Covert Evidence

by Rachel Grant

  Jesse shrugged out of his down jacket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

  “What about you?” she asked, even though she was grateful for the body heat still trapped inside the fabric.

  “I’m fine.” Wide shoulders brushed hers as he shrugged. Eighteen years old and a star athlete, he wore a red plaid shirt over a bright white t-shirt and jeans. “I dragged you out here. I don’t want you to die of exposure before I even steal a kiss.”

  Helena shot him a sideways look. Over the last few months she’d caught him staring at her a few times, but he’d been dating someone from the mainland. The girl had finally broken it off with him on social media—be-otch—and just before Christmas, he’d asked Helena to go with him to the New Year’s Eve party his friend was hosting. She’d been both thrilled and nervous the entire Christmas break. Now she was here. Squeezed up tight against him and him talking about kisses. Her cheeks bloomed with heat, and she wanted to fan herself, but didn’t dare lest he think she was a total dork.

  She was a total dork.

  Jesse reached out in front of them and parted the sharp blades of grass that blocked their view, revealing an endless swath of beach, and miles and miles of crashing waves.

  God, it was beautiful. And so was he.

  The ocean merged with the sky in a black abyss. The occasional flash of a lighthouse beacon cut through the otherwise impenetrable gloom. Jesse wrapped his right arm across her back, his hand hooking her waist and pulling her closer. Helena’s mouth went as dry as the sand she lay in. Attraction mixed with the two tequila shots she’d downed at the party before he’d dragged her out here. Her nerves sizzled. All she could think of was his hand on her waist, his hard body pressed snug against hers.

  Would he try to kiss her? Would she let him? How far would she let him go? She squeezed her thighs together, a little shocked that she was even thinking about making out with Jesse Tyson.

  She’d never had a boyfriend, unless you counted holding hands in third grade. She wasn’t one of the “popular” girls in school. Jesse made her nervous because she liked him and didn’t want to look like an idiot for going out with the best looking guy in school.

  Why had he asked her out? Was it a dare? She wasn’t that pretty. Her best friend Kit was way prettier than she was, and smarter. Did Jesse think she was easy? Is that why he’d brought her out here? She frowned.

  She pushed the uncertainty away. Kit kept telling her she was beautiful and to relax and enjoy herself, to have a little faith. Maybe she should actually listen to her friend for a change.

  Helena’s breath caught as a twenty-foot wave smashed onto the beach, and made the gulls cry out stridently as they fled to safety. Storms made her nervous. She’d grown up with them, but feared the sea was going to wash away her house and drown them all in their sleep. That’s what happened when your dad spouted environmental doom and gloom at every mealtime.

  They’d been lucky this time. The storm had skirted the Carolinas and was headed toward Maine and Newfoundland. There was another one on the horizon, but it was that time of year. Jesse’s warm hand slipped a little lower on her waist and found the place where her t-shirt met her jeans. His fingers played beneath her waistband as if looking for bare skin.

  How had this happened? Her. On a date with the high school quarterback?

  “What do you think?” He had to shout to be heard over the howling gale and the fierce roar of the ocean. Hardly romantic, but his laughter was so infectious it took a moment to realize he was talking about the storm, not being with him.

  “It’s terrifying,” she admitted with a grin. “But,” she watched another wave pile-drive the shore. “It’s also thrilling—exhilarating. There’s an energy to it…”

  “I know, right?” The arm tightened on her waist. “It’s as if there’s electricity sparking through the air. The sea is so rough you know if it caught you you’d never get out alive.”

  “And that excites you?” Maybe the guy was nuts. Maybe that’s why he asked her out.

  “The power of it.” He looked at her then. Leaned closer so their lips were only an inch apart. “You know what really excites me?”

  She raised an unimpressed brow that he probably couldn’t see in the dark. If he gave her a cheesy line she was out of here.

  “Kite boarding.” His warm breath brushed against her lips—then he kissed her.

  The wind wailed spookily above them, but she didn’t notice the weather anymore. Her heart banged her ribs like a hollow drum. Jesse turned her so they were facing one another and took her face gently between his hands. Then he kissed her again, not overly confident, but his lips were firm, warm, not wet or sloppy, feeling their way over her mouth, searching for something.

  He tasted very slightly of beer, but also of mint. Curious, tempted, she opened up to him and he took the kiss deeper. Then his tongue touched hers and she jumped.

  “Sorry.” She grinned as she pulled back.

  A weird huffing noise had her turning. She let out a strangled gasp as a dark figure loomed behind them. Terror squeezed her heart so hard, pain spasmed along her arm.

  “What the hell?” Jesse yelled.

  Before her frozen limbs could react, the figure lifted something over his head and brought it down with ferocious force. It made a horrific sound as it connected with Jesse’s head.

  “Jesse!” she screamed. She grabbed him by the shirt, but he lay there, heavy and limp. She tried to shove at the attacker’s legs, but he was so much bigger than she was. Run! She scrambled down the dune, trying to scream for aid, but the man swung the object he held sideways, like an axe, and the flat end of it caught her on the side of the head.

  A scream rent the air and she realized, almost surreally, that she was the one screaming. Agony exploded through her brain as she flew to the ground, landing facedown. She heard more strikes—oh God, the man was hitting Jesse over and over, even though he just lay there not moving.

  She struggled to her feet and faced their attacker. “Leave him alone!”

  The figure turned and looked toward her. Oh, hell. Ignoring the splitting pain and disorientation that made her brain feel disconnected from her feet, she took off running, back the way they’d come. She was lithe and nimble. People underestimated her because she was small, but she was fast. The sand shifted and made progress difficult as she clawed her way up the dune, and it suddenly seemed fifty feet tall. She pounded her feet against the slope, clutching at the sharp grass that sliced her fingers. Then a hand manacled her ankle and she fell flat on her face as she was dragged backwards down the incline. She tried to cry out, but sand got in her eyes and mouth. She was suffocating, spluttering, trying to force away particles from her nose, and just breathe.

  Blackness whirled in her brain as the need for oxygen eliminated every other concern. The attacker flipped her on her back, and she lay there hacking and choking. By the time she finally cleared the grit out of her eyes and mouth, the man had dragged Jesse down the bank, too, and was rifling through his pockets. Was this a robbery? Was Jesse breathing? Or was he pretending to be unconscious so he could take this animal by surprise and save them both?

  She tried to climb to her feet and froze when the assailant turned back toward her. He stood, easily over six feet. She couldn’t see his face, but his silhouette looked vaguely familiar. It was dark and he wore a hat pulled low. He dropped to his knees beside her. Put one gloved hand on her throat and squeezed. She grabbed his forearm and fought for breath. His grip tightened. After a few moments of panicked flailing she froze and he eased off the pressure.

  A message.

  She swallowed uneasily. Nodded.

  Okay.

  His other hand went to her belt, and he undid the buckle and jerked open the front of her jeans. Terror made her heart beat faster than she’d ever imagined possible. She lay there in the frigid sand, the storm raging overhead, Jesse lying unconscious, bleeding, maybe even dead, just a few feet away. Her limbs shook. She knew what was going
to happen even though her mind screamed ‘no’. Her teeth chattered as the man dragged tight denim down her legs. She wanted to struggle, wanted to fight, but instead she lay absolutely frozen as he lifted her hips to remove her clothes. She didn’t put up a fight. If she didn’t fight, if she lay here, maybe he’d do what he was going to do and then let her go. Because she was a coward. She was weak and scared.

  The freezing cold sand hit her bare bottom and thighs, abrading her skin. She’d never been so exposed in her entire life. Never felt so helpless. This is what her parents had been warning her about her entire life—don’t go off alone…but she hadn’t been alone. Her eyes drifted to where Jesse lay bleeding.

  Please don’t die.

  Finally the cold began to make her feel numb and she welcomed it. Large fingers touched her. Pressing. Probing. Doing whatever they wanted as he made little grunting noises that made her throat muscles gag.

  The moon came out and she found herself staring up into a face she knew. Her mouth opened in surprise, but his fingers encircled her throat and squeezed until all sound stopped coming out. She started to slip into unconsciousness.

  “What do you see?” he asked, releasing the bruising pressure.

  Horror and revulsion filled her until she blocked it all out. She couldn’t think about what was happening. About Jesse. About this man. Or the fact he was touching her like this. She wanted to live through it. She wanted to survive.

  He kept asking what she could see, but her mind floated away. Her fingers inched through the sand and found Jesse’s leg. He was still warm, but she didn’t think he was alive. Tears filled her eyes, and she made herself think of running on the beach hand-in-hand with the boy she’d been secretly in love with for months. She dreamed about them sneaking innocent kisses and worrying about what their parents might say.

  Her vision began to gray and tunnel as the monster peered right into her eyes as if looking for her very soul. All those years being warned about not talking to strangers, about being careful, about being safe…and all along they’d had a monster in their midst.

  Cold Fear (Cold Justice Series, Book #4).

  To read the first three chapters, download the *free sampler* available at all online retailers (links on Toni’s website). And to be informed of future releases, please feel free to join Toni’s newsletter.

  Read on for a sneak peek at Rachel Grant’s paranormal romance novella Midnight Sun

  A woman on the edge…

  Museum collections specialist Sienna Aubrey is desperate. A prehistoric Iñupiat mask in her client’s collection is haunted, and it wants her to return it to Alaska…now. Tormented to her breaking point, she steals it. But when she arrives in the remote Alaskan village, the tribal representative refuses to take the troublesome mask off her hands. Even worse, the manipulative artifact pulls the infuriating man into her dream, during which she indulges in her most secret fantasies with him.

  A man in search of the truth…

  Assistant US Attorney Rhys Vaughan came to the Arctic Circle to prove someone tried to murder his cousin. When Sienna shows up at his cousin’s office with the local tribe’s most sacred artifact, she becomes his prime suspect. Then the mask delivers him into Sienna’s hot, fantasy-laden dream, and his desire to investigate her takes an entirely different turn.

  An artifact seeking justice…

  But the mask has an agenda, and it’s not to play matchmaker. If Sienna doesn’t do what the artifact wants, she may pay the ultimate price, and only Rhys can save her.

  Chapter One

  “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever done,” Sienna Aubrey muttered as she stared at the cold metal door. She balanced the heavy cedar box containing the stolen artifact on her hip, held her breath, and reached for the knob, silently asking the universe to make this one task easy.

  As if anything about this reckless errand could be easy. Her flight had been late and her checked bag lost before she’d reached her layover in Anchorage. The rental car got a flat two miles from the airport, and the lug nuts had been machine tightened, making it nearly impossible to change the tire herself.

  Now here she was, arriving at the tribal headquarters office long after close of business, and wonder of wonders, the knob turned. The door was unlocked. At last. Something had gone her way. It was crazy to hope the tribal cultural resources manager would still be in the office, but since she’d gone off the deep end and stolen the artifact from her client and flown to Alaska to return it to the tribe, hope was just one more slice of crazy on her overloaded plate.

  The freight-elevator-size lobby was fitting for a small tribal headquarters in a tiny town in a massive state. She again wished this tribe were part of a larger corporation with offices in Anchorage or Juneau, but no such luck. This offshoot of the Iñupiat was hardly convenient. The Itqaklut Tribal Corporation, located on the remote north end of the Bering Straits, was as far off the beaten path as Sienna had ever traveled.

  The lobby might be small, but it still had a directory, posted right next to a photo of the chief executive of the tribal corporation. Fourth on the list was the man she wanted to see: Tribal Cultural Resources Manager Chuck Vaughan, Suite 204. She climbed the narrow switchback staircase, her steps echoing in the silent building.

  It was hard to imagine anyone was here. Why was the door unlocked? Maybe in Nowhere, Alaska, locks were unnecessary?

  Halfway up the stairs, the cedar box seemed to… lighten. As if it could float from her hands. No. Not float away from her. It was pulling her, as it had been doing for the last two months, but this time the feeling didn’t have a malicious bent. The mask was happy.

  I will make an appointment with a therapist as soon as I get back home to Washington. No excuses.

  It would be easier if she truly thought she’d lost her grip on reality, but she didn’t. If she didn’t believe the mask had been communicating with her, she wouldn’t be here.

  There were really only two options: either she was crazy, or the mask was possessed. Maybe haunted was the right word. All she knew was that if she stopped having nightmares, premonitions, and strange sensations after she handed off the artifact to Chuck Vaughan, then she, Sienna Aubrey, wasn’t crazy. Of course, proving her sanity meant she was a criminal who’d just tanked her career, but it was a small price to pay for a clean bill of mental health. Right?

  A light shone behind the opaque glass door of suite 204. Thank God. She balanced the box on her hip again and turned the knob. The door slid open on silent hinges. No one sat at the front desk—not surprising given the lateness of the hour, but still disappointing.

  “Hello?” she called out as she entered the vestibule.

  No answer, but the suite lights were on, so she ventured down the short hall with doors on either side. Name plates marked each office, and she spotted Chuck Vaughan’s on the door at the end of the corridor—the corner office, as befitted the head of the department. The door was ajar, and a sliver of light spilled out.

  “Mr. Vaughan?”

  A thump sounded in the office, then the door opened wider, and a man peered out. “Yes?”

  “Thank goodness you’re still here. I’m Sienna Aubrey. I emailed you last week?”

  Confusion flashed on the man’s face, but he opened the door wider and waved his arm toward the opening, inviting her to enter. She stepped inside, ignoring the urge to shove the box into his hands as she passed him in the doorway.

  She dropped into the visitor’s chair, holding the large box—which had barely fit in the overhead compartment on the plane—on her knees. He took the seat on the opposite side of the desk, saying nothing.

  It was disconcerting, this silence, this utter lack of warmth as the man studied her with Paul Newman–blue eyes. Vaughan was a tribal member, but his light hair, vivid eyes, and the arch of his cheekbones reflected his Euro-American rather than Iñupiat ancestors.

  He raised a brow in silent question. A man of few words.

  She cleared her dry throa
t. “As I mentioned in my email, this mask,”—she tapped the box on her lap—“belongs to the Itqaklut tribe—bal corporation.” She stumbled, reminding herself that in Alaska, the legal entity was a corporation, not a tribe. “As a NAGPRA specialist, it’s my job to return it.” Forget the fact that she was skipping every protocol required by her profession, that Alaska Native Corporations no longer had standing under NAGPRA, and that she could never explain how she’d determined the mask belonged to this specific Bering Coast corporation. It was enough that the artwork was specific to the region. That, and the shaman who wore the mask hundreds of years ago had invaded her dreams and demanded she return it to the Itqaklut village. Repeatedly.

  Sometimes the mask was even nice to her when it pummeled her with demands.

  “NAGPRA?” the tribal cultural resources manager asked.

  She furrowed her brow. What CRM officer didn’t know NAGPRA? He was the equivalent of a Tribal Historic Preservation Officer in the lower forty-eight. “The Native American Graves Protection and Repatriation Act—one of the primary US laws that drives your work and funds your office and my contracts?”

  “Oh. NAGPRA. I thought you said NPR.”

  Her jaw dropped. She didn’t believe him for a moment. Was he messing with her? She glanced at the dark streaks on her hands—from changing the tire—and wondered if she had similar streaks on her cheeks. She probably should have checked her appearance in the mirror before entering the building. Maybe she looked like a lunatic. Which, of course, she might be. But she really didn’t think so.

  Good lord, she hoped she wasn’t crazy.

  “No. Not National Public Radio.” She frowned. It was time to start over. “Did you receive my email?”

  “Last week was rough. Refresh my memory?”

  “My client is a small museum in Washington State, near Tacoma. I’m auditing their collection to identify artifacts subject to repatriation through NAGPRA and came across this mask.” She set the cedar box on the floor and unhooked the latch, then lifted out the heavy carved wooden Iñupiat mask. An orca motif, it represented both human and orca spirit, and had been painted with earth pigments including ochre and burnt sienna. She’d wondered more than once if her name had something to do with her strange connection to the artifact.