Praise for the Alex Craft Novels
Grave Dance
“The world building in the Alex Craft series is a dense and vibrant tour de force.”
—All Things Urban Fantasy
“Price does an excellent job of keeping the story zipping along while continuing to develop her characters.”
—Romantic Times
“Price has created an urban fantasy world that is filled with Fae, Dark Fae, and Reapers that will reach out and grab you and keep you hooked to the very end.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“An enticing mix of humor and paranormal thrills.”
—Fresh Fiction
Grave Witch
“Fascinating magic, a delicious heartthrob, and a fresh, inventive world.”
—Chloe Neill, New York Times bestselling author of Biting Cold
“A rare treat, intriguing and original. Don’t miss this one.”
—#1 New York Times bestselling author Patricia Briggs
“A zippy pace and entrancing descriptions of ‘grave sight,’ which juxtaposes a decaying spirit world on top of ours, will keep readers happily turning pages.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Edgy, intense…a promising kickoff to a series with potential.”
—Romantic Times
“Nonstop action that will keep you guessing who the killer is until the end.”
—Night Owl Reviews (top pick)
“Alex is bold, brave, honorable, and a totally down-to-earth woman that I could easily call a friend had she been real. This series is more addictive than chocolate.”
—Huntress Book Reviews
The Alex Craft Novels
Grave Witch
Grave Dance
Grave Memory
AN ALEX CRAFT NOVEL
KALAYNA PRICE
A ROC BOOK
ROC
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Roc, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, July 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Kalayna Price, 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58704-1
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
To the Modern Myth Makers:
Ladies, I wouldn’t be where I am without you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to Jessica for your endless patience. Also for encouraging me out of my comfort zone—the resulting changes took this book to the next level.
To Lucienne, for more than I can possibly list here, but especially for your guidance.
To my friends and family, for your support, your encouragement, and for dragging me out once in a while.
To my very awesome “minions,” who have helped me get the word out about the Alex Craft novels.
And, of course, to you, the person reading this book. Thank you for returning for another adventure with Alex!
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 1
“What do you think?” I asked, as I fumbled for the light switch. An incandescent bulb flickered on, and then continued flickering. I frowned at it, but the late-afternoon sunlight streaming through the grimy picture window prevented the gloom from devouring the room.
Rianna peered through the open doorway but made no effort to enter. Her hand fell to idly scratch behind the ear of the barghest who acted as her ever-present shadow. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”
“The official office for Tongues for the Dead,” I said, waving a hand as if presenting the room.
Rianna had first suggested we open a PI firm that solved cases by questioning the dead when we were still in academy, but by the time I’d finished college, she’d vanished. Three months ago I’d found and liberated her from a power-hungry fae who’d made her a captive changeling of Faerie, and in the wake of recent chaos, we were both healing, adapting, and rebuilding. Which, in my opinion, made now the perfect time to give the dreams of two idealistic schoolgirls a second chance.
Rianna obviously didn’t agree.
“Alex, I think you might need to give your eyes a little more time to recover.”
“This place isn’t that bad,” I said, glancing around the room I envisioned would be a reception lobby—you know, if the firm ever became profitable enough to hire a receptionist. My gaze skidded over walls covered in graffitied runes and minor, mostly dispe
rsed, spells before moving on to take in the balding carpet and the piles of beer cans and cigarettes tossed haphazardly around the otherwise empty room. “It just needs a little TLC.”
Rianna cocked an eyebrow, and the barghest, Desmond, who was in his customary shape of an oversized black dog with red-ringed pupils, huffed, making his jowls billow.
“Okay, so it needs a lot of work, but the rent is affordable”—barely, and only because my landlord waived the rent on my loft as payment for the last big case I’d worked—“and it’s in the Magic Quarter. A definite perk as we offer magical solutions in our investigations.”
“Alex, this is a seedy back alley on the very edge of the Magic Quarter. We’re about as far as we can be from the heart of the Quarter. No upscale restaurants. No spell boutiques. Not even the kitschy stores hawking overpriced, underpowered charms to norms are out this far.” She glanced over her shoulder at the only other door in the admittedly less than ideal alley and lowered her voice. “And I’m pretty sure that unmarked shop is dealing black magic.”
“Gray actually,” I said and her eyes widened. “Hey, it’s not like I went shopping. I just sensed a couple of mild compulsion spells and a lot of weak love charms when I passed by the shop. I think it’s run by a matchmaker.”
“And you were planning to call the OMIH when, exactly?”
The Organization for Magically Inclined Humans was originally formed as an advocate group for witches during the turmoil following the Magical Awakening. A good seventy years later they were still considered the public face of the witch population, but now their mission statement focused on education and promoting the safe and ethical use of magic. That, of course, meant they policed their own.
“Keep your voice down,” I hissed. I had no desire to irritate a neighbor willing to spin gray spells—which were a short step from the really dark, soul damaging stuff. “I contacted the OMIH already. They’re supposed to send an inspector out this week, and once they confirm my report, they’ll alert the Magical Crimes Investigation Bureau.” Which sounded like a lot of tedious bureaucratic red tape. But despite the fact I was an OMIH certified sensitive, citizens couldn’t contact the MCIB directly, so we’d have to wait. The unmarked door on the other side of the alley opened, and I ducked back into the office we were actually supposed to be discussing. “Once we fix this place up, it could be nice. It has the lobby area, a bathroom, and two offices. Exactly what we need,” I said, as if we’d never veered off the subject.
Rianna frowned and curled her fingers in Desmond’s fur. “You can see again, so you don’t need me to substitute anymore, and we both know there isn’t enough business to justify the overhead of an office. Especially when you were doing fine running things through phone and e-mail.”
Well, not always fine. At times I’d barely scraped by, which only highlighted her point. But I had other reasons I wanted to open an office.
When I first emancipated Rianna, she’d been reluctant to spend time in the mortal realm. But when I’d lost my sight several weeks ago after a showdown with a witch who thought the world would be better if all the planes of existence touched—yeah, no, bad idea—Rianna had stepped up and covered my cases. At first she’d left Faerie for only a couple of hours on the days rituals were scheduled. But recently she’d been spending almost all day, every day in Nekros, and while her visits hadn’t completely erased the wraithlike appearance she’d had as Coleman’s soul-chained captive, she now had color in her cheeks and the bruiselike circles no longer ringed her eyes. The mortal realm agreed with her. I didn’t want her to disappear into Faerie again.
Besides, my ability to raise the dead was wyrd magic, and if I didn’t use it, it used me. Over the last few weeks I’d had to perform a couple of off-the-books rituals, holding the shades just long enough to relieve the magical pressure on my shields. But even those limited rituals had come at a higher cost than before. If I returned to raising shades several times a week I’d be permanently blind before I hit thirty. Tongues for the Dead needed a new business model.
“I was actually thinking about expanding the firm’s services. Take on some cases with billable hours not restricted to rituals and talking to shades. Cases that utilize more…traditional forms of investigation.”
“Traditional investigation?” She cocked her head to the side. “Like what? Surveillance? Tailing spouses suspected of cheating? Maybe a stakeout?” I didn’t miss the sarcasm in her tone. Rianna and I were all but night blind, to say nothing of my degrading vision. Then there was the fact that as a changeling, Rianna couldn’t be in the mortal realm during sunset or sunrise without deadly consequences.
“More like locating missing persons or artifacts, tracing the origins of spells or charms. Hell, we could even do background checks if someone would pay us. Between you graduating at the top of your class in spellcasting and me being one of the top five sensitives in the city, we have skills to offer besides grave magic.” I didn’t mention that she’d had a couple hundred extra years’ practice while in Faerie or that I had the whole planeweaving thing going on. Neither facts were something either of us wanted on a résumé. I turned back to the room, which she still hadn’t entered, and waved a hand to encompass the space. “Ignore the mess and imagine what this place could look like. For instance, take that picture window. Once it’s cleaned up, we can have ‘Alex Craft and Rianna McBride: Tongues for the Dead Investigations’ stenciled on it.”
Rianna glanced at the window, which was coated in a decade’s worth of dust, but the faintest hint of a smile appeared at the edge of her mouth. “You’d put my name on it too?”
“How could I not? You were the one who looked up from a mystery novel during your final year at academy and suggested the name.”
The smile grew a little brighter. “I’d forgotten about that. It was so long ago.” She finally stepped inside, Desmond at her heels. “Show me around?”
That task didn’t take long. The doors to the two offices were on opposite sides of the room, and neither office was large—or in better shape than the front room—but each had enough space for a desk, some filing cabinets, and a couple of chairs, which would be enough for meeting with clients. There was also a small closet and a bathroom against the very far wall, but neither of us was brave enough to see what condition it might be in, at least, not yet.
“It’s going to take a lot of work,” she said as she surveyed the lobby.
“Then you’re in?”
“Of course I am.” The words were flat, void of any excitement.
I turned and studied her face. It was blank, unexpressive, and totally not the response I anticipated. “This isn’t that faerie master crap again, is it?”
Sadly, it was a legitimate question. When I’d destroyed her former master, Faerie had passed all of his holdings on to me. That included an enormous castle straight out of a fairy tale and his prize changeling, Rianna. I had no interest in owning my childhood friend, but she was a changeling, bound to Faerie and its magic. If I renounced her, some other fae could take her. So I accepted the claim, and as far as Faerie was concerned, she was my property, obliged to my will.
But I considered it political bullshit, and she knew it.
“Rianna, you’re free to do whatever you want, including telling me you’ve outgrown your interest in being a private investigator.”
“Al, don’t think that. It’s nothing like that.” She wove her fingers into Desmond’s fur again, and he leaned against her leg, offering his support. “It’s…I…” She shook her head. “Sometimes I forget that only a few years passed for you while I spent hundreds under Coleman’s control. The freedom to want things for myself, to reach for my own dreams—it’s something I nearly forgot. Having options is a little overwhelming.” She looked around the room, her gaze slow and assessing. A smile crept across her face as she peeked into one of the offices again. Then she turned toward me. “Yes, I want this. I want to be Rianna McBride, PI for Tongues for the Dead. Let’s do it, boss.”
“Partner,” I corrected.
“Partner.” The word was a whisper, but her smile spread, making her green eyes sparkle.
“It’s official, then.” I glanced around the room, imagining what it could be. It was going to take a lot of work.
“I guess we should start with paint,” Rianna said, following my gaze. “And something for the carpet?”
“Some essential furniture too,” I said, digging through my purse. “But first…” I pulled out a thin rectangular box. I’d wrapped it in newspaper—wrapping paper was expensive and this counted as recycling, right? Rianna gave me a quizzical look as I handed it to her.
“I didn’t get you anything,” she said, staring at the box in its makeshift wrapping.
“Don’t be silly, just open it.”
She bit her lip, as if unsure. Then a grin cut across her face and she lifted the box to her ear and gave it a good shake.
“Hey, it could be breakable,” I said, and her grin grew.
“Nah, you’d have stopped me earlier.” She tore into the packaging. Her perplexed look didn’t change when she pulled out a small metal container engraved with her initials, but when she flipped it open, she gave out a squeal of a laugh. “Business cards,” she said, pulling out the thin stack of cards. “And that’s the logo I tried—and failed—to draw. You nailed it. When did you have this done?”
I shrugged, but I was grinning too. “I created the template years ago. But after you disappeared I didn’t feel right using it. These I had printed yesterday. I’m just glad you said yes.”
She closed the lid and clutched the gift as if it were much more valuable than a cheap case and a handful of business cards. Then she bounced on the balls of her feet before scampering over to hug me. But she didn’t thank me. I don’t know if that was for my sake, as I hated feeling the imbalance of debt, or simply because she’d lived among the fae so long. Either way, the hug expressed her gratitude more than sufficiently.
“So, furniture,” I said as we headed back outside into the bright afternoon sun. “Unfortunately our budget is thrift, but maybe we’ll luck out.”
Grave Memory: An Alex Craft Novel Page 1