Grave Phantoms
Page 1
PRAISE FOR
GRIM SHADOWS
“The story is fun, the sex is hot, and the characters are interesting, but the setting and time period are what really make this series stand out.”
—Smart Bitches, Trashy Books
“Elegantly captures the world of San Francisco during this vibrant, lively time period.”
—Fresh Fiction
“If there is one series that stands out with its originality and its imagination, it’s Jenn Bennett’s Roaring Twenties series . . . Grim Shadows is not one to be missed!”
—Under the Covers
“Be ready for griffins, Egyptian fire goddesses, and talk of archaeological digs and artifacts . . . Jenn Bennett is an incredibly gifted storyteller and she has me hooked on this series.”
—Fiction Vixen
PRAISE FOR
BITTER SPIRITS
“You had me at booze, raw lust, and black magic! An inventive setting; delightfully sharp-tongued characters; white-hot chemistry; and wry, subtle humor make for a truly enjoyable read. I couldn’t wait to meet each new character. It’s Boardwalk Empire meets Ghost Hunters, but so much better.”
—Molly Harper, national bestselling author of the Jane Jameson series
“I loved this book! Bennett delivers a sizzling-hot yet swoon-worthy love story with a mystery that keeps you guessing until the end, all set in the fresh and ultra-cool world of Jazz Age San Francisco. Can’t wait to read the next one!”
—Kristen Callihan, author of Shadowdance
“Complex and smart romantic leads . . . Expect historical romance authors and fans to eagerly hop on the Roaring Twenties bandwagon, following Bennett’s very able lead.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Absolutely delightful . . . Stirs intrigue, paranormal activity, and romance into a wonderfully refreshing brew . . . Bennett’s fast-paced dialogue, often witty and sharp, as well as her charming characters and detailed setting, will truly captivate romance readers.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“The combination of sizzling sex, gritty danger, and paranormal thrills adds up to one stupendous read!”
—RT Book Reviews (top pick)
Berkley Sensation titles by Jenn Bennett
BITTER SPIRITS
GRIM SHADOWS
GRAVE PHANTOMS
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) LLC
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014
USA • Canada • UK • Ireland • Australia • New Zealand • India • South Africa • China
penguin.com
A Penguin Random House Company
GRAVE PHANTOMS
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
Copyright © 2015 by Jenn Bennett.
Excerpt from Bitter Spirits by Jenn Bennett copyright © 2013 by Jenn Bennett.
Penguin supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin to continue to publish books for every reader.
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.
BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) LLC.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) LLC,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
eBook ISBN: 978-0-698-19240-9
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2015
Cover art by Aleta Rafton.
Cover design by Lesley Worrell.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Version_1
To the spirit of Mary Tape, who stood up for her children when no one else would
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to my agent, Laura Bradford, and to all the people who helped put this book together at Berkley, including my editor, Leis Pederson, as well as Jessica Brock, Lesley Worrell, and Bethany Blair. Kudos to Aleta Rafton for bringing Astrid and Bo to life on my favorite cover in this series.
I’m also grateful for all the kind people and organizations who answered my (hundreds of) research questions, including: John Jung (author of several fascinating books about the history of Chinese immigrants in America), the National Women’s History Museum, the Bay Area Radio Museum, the Shaping San Francisco history project, the University of Washington’s Seattle Civil Rights and Labor History Project, the National College in Mexico City, radio historian John F. Schneider, and Professor Tak-Hung Leo Chan.
Most of all, I’d like to acknowledge all of the readers, bloggers, and reviewers who championed this series online. Your enthusiasm has meant so much to me. Thank you for reading!
CONTENTS
Praise for Jenn Bennett
Berkley Sensation titles by Jenn Bennett
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
A preview of Bitter Spirits
September 15, 1928
University of California, Los Angeles
Dear Bo,
I got your letter in the mail today and was so eager to read it, I completely forgot to attend my history class—no great loss. My professor never smiles and doesn’t seem to like me. Besides that, everything is wonderful here. My dorm mate, Jane, and I took a streetcar to Hollywood Boulevard this weekend. Unfortunately, we saw zero motion picture stars.
Sorry to hear someone scratched your new Buick, but not half as sorry as they’ll be when you find out who did it. Sounds like you’re working too much at the warehouse. Just because Winter promoted you to captain doesn’t mean you’re his personal slave. Tell him to give you some time off. Perhaps a weekend in sunny L.A. would do you some good!
I have to go. My next class, Physics, starts in ten minutes and I’ve alre
ady missed it too many times. Luckily, that professor thinks I’m cute.
Your friend,
Astrid
P.S.—Don’t tell Winter I’ve skipped any classes.
September 25, 1928
Magnusson Fish Company
Pier 26
San Francisco, California
Dear Astrid,
Your brothers both send their regards. In fact, Lowe came by the warehouse with Hadley and Stella today. They have booked a trip to Egypt next month. (All three of them.)
The mystery of the Buick’s scratch is solved. It was Aida. She ran into it with the baby carriage—an accident, of course. It’s hard to stay mad at a pretty woman. By the way, I’m thinking of naming the Buick “Sylvia.”
Sounds like you’re having fun, but you need to stop missing classes. If they expel you, Winter will blow his top. He’s mad enough that his baby sister isn’t going to Berkeley and still moans about your Southern California campus being a “poor substitute for the real U.C.” And while we’re on the subject, who is this Physics professor? Old men shouldn’t be telling you that you’re cute. Be careful around him. Don’t make me worry about you.
Your friend (and enemy to lecherous old men),
Bo
October 5, 1928
University of California, Los Angeles
Dear Bo,
Egypt? Stars above. Please give Stella lots of kisses for me when you see her again and tell her Auntie Astrid misses her. I’m not sure how to make the word “miss” in sign language, but Lowe will know.
My dorm mate, Jane, and I are not on good terms right now because her sweetheart asked me to join him and some of his friends last night when Jane was at a sorority meeting. We saw the Bruins play football—that’s our collegiate team. I thought it might be boring to spend time with all those boys, but they were cutups, and called me Queen of Sheba, joking that they would be my male harem.
You don’t have to worry about dirty old men. Professor Barnes is only twenty-six. This is his first year teaching. He thinks I’m “delightful,” and not just cute, so he’s not only interested in my good looks. He told me if he has time this semester, he might take his best students to visit Mount Wilson Observatory, to look through the giant telescope there. It’s up in the mountains near Los Angeles, so we will stay there in a hotel overnight. More soon. Sylvia is a great name for the Buick!
Your friend,
Astrid
October 15, 1928
Magnusson Fish Company
Pier 26
San Francisco, California
Mui-mui,
Your professor is up to no good. Teachers should not be staying in hotels with students. Lowe, being a professor himself, agrees with me. I am very concerned about your well-being. If you need to wire me a message for any reason, please do so. Never mind the train ticket, I will drive down there and come get you. I haven’t mentioned this to Winter, because he would already be down there. Please use common sense.
Your friend,
Bo
October 30, 1928
University of California, Los Angeles
Dear Bo,
I can’t believe you told Lowe. That was personal, between you and me. I am perfectly capable of making decisions without anyone’s help, you know. And for your information, I had a wonderful time with Luke at the observatory. He is kind and sensitive, and he sees me as none of you do: as a woman.
Your adult friend (not your “little sister”),
Astrid
December 5, 1928
University of California, Los Angeles
Dearest Bo,
I am sorry about my last letter. I suppose I was upset with you, but that was silly. It’s really very touching that you’re concerned about me. It means a lot. I just wish you’d trust me to make my own decisions, even if they are the wrong ones sometimes.
Are you receiving my letters? I’ve heard on the radio that terrible storms are heading up the coast toward the Bay, so please stay safe.
My favorite wristwatch broke, which was upsetting. I will look for a replacement in S.F. There are no decent jewelry stores here. Oh, I bought my train ticket home and leave in ten days. That’s December 15th at noon. (Does that date sound familiar?) I can’t wait to see you at the station.
Your true friend,
Astrid
P.S.—I’m sorry I got mad about you calling me mui-mui. I actually miss hearing you saying that. No one here speaks Cantonese.
ONE
DECEMBER 15, 1928
Astrid Magnusson was mad as hell. She furiously wiped the fogged-up window of her brother’s Pierce-Arrow limousine with the mink cuff of her coat, but it didn’t help. The hilly streets were nothing but darkness punctuated by the occasional streetlight as they drove through more rain than she’d ever seen in her life.
“I can’t believe it’s been like this all week,” she said to the family driver over the half-raised window divider between the front and back seats. “It never rains like this here. Never.”
“Ja,” Jonte replied in Swedish as they turned onto the Embarcadero. “You shouldn’t be down here with all this flooding. Winter will be angry.”
Whoop-de-doo. She’d been back in San Francisco since noon and had barely spoken to her oldest brother. Half the city was barricaded, and she knew that’s why Winter was down here working at nine in the evening—to help sandbag the warehouse. She also knew that’s why Bo was here; however, him she wasn’t ready to forgive.
She hadn’t seen Bo in almost four months, he’d stopped answering her letters, and now that she was home, he couldn’t step away from the warehouse for one hour? Not even a telephone call or a note?
At least the staff had made her a nice dinner to welcome her back, and she’d had a little celebratory champagne. A little too much, possibly, but she didn’t feel very drunk. Then again, she wasn’t very good at drinking. A couple of months back, she’d downed five glasses of bathtub gin and ended up with a sprained ankle after falling off the dormitory balcony. But the post-drinking sickness had been far worse than the sprain, and she swore to all the saints she’d never drink again.
But really, that was a pointless promise to make, considering that Winter was one of the biggest bootleggers in San Francisco.
The limousine slowed in front of a long line of bulkhead buildings that sat along the waterfront. Warm light spilled from windows that flanked an open archway marked PIER 26. Magnusson Fish Company’s waterfront dock. At least, that’s what it was in the daytime; at night, it was a staging warehouse for citywide liquor distribution.
Astrid grabbed her umbrella and began opening the Pierce-Arrow’s door before it came to a complete stop. “Don’t wait for me,” she told Jonte. “I’ll get someone to drive me back home.”
“But—”
“Good night, Jonte,” she said more forcefully and erected the umbrella against the blustery night rain.
Ducking under the building’s gated Spanish stucco archway, she splashed through puddles and immediately smelled exhausted engine oil and shipping containers. Familiar and oddly pleasant. Just past a fleet of delivery trucks parked for the night, men stacked sandbags against the warehouse walls, where water ran across the cement floor. Winter was there, talking to someone as he directed the sandbagging.
But no Bo.
Before Winter could spot her and yell at her for coming out here at night, she folded her umbrella and took a sharp right into the warehouse offices. The reception area was empty, but a light shone from the back office. She marched with purpose, head buzzing with champagne, and stopped in the doorway.
The office was exactly as she remembered. Framed ancient photographs of her family lined the walls, slightly askew and dusty: their first house in the Fillmore District, her brothers as small children, and every boat her father had ev
er owned—even the last one, right before he died in the accident three years ago. Watching over those photographs was Old Bertha, a stuffed leopard shark that hung from the ceiling.
And hunched below that spotted shark was Bo Yeung, stripped from the waist up and dripping wet with rainwater. A soaked shirt lay on a nearby chair; a dry one was draped across a filing cabinet.
A sense of elation rose over the champagne singing in Astrid’s bloodstream. He was here, her childhood friend, the person she trusted more than anyone else in the world, and the only man she’d ever cared for.
Stars, she’d never been so happy to see his handsome face. She wanted to rush forward and throw her arms around him, like she used to do when they were both too young to recognize things were changing between them . . . when she was just the boss’s baby sister, and he was only the hired help.
No longer.
And with that realization, all her hurt feelings rushed back to the surface.
“So you are alive,” she said.
At the sound of her voice, he stood and turned to face her, and the sight of his sleek, sculpted chest momentarily took her aback. She’d seen him without a shirt a dozen times before—working outside in the sun, in the Chinatown boxing club where he sometimes went to blow off steam, or when they’d find each other in the kitchen raiding the icebox at midnight. But as he stood there in front of her now, holding a damp towel as if poised to fight, the elegant sheen of his finely muscled arms seemed almost risqué. Virile. She felt hot all over, just looking at him.
It was unfair, really.
“Astrid,” he finally said in a rough voice. Straight hair, normally neatly combed, fell over one eye like a stroke of black calligraphy ink. He pushed a damp lock of it back and stared at her like she was a mirage—one that he hadn’t expected to see.
Too bad. Astrid wasn’t going be ignored. She’d worn her best fur and a stunning beaded amaranthine dress that showed off her legs, and she’d practiced exactly what she was going to say to him.