by Kira Brady
Desi should have taken one look at this dump and come back home, but she hadn’t. The contrary kid had liked it. She had started taking mythology classes at the university. Useless degree, Kayla thought. But for the first time Desi was excited about school, so Kayla let it slide.
Until recently. In the past few weeks, Desi had grown distant. Preoccupied. She hadn’t returned Kayla’s last two phone calls.
The receptionist tapped her pencil against the desk and thinned her lips. “You took longer than you should have to show up.”
“I got the call yesterday,” Kayla protested. “Took the first flight I could.” She was going on thirty hours without sleep. The policeman’s voice haunted her, repeating those terrible words in her head: Your sister is dead.
“Dangerous to let a body sit empty and whole overnight.” The woman stood and unlocked the cabinet behind her.
Why? In her two years of nursing, Kayla had never heard of such a thing. Perhaps if Desi had died of something contagious—bubonic plague or smallpox came to mind—but then she would be quarantined.
The receptionist pulled a paper bag out of the cabinet and handed it to Kayla. “The deceased’s effects.”
Kayla licked her lips, trying and failing to say thank you like her mama had taught her. Her mouth was dry as bone. She clutched the bag to her chest, the last articles found on her sister, the only clues to solving the mystery of her death.
The woman stabbed one long nail down the dim hallway. “Body is waiting. First door on your left.” Washing her hands of the matter, she returned to her paperwork.
The deceased. The body. The words were so impersonal, detached from the loving, bubbly girl who was her sister. Had been her sister.
Strength of will held Kayla together and carried her down the long empty hallway to the exam room. A wave of formaldehyde and a blast of freezing air greeted her when she opened the door. Unforgiving metal covered every surface, and—despite the soft glow of the gas lamps—the air felt stagnant and dead. Dead as the body beneath the sheet.
How could her heart hurt so much yet still beat so quickly? She could do this. She was a nurse, for goodness sake. Dead bodies were nothing new. Approaching the exam table in the center of the room, she reached out to touch the cold cotton sheet. Her hand trembled. With a deep breath, she yanked the cloth back.
It took a few minutes for her brain to recognize the blue-tinged figure on the slab in front of her. At first she thought there’d been some mistake. This wasn’t her sister. This was some alien body: lips purple and cracked, belly swollen and distended, dark veins clearly outlined as if they’d been drawn on the skin in magic marker.
Pregnant? Her sister wasn’t pregnant.
But that small hope that this wasn’t her sister shattered as she took in the familiar cheekbones; wide-set eyes; the rich, wavy, mahogany hair; proud nose; and delicately pointed chin. Desi.
A sob burst from deep in her chest. How could Desi be so still? Desi was always full of life, overflowing with passion. A little touch of the devil in her twinkling brown eyes. How could a life so vibrant be snuffed out?
It couldn’t. No, it was impossible. There must be some mistake.
Her brain quit and all her rational, logical thoughts flew out the window. She watched herself as if from a distance, detached yet frantic. She ran her hands over the frozen blue skin, searching automatically for a pulse. She needed a defibrillator. A shot of adrenaline to inject in the heart. Something, anything to make her sister move again.
The chest muscles were hard beneath her fingers when she placed them over Desi’s heart.
“Please,” she whispered. Hot tears streamed down her cheek, but she ignored them. All she wanted was to have her sister back. She didn’t want to be left behind. Not again. Not when there was no one left.
Grief opened a door deep inside her, and a pulsing, shimmering light poured out. She’d never seen or felt anything like it. In her panic, one thought became clear: if she could warm Desi with that light, everything would be okay. Instinctively, she grabbed hold of it and pushed. The viscous light slid up her nerve endings and tingled along her arms. A liquid flow of her own essence, pouring out through her fingertips and into her dying patient.
Except this patient was already dead.
She pulled and pushed at the unreal, impossible light. Yanked until the room spun and her eyes could no longer focus. Poured everything into the empty shell beneath her palms.
Only to watch the light die when it left her skin. Desi’s life force was long gone. There was nothing left. Not a flicker. Not an ember. Not a whisper of the laughter and love and heart that had once been a giving, brightly burning soul.
Instead there was an emptiness in Desi, and it sucked at Kayla until she thought she might leave her body and jump headfirst into the cold corpse beneath her hands.
Out of nowhere, strong hands yanked her away from the table. A deep, gruff voice penetrated the haze in her brain. “Stop it.”
Kayla found her sobs muffled against a broad warm chest. She didn’t want it. Her hands flailed against the stranger, but it was like hitting a boulder.
“Stop,” he growled. “Lady be damned. You got a death wish?” His fingers gripped her biceps like iron bands. She wasn’t strong enough to push him away. She hadn’t been strong enough to help Desi or her parents. What was the point of being a nurse if she couldn’t save the ones closest to her?
“Let go of me!” she demanded.
He complied, and she stumbled back. It was foreign, this helplessness. She was supposed to be the strong one—the rock. At the moment, she was weak as a kitten. Desi wouldn’t recognize her. Embarrassment burned across her cheeks. How long had this guy been watching her? She hadn’t heard him enter. “Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Name’s Hart.” The stranger leaned back against the metal door, aloof and detached. He was big—almost a head taller than she and shoulders twice as wide—and seemed to take up half the oxygen in the room. Even with fresh scrapes on his skin, he was a rugged sort of handsome. His face was compelling, as if his features had been hewn by wind and rain from some lonely mountain crag. The rain had plastered his coal-black hair over his forehead. His dark eyes studied her, wolflike, from under shaggy brows. The gaslight warmed his copper skin, giving him a sun-kissed glow at odds with the gloomy winter skies outside. He seemed dressed for combat in a dark brown leather bomber jacket, worn and patched with age and hard use; charcoal-gray pants with bulging pockets; and heavy black boots. The butt of a rifle stuck out over his shoulder and a holster hung at each hip. How did he get in here armed?
In spite of the weapons, he made her think of a wild animal, graceful yet predatory. It was in the wise wildness of his gaze; the inquisitive tilt of his head; the way he held himself, perfectly still, muscles clenched, poised to run at a moment’s notice. He had a definite air of danger, and the weather-worn creases at the corners of his eyes only made his face more intriguing.
A shock of blinding white marked his dark hair on the right side. A memento of some injury? She reached out to explore that thick mane, but caught herself before she touched him.
How embarrassing. First she cried on the man’s chest, then she almost molested him—what was next? What was wrong with her? She rubbed the ache between her eyes. “I’m Kayla, Desiree’s sis—”
“I know who you are. Just what do you think you were doing?”
Of course he had to notice her mental breakdown. Grief had made her completely irrational. There was no door inside her. No magical light. “I . . .” She couldn’t answer. Couldn’t explain something that didn’t make sense to herself. Logic, for the first time in her life, failed her. “I don’t know.” She turned away, trying to hold together the last shreds of her dignity.
She felt Hart step nearer. The heat and energy that radiated from his body was like a living thing. It skimmed along her skin and down her spine.
“Don’t do it again.” He grasped her chin and turne
d her head to examine her. His gaze bore into her with an intensity that stripped her to blood and bone.
“Don’t touch me.”
He leaned closer and sniffed her. What the hell? “You’re human.” He sounded . . . confused.
Well, duh. Her raised brow said it all.
“Never mind. Doesn’t matter.” He dropped his hand abruptly. “Where is the necklace?”
“What necklace?”
“Be straight with me, and this will go down easier.”
“Are you one of Desi’s friends?”
“Never met the chick.” He shook his head and glanced down at the paper bag she had dropped beneath the table. “I need to search the belongings found on her.”
“Why?” She didn’t want him touching her sister’s things. “You think she has a necklace that somehow belongs to you?”
He hesitated, as if debating to tell her the truth. “She stole it from my boss.”
“Bull.” Desi was a little wild, but she would never steal.
“How well did you know your sister?”
She pointed her finger at him, but her lips wouldn’t form words. Desi had been her best friend, the sun to her moon. They’d known all each other’s secrets. Didn’t they? “I want to speak to your boss. The police have stopped asking questions, but I know there’s more. I want the truth.”
“The truth?” His expression went flat. He glanced at the body and back at Kayla. “Looks like a drug overdose.”
“I don’t believe that.” And neither do you.
“The coroner’s report not good enough for you, is that it?”
“Not for me. Not for anyone with half a brain.”
He stepped around her and picked up the fallen bag that held Desi’s effects. She fought down the urge to snatch it back.
“She ever mention Norgard? The Drekar? The Kivati?”
Kayla shook her head at each. Sorrow washed over her, and a strange sense of betrayal. She had thought she and her sister were close, but none of those names sounded familiar. Desi’s stories had involved wacky new friends, grumpy professors, and off-the-hook parties. At least in the beginning. Since Thanksgiving, she’d talked solely about her coursework: the mythology, legends and folklore of the Pacific Northwest. Finally growing up, Kayla had thought. Getting serious. Pulling all-nighters in the library, not the clubs. And then Desi had become distracted. Distant.
A hint of worry had germinated at the back of her mind, but Kayla hadn’t pushed. She’d figured her sister would talk about it when she was good and ready.
But maybe Kayla should have pushed in this instance. She might have done something to avoid this outcome if she had known. Peer pressure, a bad relationship, depression, addiction. These things were solvable, with help. If only Desi had asked.
Hart lifted the paper bag to his face and sniffed it. What was it with the sniffing?
“The necklace is a piece of jade carved with Babylonian cuneiform. Doesn’t matter how it got into your sister’s possession, but it belongs to my boss and he wants it back.”
“What’s your boss’s name?”
He ignored her and rifled through the paper bag.
“Yo, buddy, I’m talking to you.” She tried to snatch the bag back, but he restrained her easily with one hand while he dumped the bag’s contents on the metal table. She struggled against him. It was like trying to move a mountain. “Stop it! I’m calling security.”
“Good try, babe. Things work a little differently here. Now when I drop my hand, you’re going to stay right there like a good little girl while I go through this.”
“Screw you.” She kicked him in the shin.
“Tempting.” His eyes scoured her body. “Against the cold metal wall? Or should we dump the dead girl off the table and bend you over it?”
Kayla swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She couldn’t stop the hot tears that welled in her eyes. “Bastard.”
Hart looked away uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s the truth. Just . . . just stay there.”
When he let go, she stayed where she was.
He separated the pile of belongings on the table, pulling out a change of clothes, two hollowed silver needles with rust-colored tips, a club ID bracelet, which read “Butterworth’s” in elegant gold foil, and an envelope addressed to her in Desi’s loose scrawl. Inside was a single business card. He took it out and read the name. The muscles in his jaw clenched. She almost expected him to bare his teeth and snarl.
“What is it?” she asked.
“Nothing.”
She snatched the card out of his hand and read, “Emory Corbette, Kivati Hall.” On the back Desi had written Give him the key.
She glanced at Hart. “What key? Who is this guy?”
“Your sister never mentioned him?”
“No.” And it hurt. “Who is he?”
“The Raven Lord. A ruthless son of a bitch.”
“The what now?”
One edge of his mouth kicked up.
“What exactly is the Raven Lord? What would my sister be doing with some crackpot who makes up titles for himself?”
“You might not want to call him that.”
“What, Raven Lord?”
“Crackpot.”
“Whatever. Is this a friend of yours?” Hart shook his head, but he looked amused. Kayla couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. She tried to veer back to the topic. “You think this guy had something to do with my sister’s death?”
Hart began to stuff the clothes back in the bag and didn’t look at her. “Lady, I think you should accept your sister died of a drug overdose and leave it at that.”
“As a nurse, I can tell you she didn’t. Do I look like a chump?”
He thrust the bag at her, and they both held on for a moment. The pupils of his strange eyes were encircled by a thin band of violet. His gaze raked her body, head to toe and back again, taking extra time to visually fondle her chest. She resisted the urge to cover herself, proud she didn’t back down. But when he took a step forward, she couldn’t help a hasty step back. Her shoulders knocked against the cold metal wall.
“Naw.” He leered, towering over her. “You look smart. Are you smart, babe? ’Cause nothing you do can bring her back.” The half smile dropped like a mask. His pupils dilated until his eyes shone, two pools of violet-black, otherworldly and somehow inhuman. He bent down to whisper in her ear, breath hot on her sensitive neck. “Take some advice.” His lips brushed her ear. “The smartest thing you can do?”
She smelled musk and pine, thought of dark forests and the wild hunt. A shiver that had nothing to do with fear raced down her spine.
“Run.”
Chapter 2
Kayla licked dry lips. “Are you threatening me?”
Hart opened his mouth to answer, but the door crashed open. Men burst through. There were six of them, all hulking brutes with chiseled features and dark hair. The long black dusters swept out like wings as they moved. The black sunglasses were laughable against the dim indoor gaslight; the guns were not.
This was not her day.
“Too late, babe,” Hart said softly. “The cavalry has arrived. Another damsel saved from the big bad wolf.” He straightened and adopted a half smirk. “Ladies.”
Three men rushed to restrain him. They pulled him away from Kayla and yanked his arms roughly behind his back, one man on each side. The third man pressed a rifle barrel to his temple. Hart grinned, daring them to shoot him.
The leader of the band was a wiry, red-haired man with a goatee. He strolled forward, all lanky, oiled grace. “Hart. Getting sloppy, aren’t you? Johnny, please.”
One of the younger men—early twenties with crow-black hair pulled back in a ponytail—stepped up to Hart and smashed the butt of his rifle into Hart’s head.
Kayla screamed.
Hart crumpled to the ground, blood running from his forehead, unconscious.
She rushed forward to help him, but steely arms caught her and swept her off the groun
d. She couldn’t move.
The red-haired man made soothing noises in her ear. “Don’t trouble yourself, Miss . . . Friday, is it?”
“He’s hurt! I’m calling the police.” The arms around her squeezed, almost cutting off her air.
The man only laughed. “Let me introduce myself: Rudrick Todd. I’m part of the city’s security force. I’m the guy the police call in situations like this.”
“I don’t believe you.”
He shrugged.
“Please,” she begged. “Let me help him. I’m a nurse. Head wounds are serious. You don’t want him to die.”
“Forget him,” Rudrick said. “Benard, be quick about it.”
The largest henchman—a hulking brute with long brown hair and a monstrous unibrow—approached the metal table. He yanked the sheet off Desi’s body, exposing her naked limbs to the frosty air.
“Don’t touch her!” Kayla’s stomach rolled as she watched the man run his large hands from the top of Desi’s head, over her breasts and distended belly, and down each leg. His movements were impersonal and cold, but he was still groping her sister.
“Stop. What are you doing?” she asked.
“Desiree was in possession of an artifact of immense value when she died,” Rudrick said.
“So I’ve heard.”
Rudrick scowled. “She was bringing it to me. The Drekar can’t be trusted with it—”
Benard whistled, cutting Rudrick off. “This could be trouble.” He held up Desi’s hand to show the inside of her wrist, where a rough symbol had been carved into the flesh. “It’s Norse.”
Kayla had missed that. It brought to mind cults and satanic rituals, but that was even crazier than Desi using drugs.
“Copy it down and move on,” Rudrick ordered. “The girl was too smart by half.”
Benard checked Desi’s body cavities next. He opened her jaw and felt the inside of her mouth. He stuck his thick, ugly hands between her thighs.
Kayla looked away. “Let me go. I don’t know anything about the necklace.”
“Let me put this in simple terms your little human brain can comprehend: Hart works for a man who would suck out your soul and leave you to die in a heartbeat. I’m one of the good guys. So I’m going to ask you one more time: Where is the necklace?”