Grave Cargo: Arcane Transporter 1

by Jami Gray

  I pushed the door open and found what I expected—it was empty. Standing in the doorway, I considered violating my roommate’s privacy. If I hadn’t been so worried, I wouldn’t even consider going through her room. Not that she would be able to tell. It wasn’t that she was a slob, but in her personal space, she tended to live in organized chaos. She swore she knew where things were, and about once a month, she spent a couple of hours restoring order. So long as that chaos didn’t spill into the shared areas, I couldn’t care less. I wasn’t OCD organized, but I preferred to keep my stuff neat. All my things had their assigned places. Hell, I made my bed every day, even though Lena teased me about it relentlessly. In her opinion, there was no reason to make something I was just going to mess up again when I went to sleep.

  I approached her unmade bed. The silky shorts and tank she slept in were tossed in a chair in the far corner, along with a pair of jeans and a shirt that looked like it was mine. I did a slow turn. At a glance, nothing was out of place. Her dresser stretched along the wall next to the door, the top covered in the normal clutter. A mismatched collection of frames with photos of friends and family sat next to a couple of paperbacks and her Bluetooth speaker. A tangled mix of jewelry spilled out of a couple of brightly colored stone bowls. Sticky notes were interspersed with typical items that had migrated from the en suite bathroom—nail files, nail polish, makeup, hair clips, aspirin, and a couple perfume bottles. The nightstand next to her bed held an e-reader, an empty phone charger, a bottle of electric-green nail polish, another nail file, and a lone pendant earring, but nothing that screamed, “Clue here!” Everything was just the typical female clutter.

  I poked around and uncovered a small notebook with an attached purple pen. Sitting on the foot of her bed, I flipped through the pages, noting half-scrawled reminders and phone numbers with accompanied names. It looked like it was a catch-all scratchpad. I found a sticky note with an address stuck on a page. It was the only address she had with no name attached. Knowing it was a long shot, I sent it to Evan. I also included a couple of names and numbers I didn’t recognize.

  Setting it back on the dresser, I considered going through her drawers, but catching sight of the time, I decided it would have to wait until later. Just like that damn journal. I needed to get ready for the job with Sabella Rossi. Thinking of the journal…

  I headed back to the kitchen and considered possible hiding spots. Best to keep it out of sight until I had more time to devote to it. The most-secure thing I had was a gun safe tucked in my nightstand drawer, but it was one of those that only had enough space for my Walther CCP. Since I was already carrying my backup Glock that I normally kept at the Guild, there was no room for the journal. When the ice maker dumped its contents into the refrigerator door, inspiration struck. I dug out a gallon-size resealable plastic bag. After folding the envelope around the journal, I was able to get it to fit. Good enough.

  I opened the refrigerator, pulled out the veggie drawer, and found lettuce just starting to wilt, a trio of tomatoes, a couple of cucumbers, bell peppers, and avocados. I tucked the journal under the lettuce, where it wasn’t readily visible. Not the greatest option, but I doubted anyone intent on tossing the place would do a run through my veggies.

  Journal stashed, I jumped in the shower. Forty minutes later, I was locking my door, apprehension about Lena’s situation perched solidly on my shoulders. Thank God I had a job to keep me occupied tonight. Otherwise, I would have been crawling the walls.

  “Hey, Rory, looking ice, chica.”

  I turned to see my dog-walking neighbor’s rainbow-hued head sticking out of her doorway. “Hey, Ang. I’m heading out for a job.”

  “I figured, considering the outfit.”

  I brushed a hand over the hip of my tailored slacks, a little self-conscious. My working wardrobe was upgraded to a mix of what Lena called “classy, aloof-sexy,” and I still worried it might be a bit much.

  Angie didn’t miss the revealing move and grinned. “You look very chic, very professional.” She looked back inside then back to me. “Can you hold the elevator for Martha?”

  “Sure,” I answered, but she had already stepped back inside her condo and disappeared. As I came up to the door, Martha stepped out, an empty plate in hand. We said our goodbyes to Angie and headed toward the elevator. We got on, and I indicated the plate Martha carried. “Cookies?”

  Martha nodded. “After this morning, I went a little overboard with my baking.” Her free hand fluttered, a faint pink rose under her cheeks. “I thought Angie would enjoy the extras.”

  I hit the button for the sixth floor. “Anyone would enjoy your extras, Martha.” The doors slid closed.

  She laughed. “Next time, I’ll bring you and Lena a plate.”

  I gave her a smile. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  She changed topics, her curiosity surging to the fore. “Have you heard anything more about what happened this morning?”

  I shook my head. “Unfortunately, no, I’ve been at work since this morning. I just came home to shower and change before my next job. I did have a card for the detective on my door, though.”

  “Yes, I spoke to a nice officer earlier.” She frowned down at the plate she worried between her hands. “I just don’t understand how something like that happens.”

  Trying to ease her worry, I teased, “What? You don’t buy into Ang’s Family soap opera theory?”

  Martha’s nervous movements stilled as she looked up, her lips twitching. “That girl just lives for drama.”

  “That, she does,” I agreed.

  The elevator stopped, and Martha stepped forward. “I hope they get to the bottom of what happened.”

  “Me too,” I murmured, but I wasn’t sure they would. Not if Zev and the Cordovas were involved. There was no way that Family would allow the police to take the lead on the investigation. Not to mention Families weren’t keen about the local authorities messing around in their business. That attitude was one of the reasons I took Zev’s deal. Besides, someone had to look out for Lena, and that someone was me.

  Martha got off, gave me a small wave, and headed down the hall. The doors slid shut, and I leaned back against the wall as the elevator glided to the garage. Anxiety chased concern as I wondered how much Zev would interfere with my search despite his promise of cooperation. I was swimming in unknown waters, which left me uncomfortable and paranoid.

  As soon as I stepped out, I couldn’t help but scan my surroundings, wary about who or what might strike next. Luckily, I was unmolested, and so was my car. I made it back to the Guild without incident. This time, I parked my Mustang where I knew Evan’s electronic eye could watch. No way did I want another unexpected gift, especially since I was still reeling from the first one.

  Instead of poking my head into Evan’s office, I sent him a text as I headed toward the far end of the garage. I’m here. Anything?

  Still digging.

  Watch my car?

  He sent back a thumbs-up as I hit the well-lit, glass-enclosed office manned by one of the Guild’s mechanics. I rapped my knuckles against the open door, gaining the attention of the cadaverously thin man dressed in olive coveralls. “Evening, Carl.”

  “Costas.” My name came back in a smoker’s rasp, which was strange, as I’d never seen him with a single cigarette. He swiveled in his office chair. “How’s my beautiful girl?”

  Knowing his question wasn’t directed at me but at my ride, I grinned and answered with my standard, “Running hot and smooth.” I stepped just inside the door, and the stale scent of coffee made my nose wrinkle. “What do you have for me tonight?”

  “You’re in luck,” he drawled. “You have three thrilling options for tonight’s task.”

  I refrained from rubbing my hands together in anticipation. The Guild kept a unique selection of vehicles on hand for their clientele’s varied needs. It was an eclectic mix of luscious luxury and motley junkers that ranged from the four-wheel variety to the two-wheel, speed-demon
versions. No matter the make or model, bike or car, each was outfitted with high-end security options, both mundane and magical, and housed a stunning amount of power. It was one of the best side benefits, in my opinion, of working with the Guild. “I’m ready. Hit me with ’em.”

  He stood up, amusement tugging at his mouth. “Option one, Cadillac CT6.”

  Nice. The Caddy was a blend of muscle and luxury powered by five hundred fifty horses that topped out at two hundred miles per hour. However, its biggest flaw was the high belt line that hampered my rear visibility and cut into my neck. “Next?”

  Carl’s eyes danced as he solemnly intoned, “Option two, BMW 7.”

  My fingers twitched because the BMW’s cockpit was a driver’s dream, not to mention decked out to the nines. Despite being a spacious full-size sedan, it was also built for speed of the Autobahn variety. “Tempting.”

  “Option three.” Carl spread his hand out with a flourish. “The Audi A8.”

  Choices, choices, choices. Unfortunately, I would have to pass on the Audi. It had pretty lines, but its handling wasn’t the greatest. In town, it tended to be bumpy, and at higher speeds, it went floaty. Considering who my package was, I needed smooth, responsive, and luxurious. Normally, I would have picked the Caddy, but it only clicked two of the three requirements. Considering my swanky package, luxury was a must, so with a touch of regret, I said, “Let’s go with the BMW.”

  “Good choice.” Carl slid a clipboard off the desk and handed it to me. “You know what to do. Standard clauses plus Section D for the Class 3 security package. Did you update your insurance info in the system?”

  “Yep, last week.” One of the drawbacks of being a contractor was the requirement to carry my own insurance that would ride alongside the Guild’s. I began signing my life away, line by line.

  “Good, that will make this faster.” He turned to the metal box hanging on the wall and grabbed a key fob. He waited while I scribbled. When I was done, we switched items. “Stall eight.” He double-checked the forms and set the clipboard aside. “It’s due back tomorrow morning at the latest, with a full tank.”

  “Have I ever not filled up?” I pocketed the fob.

  “You’re one of the few,” he muttered. He rubbed a hand over his bald head. “I’m out at midnight, so if you’re back after that, use the drop box.”

  “Got it.” I pushed off the doorframe and turned to leave. “Have a good night, Carl.”

  “You too, Costas. Smooth roads.”

  I lifted a hand and headed to the elevator tucked behind Carl’s office. It was used exclusively by the Guild and offered the only access to the garage’s top floor, where the Guild vehicles were housed. I stepped inside, and years of familiarity made it easy to ignore the irritating flare of the active ward ensuring access to only authorized personnel. The doors opened and let me out on a floor that was miles away from the lower parking levels. Behind a wall of thick bullet- and magic-resistant glass, the top floor had been converted into a gearhead’s wet dream. The floor was divided between what was affectionately called the showroom, which took up the first half, and the garage, which dominated the back half.

  The showroom held gleaming works of automotive art to the left and a ragtag collection of vehicles meant to blend into the surroundings on the right. It didn’t matter if you were making a splash in the uber-ritzy area of Desert View or if you were trying to stay low key in the outskirts of the eastern suburbs, the Guild had you covered.

  I stopped short of the sliding glass doors as a computerized voice asked for my authorization code. “Mike, alpha, charlie, hotel, one, zero.” I waited while the code and voice print was checked.

  “Proceed.”

  I moved toward the doors, the fine hairs along my arms rising as I crossed through the multi-layered security ward. The door whooshed open, and I headed left. It didn’t take long to find the BMW. Glistening like wet ink under the bright lights, it was parked in the second aisle toward the front. I pressed my fingers against the driver’s-side door, and once it recognized my prints, the whisper of the releasing locks barely pierced the quiet. I took my time relearning the controls. Once I was comfortable, I entered Sabella’s address into the GPS. Earlier, I’d prepped a quick navigation search, thinking it would send me to Scottsdale or Desert View, where most of the Arcane Families liked to call home. Instead, her address led to an exclusive neighborhood in Fountain Hills. With the GPS primed, I started up the car and hit the road.

  Thirty-five minutes later, I turned off Sunridge Drive and into an exclusive neighborhood called Eagle’s Nest. Luckily, the gate was still open, but the nearby signs warned the road was for residents only. No worries there. This ride would blend in just fine. I slowed to the required twenty-five miles per hour and cruised the last mile to Sabella’s house. I wasn’t familiar with this part of Fountain Hills, but it was clear the residents weren’t hurting financially. Unlike many of the valley’s planned neighborhoods, where space was at a premium, privacy reigned here. Driveways were unmarked openings off the street, and the few glimpses I could catch revealed custom-built beauties perched on regal lots with sizes measuring in acres. The sun had dipped behind the rugged hills, painting the sky in purples, pinks, and golds, while softening the streets in deepening shadows. This far out, there was no such thing as streetlights.

  Not wanting to miss my turn, I split my attention between the street ahead and the GPS. I spotted the turn for Sabella’s drive before the computerized voice could chirp up. I turned in, stopped at the gate, and input the gate code Sylvia had included in her directions. The gates slid back, and I nosed the BMW through and followed the uneven surface of the pavers as they curled around the rising hill and spilled into a courtyard surrounded by a three-car garage and a two-story masterpiece. Passing the stately saguaro cactus on the right, I was met with the exquisitely kept front yard of mature trees and sculpted desert flora, all artfully lit. The terraced landscape blended into the beautiful mix of stucco and river rock of the house, which was a tasteful blend of desert and mountain cabin. After stopping the car alongside the curving wall guarding the front, I got out. Brushing the creases from my slacks, I took a moment to savor the spectacular panoramic views. It was breathtaking and undoubtedly the real reason behind the hefty price tags.

  Unfortunately, I wasn’t here to bask in the desert’s beauty, but to work. As I walked around the car, the sharp sound of my shoes against the pavers sounded overly loud in the peaceful quiet. I stopped in front of the distressed wooden doors set in the wall, pressed the intercom tucked into the stone pillar to my left, and waited.

  It didn’t take long for a woman’s voice to answer. “Yes?”

  “Hello, my name’s Rory Costas. I’m here to drive Ms. Rossi this evening.”

  “Of course. Come on in.”

  There was a muted buzz, followed by a click, and then the wooden gate in front of me unlocked, opening a couple of inches in welcome. I pushed it wider so I could walk through. The calming sounds of falling water fell from a stone fountain to my left. The pavers morphed into smooth stone that led to the glass-paned door. Warm light spilled from inside, staining the entryway. Through the glass, I could make out a figure approaching, gliding over the tiled floor. I waited with a polite smile pasted on my face as I studied Sabella Rossi. Light haired, instead of the expected dark, she was tall and curvy, but then everyone tended to be taller than my five four. In her case, she had at least four inches on me.

  She pulled open the door, her warm, welcoming smile adding depth to an ageless beauty. “Hello, Ms. Costas.” She held her hand out to me. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

  My polite smile thawed in response to her sincere greeting. “Rory, please.” I shook her hand, repressing a shiver of reaction at the feel of magic she wore.

  She let me go and stepped to the side, waving me in. “Please, come in. I’m just about ready.”

  Following her directions, I stepped inside, doing my best not to gawk. Oversized tiles th
at resembled marble stretched through the space. Thick trestle beams lined the high ceilings and disappeared into the living area to the right, where a glimpse of massive glass windows overlooked a pool lit with blue and purple lights. To my left, a staircase curled up to the second floor, and straight back, a wall of glass showcased the natural beauty beyond.

  Sabella pivoted on a needle-thin heel that added an elegant touch to her deceptively simple but expensive slacks. She stepped around me, talking as she passed a settee and stopped by an accent table sitting under a mirror. “I got caught up in a phone call and lost track of time.”

  Moving to the side of the front door, I stood with my hands clasped casually in front of myself. “No apology needed, Ms. Rossi.”

  She paused in the midst of fastening an earring and met my gaze through the mirror. “Sabella, please. Ms. Rossi makes me feel my age.”

  “Sabella, then.” I didn’t think she had to worry about anyone making assumptions about her age. Despite a few fine lines, she was the epitome of timeless beauty, whether thanks to surgery or genetics. Sabella appeared to be in her late forties, early fifties at most. Considering her reputation and the stories about her family, I knew she had to be at least ten years older than that. Then there was the power that surrounded her like a well-worn cloak. It added another intimidating layer to the woman.

  Earring in place, she brushed a hand over the cowl-neck blouse that accented her curves. Not the dangerous centerfold kind, but the more voluptuous type. “I appreciate you coming all this way to pick me up. Normally, I’d be fine driving myself, but tonight, I fear I’ll need to offset my socializing with a bit of alcohol.”

  There wasn’t much I could say to that, except “I’m happy to be of service.”

  She laughed and turned, her face lit with humor. “So polite, Rory. Not at all what I expected.”

  Curious, I asked, “Dare I ask what you did expect?”

  She grabbed a sleek clutch and shawl from the settee. “You could, but I think I’ll wait until we know each other better.”