Charming People (Driftwood Mystery Book 3)

by A. L. Tyler

  Samson Grift.

  The case I never solved. The mysterious warning given to me by a dead man who said he knew my father, Samuel Driftwood—bookish breaker for the Bleak—and said he was Samson Grift—hardened bad cop on the streets. He told me there was a box buried behind my house, and I must never dig it up.

  I’d spent weeks going down the rabbit hole of my obsession. Weeks locating potential colleagues to interview, looking up case histories, and even putting Nick under my microscope of suspicion.

  And all of it for nothing.

  Because in the end, Samuel Driftwood and Samson Grift were two separate people. Nick had used his influence and pulled some strings to show me their pictures, side by side, at the time he had known Grift. It was all a coincidence manufactured by a confused old man.

  But my mind refused to let go of that box. The one that was buried behind my house, supposedly.

  I’d sworn to Nick that I would let it go. I told him I was done, and I trusted him—and I did trust him.

  “You should get some sleep,” I said to Marge. “There’s no reason for both of us to suffer. I’ll call you when the ax murderer shows up.”

  “So not funny,” she groaned. “Shoot to kill. Goodnight, sweetie.”

  I hung up the phone and stared at the library door that led off toward the bedrooms. Nick’s line was still active, making an occasional static noise as he moved around the mansion with paranormal speed.

  I trusted him. I believed him when he said the Bleak wouldn’t have put away a great breaker like my father without damning evidence. I believed him when he said the whole thing with Samson Grift was a coincidence—

  But the raw emotions inside me needed to see it again, with my own eyes.

  I moved to a computer terminal and searched the archive. I wasn’t surprised when my login turned up no hits on Grift: his information was restricted. It was only available to someone with a higher pay grade than mine. The Bleak didn’t like their young and impressionable agents learning about handlers like Grift. He had been one of their most trusted, and he’d used it against them and everyone else for his own profit at every turn.

  Instead, I searched for The Cork Tree. It was bar operated by a notorious gangster named Jackson Coffing, and the last establishment associated with Grift before his downfall. Grift had been superstitious about photographs, but Jackson had taken it as a challenge. I was looking for one in particular, of Grift’s profile as he put on a hat.

  Shelf J22. It wasn’t digital yet, but Axel had it. I started to stand up. A small note at the bottom of the screen caught my eye.

  See also: Felony Red’s.

  Felony Red’s. I knew that bar and its owner. Jason Wolff and I had only met once, but he left quite the impression—and even though Jason had been young at the time, Grift had left an impression on him. There was only one picture I knew of that had been taken of Grift at Red’s, and it was a head shot.

  Shelf L54. I wrote the rest down on a sheet of paper.

  I had to move the rolling stacks to find Shelf L54. The Bleak had an archival system so extensive and hardcopy-dependent that they stored it in miniature—well-protected and shrunken using magic. Such a facility, at full scale, would have overwhelmed any location on the planet. I detested visiting the archives because I hated the sound and eerie feeling of shrinking and growing, but what they’d done with the Grand-Gray Hayden archives was a step above.

  The stacks expanded and shrunk themselves as I rolled the shelves. When I stepped between the aisles, there wasn’t any popping or shrieking as magic touched my form: it was all contained to the materials, and even they emitted only a light musical humming to indicate any magic was at work.

  Nice spell. I ran my hand along the rows of folders and leather-bound volumes. When I finally found the massive tomes for volume thirty-two, index 5, sub-section twelve...

  My heart skipped a beat. It was the same photograph that I’d found while cleaning out my house. Robert, Nick, and Sam.

  Samson Grift. He wasn’t my father. But gods, looking at the photograph, it looked like him.

  It’s not him, I told myself. It’s only a coincidence. Nick said so.

  I trailed my fingers over their faces. I remembered the day the Bleak had stolen my father from me and confiscated everything we owned. I remembered meeting Robert, and the hope he’d engendered that I would finally find out what had happened: who had framed my father. I knew he had to be innocent.

  And I remembered the day Nick had convinced me to let it go, because I wasn’t a child anymore. And instead of throwing myself into the dirt to prove once and for all there was no box buried in the flower garden, I had followed him back home.

  Part of me still wanted to throw myself in the dirt. Damn the dress. Damn my pride.

  Damn Nick, and whatever he would think of me for still holding on.

  I took my phone and snapped a copy of the picture. Maybe I was crazy. Maybe I was beating a dead horse. But I couldn’t let go of Samson Grift.

  Chapter 16

  I went back to the dining room and took samples from all of the food and drinks. I wiped the surfaces and kept the samples to be thorough, though Marge was right: I didn’t have the equipment to test for the presence of the toxin I suspected.

  I studied the levels of wine in every glass, but Molly hadn’t even drunk the most. I considered the tumblers from the bar, but Skyla and Cal had been drinking the same thing. I couldn’t wrap my brain around it.

  There wasn’t anything that Molly had consumed in isolation, and bleeding stone worked fast. I closed my eyes and tried to rewind my mental tape, watching Shaina pour the wine. Unless she was very fast with her hands, and an excellent actress after the fact, she hadn’t slipped anything into Molly’s cup.

  I stood over the table, wondering if the glass had been tainted before the wine had ever touched it, but no—it didn’t explain the odd taste to the wine. Even if I was psyching myself out over the taste, there hadn’t been any assigned seating, and we’d all drunk from the wine glasses already at our place settings. That was an awfully big gamble.

  Unless Molly was murdered at random.

  My heart sank. We were dealing with a different level of psychopath if that was the case.

  The method didn’t fit with the careful planning and execution of Axel’s murder. The motivation, and my suspicions, were still running rampant.

  At three in the morning, I found myself sitting on the plush burgundy carpet by the dining room table, too tired to go on and too mentally scattered to drag myself back to the bedroom for sleep. Nick was still patrolling the halls, and I noticed him pass by the door every so often, making sure I was still okay.

  The carpet was so soft that I considered lying down, but I knew it was game over if I did. I stared at the heavy brocade fabric that covered the dining room chairs.

  Nick passed by the dining room doors like a circling shark, and I almost called out to him. My mind was too tired to carry on. I latched on to the photograph I’d found earlier, and my renewed suspicions of Samson Grift.

  Molly was dead because someone wanted her dead. There were no accidents or coincidences here.

  The same held true for my father, who happened to bear a strong resemblance to Samson Grift.

  And now I was eyeball deep in murders that I couldn’t explain on an island of slobbering death hounds and planning to sleep next to the guy who still claimed everything with Grift was a coincidence. Nick wouldn’t have bought his explanations, but somehow he’d sold them to me.

  It was too much for me to ignore. We would discuss it.

  Later, though. After we found the murderer. I didn’t need one more allegiance to worry about right now.

  I rose and shuffled to the door, removing my safety mask and gloves and setting them on the floor. I closed the doors behind me and slipped the phone from my pocket.

  “I’m going to bed now,” I muttered.

  Nick took a breath before answering. “Wait for me. I’ll c
heck the room with you.”

  I trailed down the darkened halls, flashes of lightning blinking behind the curtains as I made my way around corners and upstairs. I probably should have shown more concern for ax murderers, but my brain was done.

  When I got to Nick’s open bedroom door, I found him standing inside. The way his armored coat rested on his frame accentuated his shoulders. He pulled one side back to let his hand brush his gun. My eyes wandered down to his hips and the shine on the leather belt he wore. I was vaguely aware that he was carrying more wards and protections than usual, some of them harmonizing louder with the protective potions he’d offered me hours before.

  They called out to each other with familiarity.

  I looked back up and caught Nick staring at me. “You look exhausted.”

  “Huh. Long day at work.”

  He exhaled slowly, taking his time as he swaggered toward me. “I promise I’ll take you on vacation after all of this. A real vacation.”

  I smiled wryly, leaning back against a wall for support as he closed the distance between us. He had both hands in his pockets, and if we’d been together a little longer, and I was more than half a step from passing out, and the situation was a little less dire, I might have been tempted to grab that shiny belt and pull him to me.

  But we were new, it was late, and people were dead. Fucking murderers, ruining it for everyone else.

  “Do you know why I was such a good breaker?” I asked.

  His eyebrows raised, not even a trace of fatigue on his face. Social stigma aside, there were times I thought being a vampire had its perks. “Why you are such a good breaker? You’re not just good. You’re the best. You should read your file, if you haven’t.”

  “Hmm. It’s not the synesthesia,” I said, hearing my words slur a little. “I could’ve used my synesthesia for anything. Tuning spells or making wards and charms. There are easier ways to make a buck on my party trick. It’s because I love this work. I love doing it. I love helping people.”

  Nick offered his hand, and I took it, letting him walk me to the bed. “You like being here. Do you want to shower before bed?”

  My tired brain was playing dirty tricks on me. It almost sounded like an invitation to join him. I tried to suppress a smile. “Hell, no. I mean, yes, but no—murder is never a good thing. This place is amazing, though. I can wait until tomorrow to shower. I can hardly stand up.”

  Nick’s lips parted slightly. He lowered his chin. It was like he knew exactly what had run through my mind a moment before, and he agreed: it was too soon. But, gods, it was so tempting.

  He leaned in, letting our lips brush against each other, and I closed my eyes. He followed me when I leaned back on the bed, and I lost myself in comfort and safety and my own lowered inhibitions. Nick was next to me on the plush matress, his fingers tracing seductive paths through my hair, and I didn’t want the moment to end.

  But it had to.

  Nick inhaled slowly through his nose, eyes wandering over me as he raised himself up and then bent down, bracing one hand on the mattress as he drew near to me again. I turned my head to the side at the last moment. He stopped.

  Confusion traced across his face. It rang just as clearly in my mind. He was right there, and I wanted to feel him against me. I desperately wanted the contact and the comfort. I wanted more than we’d agreed to on this trip, even if it was a terrible idea, and even if Nick would never let it go so far. The world had become a dangerous place, and he was the lighthouse that kept me off the rocks.

  He was my guide. The person who had brought me back into the light when everything turned gray. My safety.

  I couldn’t lie to him like that, and I couldn’t find the words to tell him why. The picture on my phone would wait until the danger was past, and right now it meant that I was using him.

  I don’t use Ms. Driftwood for anything. I couldn’t bring myself to use him, either.

  His eyes searched mine, and I saw the slightest glimmer of fear. Guilt washed over me. I slide one hand up his arm and let it rest on his cheek. I summoned enough energy to raise myself the last few inches, kissing him feebly before falling back into the pillow.

  Nick still looked concerned. He flashed me a small, uncertain smile. “Is everything okay?”

  My smile came out more forced than I wanted. “I’m fine. Just tired.”

  His eyes searched me, calculating. “I should have told you. Everyone is locked down for the night, and I’ll know if they leave their rooms. I have wards set up. Skyla and Amos are rooming together. Skyla didn’t want to be alone.”

  I nodded. “That’s good. She shouldn’t be alone.”

  Nick nodded slowly, still watching me. “Okay. I apologize. You should get some sleep.”

  He got up from the bed, and I immediately felt the absence. “Are you going to stay? Not that you have to. I know you’ve got to keep an eye on people.”

  Nick paused in the doorway, casting a half glance back at me. “I do need to keep an eye out. I’ll stay if you ask me to.”

  I couldn’t see his face. Nick didn’t like to wear his wounds, but I saw one hand reaching for his flask of blood. He was either upset or riding the same high I was from being on the bed. Maybe both.

  “Yes. I want you to stay.”

  I studied every line of his face when he turned to walk back, sitting at the foot of the bed and taking out his cell phone. I suddenly found myself much less tired than I’d been before. Thoughts bounced around inside my head like angry, pounding pinballs.

  I left the door open a little more than previously when I changed into my pajamas. Nick was still avoiding my gaze when I came back out, but the weight of him on the end of the bed set my mind at ease.

  He turned off the lights and locked the door. I closed my eyes.

  It felt like seconds later when the screaming started.

  I sat straight up in the bed. A headache pounded behind my right temple. A breeze followed by a banging door announced Nick’s departure as I crashed to the floor in my fervor to follow him. The room was still dark. I wasn’t sure if I’d been sleeping for minutes or hours, and with the storm outside, I didn’t even know what time it was.

  Another shriek rattled through the mansion.

  “Jette!”

  Nick’s panicked yell shook me to the core.

  I ran. I was still in my pajamas, bare feet gripping the carpets as I sprinted toward the sounds of Shaina’s screams. “Nick!”

  “Jette!”

  I rounded a corner and saw them, lit by a warm wall sconce and down a long, dark hall lined by windows on one side. Shaina was kicking and punching like a mad woman, clawing at Nick’s eyes and tearing her clothes and skin as she fought to escape his grasp. He was trying to use as little force as possible, but with the lack of regard she was showing for herself, it didn’t matter.

  I could hear the curse, pounding in my ears like building drums over the thunder outside, and I knew what was happening. Shaina couldn’t stop herself.

  She was hexed, and while vampires were stronger and more resilient than any average human or witch, they still felt pain. Shaina gouged her thumb into Nick’s eye before spinning free of his grasp.

  I was twenty feet away. “No!”

  Nick caught her wrist, but Shaina was reaching for the door. I didn’t need to look out the long row of windows to my side. I could hear the skittering curse of the wolves kept at bay by the thin wall of glass.

  She yanked her arm once. Her shoulder gave a sickening pop as it dislocated.

  Ten feet away. I grabbed at the sound of the curse, trying to quiet it, overwhelm it, stop it—

  It was too far along.

  Shaina kicked the door open as Nick made another desperate attempt to pull her back, flinging herself into the rain as the wards on the door snapped it shut again behind her.

  Chapter 17

  The door slammed shut and the wolves descended upon her. The drumming in my ears crashed to a halt, dissolving into a waterfal
l of breaking chimes. The hex was done.

  So was Shaina.

  Nick still stared at the closed door in the dim light of the hallway. I panted to a halt next to him.

  “I tried to stop her.” His eyes remained fixed on the scene behind the cold, rain-drenched glass.

  “You couldn’t stop her,” I said, sucking in air. I turned away from the horrifying sounds outside. “She was hexed. You couldn’t have stopped her without killing her. She would have ripped her arm off to get away.”

  I knew the look on his face. Working with cops, I’d seen enough people in shock.

  “It’s a hex that operates on the creation and amplification of claustrophobia. I’d need to see Axel’s body—whatever’s left—to know for sure, but it was probably used on him as well.” I cringed as the realization dawned on me. “I mean, I’d be guessing based on trace leftovers and the absence of anything else, but—”

  “What?” Nick demanded. His eyes bore into me.

  He wasn’t going to like this. “This kind of hex... It’s like a curse with a time-delayed switch on it that can be set off at a much later time by a pre-decided trigger.”

  “How long?”

  “Days. Weeks. Longer, if the caster is well-versed and knows the magic.”

  He blinked, nodding as he stared out at the carnage happening behind me. “Our timeline is blown.”

  I nodded. “We’re back to square one. If this hex was at work, then it doesn’t matter what anyone was doing when Axel died. This hex could have been set minutes or weeks ahead of time. No one has an alibi.”

  Nick didn’t blink. The grisly remains still transfixed him. “I’ve never seen this before. It’s rare?”

  I heaved a sigh. Yes, it was rare. A hex that remained undetectable until it was set off was a difficult thing to do. Magic that caused suicide was nearly unheard of, but this killer was smart: the victims weren’t killing themselves outright. They were merely fleeing due to hysterical claustrophobia, and the wolves did the rest. “As rare as anything you’d find in the Vault, or anything else lying around here. They would need a totem of some sort, either to cast it or to trip the switch. Maybe both. Maybe two totems—”