by Kelsey Vance
PANTHER
by Kelsey Vance
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 Kelsey Vance
All rights reserved. In accordance with the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, the scanning, uploading, and electronic sharing of any part of this book without the permission of the publisher is unlawful piracy and theft of the author's intellectual property. If you would like to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), prior written permission must be obtained by contacting the publisher at [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author's rights.
First Edition: June 2019
PANTHER
The Chapter Playlist
Chapter 1—Partners in Crime (Set It Off)
Chapter 2—Standup (One Direction)
Chapter 3—Latch (Disclosure feat. Sam Smith)
Chapter 4— Killer (The Ready Set)
Chapter 5—Animal (Neon Trees)
Chapter 6—Shake It Off (Taylor Swift)
Chapter 7—Love So Soft (Kelly Clarkson)
Chapter 8—Wrecking Ball (Miley Cyrus)
Chapter 9—Surprise (Celine Dion)
Chapter 10—Getaway Car (Taylor Swift)
Chapter 11—Bad Liar (Imagine Dragons)
Chapter 12—Shots (Imagine Dragons)
Chapter 13—New Rules (Dua Lipa)
Chapter 14—Head Over Feet (Alanis Morrissette)
Chapter 15—Seeing Blind (Niall Horan and Maren Morris)
Chapter 16—Don't Blame Me (Taylor Swift)
Chapter 17—Sanctuary (Welshly Arms)
Chapter 18—Hideaway (Kiesza)
Chapter 19—Dark Horse (Katy Perry)
Chapter 20—Whatever It Takes (Imagine Dragons)
-1-
Partners in Crime
"Do we have to listen to this shit all the way to the client's house?" Nali screws up her face at the music flooding from my Volvo's speakers. It's a mix CD I made—the Beatles, Bruno Mars, John Legend, and yes, a little Taylor Swift. Nali tends toward the Five Finger Death Punch end of the musical spectrum.
"What?" I challenge. "I like this music. It makes me happy."
"We're on a mission, Cilla," she says. "I need some badass music to get me pumped up, make me feel powerful."
I snort, glancing over at the slim brown-skinned woman beside me. Nali is five feet tall if she's an inch, with soft dark eyes that look like they belong to a fawn or a puppy. Even her short, spiky hairstyle, nose ring, and brow piercings do little to edge out her look.
She's drumming her left-hand fingers on her knee, her right hand gripping the passenger-side door so tightly that the nails are stark white.
"This is an easy job, Nali," I say, softening my tone. "In and out, minimal contact with the family. You don't have to be nervous."
"I'm not nervous."
"Sure."
The road is beginning to snake back and forth, each tight curve another mile gained in our ascent of the mountain. The sheer drops from pavement to valley make my stomach quiver. What if I spun the steering wheel a little too far? We'd careen over the rail, off the edge of the mountain, crashing through bushy treetops until we landed broken in some godforsaken gully. I can see it all happening. Hence the pleasant, upbeat music—the music that tells me I will be okay, that it's all good, that I can handle whatever comes my way.
I curl my fingers around the steering wheel and flick my eyes toward my phone, stuck in its holder on the dashboard. "We're fifteen minutes away from the client's house," I tell Nali. "Let's go over the job again."
Nali sighs. "The clients are the Ashtons. The old patriarch of the clan just passed away—he's been under a nurse's care at the family home for a couple years. The place is crammed full of stuff, basements to gables—and it's our job to help the family go through it all, sort it, organize it, and sell or donate anything they don't want to keep."
"Because that's what we do."
"Yes."
We exchange significant looks, and neither of us says anything for a few minutes.
"What about the family members?" I ask. "Can you go through them again?"
"Oakland and Ryden are the two sons, and there's a daughter—how do you pronounce it? Spelled D-a-e-r-a?"
"I think she pronounced it 'dah-yer-rah' on the phone," I say.
"All right then. So the three kids are in town for the estate settlement and wrapping up their dad's affairs, but we shouldn't see too much of them. I think Oakland, the oldest, and Daera will be our primary liaisons."
"We'll have to be careful," I begin, but Nali cuts me off, snapping, "I'm always careful. You're the wild card."
I raise my eyebrows. "Okay then."
"Take a right onto Fordyke Road," advises the calm voice of the GPS, and I wrench the wheel to manage the sharp corner.
"Geez, Cilla! Trying to kill me?" squeaks Nali, clutching her seat.
"Not at all." I accelerate up the steel hill, taking a few more twists until yet another hairpin turn delivers us to a tall iron fence and a pair of stone gateposts. I brake just in time, the front bumper of my Volvo nearly grazing the gate. "Hop out and enter the code like a good girl."
Nali scowls at me, but she gets out and types in the access code that Daera gave us. The gates part and swing open, and my car glides between them along a paved lane. A short drive through the forest grounds, and the view opens suddenly before us—a massive gray stone house, all towers and gables and peaks, with ornate carvings above the multi-paned windows and double doors. Neatly trimmed shrubs line the front of the place.
Behind the house, the world falls away, a cliff dropping down to surging hills and shadowed valleys carpeted with deep green forest. Up here, near the peak of the mountain, the sheer vastness of the sky is overwhelming. I can see the appeal of living here, despite the lack of proximity to decent shopping and dining options.
I park along the edge of the sweeping half-circle drive, near the long walkway leading up to the house. A tall, thirty-something man in a crisp blue shirt and tailored pants hurries down the steps, waving. A few paces behind him strides a woman in a neat suit, her thumbs tapping away at the phone in her hand.
My Target jeans and sleeveless blouse seem suddenly drab and overly casual. Even Nali, in her skinny black pants and shimmery top, looks more stylish than I do. Why can't I pull off the skinny jeans thing? I always have to go with the curvy mid-rise bootcut—it's the only style that slims my thighs without giving me plumber's buttcrack when I'm crouching over storage bins, sorting someone else's crap.
If only I knew a spell to take off ten pounds, reshape my figure, and create a designer ensemble from thin air. I play with the wording of the imaginary spell in my head as I turn off the car and climb out, slamming the door with a little too much force.
"Blythe Professional Organizers. I'm Nali Burman," says Nali, extending her hand with a broad smile. "And that's Cilla Blythe."
"I'm Oakland Ashton. Nice to meet you. And this is Daera. I believe you two spoke on the phone?"
Oakland, Daera, and Nali babble about the details of the job, which rooms need the most attention, how many hours the task might take, and so on. I'm half-listening, my brain extracting helpful phrases like "attic that hasn't been touched in a decade" and "old desk full of papers" and "a trunk that belonged to our great-grandfather." But mostly I'm admiring the soaring beauty of the huge house and the sweeping vista behind it.
Until Nali raises her voice insistently. "And Cilla is our expert at identifying valuables that you might be
able to sell, antiques and that sort of thing. Isn't that right, Cilla?"
I refocus, and immediately I meet an intense gaze—Oakland's. His eyes shine grass-green above sweeping cheekbones, and the nose between them has a bent and breadth to it that isn't quite Middle Eastern or African. Identifying ancestry through features is a bit of a hobby for me, but this man is a true melting pot of nationalities. The golden-brown of his skin looks like a birthright, not a tan, and the tightness of the dark curls clustering on his head hint at black heritage. But there's an Asian cast to his face too—a bit of Mongolian or Japanese somewhere in the mix.
"Cilla." Nali's voice snaps me back to the present. I've been staring at Oakland's face for too long, and he breaks into a gleaming white smile.
"Oh, yes," I stammer. "I'm not an official appraiser, but I can give you an idea of what the items might bring on the market. A starting point, so you can determine what's worth selling."
My eyes shift to Daera, whose face is a thinner, sharper version of her brother's. Gleaming black curls fall over her shoulders, and golden earrings contrast beautifully with her light brown skin. She tilts her head back a little as she gazes at me, lowering her eyelids. "Yes, yes, fine. Let's get started."
The three of them stride briskly up the walk, while I linger behind for a last breath of the fresh mountain air before I'm cloistered in a stuffy room, sorting an old man's crap.
I'm halfway to the front doors when a shaggy golden retriever bounds around the corner of the house, eyes bright with the unbridled joy of a dog living its best life. Clenched in its jaws is a leather sandal. It springs across the lawn toward me and halts, tail wagging, to drop the sandal at my feet.
I crouch, ruffling the soft golden ears. "Good boy! Did you bring me a present?" With two fingers I pick up the sandal—a flip-flop, actually, the thick, expensive kind, with a size and smell that's massively male.
A man rounds the corner, loping barefoot across the green grass. He's shirtless, the sun glowing on his perfectly carved abs and biceps—his skin golden-brown, like Daera's and Oakland's. He carries the flip-flop's mate in his hand. "Winchester, you damn rascal!" he yells. "Bring that back!"
The dog whirls, barking, and jumps back and forth in front of him. He lifts the other flip-flop high, out of the animal's reach. "Go on, git! Go!" Contradicting the command, he bends, grinning, and the dog licks him affectionately across the jaw before leaping away across the lawn.
The man walks toward me, and something flutters in the pit of my stomach as he advances. He has the same exotic look about him as the others—striking cheekbones, heavy upper eyelids with eyes that incline slightly at the corners. His dark curly hair is cropped close to his skull. His jawline is more pronounced than Oakland's, his nose thinner and straighter. And he's younger—maybe late twenties.
He's beautiful. He's half-naked. And he's walking right up to me.
He stops, so close that I could reach out and touch that warm brown skin. I'm not sure where to look—every bit of him makes me want to blush, and I hate it. I'm not that kind of girl.
Nali always says if you're nervous, picture everyone naked. That's definitely not helping here.
When he holds out his hand, I shake it awkwardly. "Cilla Blythe."
He chuckles, rubbing the dark scruff along his jaw. "A pleasure, Cilla, but that's not why I—can I have my shoe back?" He holds out his hand again.
"Oh." I shove the drool-damp flip-flop into his palm.
He inspects the teeth marks. "Damn dog. Another pair ruined."
And then he walks away without another word. I can't help eyeing those beautiful shoulders and back muscles, the shape of his—
"Cilla!" Nali is standing in the doorway of the house, beckoning fiercely. Daera and Oakland are already inside. I hurry to join her.
"Keep up," she hisses. "And stay focused."
"Sorry."
I follow her into the dim chill of the entry hall. Goosebumps lift on my bare arms. Why do they keep it so cold in here? It must cost a fortune to heat and cool this place, considering the soaring ceilings and expansive rooms that we're walking through.
The house is decorated in classic Old Southern style. Heavy, glossy furniture, the ponderous antique kind, fills every corner and every stretch of wall space. Against the somberly patterned wallpaper hang ornately framed family portraits, paintings of Charleston and Savannah, watercolors of magnolias and dogwoods and blooming cherry trees. Thick carpets dull the sound of our footsteps.
"You'll begin here, in the study," says Daera, ushering us into a musty-smelling room whose most prominent feature is a massive rolltop desk that must have a hundred cubbies and compartments. Wall-to-wall bookshelves, a hard-looking sofa, dusty chairs and side tables, a globe on a tall rolling stand, and a glass display case clutter the rest of the space.
"Have a quick look at the books to see if any of them are valuable," says Daera. "Otherwise they can all go."
"Except for the books in there." Oakland points to a bookcase with glass doors. From here, it looks as if all the spines are blank—just smooth strips of old leather. "Leave those alone."
"Yes, it's locked anyway," says Daera. "Anything that's locked, stick a note on it and we'll deal with it later."
"We'll leave you to it," Oakland says. "It's a good thing you got here early. You should be able to make significant progress this morning. We'll have lunch at one, and you're welcome to join us in the dining room."
"Thank you," says Nali. "We'll go get our supplies and get to it right away."
"Need any help?" asks Daera airily, inspecting her nails. It's clear she's only offering out of politeness and expects to be declined.
"We're fine," I tell her.
"Good luck then. Text me if you need anything or if you have questions."
But the minute she turns to leave, a violent explosion shakes the house.
-2-
Standup
After the earsplitting boom comes a ferocious crackling sound, like the popping of fireworks—except that this sound is moving, traveling from one side of the house to the other.
"What the f—"
Another boom, this time from the back of the house instead of the front. The lights go out, and the faint waft of air conditioning from the vent overhead fades into stillness.
Silence.
I whip out my phone and light it up, shining it over three startled faces.
"What was that?" Nali's voice is strained.
"I have no idea." Daera casts a panicked look at her brother. He sighs and strides out of the room, holding his own phone in front of him for light. We follow him single file, back through the downstairs rooms and hallways, until he flings open the front doors of the house and freezes.
Along the curb, where lawn meets pavement, a shimmering wall rises, extending up into the sky and arching over the house. It curves to the right and to the left, encircling the building on all sides. The barrier fluctuates, shifting like water, and its faint purple hue tints the light weirdly. Every few seconds it shivers and crackles, spiking lavender lightning a few feet from its surface.
"What the hell is that?" gasps Daera.
"Some kind of energy barrier."
"Like a force field?" Nali snorts. "What is this, a cheap sci-fi show?"
Daera and Oakland exchange significant looks. I wish I had the power to read minds—theirs, and Nali's, because she must be as stunned as I am right now. When we accepted this job, we knew there could be risk involved—but this is completely unexpected.
A face flashes through my mind—the face of the young man with the flip-flops. Where is he? Somewhere on the other side of the energy wall? Did he get caught in it when it came down around the house?
"There was someone else here," I say. "A guy, with a dog—"
"Oh, hell." Daera grips her brother's arm. "Oak, we need to find Ryden!"
Oakland lays his hand over hers. "I'm sure he's fine. We'll go look."
"We should call someone," says Nali,
looking at me. Someone—our bosses. "I don't have a signal, though. How about you, Cilla?"
I check my phone. "No signal here, either."
"We're cut off," says Oakland quietly. "Phones useless, electricity out, cars—" He points to the vehicles, sitting uselessly right on the other side of the barrier. "I'm so sorry to involve you ladies in this."
"You know what it is, then?" I ask.
"Sort of. Maybe. But I can't explain now. Daera and I have to find our brother."
I nod. "We'll help you look."
"Daera and I will check the house and the backyard, if you don't mind checking the front area," Oakland says.
"I'll keep trying to get a signal," says Nali. I meet her eyes briefly, and she jerks her head, an assurance that she will get a message through to our bosses somehow. They need to know what's happening here, what we're up against.
She sits on the front steps, unslinging her bag, as Oakland and Daera disappear into the house. I stalk the perimeter of the shimmering wall, careful not to get close enough to be zapped by the purplish lightning still stabbing from it at intervals.
As I round the corner of the house to the side yard, I see the young guy, Ryden, crouched beside the dog, shushing it as it stands, feet braced, launching throaty growls at the barrier.
"Your family is looking for you," I say.
He doesn't turn toward me, just keeps murmuring to the dog. "Hey, boy, hey, settle down. It's all right. I won't let anything hurt you."
I bite my lip, but the words pop out anyway. "He isn't worried about something hurting him. He's thinking about protecting you."
Ryden looks up. "Very perceptive." He stares at me, his fingers still ruffling the dog's golden coat.
"You should go to your family," I say. "They're just a little concerned, you know, because of the weird force field thing. But don't let me interrupt your bonding time."
Rising, he saunters toward me, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his white T-shirt and giving me a delicious glimpse of his abs. At least he's wearing a shirt now. "You're a little uptight, aren't you?"
