Grave Cargo: Arcane Transporter 1

by Jami Gray

  The director was standing in her doorway, waiting. “Costas, Fields.” She waved us in. We settled into the chairs facing her while she took up a position in front of her desk and folded her arms. “Seems the dead body at your condo this morning belonged to Keith Thatcher.” She eyed us both and correctly read our lack of response. “Something you two seem to already know.”

  Catching the slight movement as Evan tightened his grip on the chair’s arm, I blurted, “I just found out. I was telling Evan when you called us in.” My attempt to divert her attention worked.

  Her eyes landed on me. “What did you find at Thatcher’s place?”

  I provided a concise recap of the scene at Keith’s, including Zev’s arrival. I shared most of my conversation with him at Haven’s Corner. The only thing I left out was my promised favor. That was personal.

  Hearing Zev’s name, Sylvia raised her eyebrows, but she waited until I finished before asking, “Zev Aslanov was following Keith?”

  “Yep.”

  Something worked behind her eyes. “Did he see Lena?”

  I shook my head. “Not as far as I’m aware, but I didn’t think to ask.”

  “Why?” she pressed.

  I shrugged. “I kept details general when it came to Lena.” When my answer got a quizzical look, I elaborated. “Zev’s focus appeared to be Keith, which means his involvement and Lena’s disappearance might be separate issues. Until we know if and how they tie together, I think it’s safer to keep some things to ourselves.”

  Sylvia unfolded her arms and gripped the desk’s edge on either side of her hips. “I agree, at least for now.” She went quiet and gazed at her feet, clearly thinking things through. She came to some internal decision and raised her head, her gaze hard and unwavering. “If I told you I was turning this over to a Hunter—”

  I didn’t let her finish. “Your choice, but I’m not stopping until Lena’s safe.”

  She studied me, her professional mask firmly in place. “If you were still a Guild employee, instead of a contractor, I could lock you down and ensure you didn’t interfere.”

  Chalk up another reason to be grateful for my recent change in position. “You could try.” It wasn’t the most professional response, but it was honest. However, I knew that without her support, I wouldn’t get far in this investigation, so I qualified my statement. “I understand why you’d prefer to put a Hunter on this.”

  “Do you?”

  Refusing to look away, I said, “Yep, and you’d be right. Not only is this personal, but I’m not a trained investigator. However, I can’t drop it.”

  A brief flare of resigned humor broke through before she quickly squashed it. “Can’t, not won’t?”

  “Can’t,” I repeated, because it was the truth. If I had to work around the Guild, so be it. It wasn’t like they could fire me.

  She studied me for a long moment. “Investigations are not your forte.”

  Now wasn’t the time for offended pride. I kept my voice even. “They aren’t, but I’ve been with the Guild long enough to know how to ask questions.”

  “And if your questions set the powers that be against the Guild?” One of her fingers tapped the underside of her desk.

  I held her gaze, my voice cold. “Plausible deniability. I’m not a Guild employee, which means you can deny any knowledge of my involvement and ensure my services are blacklisted should it be necessary.”

  A hard smile curved her lips. “Good to see you understand how it works.”

  Oh, I understood exactly how it worked. As a clearinghouse for magical mercenaries, the Guild had no issues hiring out to the Arcane Families for the right price, but they refused to take sides in the never-ending power plays. It was a tricky line to navigate, but the continued profitability of the Guild proved they were masters at the game. “I get it.”

  “Good.” She pushed off the desk and walked around to her chair. “For now, I’ll let you deal with it.” She pulled out her chair and sat. “Well, you and Evan.”

  “I appreciate it.” More than she knew. Relief drained some of the tension from my shoulders. I hadn’t been looking forward to dodging the Guild.

  “Now.” Her voice took on a brusque tone. “What are your next steps?”

  “I’d like to ask Evan to do some digging.”

  Speculation lit in her eyes. “How deep?”

  “Deep.”

  She dipped her chin in agreement. “Is Aslanov going to interfere?”

  Definitely. Before sharing my immediate reaction, which was more personal than professional, I thought it through. No matter what happened between him and me, Zev’s first, and probably only, loyalty was to the Cordova Family. Until he got the answers he wanted, he would be a pain in my ass. “So long as we don’t bring trouble to the Cordovas, he’ll stay clear.”

  “Then let’s make sure we don’t give him a reason to get involved.” She turned to Evan. “What’s your current caseload?”

  “I can clear the deck,” he said.

  “Do that.” She turned to me.

  I answered before she could ask. “I’ve got the job tonight, but otherwise, I’m on this.”

  “If you need help—”

  “I’ll ask.”

  “Be sure you do.” Those four simple words were proof that despite the potential firestorm, Sylvia had no intention of leaving one of her own twisting in the wind. She looked at Evan. “Watch your ass when you’re mucking around. The last thing the Guild needs is the Phoenix PD and the Families displeased with us.” After his nod, she continued, “I want regular status reports. No going solo, either of you. Watch each other’s backs and get my Key back.”

  Evan and I answered at the same time, “Yes, ma’am.”

  Chapter Eight

  Close to an hour later, I left Evan in his office, working through his to-do list, and headed to the nearby stairs instead of backtracking to the elevators. I jogged down the steps, anxious to get home. Not just because I needed to get ready for tonight’s job with Sabella Rossi, but because I wanted to go through my condo and see if I could find anything else that would help me track Lena while Evan ran his searches.

  I pushed through the door and into the parking garage. Distracted, I approached my car as it sat alone in the assigned parking spaces meant for the tenants. The first faint touch of magic whispered across my skin, chafing against my power, which remained passively alert. Heeding the warning, I slowed my approach. I pulled my Glock from its concealed holster and held it barrel down and at the ready as I moved a few feet closer to my car. That feather-light touch of magic gained strength, taking on an irritating edge. My protective Prism blinked awake and stretched.

  I stopped and scanned the shadowed garage for the unseen threat. When it came to a magical attack, bullets weren’t the best option, but it was better than nothing. Tension crawled along my spine and settled into my neck. I rode the rush of adrenaline as my ears strained to identify every sound and my eyes tried to pierce the gloom.

  Nothing moved.

  I waited, counting my breaths. The uncomfortable brush against my skin lessened and with it, my tension. The good news? The lingering magical echo was also fading. The bad news? It was centered on my car.

  Oh, hell no!

  If I found out who’d messed with my baby, I would make them regret it. It hurt, but I refrained from rushing forward to check that my Mustang was undamaged. I approached the car at an angle, scanning the ground around it. There were no marks on the ground to indicate a casting circle, and no strange objects lingered nearby for magical foci. There was one other area to visibly check. Cautiously, I moved closer, close enough to reach out and touch the door if I wanted, but that wasn’t my objective. At least not yet.

  Instead, I shifted my gun to my right hand and awkwardly pulled out my phone with my left. I thumbed the screen, activated the camera, slid it to video, and hit record. Then I dropped to a squat and aimed it under the car. It wasn’t easy, as the Mustang sat low, but I did the best I cou
ld, running it from wheel to wheel. When I pulled it back, I stood up and rewound the recording. Before I could hit play, the faint ding of the elevator echoed. I shifted a few feet to the side until I could see the elevators, then I watched as a couple of business types continued their conversation while walking to their car on the far side. When they were out of sight, I went back to my phone. The video wasn’t the greatest, but it was clear enough to relieve my mind that there was nothing in the undercarriage that shouldn’t be there. I stopped the recording and dialed Evan.

  He picked up on the first ring. “What’s wrong now?”

  “How fast can you access the parking garage security?”

  “Why?” I could hear his fingers fly over the keys.

  “Someone messed with my Mustang.”

  He let out a low whistle. “I’m in.”

  “Had to be recent, so just go back from now and see what pops.”

  I waited as he did his thing. The elevator pinged again. This time, a woman hustled out, engrossed in her phone.

  “The angles aren’t the greatest, but I’m not seeing anything,” Evan said. “What did they do?”

  “I’m not sure.” I turned back to my car and frowned. “I’m picking up magical remnants, but nothing specific.”

  “Do you want me to send down a Hound?”

  Utilizing an Arcane tracker wasn’t a bad idea. If nothing else, they might be able to follow the caster’s trail. “Is there one available?”

  “Hang on, I’m checking to see if anyone is in house right now.” Seconds ticked by, punctuated by the sound of typing. “Sorry, Rory, looks like they’re all out on assignment.”

  And I had a job to get ready for. “Don’t worry about. I’ll handle it.”

  “You sure?” He didn’t sound happy.

  I couldn’t blame him. “Yeah, but in case something goes boom, make sure your electronic eye is watching.”

  “That’s reassuring.”

  It wasn’t meant to be, but the longer I stood there, the more the skin-tingling indicator of expended magic faded. “I’m good, Evan. You’ll be the second to know if I’m not.”

  “Not funny,” he snapped.

  Done with the conversation, I hung up and slid my phone back in my pocket. With nothing physical to fight, I re-holstered my gun. If something lay in wait, bullets wouldn’t do a damn bit of good. That realization triggered an instant reaction from my magic, and the phantom sensation of invisible armor locking in place slid over my skin. I dug out my keys and deactivated the alarm. The one-two beep signaled the all-clear and unlocked the driver’s side door with an audible click. Thankfully, the rest of my car remained intact.

  Cautiously reaching for the door handle, I froze with my palm a hair’s breadth above the metal. I braced then gripped the handle. Nothing happened. No searing pain. No bone-rattling jolt. Nothing. Air escaped on a shaky exhale. Staying to the side, I pulled open the door. The only thing that rushed out was the faint scent of leather and vanilla. Okay, so maybe I was just being paranoid.

  I leaned down and peered inside, only to revise my opinion. Nope, I was definitely not being paranoid. In plain view on the passenger seat was a padded manila envelope.

  I checked the passenger side of the car. The windows were intact, and the passenger lock was still engaged. So how in the hell did that package get inside?

  Straightening, I did another scan of the garage, which was as pointless as the last one. No one lurked in the shadows watching. No strange cars lingered nearby. Everything was quiet with that particular sense of late-afternoon abandonment. With nothing for it, I slid into the driver’s seat, keeping my left leg out and leaving the door open. Under the interior dome light, I studied the envelope. My name was neatly printed on the outside in artless block letters. Unsurprisingly, there was no return address or name.

  I looked out the windshield, noting one of the security cameras aimed my way. Evan hadn’t been lying about the angle. He could probably see me behind the wheel, but that would be all. Good enough.

  I turned back to the package and considered a move that would have been dangerously stupid for anyone else. For me, as a Prism, not so much. Holding tight to the knowledge that if the package was magically booby-trapped, my ability would deflect the worst of it, I picked it up.

  Nothing happened. As I held it, though, I could feel the last of the magical echoes fade, leaving behind an innocuous package. I tested the weight, and despite the interior layer of bubble wrap, the contents were easy to discern—a book, probably a paperback, based on the lack of rigidity. Confused and not a little bit curious, I turned it over. Clear packing tape sealed the flap, so I slid a key under the score line and tore it open, leaving the edges of the envelope a ragged mess.

  I dropped the keys into the cup holder and upended the envelope, but the book remained wedged inside. I got my thumb and finger around the book and dragged it out. About two inches of worn leather cleared the envelope before it held fast. I adjusted my hold and tugged harder. It jerked free, and I hissed as the paper pages scored my knuckle. Damn paper cuts.

  I dropped the envelope and the leather-bound book in my lap as I brought my stinging knuckle to my mouth. It was an automatic reaction to the small pain, and the faint tang of blood hit my tongue. I dropped my hand and examined the wound. On my middle finger, a thin beaded line of red marred the skin between my first and second knuckle.

  I opened the glove box, grabbed a napkin from my stash, and wound it around my finger. First aid administered, I went back to the mysterious book. The leather covering was a worn brown, stained dark along the binding, indicating it was well used. I couldn’t tell if it was authentically old or just made to look like it. There was no title embossed on the front, and when I turned it over, the back was equally blank. That changed my assessment from book to journal, as did the unlined pages. The first interior page was blank, but the ones after that were filled with what appeared to be childish drawings of lopsided flowers and weirdly formed animals, a theme that seemed to continue for the next few pages.

  Confused, I shifted my hold so I could feather through the remaining pages quickly, and the napkin fell from my finger to land on the floor. Sighing, I shifted the book to one hand, sore finger caught between the pages to hold my place, and leaned down to pick up the napkin. I balled it up, tossed it in the cup holder, then went back to the book. My breath caught. The drawings had disappeared, and now neatly penned lines filled the page. A tiny smudge of red marred the edge of the page. As I watched, it began to fade, as if being absorbed by the paper. Understanding hit.

  Holy shit! A blood key.

  A mix of excitement and dread rushed through me. Blood key magic was old magic, stretching back to the founding Arcane Families. I knew that fact because of my obsession with Arcane history and fruitless hunts for information on Prisms. Once upon a time, a blood key was the preferred spell to send coded messages, especially when it involved Family-centered intrigue and machinations. They were the preferred security for covert communications during the World Wars, when the Families worked alongside the Allied Forces. It wasn’t until the advent of communication technology that blood keys were altered to utilize a combination of electronic encryption and DNA, making them much more difficult to break. They were a cipher spell that could only be unlocked by the blood of a specific genetic profile. It didn’t matter if the blood key was an older version or the more modern construct; either way, there was no fooling it. That this journal was spilling its secrets to me was mind-boggling and terrifying.

  As far as I knew, I was no one. Just another forgotten kid from the street. So why would my blood unlock this journal? An ominous suspicion joined my confusion, but I scanned the page, the words hitting my brain but not sinking in. At least, not until I stumbled over the one word that explained everything. Prisms.

  My pulse thundered in my ears as I grappled with the implications. Someone knew what I was. Not only that, they were able to deliver something that shouldn’t exist to my
car without leaving any usable trace behind. An approaching engine and the squeal of tires on pavement snapped my head up, and I watched a car hurtle around the turn to the next level. It served as a reminder that sitting in a parking garage was not the place to delve into this mystery.

  I put the journal back into the envelope and set it on the seat. In a blur, I dug my keys out of the cup holder and put them into the ignition. My fingers tightened as I went to turn the ignition, but I froze for a long moment, thinking, Final moment of truth.

  I closed my eyes and twisted my wrist. My baby woke with a soft rumble. As I was still in one piece, I blew out a breath, opened my eyes, sent Evan a thumbs-up, then pulled my leg into the car and closed the door. I backed out carefully and headed home.

  Chapter Nine

  The trip home was uneventful, and since my time was limited, I reviewed my priorities. Lena first, journal second. I parked in the condo’s garage, grabbed the journal, and rode the elevator straight to my floor. Thankfully, it was a straight shot to the eighth floor. The doors opened, and I hustled to my door, where a business card was tucked into the frame. I pulled it free and noted that it belonged to Detective Brenner. Unlocking the door, I used my shoulder to push it open and stepped inside. Even knowing it was fruitless, I still called out, “Lena? You home?” as I cleared the entryway.

  No surprise, but only silence answered. Well, silence and the hum of the air conditioner. I moved into the open space shared by the kitchen, dining, and living room, and tossed my keys and Brenner’s card on the island counter. The layout of the apartment made it easy to see no one was home. Our bedrooms sat on either side: mine to the left and Lena’s to the right, giving us a semblance of privacy. The blinds were pulled back on the glass doors leading to the balcony, and afternoon sunlight spilled across the light wood floors. I set the envelope and the journal on the island next to my keys and headed for Lena’s room. I knocked on the closed door out of habit. “Hey, Lena? You in there?”