Spike

by Kathy Reichs

  ALSO BY

  KATHY REICHS AND BRENDAN REICHS

  VIRALS

  SEIZURE

  CODE

  EXPOSURE

  TERMINAL

  TRACE EVIDENCE

  (short story collection)

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  375 Hudson Street

  New York, New York 10014

  Published in print as part of Trace Evidence, 2016.

  This e-special published by Puffin Books, an imprint of Penguin Random House LLC, 2016.

  Copyright © 2016 by Brennan NextGen LLC

  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.

  CIP data is available

  eBooks ISBN 9780425288399

  Cover illustration © 2016, cover design by Tony Sahara

  Version_1

  Contents

  COVER

  ALSO BY KATHY REICHS AND BRENDAN REICHS

  TITLE PAGE

  COPYRIGHT

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  I was staring into the abyss.

  Giant, brimming, sky-blue wells of horror, only moments from unleashing a torrent of mascara-infused tears.

  “I already looked in there!” Whitney moaned, wrapping her arms around her chest and stomping a foot peevishly. Her snow-white wedding dress shimmered in the afternoon sunlight that poured into the dressing room. Perfect blond tendrils bounced precariously atop her head. “I’m telling you, Tory, it’s missing!”

  I dropped her Louis Vuitton bag to the floor, struggling to keep my annoyance in check. “Okay, Whitney. But I’m sure it’s around here somewhere. We double-checked everything before we left the island.”

  Whitney’s hands seized the sides of her gown. Then she flinched, releasing her grip and frantically smoothing the delicate white silk with her palms. She’d been a live wire all morning, from the moment I’d first spied her at dawn, practicing her walk down the aisle.

  “Can you describe it for me again?” Voice calm. Gaze steady. Afraid that if I looked away, she might crumple to the floor.

  My soon-to-be stepmother’s eyes bugged. “It’s blue, obviously!”

  “Yes, Whitney, I know your ‘something blue’ is, in fact, blue.” Deep breath. Neutral expression—like one you’d use on a stray dog of unknown temperament. “Perhaps a little more detail?”

  “It’s a garter,” Whitney huffed, hands fluttering uselessly. “My mother’s, from her own wedding. Robin’s-egg blue with white embroidery.”

  I nodded, remembering the tiny item. “You had it at home, when we inspected your bag before leaving.” For the fourth time. “So it must’ve been here when you unpacked. We just have to track the thing down.”

  “Unless it was stolen,” Whitney muttered darkly, a frown pinching her delicate features. “I was in the ladies’ room before, and that hairstylist left in an awful hurry.”

  “Devin didn’t steal your garter.” I was now well past irritated, but trying to cover it. “She had to go touch up the other bridesmaids.” Oh, how I wished I was with them, even though I had nothing in common with Whitney’s gaggle of beautiful frenemies. But the maid of honor has ironclad personal-assistant-to-the-bride duties on the big day, and right then, they consisted of me locating a six-inch hoop of missing taffeta.

  We were alone on the second floor of the Williem Carter House, one of the most exclusive wedding venues in Charleston. Both the service and reception were being held there. A National Historic Landmark, the home boasted museum-caliber art, a stunning ballroom, and two cozy garden courtyards. It was the height of refinement and charm. Whitney Blanche DuBois—a Southern debutante to the tips of her manicured toes—wouldn’t have had it any other way. Even I had to admit the place was perfect.

  However, at that moment, the palatial residence was hiding an apparently crucial element of Whitney’s ensemble, and she was verging on hysterics. So I was down on my knees—in a sea-green bridesmaid’s dress and three-inch heels—peering under a collection of ornate couches, bookcases, and coffee tables for a stupid, useless, confounded blue garter that no one but my father would ever see anyway.

  Ew. I fast-forwarded past that unpleasant thought, probing the carpet with my fingers. My quarry continued to elude me.

  “We’ll simply have to postpone,” Whitney babbled, collapsing heavily onto a divan. “You’ll tell the guests. And Kit as well, the news should come from you. I’ll speak to the Magnolia League photographer, although of course Agnes Taylor will use this as an excuse to cut my spread from the fall publication. She’s been against its inclusion from the beginning! The caterers will howl, but I don’t see any way—”

  “Just hold on.” I sat back on my heels, palms up in a calming gesture designed for spooked horses. “Take a breath. We don’t need to postpone the wedding. Let’s just retrace our steps a bit. Find this stupid garter.”

  “It is not—”

  My hands chopped sideways. “Of course not. Poor choice of words.”

  I rose and began pacing, chewing my bottom lip, my blue-green eyes slipping out of focus as I reviewed our progress that morning. After the . . . events of last year, my irises had never returned to their former pure emerald green. People noticed the change from time to time, but not in a particularly startled way. “It happens” was the phrase I heard most often.

  Not usually from ingesting a covertly manufactured antiviral serum created in hopes of reversing a catastrophic DNA mutation—one granting infected subjects extrasensory canine superpowers—but whatever. It happens.

  Whitney stared at the ceiling, looking hopeless. “We left home, had brunch at the hotel, then came straight here,” she said glumly. “I had everything in my travel bag. But the garter has simply vanished!”

  Something clicked. “Didn’t you pay for brunch?”

  Whitney nodded impatiently. “Overpaid, if you ask me. Runny eggs, scorched toast, plus the mimosas were—” She cut off abruptly as I arrowed for the window.

  In the courtyard below, guests were already being seated. I spotted Hi and Shelton, both looking uncomfortable in their tuxes as they ushered friends and family members to the rows of white folding chairs facing the altar.

  As I watched, Hi awkwardly extended an elbow for Madison Dunkle, which she took, even though she’d clearly arrived with Jason Taylor. Those two had been dating for several months, and the odd match seemed to be working. Maddy would never be my favorite person in the world—too much shady history between us for that—but I was happy they’d found each other. Unsure of decorum, Jason followed on their heels as Hi led Maddy to a pair of open seats on the groom’s side.

  Just behind them, Shelton was attempting to shepherd Jason’s mother, Agnes, down the aisle, but Mr. Taylor rebuffed him with a friendly wink, escorting his wife himself. Shelton trailed them for a few steps, then shrugged and turned around, leaving the detective and his wife to find their own seats. Professional ushers my friends were not.

  The next pair stifled my amusement.

  Chance and Ella.

  Why did we invite them?

 
That wasn’t fair. For all the trouble Chance Claybourne had caused over the last few years, he’d also come up big when we’d needed him most. Chance’s quick thinking was one of the only reasons I was attending my father’s wedding at all, instead of banging my head against a cage door in some top-secret government lab.

  Still.

  His betrayals ran deep. Chance had created most of my problems in the first place.

  And Ella Francis . . .

  She was my best girl friend. Even now. She’d apologized more times than I could count, and I knew she meant every one. Ella had backed me in the end, too, when the chips were down.

  But, still.

  The knife wounds in my back were still healing.

  I could close my eyes and smell the charred ruins of our clubhouse.

  It is what it is.

  Chance stopped abruptly, as if responding to a sixth sense. He turned. Looked straight up at the window.

  My breath caught, and I ducked away like an idiot.

  Had he felt me watching him? No. How could he, with his powers snuffed out?

  Yet my nerves were thrumming like guitar strings.

  Chance remained irritatingly beautiful, seemed to grow more darkly handsome by the day. More than a few local debs gave Ella the stink eye when spotting them out together, though she was no less captivating than he was. With her three-foot cable of lustrous black hair, and dancing, mischievous eyes, Ella was the prettiest girl I knew in real life. Small wonder Chance was hooked. Let the haters hate.

  Not me, though. I made my choice.

  “Tory?” My head whipped to Whitney, who’d sat up and was eyeing me curiously. “Did you find it?”

  “Not yet, but I will.” Feeling foolish, I swung back to the window. Chance and Ella were strolling down the aisle, unescorted. They grabbed a pair of seats on the bride’s side.

  Interesting.

  Random, or deliberate?

  Shrug. Trying to divine answers from the actions of Chance Claybourne has never been a profitable business. Not for me, at least.

  Then I spotted my original target, and my heart swelled.

  Ben Blue. My Ben.

  He looked miserable in his penguin suit, but that doesn’t mean bad. His shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, exposing his tanned face and sharp brown eyes. Ben was supposed to be ushering like Hi and Shelton, but he’d planted himself by the guest book, smiling uncomfortably as people paraded by, his natural shyness winning out.

  Ben sensed my attention as well. He squinted up at my window, then smiled—the open, unguarded version reserved only for me. My stomach did a backflip.

  Benjamin Blue.

  My boyfriend. Mine.

  It was weird. It was wonderful. It was still hard to believe.

  This is the worst day of my life, Ben sent, the sour thought at odds with his quirked lips. I feel like a movie theater host.

  Ben’s irises grew muddier as his voice sounded inside my head.

  His reaction was easiest to cover. Add blue to brown, you get more brown.

  Classier than that, I sent back, my own eyes brightening to a crystal-clear blue, with only flecks of green remaining. Maybe an upscale steakhouse? Anyway, you look very handsome.

  I look like a jackass. When do I get to see you?

  Soon. I cannot wait to escape this room. Whitney is a Bridezilla.

  We can disappear. This building must have some fancy hiding places.

  Ben’s emotions were streaming up at me, and I blushed. Could he read me as easily?

  Not that I minded sharing my feelings. Not with him. Not anymore.

  Just in time for him to leave.

  I pushed the painful thought away. Hoped he hadn’t caught it.

  Ben had graduated from Wando High in the spring, and had been accepted at Warren Wilson College in Asheville. In less than a month he’d be moving to the Appalachians to pursue a degree in environmental science. I was insanely proud of him. Rotten timing, for sure, but we’d make it work. I’d drive the four hours up I-26 every weekend if I had to.

  “Tory?” Whitney squeaked, insistent. “What are you doing? We have a problem here!”

  “One sec!” Averting my eyes, though in her current state I doubt she’d have noticed their sudden blueness. A far cry from when they’d blazed with golden fire.

  Is Whitney being awful? Ben sent, his speech weaker in my mind since we’d broken eye contact. I bet she’s being awful.

  That’s how it worked now, with all four of us. No more mind-wrenching snaps. No explosions of overwhelming sensory perception. No inrush of visceral power. Everything came smooth and easy, though slightly muted from our previous highs.

  We were connected all the time, our flaring effects dulled from a roaring fire that was hard to ignite—and extinguish—to a low simmer that never fully dissipated.

  No more tells, either. Just an ocular flush of blue when we communicated.

  It’d been almost a year since that morning in the woods. Our current condition had developed slowly, then stabilized. This . . . icing effect felt like a new normal, but who knew what the future might bring? I’d learned—repeatedly—that I never did.

  Something buzzed inside my head. I glanced at Hiram, who waved. He’d picked up our conversation and, of course, had to chime in. Old ladies smell weird. FYI.

  I rolled my eyes. Noted.

  Shelton stomped over to stand beside Hi, shading his now-bluish eyes as he scowled up at my second floor perch. I’m doing twice the escorting as these two fools put together. I should get a bonus.

  This is supposed to be an honor, I scolded, mock-stern. Now get back to it. I need Ben.

  I bet you do, Hi deadpanned. What can only be described as kissing noises echoed in my skull, followed by Shelton’s laughter.

  Doofuses. I hoped my scarlet cheeks were too far away for Ben to notice. Unlikely, since we could all see like eagles. Can you check on something for me? I asked him.

  Of course, Ben replied.

  The cloakroom by the entrance. See if there’s a gold clutch inside Whitney’s black coat.

  A what now?

  I snorted. A slim, flat handbag. If you find it, bring it up here on the double.

  Will do.

  I slowly turned to face Whitney, my irises fading back to aquamarine. She was slumped sideways across on the divan, one arm thrown over her face.

  “I signaled for Ben to get your coat.” Mostly true. “Could the garter be in your clutch?”

  Whitney popped up like a champagne cork, her face electric. “Yes! It is! I put it there for safekeeping! Tory, you’re a genius!” She swept forward and crushed me in a bear hug.

  “Just doing my job,” I wheezed.

  Whitney drew back to arm’s length, tears sparkling in her eyes. “I’m so happy to be joining your family, honey. I’ll be the best stepmother you could hope for! You’ll see!”

  “Yeah.” I coughed into a fist. She tries hard. Never forget that. “It’s gonna be . . . great.”

  A soft knock. Whitney released me with a small cry, her expression scandalized. “No one can see me yet!” Lifting her dress, she fled into the bathroom.

  “Good lord.” Shaking my head, I walked over and opened the door.

  There he was. Ben.

  My stomach did another double axel.

  Soooo cute.

  Ben held up his prize. “I really hope this is a clutch.”

  “Bingo.” With a relieved sigh, I snapped the gaudy thing open. Whitney’s garter was neatly folded inside. “Congrats, Blue. You’re the hero.”

  One of his hands found my waist. “Doesn’t the hero usually get a reward?”

  I grinned wickedly, tapping him on the chest. “Naughty boy. It’s not our wedding day.”

  “Close enough.” Pulli
ng me in.

  Our lips met, and all other thoughts fled.

  For a hot second only.

  Then Hiram’s voice hissed inside my skull.

  Tory, we’ve got a problem! Get down here ASAP!

  They were all clearly dead.

  Every flower, every centerpiece.

  Wilted petals. Broken, flaccid stems. Murky brown water filled the bottom of each crystal vase, soiling the white rocks artfully placed within. The same horror repeated throughout the ballroom.

  I gasped, a hand shooting to my forehead. “What happened to the lilies?”

  We stood at the entrance to the ballroom, surveying the carnage. The reception was scheduled to begin immediately after the outdoor church service, but now the decorations were only appropriate for a gothic rave. All the dying plants gave me the chills.

  “I came in here to stash my mother’s purse, and found this.” Hiram’s nose crinkled in a grimace. “It even smells bad. Like the Walking Dead crashed your dad’s wedding.”

  “This makes no sense!” Shelton was tugging an earlobe. “I saw this room like forty-five minutes ago, and everything looked great. They even had those Mag League snobs in here taking pictures. The place was perfect.”

  “Where are the stupid florists?” I spat. We were the only ones present at the moment.

  “They left a while back,” Ben said disgustedly. “I saw them go. The head guy told your aunt Tempe that everything was all set up.”

  “Oh boy.” I covered my eyes. “What do we do?”

  Whitney had designed and planned everything, forgoing a full-time wedding coordinator. Despite the hundreds of tiny details involved, she hadn’t wanted anyone else “in the way” at her nuptials. While no one doubted her ability to handle the task—Whitney was born to dream up and execute extravagant events—her dictatorial micromanagement had left a leadership vacuum here on the big day. Kit’s mother, Harry, was supposed to be coordinating the vendors, but she’d proven hopeless at it, so Aunt Tempe and some of the other ladies were helping out.

  Hi blew out a breath. “I’m no flower scientist, but I’m pretty sure they’re supposed to last longer than a half hour. Methinks you’re entitled to a refund.”