Grave Cargo: Arcane Transporter 1

by Jami Gray

  A Prism’s power acted like a magic-repellant armor, for lack of a better term. It wasn’t impenetrable—a purely physical attack could breach it, or a relentlessly strong magical attack could eventually overpower it—but when facing most magical assaults, it would buffer the impact. On rare occasions, I had been able to turn the strike back on the originator, but it only happened when death and I were getting up close and personal. Right now, I had no intention of stepping inside without its protection.

  Moving forward was a given, because I didn’t need the skin-crawling apprehension to tell me something was very wrong inside Mr. Thatcher’s house. My desire for answers about Lena’s whereabouts smothered logic and had me giving the door a little push with my fingertips. The surprisingly thick door swung open silently, and the rush of cool air carried nothing more threatening than a pleasant floral scent. “Come in,” said the spider to the fly. Standing in the open doorway, I clutched the file in one hand, the other fisted at my side, knowing this was a very bad idea. Despite my waning hope, I tried one last time. “Hello? Mr. Thatcher? Are you home?”

  Nothing.

  I looked over my shoulder, but the street and sidewalks remained empty. My gaze skated over the For Sale sign. Maybe I was overreacting. This place looked huge enough that if they were in the midst of a showing, they would have no idea anyone was here. Yeah, even I don’t believe that one.

  Taking a deep breath, I drew my magic close and stepped over the threshold, braced for anything. I stood in the tiled foyer under an unlit chandelier and waited.

  Nothing.

  Across from me, floor-to-ceiling windows that looked as if they could be pushed aside led into a stunning backyard. Talk about bringing the outside in.

  Two arched entries branched off from the foyer. The one on the left led into what appeared to be a hall, and the one to the right opened into a great room. My magic vibrated against my skin, just as on edge as I felt. I strained my ears, trying to catch any indication of life, but all that came back was the soft hum of air conditioning.

  With no other choice, I left the door open behind me and went to the left. I stepped through the archway and came to a halt as a wave of pins and needles washed over my skin. I knew that feeling. It was the same one I’d encountered when walking into a scene saturated by magic. For the longest time, I’d thought everyone got the same visceral warning, but careful questioning of friends revealed that wasn’t always the case. It might be a side effect of being a Prism. Not that I would know, since information on Prisms, unlike other magical abilities, was nearly impossible to find. Trust me, I looked.

  Gritting my teeth, I waited for the lingering traces of magic to abate. It was akin to standing at a beach’s waterline, the echoes of power curling around my ankles like a politely persistent, thorny wave. Even the buffer of my protective magic couldn’t keep it from tugging me forward. I stood fast, ignoring it, because whatever had happened here hadn’t been caused by a run-of-the-mill spell. For a magical echo to be this strong equaled a highly complex casting, the kind that required years of training. Training a top-level Guild operative or a ranking member of an Arcane Family would have, and neither of those boded well. My pulse kicked up, and I swallowed against a dry throat. What the hell has Lena been dragged into?

  Since the lingering power refused to relent, I forced my legs to work and moved deeper into the open space. I didn’t have to go far to confirm that Keith would not be making this appointment. In fact, it would be safe to assume wherever Keith Thatcher was, he was in serious trouble. The living room was a disaster. What once must have been a glass-and-wood coffee table was now nothing but shards and kindling. Couch cushions looked like they had gone a few rounds with a shredder, one of the two chairs was overturned, and the area rug bore obvious scorch marks. Even more ominous, the tempered glass of the folding patio doors separating the living area from the back yard was all but opaque. Whatever slammed into them was obviously big and heavy enough to have shattered it. Something, say, like a body?

  What happened here? And where was Keith Thatcher?

  After skirting the mess of broken glass, shattered pottery, and splintered wood, I stopped in a relatively clear spot. Strangely, the violence seemed contained to the front half of the great room. Whatever had happened had occurred in front of the unlit fireplace dominating the wall to the left of the entryway. The mantelpiece hung at a diagonal, one end resting on the floor, surrounded by the shattered remains of whatever it’d once held. A low set of shelves that had once sat behind the couch had been smashed into pieces, the wood mixing with broken electronic equipment, torn books, and decimated knickknacks. At the room’s far end, the kitchen appeared untouched. In fact, place settings were neatly arranged on the breakfast bar, and the barstools were tucked in place. The destruction stopped at the untouched seating arrangements that sat between the two areas. The entire scene was not only weird, but also disturbing on an instinctual level.

  I studied the room carefully then picked my way through the debris, wading through the magical remnants hovering unseen around the chaos. The skin-ruffling sensation of expended magic got stronger as I moved closer to the center of the destruction, the echo of it rubbing like a painful scrape. So far, my power had kept it to nothing more than a nuisance. Not keen on triggering it to a more credible threat, I stopped moving and tried to piece together what had happened. It wasn’t hard to picture what the room had looked like before. The couch facing the fireplace. The chairs positioned on either side, with the coffee table taking up the center space. All of the pieces carefully placed to create a casual but elegant area for conversation.

  I toed aside a couch cushion to reveal a thick cut glass lying on its side. The glass’s previous contents were now nothing more than a stain on the rug. Using my foot, I nudged some of the larger pieces of torn upholstery away. It didn’t take long to uncover a second glass. Keith hadn’t been alone, but had, in fact, been with someone he was comfortable enough to share drinks with. Someone he’d consider safe. I dropped into a crouch. The change in perspective helped. I reached for the first discolored spot on the thick rug, doing my best to ignore the unsettling sensation of lingering magic nibbling at my hand. My fingers brushed the stiff carpet fibers. Dry. The spill was hours old.

  Without moving, I eyed the remains of the coffee table and the discolored marks snaking under the wreckage. I carefully crab-walked closer. I dropped a knee in a relatively clear spot and braced a hand on what was left of a chair. With my other hand, I used the folder to brush aside the clutter without disturbing the markings so I could study them. They appeared to be burnt into the rug. But when my careful movements actually marred the lines, I changed my assumption. The marks were more like ashes than actual burn scars. Yet there was something familiar about the lines, something I couldn’t quite place. Tucking the folder under my arm, I reached out to move a piece of cushion foam away so I could see more of the strange markings.

  “Do you always poke at dangerous things, Rory?”

  I froze in mid-motion. Instead of going for my gun, I jerked my head up and met the dark gaze of the one man guaranteed to take any situation from bad to worse. “What the hell are you doing here, Zev?”

  The six-foot-two slice of darkness stood in the entryway in jeans and a T-shirt that did nothing to disguise the threat he carried with him. As the Arbiter of the Cordova Family, that threat was undeniable. One of his dark brows rose in sardonic amusement. “I think that should be my question.”

  I straightened slowly, doing my best to ignore my racing pulse and not fidget under his stare. Heat rushed under my skin, and I prayed it stayed off my cheeks. “I’m here on Guild business.”

  He pushed off the wall and prowled closer, skirting the destruction. “Is that so?”

  “Yes, it is so.” Wow, way to sound mature, Rory. My rapidly pounding heart had nothing to do with seeing him again. Nope, not at all. I turned with him, uncomfortable with having him at my back.

  He continued tow
ard the patio doors and stopped, keeping his back to me. “So you’ve already called the police?”

  There was something in his voice I couldn’t pin down. “Since I just got here, no.”

  He shook his head then turned to face me. He folded his arms over his chest, the move tightening the material over his broad shoulders. “Guess that will make it awkward when they show up.”

  I jerked my wandering gaze from his physique and automatically glanced back toward the front door. “What?” The question came out sharper than I intended, mainly because his presence threw me off center. I turned back and caught his arrogant amusement. Narrowing my eyes, I felt my temper rise. “Did you call them?”

  He shook his head. “Didn’t have to. They were already on their way.”

  Hearing that made my muscles lock in shock. “What?”

  He nodded, his close-cropped beard doing little to hide his smirk. “Yep, they should be here in the next five minutes.”

  I dragged a hand through my hair as I looked around, trying belatedly to spot Keith’s security but not really seeing anything. Shit, I must have tripped an alarm somewhere. Time for a quick exit. “Damn security. I need to go.”

  Zev muttered something I didn’t catch because I was already working my way out of the wrecked living room. Unsurprisingly, he was on my heels as I headed out of Keith’s house. I could all but feel his breath on my neck as I stepped over the threshold and back into the afternoon heat. My foot hit the second step when a hard hand on my arm put a stop to my retreat. “Not so fast, Rory. We’re not done.”

  Of course we weren’t, because that would be too easy. Sighing, I waited impatiently while he pulled the door almost closed. “Hurry up,” I muttered.

  “Chill. I took care of the cameras.”

  I pulled against his hold. Not that it did any good.

  He kept a firm grip on my arm and hauled me along as we rushed down the steps. “Let’s go.”

  “What do you think I was trying to do?” It was snarky, but that seemed to be the dominant tone of my interactions with Zev.

  He didn’t answer as he all but dragged me to my car. “Get in.”

  His grip disappeared, and I beeped the locks. I went to open the door but stopped because Zev had his hand flat against the door. I glared. “What?”

  “We need to talk.”

  Talk? We need to do a lot more than talk. I released the handle and turned so we were facing each other, frustration and impatience making me reckless. “Here? Now? I thought we were trying to avoid the cops.”

  He closed in, reducing the space between us to miniscule. My breathing shallowed, mainly because taking a deep breath would breach the scant space between us. I wasn’t ready to handle that on top of everything else. He leaned his head down, his voice a low rumble. “We’re doing that, but you’re going to follow me out of here so we can have this discussion uninterrupted.”

  Mmm, uninterrupted? Sounds good to me. I spoke over my purely idiotic, hormone-induced madness. “I am?”

  His dark eyes held mine, his ruthless streak shining through with unmistakable clarity. “You are, because if I have to hunt your ass down, you won’t like it.”

  All sorts of emotions churned through me. The hardest one to ignore was the immature desire to sink a knee into his balls in response to his patronizing tone. Adult that I was, I managed not to give in to the dangerously stupid urge. Zev’s retributions were not to be taken lightly. Besides, I had a few questions of my own to ask. “Fine.”

  “Fine,” he repeated before dropping his hand and stepping back so I could open my door.

  I got in, refusing to look at him. I continued to do my best to ignore him as I started the Mustang. When my car quietly rumbled to life, he finally turned and jogged over two houses to a big, beautiful beast of a motorcycle. I reversed out of the drive and onto the street, scouring the area for signs of the impending police response, my fingers dancing nervously on the steering wheel. A million thoughts swirled, none of them landing for long, but under it all, a ribbon of dread and excitement unfurled. Because Zev was the Cordova Family’s arm of justice and vengeance, his interest in Keith did not bode well. It meant the murky waters swirling around Keith were a hell of a lot deeper than I’d expected. And somehow, some way, Lena was involved. No way in hell would I be leaving her to the sharks. Zev’s bike roared past, and I followed, determined to find out just what in the hell was going on.

  Chapter Six

  I followed Zev’s bike out of the neighborhood and onto the main road. He didn’t go far, just a couple of miles, before turning into one of the sprawling shopping centers that seem to populate every other block in this part of town. It was actually one of the nicer centers, complete with pretty little areas between shops to sit and rest before reentering shopping hell. He aimed his bike at one of the spots closer to the shops, while I pulled past and took the first available space farther down.

  I put Lena’s file in my glove compartment and locked it. For insurance, I touched the security sigil subtly etched next to the handle and activated the ward. Overkill, maybe, but better safe than sorry. I got out and walked through the bright afternoon sun to where Zev waited for me by his bike. He made quite the picture, all tall, dark, and handsome mixed with trouble. The last bit wasn’t from his looks, so much as the air of lethal mystery hovering around him. Luckily, I had no desire to play Sherlock Holmes.

  Liar!

  Ignoring the irrational denial in my head, I stopped in front of him and looked around, avoiding eye contact. “Interesting place to talk.”

  “Better than Keith’s driveway.” Without waiting for my response, he put his hand at the base of my spine and gave me a nudge forward. “Come on.”

  As we walked side by side, I did my best to ignore the completely inappropriate reactions his impersonal touch evoked. Not that my hormones were all that smart to begin with. Nope, they were brainless little bastards.

  We wound through the eclectic mix of independent and corporate shops until we reached one at the end of the inside corridor. Rather than trying to blend with the rest of the storefronts, this shop sat proudly unapologetic, flouting its unusual glory for all to see. A garden fence decorated with live greenery and sun-faded ribbons ran along the path from the sidewalk to the door. A multitude of wind chimes muttered softly as we approached the door painted to look like wood. A reflective film designed to reduce the sun’s glare covered the large windows, while fairy lights outlined the edges. A sign hanging from an ornate metal holder standing next to the door proclaimed it Haven’s Corner.

  The door swung open, disgorging a couple armed with yoga mats, coffee, and pastry-filled bags. I stepped aside for them to pass as Zev caught the door’s edge, holding it open. Once the couple cleared the small porch area, he waved me through. Stomach-rumbling smells lured me into the AC-cooled depths. It was busy but not packed. Scattered through the shop were chairs, some with tables, some without. On either side of the counter, cozy nooks were tucked toward the back. Customers wandered away from the register to wait for their orders. We walked up to the high counter, where an older woman sat on a stool, armed with a pair of long knitting needles that moved with mesmerizing grace as they escorted an electric-blue thread in a lively dance.

  With a welcoming smile that took years off her face, she watched us approach. “Zev, how are you?”

  “Good, Maeve, good.” He moved around me and leaned against the counter. “What’s the pastry special today?”

  Maeve set her knitting project aside. “Apple crumble.”

  My stomach chose to offer its opinion, loudly enough that Zev shot me an amused look before turning back to Maeve. “We’ll take two, please.”

  Maeve got off her stool and headed toward the pastry case. “Drinks?”

  “My usual.” He turned to me in silent question.

  I did a quick scan of the handwritten list of drinks and spotted a caramel-vanilla-chocolate mix that sounded good. “I’ll take a Gypsy Queen, please.�
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  “Of course.” Maeve continued to bustle around behind the counter, prepping the apple crumble. “Here or to go?”

  “Here,” Zev answered, already pulling out his wallet.

  Maeve bobbed her head then called out to the young man working with the plethora of coffee machines at the other end. “Max, a Gypsy Queen and a Marauder, please.”

  “Got it, Maeve,” the kid shot back without looking up. Behind him, a couple of empty cups floated from the back counter and settled behind the one already sitting on the counter next to him.

  Maeve handed over two small plates, two forks, and napkins. Since Zev was busy paying, I took them with a polite “Thank you.”

  We waited for our drinks and collected them, then Zev led me toward the empty nook area on the left. The high-back pub-style bench seats curled around a cozy table, leaving the area semi-private. Zev took one side, and I set the plates on the table before I took the other. Zev pushed my cup toward me as I busied myself with unfolding a napkin and laying it on my lap. My nervous movements stilled as a brush of magic swept over me. Zev’s hand hovered over a carved symbol on the table. He pulled his hand back as the illuminated lines faded back to inert.

  Recognizing the markings, I asked, “Soundproofing?”

  Zev curled his fingers around his cup. “It’s best this conversation stays between us.”

  I stabbed my fork into the apple crumble. “And which conversation would that be?” I held his gaze as I took a bite. Buttery cinnamon and tangy apple filled my mouth. Damn, this was good. I’d have to make a return trip, minus Zev’s broody presence.

  “The one about how Keith Thatcher ended up dead on your doorstep.”