” she said, placing her hand over his. Her knuckles were scarred, the back of her hand decorated with a faded tattoo of the Om symbol. In comparison the boy was so very pale—almost like snow. His fingers were stained yellow, his knuckles chafed and red. She applied gentle but firm pressure, her gaze locked with his. With him sitting, she had the height advantage, but that would change if he stood. She wasn’t afraid—even an idiot could see that. “Let her go.”
He did. Shannon looked surprised but didn’t hang around to see if he changed his mind. She grabbed her aunt’s arm and pulled her toward the exit like the place was on fire. Killian stepped on a beer can.
“Fucking cunt!” the boy yelled. “Just going to leave me here? I said I was sorry!”
That was when Killian noticed the welt on Shannon’s face. Her hair had hidden it before. Little asshole had hit her. Shrugging out of the girl’s grip, she turned around.
“Aunt Killy,” Shannon said. “It’s okay.”
But Killian was already moving. She seized the kid by the elbow and hauled him to his feet. He looked surprised to find himself standing. He had spit on his chin. “Did you hit her?”
“Shit,” she heard a girl say. “Is she the aunt?”
“Yeah,” Shannon replied. “She is.” There was pride in her voice—as if Killian deserved it. The kid read too many urban books.
“Hell, Cody,” the girl singsonged. “You gonna get your ass kicked now, son!”
Killian shot her a dark glance, even though the kid had probably just stopped her from doing something stupid—something parole breaking. She shoved Cody back into his seat. “Don’t touch her again, got it? She’s off-limits for you.” The words tasted bad in her mouth. She wanted to leave a few marks of her own, but there were too many witnesses who could put her ass back in prison for trying to teach him a lesson he’d never learn.
Cody muttered something, but she didn’t ask him to repeat it. Instead she turned on her heel and marched to where Shannon stood. Was the kid relieved that she hadn’t resorted to violence, or disappointed? “Go,” she said.
The girl did as she was told. As they approached the Impala, the roar of choppers overpowered the music. Three bikes rolled into the driveway. It wasn’t the machines that made her heart jump into her throat, but the man who took point over the other two. She hadn’t seen his face in a long time.
“Get in the fucking car,” she told Shannon, her jaw clenched. “Now!” The bike engines died, spiking her adrenaline even more. She could take one of them, maybe two if they weren’t carrying, but she couldn’t take all three. Not without a weapon or two of her own.
The man turned just as Shannon stepped into the car. He looked as surprised to see Killian as she was to see him. Wex—she didn’t know his last name—led the Sons of Bitches, a motorcycle club that was as white as it was dirty. You couldn’t be a member if you weren’t 95 percent Caucasian or higher, and you had to have killed someone—usually someone of the club’s choosing.
They’d chosen Jason to be Wex’s initiation.
“I’ll be damned,” he drawled with a slight grin.
Killian’s fists tightened. If only she had a gun. If only they were somewhere more private. Instead she had to settle for glaring at him, then got into the car and slammed the door. She didn’t even bother with her seat belt before starting the engine and pushing hard on the gas. Shannon slammed back against her seat as they tore away, tires screaming.
“The fuck?” The girl weaved drunkenly.
“Who the hell are you running with?” Killian demanded, checking the rearview just to make sure they weren’t followed. Her heart hammered, not with fear but with anticipation. The idea of revenge hadn’t occurred to her in a long time, but now…now it was tickling her again.
“What d’you mean?”
“Those were gangbangers, Shan. Bad fucking news. Who the fuck do you know who’s doing business with them?”
The girl shrugged, just drunk enough to be unaffected. “I dunno. Rafe, I guess. That’s his house.”
“Yeah, well, you stay away from Rafe from now on. And who was that fucking douche you were with?”
“Cody.” Her head lolled as she smiled. “Y’know, for a minute I thought you were going to hit him.”
“For a minute I was,” Killian replied as they rolled up to a red light. “But I’m not going back in for that little prick. Tell me he’s not your boyfriend.”
Shannon ducked her head.
“Beautiful fucking choice,” Killian drawled. “Really great guy. Just sayin’.”
“He’s never hit me before.”
“Well, now that he’s started, don’t count on him stopping.” Just thinking about it made her fingers tighten on the steering wheel. She didn’t just want to hit the little sack of shit; she wanted to kill him for laying hands on Shannon. “You’re done with him, understand?” If the violence wasn’t enough of a reason, his connections to the SOBs were.
“Yeah.” The girl nodded. Her eyelids drooped. “You’re not going to tell Mom, are you?”
Sigh. Was that really Shannon’s worst-case scenario? Jesus. To be that young and stupid. “Where does she think you are?”
“At Madallya’s.”
Killian tossed her a quick glance. “You can crash at my place and I’ll take you home later.” Covering for the kid wouldn’t win her points with Megan, but Shannon’s trust was more important.
“Thanks.”
She pulled onto the on-ramp. “You know, your mother deserves better than to be lied to.” Her sister was a good mother—the best.
“Did you ever lie to your mother?” Shannon asked—smart-ass.
“All the fucking time.” She pressed down on the gas and smirked at the girl. “And hey, look how awesome I turned out.”
Killian let Shannon have the bed. Of course the brat found the Trojan wrapper on the floor. Her pert nose wrinkled. “Ew.”
“Get over it.” Killian dropped the wrapper into the small garbage can she set beside the bed. “If you’re going to puke, do it in this.”
