CROSSROADS OF BONES
A KATIE BISHOP NOVEL BOOK ONE
LUANNE BENNETT
DEDICATION
For Sharon Marden. The things you do for friendship…
1
SAVANNAH, GEORGIA – SUMMER
If the night sky was any brighter, I would have thrown my bloody hands in the air and waited for the Chatham County police to drive by and question me about the hole I was digging. But it was just dim enough to conceal my activity under the massive live oak with the botanical veil hanging dangerously close to my forehead.
“Don’t mess with the moss,” I kept repeating in a distracted mantra, minding the rules about one of Savannah’s trademark features, choosing to swat the swag of Spanish moss away from my face instead of ripping it from the low hanging branch and tossing it into the grave next to my feet.
With a mean stab and push against the shovel with my bare foot, I hurled another load of dirt at the growing pile next to the hole, a cold tear running down my cheek as panic collided head-on with the sorrow filing my chest. The light from the moon was like a spotlight, interrogating my actions and recording the crime for the day when I would face a jury of my peers, just before I was sentenced to rot in hell for what I’d done.
“Why did you make me do this?” I asked, shaking my head as I tossed the shovel a few feet away and dropped to my knees. I bent down toward the shallow grave and plunged my fingers into the Georgia clay, gasping from the pain of my fingernails yielding to the hard dirt. The blood was running up my arm, spreading from my hands to my elbows in dark crimson tendrils, continuing all the way up until it wicked into the fabric of my tank top.
A cold sensation shocked me. I sat back on my heels and looked down at the blood covering my chest and stomach, turning the white fabric into a deep red pool of carnage glistening wet under the moonlight. The blood kept flowing over me, somehow seeping from his wounds into the pores of my skin. I turned and gazed at the lifeless form lying on the ground behind me, watching the black lines emerge on his bare back and continue to crawl into curved shapes, the design filling with shades of ruby and sapphire. The tattoo grew into a neatly executed work of art that I would have been proud to display on the walls of my own shop, next to all the other tattoo art, if it hadn’t triggered my urge to vomit the second I looked at it.
That tattoo was just wrong.
The body moved and I fell backward trying to scurry away, careful not to fall into the shallow grave. Then his head lifted off the ground and turned toward me, pinning me with a cold and lifeless stare.
“Jesus,” I whispered, vaulting straight up on the mattress, my shirt soaked in cold sweat. I swept the hair away from my damp face as the flash of heat dissipated like an explosion, from the center of my chest outward through the tips of my fingers.
They’d started over a year ago, while I was finishing up my last year at Columbia University. Although the tattoos in the dreams that kept me awake at night were usually unfinished, this one was rendered completely.
The ink embedded in my own back began to quiver in a restless stir, lifting from my skin but settling back into place before it could break free. I knew a bad sign when I saw one, and that dream was a bona fide omen. My beast knew it, too. I was a magnet for the worst kind of shit that sailed right over the heads of normal people and made a beeline straight for me, because most people didn’t share their souls with a dragon.
3:17 a.m. glowed from the face of my phone on the nightstand. How was I even functioning on two or three hours of sleep each night? My blue eyes were beginning to look gray and dulled from fatigue, and my posture had lost its grace.
I slipped my hand over my shoulder to sooth the stirring lines on my back. I’d gotten good at controlling my beast. Not an incident since moving to Savannah six months earlier. Good thing, because this place was different. Savannah had its own subculture of the strange and unusual, but it didn’t come close to what was prowling the streets of Manhattan alongside its mundane inhabitants. But based on those dreams that kept me awake at night, I had an uneasy feeling that Savannah just hadn’t shown herself to me yet.
Deciding it was futile to fight for a few more hours of desperately needed sleep, I went to the kitchen and swung the refrigerator door open. God, I wanted to climb inside and perch on the wire shelf. New York had nothing on the low country when it came to the sweltering heat of summer. The air conditioner—that useless box wedged in my window—hadn’t worked for over two weeks, and my landlord was full of excuses every time that day came and went when he promised to have it replaced. What did I expect for the low rent?
With my boyfriend at the time—Elliot Fleming, bestselling author and rising star—I’d moved from New York City to Savannah with big ideas of opening a tattoo shop. He was working on his next book about a powerful Southern family living in Savannah, so his argument to move here started out purely as a research mission. I liked the idea, too. Don’t get me wrong, I loved living in New York, but starting a business in Manhattan is cost prohibitive.
So here I was, standing in front of the fridge in the early hours of the morning when normal folks were still in bed. I’d managed to open that tattoo shop, but the boyfriend was long gone. I guess it wasn’t Elliot’s fault I couldn’t stand the thought of moving to L.A. We were here for barely four months when he got the Hollywood bug, with his book optioned for film and that option looking more and more like it might get the green light. But after working my tail off setting up shop here, I was staying put for at least a few years.
God, I was such a cliché. When did Katie Bishop become such a cliché? I’d moved eight hundred miles from home for a man. But . . . I was on my way to rectifying that cliché. I was a perfectly intelligent woman with a degree from Columbia University. Granted, environmental engineering was a world away from the path I took, but it was something to fall back on if the shop failed or I got sick of drawing on other people’s skin. Nothing wrong with a corporate job and a steady paycheck, but the thought of sitting in a cubicle—or even a fancy office—made me queasy. I just didn’t believe I was put on this earth for that.
Another round of sweat was beginning to collect between my skin and the tank top I was wearing. I grabbed a bottle of cold water and headed for the patio. At least there was a breeze outside to push the intolerable heat around instead of stewing in a stagnant house the size of a shipping container. The house wasn’t bad, just small. I’d rented the old bungalow right after Elliot left for the West Coast. It had history and charm, not to mention a few ghost stories that had never been substantiated. At least I’d never met any of them. The oddest thing I’d seen since moving in was the occasional disappearance of my hairbrush. But it always showed up eventually, right where I’d misplaced it.
I made myself comfortable in one of the cool metal chairs and propped my feet up on top of the table, listening to the bugs and tolerating the humidity painting my skin. I thought I might actually doze off when I heard the bushes rustle a few feet away from the patio.
“Damn it, Sea Bass!” I bolted out of the chair, suddenly realizing I had nothing on but that tank top and a ratty pair of underwear. “What the hell are you doing out here in the middle of the night?”
“Well, you weren’t supposed to find me,” he said. “What are you doing out here?”
Sea Bass—short for Sebastian—McCabe was my number one employee at the shop. Despite his party boy appearance and lack of backyard etiquette, he was an amazing artist capable of conceptualizing just about anything a client verbally presented. I’d seen him take a woman’s animated description of a post-apocalyptic metropolis and turn it i
nto a blazing ball of fire circling the Emerald City of Oz. Never once had a customer walked away less than ecstatic about his work, which was more than I could say for my number two employee, Mouse. She was also a talented artist but tended to take artistic liberty with the client’s skin. Although the threat of unemployment had improved that bad habit remarkably.
“You’re not staring at my ass, are you?” I grabbed the dirty towel draped over the back of the chair and wrapped it around my waist.
His skin flushed as he averted his eyes. “Hell no! Jeez, Katie! Not that your ass don’t look good, but Maggie would cut off my balls.”
The visual of his girlfriend reprimanding him lessened my annoyance. She was not one to mess with on a good day, and God help the woman who tried to hit on her man.
“Look, I was on my way home from Mojos, and you did mention yesterday that something’s been creeping up on you at night. I just figured—”
“You figured you’d swing by and defend me against my nightmares?” He scratched his head and muttered something I couldn’t make out. “Sit down,” I ordered, tossing him my bottle of water. “Mojos, huh? You do know tomorrow is a work day?” Mojos was the local dive known for cheap drinks, drunken brawls, and less than savory patrons. No discretion at all about who they let inside.
“I ain’t drunk, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He leaned over the table and opened his mouth wide, forcing a hot breath in my direction.
I jerked back to avoid the unmistakable smell of pepperoni and peppers. “Yeah, that’s a little much, Sea Bass. I don’t need these drive-bys. I can take care of myself.” If he only knew how true that was, that the beast hidden under my clothes was more than capable of deterring any threats. The ink serpent that sprawled over my entire back was more than a tattoo; it was a birthmark, my heritage, my scarlet letter that never let me forget what I was. My birth parents were a mystery to me. The only thing I knew was that my mother was Russian and my father was a zmaj. That’s dragon, for laymen. I’d spend the first twenty-two years of my life not knowing that I was the child of a dragon, the beast remaining silent until a couple of years ago when it came out in full glory to defend my best friend who was being attacked. That’s when I learned how protective it was of the people I loved.
“I’m not trying to crowd you, boss, but this ain’t Ardsley Park. Sometimes I wonder if all that commotion you been dreaming about ain’t coming from right outside your bedroom window.” He nodded firmly, punctuating his theory. “You just keep the neighborhood in mind.”
“My neighborhood is just fine.” I considered whether it was time to confide in him. I’d been putting it off for weeks, finding every excuse in the book to delay the inevitable. But he was the best friend I had in Savannah, and with that friendship getting stronger by the day it was only a matter of time before the dragon took a real shine to him. Better to prepare him for it. “Sea Bass,” I started, still debating the sanity of disclosure. “I’ve got something to show you, but first you have to promise me you won’t freak out and do something stupid.”
He sighed and practically rolled his eyes at me. “Just put it out there, Katie. Say what’s on your mind.”
Instead of explaining it to him gently, I decided to just rip the Band-Aid off and show him. “Just keep that mind of yours open.” I stood up and turned around, grabbing the edges of my shirt.
“Now hold on, Katie,” he said, scrambling out of his chair and backpedaling as I began lifting my tank top. “I didn’t come here for anything like that. You’re my boss, and Maggie’s gonna—”
He went quiet as I slipped the shirt over my shoulders and held it against my breasts, completely exposing my back. “You see that?” I could feel it coming to life, moving and undulating over my skin as my heart beat wildly and my adrenaline surged. I’d come out in public before, but the strangers on the streets of Manhattan never connected the flying beast with the girl with the dragon tattoo. Except for a few trusted friends who were bigger freaks than I was, no one else had ever seen it move on my back. Not even Elliot. That had been difficult, especially during sex when it liked to spread its wings.
“Jesus H. Christ,” he whispered with a tremble in his tone. “What the fuck is that?”
I pulled the shirt back over my head and turned around. “That’s the reason you don’t have to worry about me. I’m not what you think I am.” I could smell his fear and hear his feet shuffling for traction on the concrete patio, like he was about to bolt. “Jesus, Sea Bass,” I said, pulling my shirt back on. “I won’t hurt you. It took a lot of trust to show you what I am. Don’t make me regret it.”
He swallowed hard and froze. “What are you?”
“Let’s see . . . how do I put this?” I thought about the description I’d been given by my friend, Ava—a witch who’d helped me answer that very question two years earlier. Dragon’s child, demi-dragon; which would incite the least amount of panic? “My father was a zmaj.” Seemed less crazy than the other labels. “But my mother was an ordinary woman,” I quickly added to defuse the absurdity.
“And a zmaj is—?”
“A dragon,” I said, cutting to the chase. “A Slavic dragon, to be specific.”
Without saying a word for a solid minute, he stood there reading my face. “You wouldn’t be fucking with me, by chance?”
“No, Sea Bass, I’m afraid this is very real.”
He bobbed his head thoughtfully, appearing to have a complete change of heart about that fear he was harboring a minute earlier. “Okay. I can handle this. I’m cool with it.”
I stared at him cautiously. He was taking my show and tell a little too casually. A normal person found it odd when you told them you were a dragon, and even odder when you showed them. Maybe Savannah was more like New York City than I thought, with a thriving subculture of freaks just like me. Maybe he had secrets, too.
“I just told you I’m a dragon’s child, and all you can say is ‘I’m cool with it’? Why aren’t you running for the hills?”
“My granny is from the Ozarks. There ain’t nothing stranger than some of her friends. Trust me, I’ve seen some weird shit growing up under her roof. Besides, I know you, Katie Bishop. I figure you would have killed me by now if you were evil.” He went quiet and glanced at me timidly. “Can I touch it?”
“No one’s killing anyone,” I smirked. Nervously, I turned around again and let him run his hand over the back of my shirt. I could feel it move under the fabric, responding to his unfamiliar touch. “Careful,” I warned, sensing its desire to come out and investigate the alien fingers.
He stepped back abruptly at my warning and sat back down, continuing to nod his head in that thoughtful way one does when contemplating a dilemma. “I’ve seen a few things in my day. This is low country, after all. Lots of root folks and such around here. I think you’re gonna fit right in.”
“Wait a minute, Sea Bass. No one’s fitting in anywhere. The only reason I showed you is because you’re one of my best friends, and I trust you.” I was beginning to regret the decision. But the truth was zmaj were famous for protecting their villages. I’d learned very quickly that the people I cared about the most were just as important to my dragon—the equivalent of our village. It was only a matter of time before it showed itself to Sea Bass, so I thought it best to make an introduction first. “It’s very protective. When it comes out it can be pretty fierce.”
He blanched. “You mean it can—”
“That’s right.” I’d never thought of myself as a shifter, but I guess in a way I was. “I turn into it sometimes.” This seemed to fluster him all over again, so I quickly added, “But only if there’s a threat.”
“Well,” he laughed nervously, “I’ll be sure to never threaten you then.”
“It’s not just threats against me, Sea Bass. Whether you like it or not, the dragon will probably try to protect you, too.”
2
Employee number two was sweeping the floor when I entered the shop the next m
orning. She was called Mouse because her brown eyes were large and round, blending with her irises seamlessly. She also had tiny ears that projected from the sides of her head. The fact that she was barely five feet tall contributed to the illusion. A cute thing, but kind of mean. I made the mistake of calling her adorable a few days after she started working for me, and she flattened me with the saddest look I’d ever seen on a human face. Then she sneered and told me to shove it up my ass before stalking out of the shop. I think she spent her entire life fending off the idea that she was childlike, which fostered a deep resentment for being talked to like one. It took me two days to convince her to come back to work.
“Morning, boss.” She glanced at the circles under my eyes. “Still having them dreams?”
“That obvious, huh?”
“I can get you something for that,” she offered seriously. “I got a guy.”
Mouse was a twelfth-generation Savannah native with blood going back to some of the earliest slaves brought into the Port of Savannah in the eighteenth century. She knew every inch of the town and had a supplier for just about anything you needed—legal or not. Pharmaceuticals, psychedelics, herbal concoctions not for the faint of heart; if it altered you, she could get her hands on it. Lucky for me she didn’t partake in any of it. I had one golden rule in my establishment—be sober and clean when you walked through that door. We were working on people’s skin. One slip up could mean the difference between a happy customer and a lawsuit.
“I’ll pass. But thanks, Mouse.”
Sea Bass came strolling in right behind me, sunglasses shielding his eyes. Mouse snorted at him as he headed for the coffee machine. “Ain’t made none,” she said, taking a little too much pleasure in his obvious discomfort. By the way she kept glancing back and forth between us, I assumed she was waiting for me to read him the riot act.
“I already know what he was up to last night,” I replied to her look. “He showed up at my place around three a.m. for a little babysitting.”
Crossroads of Bones (A Katie Bishop Novel Book 1) Page 1
