by Cynthia Dane
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Keep Up
THE NIGHTINGALE SUBMITS
Entry #1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Entry #2
Chapter 5
Entry #3
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Entry #4
Chapter 8
Entry #5
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Entry #6
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Entry #7
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Entry #8
Chapter 18
THE NIGHTINGALE RISES
Entry #9
Entry #10
Entry #11
Entry #12
Entry #13
Entry #14
Entry #15
THE NIGHTINGALE TRIUMPHS
Entry #16
Entry #17
Entry #18
Entry #19
Entry #20
Entry #21
Entry #22
Entry #23
Entry #24
Entry #25
Chapter 19
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Keep Up
THE NIGHTINGALE SUBMITS
Entry #1
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Entry #2
Chapter 5
Entry #3
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Entry #4
Chapter 8
Entry #5
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Entry #6
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Entry #7
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Entry #8
Chapter 18
THE NIGHTINGALE RISES
Entry #9
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Entry #10
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Entry #11
Chapter 7
Entry #12
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Entry #13
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Entry #14
Chapter 15
Entry #15
Chapter 16
THE NIGHTINGALE TRIUMPHS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Entry #16
Chapter 3
Entry #17
Chapter 4
Entry #18
Chapter 5
Entry #19
Chapter 6
Entry #20
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Entry #21
Chapter 10
Entry #22
Chapter 11
Entry #23
Chapter 12
Entry #24
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Entry #25
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
Pursued
Almost A Year Ago
1: Rose Vines
2: Lock & Key
3: Her Gilded Cage
4: The Patron's Gift
5: Clipped Wings
6: The Wolf's Den
7: Love Letters
8: To Serve & Be Dominated
9: A Long Lost Release
10: Le Monstre
Thanks And Connect
Also Available
THE NIGHTINGALE TRILOGY
Cynthia Dane
BARACHOU PRESS
THE NIGHTINGALE TRILOGY
Copyright: Cynthia Dane
Published: March 9th, 2016
Publisher: Barachou Press
This is a work of fiction. Any and all similarities to any characters, settings, or situations are purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this book in any format.
Keep up with Cynthia’s latest releases by joining her mailing list! Behind the scenes, first looks, and even some free snippets!
READING ORDER
1: THE NIGHTINGALE SUBMITS
2: THE NIGHTINGALE RISES
3: THE NIGHTINGALE TRIUMPHS
THE NIGHTINGALE SUBMITS
Entry #1
I’m not good with words. I’d rather program a machine to speak on my behalf than write down my own thoughts and feelings.
So, expect these entries to be sparse. The only reason I’m writing anything is because I need some sort of testimony in case something happens to me.
Because it’s very likely I will die sooner rather than later.
Tomorrow I attempt my first infiltration of Xavier Crow’s private club. I currently do not have a partner, which will prove most annoying when I have to hire someone to pose as my girlfriend. But I will do whatever it takes. I only hope the woman is discreet.
His end begins tomorrow.
Chapter 1
The first thing Nala noticed about the lounge wasn’t the body odor vs. over-spiced perfume menagerie, but that women were actually capable of pairing flannel with lacy lingerie.
“Welcome to The Crow’s Nest,” a woman dressed in black and white plaid with matching fishnet stockings said. “Would you like something to drink?”
Nala, spying on a bearded man trying his luck with a woman bursting from a tight bustier, whipped her head around. “I’m sorry?” Her voice cracked in her throat.
The hostess’s practiced smile faltered. “I asked if you would like a drink, Miss.”
“Uh, sure. Rum and Coke.”
“Right away. Please find a seat to enjoy. I’ll be right over with your drink.”
Plaid cotton sauntered away. Nala was left standing in the middle of the dimly lit and quiet lounge, a brand new staple of Portland’s illustrious Pearl District. The Crow’s Nest was a marriage of Pacific Northwest sensibilities and hoity-toity expectations. Craft beer, wrought iron umbrella stands, flannel and hoodies for days… and enough expensive perfume to choke a beaver,
That related to a question Nala was asked the moment she sat at the bar. “Ducks or Beavers?”
“Excuse me?” She looked up, meeting a bearded bartender’s eyes. His skinny jeans slipped effortlessly beneath his red and blue plaid shirt.
His smiled broadened. “You like the Ducks or the Beavers? Football.”
“Oh!” Nala nearly dropped her clutch. “Timbers?”
“Ha! I like that one. Prefer the futbol over the football?”
“Sure.”
The bartender disappeared to the other end of the bar to tend to a patron’s request. Nala was left, alone, wondering what the fuck she had gotten herself into. Ducks, Beavers, Timbers, Blazers… Fifteen years ago, when she was a child living in Portland with her
mother and sister, nobody asked her such inane sports questions. Portland was a haven for people who didn’t give a shit about sports. That was for the Texans and North Carolinians. Although so many of them had moved to Oregon in Nala’s fifteen-year-absence that maybe they changed the game – literally.
Tasha would have said she liked the Ducks because her favorite color was yellow. It was those little details Nala remembered even now. Details that made her bite her lip and wave away the hostess as she brought by that rum and Coke. Focus, idiot. You’re not here to have a drink. Nevertheless, she had to part with her precious money so she could access one of the richest men in the Pacific Northwest… no, America.
Maybe the world.
She pulled out her notepad and double-checked her research. Xavier Crow, founder and CEO of Black Raven Pharmaceuticals, is also an avid real estate developer who owns many high-rises and businesses throughout Oregon and Washington. His latest addition to his empire is The Crow’s Nest lounge, located on a block he owns in its entirety. The picture in one of the articles she pasted into her notepad showed the fifty-five year old Xavier Crow sitting on the stool next to where Nala sat now. He was surrounded by his flannel-clad servers and bartenders, all smiling above a caption that read, “Mr. Crow intends to make the lounge his second home in Portland.”
He had to be around here somewhere. It was a slow night, but Nala had no choice but to come on Tuesday when the line wasn’t halfway around the block. Without any great connections, there was no hope getting a glimpse of her sister’s killer.
***
“Nala,
I hope this letter gets to you in time. I don’t dare email or call you. I don’t know who might be tracking me. Isn’t it strange I have to go back to pen and paper in order to be undetected? Except it’s the only safe way that I know of.
There may not be much time left. I know I’m not crazy. Men are following me. There was blood left on my apartment door yesterday. I don’t say these things to scare you. I say them to warn you. If they come for me, they may come for you next. Don’t tell Mother.”
Nala could still remember the day she received that letter. She stood outside the dusty mailbox in Carson City, Nevada, wondering what she should do. For weeks, her older sister told her that she was becoming paranoid. Cars. Men in ski masks lurking in the shadows. Threatening notes. She went to the police, but all they said was that Tasha needed to be less “hysterical.” Two days after Nala received that final letter, Tasha was found dead in her Seattle apartment.
Heart attack, the coroner said. Ridiculous. Tasha was still in her twenties. She exercised and was a vegetarian. Out of the three of them, Tasha had the best health while Nala ate like a dumbass and their mother smoked fifty packs a day.
So to say Tasha had a heart attack at her age was like saying Nala would choose a salad over a hamburger.
It had to be murder. It wasn’t farfetched. Not in Tasha’s line of work. She was a lead researcher for Black Raven Pharmaceuticals. Cancer cures. Medications. The type of shit every pharmaceutical company said they poured millions of money into researching, but always came up short. Not Tasha. She was brilliant. Determined. If anyone in the country was going to find some cancer breakthrough, it would be her, one of the greatest medical researchers anyone knew.
Xavier Crow may not have given Tasha her heart attack, but he surely made sure somebody did. Nala would bet her life on it. Since moving to Portland, Crow’s newest home, she sort of had to bet her life on that fact.
She didn’t know what she would do.
She didn’t know what she could do.
But she would find the bastard.
And she would make him pay for his crimes.
***
“You look lonely.”
Nala jerked up. There was that bartender again, this time with a beanie on his head. Did he think that made him look cool? Did he like being a hipster stereotype? Nala furrowed her brows. Whenever she started thinking about her sister’s death, she got angry. Easily. This man was one more condescending comment away from getting a fist through his man-bun.
“I’m relaxing,” she said. Please go away. For your own good.
“What’s your name? I like to learn everyone’s name.”
Nala had to bite back a testy reply. “Na… Natasha.” That was a convenient go-to name. It’s what her mother bellowed whenever she wanted both her daughters to come into the room.
“Natasha, huh?” What a chill-inducing smirk. “I thought you looked Russian.”
What the fuck did that mean? “Interesting. I thought I left my ushanka at home.” Damnit. She should have mispronounced it on purpose. Or said something maybe not, oh, Russian.
The bartender’s smile disappeared, but he remained in front of her. “Uh… what’s that?”
“Imagine a very cold Russian woman. She’s wearing one on her head.”
“Oh. Those fluffy hats?”
“Yes. Those fluffy hats.”
He raised his hands in mock defeat. “Hey, this is a chill place. No need to be uptight. Enjoy your drink.” He walked away. A bit too late to escape Nala’s chilling glare.
No matter where she went in the country, men were the same, especially when they found out she was Russian. The idea of the feisty Eastern European sexpot was alive and well. Joke was on them. Nala was no sexpot. And her idea of feisty was slamming dudes in the balls, not teasing them with a thong on her way out the door. They all need to leave me alone. Nala considered herself “reluctantly heterosexual.” She didn’t like women – not that way – but here she was, attracted to men in theory, but unable to stand them in real life.
“I’ve never even been to Russia…” she muttered. Her parents immigrated right before the Cold War ended. Heard that there was a sizable Russian population in Portland and decided it was for them. Tasha was born in the Motherland, but Nala was born at the same hospital as her kindergarten classmates. The only Russian she remembered was whatever her mother muttered the most. Tasha was the one with an interest. Nala spent her life ignoring her heritage while Tasha taught herself Cyrillic… for fun.
So, great. Here she was, stalking a man she had no idea what to do with, and being propositioned by dudes with man-buns because they thought Kseniya Onatopp was hot in that one Bond film. Nala stretched her arms across the bar and tapped her forehead against the counter. I’m so stupid. Once again, her anger got the best of her. Yeah, she moved to Portland to “get justice,” or at least discover the truth behind her sister’s death, but that was as far as her mind ever let her get. Stupid Nala. Shot first, asked questions later.
Now she was paying for it. Literally. At least in Carson City her part time job helped her pay her share of the rent. Rent that went toward a whole bedroom in a sizable apartment she shared with a quiet girl her age. In Portland? Ha! Nala rented a closet. An actual closet. She could squeeze a twin mattress in there, but she had to hang her clothes above her and put her meager belongings on the top shelf. She could spring for a bedroom somewhere farther out if she could get a damned full time job.
Maybe it was a good thing she had this drink. First thinking about her sister, and now her living situation? Nala needed to get drunk, and quick. Get drunk, go home to her closet, and lick her wounds. Who was she kidding? Of course Xavier Crow didn’t hang out here on his nights off. That was publicity. This lounge was small. Maybe it seated thirty people comfortably. It was meant to feel intimate, not like a sprawling mess of stools and drunk people. Nala hated the bastard, but at least he had some taste.
She was woefully overdressed anyway. Her little black dress, the only nice outfit she owned, was too much for this plaid paradise. I forgot that’s considered formalwear here.
“…Tell Chester that we still have the ten o’clock meeting.” Two men in suits sauntered in. Nala barely noticed them… would’ve been happy to completely ignore their existence if they didn’t sit one stool away from her and order a couple of Old Fashioneds. “All right. Thanks.” The man o
n the phone shut it off and tucked it into his front pocket. “Finally, we can relax.”
He had salt and pepper hair, muted cologne, and one of the finest business suits Nala had ever seen. The kind of guy Tasha would have said belonged at the altar with her. She always had lofty ambitions. Nala’s sister was married to her work while in her 20s, but she said she wanted to establish her career and then go find a husband. “I don’t mind Mistress Medicine, if she’ll have me.”
“This place ain’t bad. One of the better lounges in this area.”
The other man rubbed his clean-shaven face. He looked aloof, but that was par for the course in Portland. Hell, the Pacific Northwest. Must be a native. No, a transplant. Nala was starting to learn to tell the difference.
“I suppose. I don’t get out much.”
“Ah, if you stay in this business much longer, young Padawan, you’ll have to learn how to get out and be social. It’s mandatory.”
“I suppose.”
“You say that a lot.”
The older man said that good-naturedly. Nevertheless, Nala heard a hint of frustration in his voice. Is that his son? Nephew? Why do I care? Anything to take her mind off her troubles.
“Crow hasn’t done bad for himself in this town. Did you know he owns this whole block?”
The younger man tugged on his tie and adjusted his cufflinks. Aloof, indeed. “I had heard that. I don’t get it, myself. Then again, I’m not interested in real estate. Or mergers and acquisitions. I just want to do my trade.”
“Boy, you really are young and new to this.”
“Let’s talk about something else.” The younger man, with his soft face and clean haircut, picked up his drink and clinked the ice inside. “Anything but Crow.”
“We’re in his place of business and giving him our money for alcohol. We can’t avoid talking about him. Why don’t you want to?”
“Suppose you could say he leaves a bad taste in my mouth.” The younger man put his glass down and swished his drink around his mouth as if it really did leave a bad taste. His wince intrigued Nala, who watched this through the corner of her eye. “I also suppose the man can’t be avoided around here. I mean, as you said, look where we are.”
