Grave Cargo: Arcane Transporter 1

by Jami Gray

  “We will.” His words carried the weight of a vow. “Once I get in, I’ll call the Guild, see if I can’t get a Hound back over there to track who set that spell.”

  “You think they’ll get anything?” I asked. “The walk-in was all but crumbling into rubble when we left.”

  He shrugged then winced. “Don’t know, but if it gets us any closer to Lena, it’s worth following through.”

  Can’t argue that. The amorphous suspicion that had been lurking in my brain since Nat’s casual comment—Was that only this morning?—about Lena’s mystery man solidified, and I nudged, “Have you looked into the rumors flying around the Guild?”

  Evan stiffened. “Which rumors?”

  “The ones that claim Lena had a mystery man.” When he didn’t so much as blink, I asked, “Is it you?”

  “Does it matter?”

  Hmm, that wasn’t a denial. “It does if it’s not you.”

  He looked away, obviously considering his response. Then, in a low voice, he said, “Yeah, it’s me.”

  I wasn’t upset. In fact, I was happy, because that was one less thread to tug on. “Good.”

  A rough laugh escaped, and he shook his head. “You’re so weird.”

  “Yep,” I agreed.

  He reached for the handle then stopped. “Will you be okay getting home?”

  I nodded. “I’m good. I’ll head back to the Guild and drop this off.”

  “Good idea.” He stared out over the dash. “I think I caught all the cameras, but you never know. And this ride, as sweet as it is, is memorable.”

  “That she is,” I said as he opened the door.

  “Get some rest, Rory.” He got out and moved to shut the door.

  “I will,” I promised. “You do the same.”

  He managed a weak smile. “I’ll get on that.”

  Neither one of us sounded convincing. We exchanged good nights, despite the fact it was technically morning. Then I watched as he let himself into his house. Only when he was locked inside did I put the car in reverse and head to the Guild.

  Chapter Thirteen

  After dropping off the BMW and reclaiming my baby, I managed to stumble through the door of my empty condo around two. My body protested with a series of complaining aches and pains as I kicked off my shoes and toed them to the side of the door. Barefoot, I walked to my room, where I stripped off my clothes and tossed them into the dry-cleaning pile, hoping they could be salvaged. I went with a brief, lukewarm shower instead of the long, hot soak my body wanted. Despite the fatigue nipping at my heels, I was too jittery to give in to exhaustion. Ten minutes later, dressed in comfy sleep pants and a tank, I hit the fridge and retrieved the mystery journal, a sharp knife, and some ice water. Then I sank onto my couch. I set the water and knife aside, unsealed the plastic bag, and dumped the journal into my lap.

  For a moment, I sat there, staring at the stained leather cover, and wondered what the hell I was thinking. For all I knew, this was some sick hoax meant to keep me distracted. Considering the timing of its appearance and the face that Lena was missing, it was an option. Yet that explanation didn’t quite fit. Still, the whole situation was dodgy. Not dodgy enough for me to ignore my unexpected gift, especially since pacing the floor or worrying about Lena would be a waste of time. Sleep was out of the equation, as well, so it was time for some nighttime reading.

  I ran a finger over the cover and thought about families and magic. When it came to families, I didn’t have much to go on. I grew up splitting my time between shelters and group homes—a typical story for street orphans. I don’t remember ever having a real family, the kind I could tap for information about who I was and where I came from, much less get the details about inherited magic. It wasn’t a horrific way to grow up, but it was as lonely as hell, and trust didn’t come cheap. Up until the day I accidentally rebuffed an attack from a bully who happened to be a low-level fire mage, the only magical talent I’d displayed was an emerging trend of quick reaction times and an innate sense of locations. After giving the bully second-degree burns, I started to wonder how I’d done it, but there was no one to ask.

  Even spending hours in the library researching Arcane history hadn’t helped. There was no mention of an ability that could repel magic. I’d spent months thinking I was some kind of weird mutant, then I met Alvin, an old, schizophrenic street tramp. I was cutting through an alley from class, trying to beat the shelter’s curfew, when I interrupted Alvin being hassled for his recently acquired cart. The two-on-one odds just struck me as unfair, and since Alvin had always been nice to me, I’d figured it was my turn to return the favor. During the intense “discussion,” one of the demanding biddies used her connection to animals to call in rat reinforcements. Riding on a wave of panicked fear, I’d turned the tide and sent the nasty rodents chasing after the dastardly duo. To this day, I abhorred rats, with their beady eyes and twitchy bodies. Afterward, Alvin had called me a Prism.

  Relieved to have an actual identification, I started digging through old documents and piecing together old wives’ tales in a quest for more. There wasn’t much out there. It was as if any and all information regarding Prisms had been wiped away, which only served to deepen the mystery. In fact, all these years later, I still knew next to nothing about what it meant to be a Prism. From experimenting, I knew it could act like a magic-repellant armor, for lack of a better term. It wasn’t impenetrable—a purely physical attack could breach it—but when facing another mage, it gave me enough time to react and escape, which was preferable to ending up dead. Normally, my ability stayed inert, but when flight-or-fight kicked in, so did my magic. Under extreme circumstances, which until recently were rare for me, it shifted from defense to offense, redirecting a magical attack back to the originator. Unfortunately, that was instinctive, and I still hadn’t figured out how to replicate that response on demand. Eventually, I gave up my research and concentrated on other things, like excelling at being a Transporter. I was more concerned with creating a solid reputation so I could be my own boss.

  The Guild had been my first stop on that road, mainly because it catered to those with magic but no Family ties. A perfect fit. The Guild had actually sprung up around the same time the Arcane Families stepped into the public spotlight, which was right in the midst of the decades-long World War when countries fought over resources and borders, decimating their own in the process. According to the history books, when the end of the world shimmered on the horizon, the Arcane Families came together and stepped up to shift the tide and restore order. Governments had been so grateful that when things finally calmed down, they had no problem welcoming the Arcane Council to their sides, and the Families became a power in their own right. Almost a hundred years later, magic existed in various forms and degrees, but the strongest belonged to the Families.

  Yet as far as I knew, I had no Family to claim. That meant, whether this book was real or not, I would feed the blood key and see if it could satisfy my curiosity. Decided, I opened the cover and flipped through the pages covered in sketches and nonsensical phrases. If it hadn’t been for that unexpected paper cut, I would’ve thought it belonged to a kid at some point. Just a book for them to jot down thoughts or use as a sketchpad. But a kid wouldn’t use a blood key to lock up their doodles. Because I had a Key as a best friend, I knew more than my fair share about what went into laying wards, keys, and curses. A blood key, while straightforward in usage, was complex to set. Like most magic, it came down to the caster’s intent, which in this case, included an additional layer of blood ties. There was a sense of age to it, and… I was procrastinating.

  After taking a bracing gulp of cold water, I picked up the knife. If the minute amount from the paper cut had worked, I shouldn’t have to open a vein to read it. I pricked my finger and touched the first page. The ink blurred, faded, and reformed into neat, feminine handwriting. It didn’t take long to get engrossed in the author’s story, and it was a doozy. Even having to re-prick my fingers every handfu
l of pages couldn’t make me stop reading.

  The author was clearly a Prism, but she never mentioned her name. That made sense when I realized she and her partner, an illusion mage she called M, were on a covert assignment posing as a wealthy Arcane couple to infiltrate a suspected Axis organization. The organization included a high-powered mix of scientific and magical minds focused on furthering the Axis’s goals. The more I read, the more Angie’s belief that a shadowy Cabal still existed gained weight. That kind of hunger to push the boundaries of science and magic wouldn’t just disappear. Not unless everyone involved was erased. And that was an ugly thought.

  The author’s entries ranged from personal impressions of the people she and M interacted with, to recounted conversations that ignited potential problems, to her innermost thoughts about her evolving relationship with M. She mentioned that she’d initially been assigned as M’s personal guard, a position Prisms were naturally adept at. Unfortunately, she didn’t go into how she wielded the power that allowed a Prism to shield another mage. That would’ve been extremely helpful. Instead, she worried that the longer they worked together, the closer they got, and the closer they got, the more she worried about keeping M safe. Reading between the lines, she was falling hard for M, and it was messing with her impartiality. Not a good thing while deep undercover in enemy territory.

  There were a couple of troubling entries after she and M had argued, where she wondered if his Family had deliberately pulled strings on their assignment. Specifically, to get her to be M’s shield, a position that made her question the truth of his feelings for her. I might have chalked her rants up to jealous, wannabe-girlfriend paranoia, if not for the other entries. They recounted interactions with M where he said little things that would make a cynical person go “hmm.” Then there were the other entries detailing the suspicious deaths of other Prisms she knew, and it wasn’t until the third such entry that I realized why she was so upset. Families on both sides of the war were being targeted for assassination at such an alarming rate that they were willing to do anything to keep their precious genetic heirs safe—even if it meant sacrificing a Prism or two. To that end, Prisms were in high demand, and that demand made them primary targets to both sides. Wiping out the Prisms would give them a clearer shot at taking out the target and eventually erasing those genetic one-offs from the bloodlines. That sentiment walked over my skin, leaving chills in its wake.

  If the journal and the conclusions I was drawing were real, there might be an even bigger reason for me to avoid Zev, Sabella, and any other Arcane Family. Especially considering that Arcane history hadn’t become part of the public awareness until close to the end of the World Wars, and as everyone knew, history was written by the victors. If those victors wanted to exclude something like, say, the existence of a talent that was immune to most magic, it wouldn’t be hard to accomplish. Not if said talent was hunted to, or near to, extinction. Families were notorious for hoarding secrets, and a secret like this was definitely not for public consumption.

  As terrifying as it was, I had to consider that possibility when dealing with the Families and anyone connected to them. The book was in good shape for being close to a hundred years old, which meant it had spent considerable time being locked away under ideal conditions. That would be easy enough if it had been part of someone’s personal collection, and with no way to verify how it was delivered or by whom, it was in my best interests to keep its existence quiet. Besides, the information it contained was bound to stir up trouble I not only didn’t want but didn’t need.

  Time ticked by as I continued reading through the Prism’s entries, and I managed to make it about halfway through the journal before the day’s cluster caught up with me, and I zonked out.

  Chapter Fourteen

  My phone’s alarm ripped me out of an uneasy doze and left me blinking into the bright morning light spilling through my patio doors. Groaning, I uncurled from my slouched position on the couch. The journal tumbled from my lap to the floor. Rubbing at the persistent ache in my shoulder, I reached for my phone dancing over the coffee table. My sore fingertips found the phone. A stinging hiss escaped as I touched the screen to shut off the annoying sound. As soon as it went quiet, I put my aching fingers to my mouth. It was amazing how the tiniest pricks hurt worse than deep cuts.

  The last time I remembered checking the time, it had been close to three, and my alarm had been set for six, so I’d managed a whopping three hours of sleep. Good enough, I guess.

  I checked my texts for any updates from Evan, but my screen was frustratingly blank. Wiping my fingers against the thin material of my pajama pants, I leaned over and grabbed the book, the knife, a notebook I had used for notes, and my glass before shoving awkwardly out of the couch. My body vigorously protested my change in position, and I did a couple of spine twists to release the kinks, then moved to the kitchen.

  I set the journal and notebook on the counter, dumped the glass and knife in the sink, then headed to the coffee maker on the counter. I stared into the empty cupboard where the magical beans lived and remembered how my morning had started the day before. Was that only yesterday?

  “Dammit.” It appeared that the coffee bean fairy was on strike because no bag of beans graced my cabinet. Grumbling under my breath, I headed to my bedroom. If there was no coffee on hand, I needed to wake up enough to make a quick run before Zev showed up to take me to Madeline’s office.

  I walked through my room, pulling off my tank, and tossed it on my bed. A few minutes in a hot shower should ease most of my body’s complaints. I stepped into the bathroom, not bothering to look in the mirror. Last night’s glimpse had revealed a newly acquired collection of scrapes and bruises, some I’d discovered when washing my hair. It hadn’t been pretty then, and after a few hours of marinating, there was no way it was any better.

  After flicking on the shower, I waited for the water to heat and stripped. I stood inside the tiled enclosure and leaned against the wall, using my arm to cushion my forehead as the hot water did its thing. The muscles in my back slowly loosened as steam rose, turning the air opaque. I might have fallen asleep again, but when the water pressure hitched then cooled against my overheated spine, I blinked blearily awake. I wiped away the misty drops from my face and, with a sigh, shut off the water. I grabbed a towel and dried off, being careful of my more tender spots.

  With the towel wrapped around me, I flicked on the fan to chase out the steam then headed to my walk-in closet. Since we were meeting with Madeline, jeans and a T-shirt were a no-go. Instead, I pulled on a pair of linen pants and a lightweight blouse. Barefoot, I left the closet, draped the damp towel on a rack, and moved to the sink to stare into the mirror. The steam was no more than a thin ribbon at the top of the mirror, so it was easy to see the dark circles under my eyes from lack of sleep. I gingerly touched the lighter bruise skating along my cheek and wondered when that had happened. Maybe when Evan all but crushed me to the floor? Probably.

  There were a couple of red marks—one along my jaw and one by my temple—and my lower lip looked a little puffy. Thanks to the heat of the shower, my hair held a hint of curl as damp ends brushed under my jaw. I combed it out then used my fingers to tousle it. The faint ache in my skull warned that if I pulled it up, I would regret it later, so I left it alone. Then I dealt with the mess from last night. It took a bit longer than normal to disguise the array of marks and scrapes under makeup, but when I was done, I looked almost normal. Yay me!

  Carrying a pair of pumps out of the bathroom, I flicked off the fan as I left. I reached for my bedroom door and froze at a noise from the kitchen. It wasn’t overly loud, and for a second, I wondered if I was so tired, I was hearing things. With my eyes aimed at my mostly closed bedroom door, I watched the sliver of space for any revealing movement. My ears strained as I slowly crouched and set my pumps on the floor. I rose and, on quiet feet, angled toward the nightstand where I kept my guns. I inched out the drawer, wincing at the soft scrape of wood agains
t wood. My backup Glock lay on top of the Walther’s safe. I lifted the Glock out and carried it in a two-handed grip, finger to the side of the trigger, as I crept back to my door. By the time I reached the door, my magic was locked in place.

  I took a position to the side and used the Glock’s barrel to edge the door open on silent hinges. When nothing and no one swept in, I rushed the entry with the gun up.

  “Easy.”

  “Dammit, Zev!” For a second, I considered pulling the trigger just on principle. “What the hell are you doing here, besides practicing your B&E skills?”

  Dressed in what I was beginning to think was his standard go-to black cargo pants, paired with a well-fitted iron-gray T-shirt, he leaned against my counter, a paper cup stamped with a familiar logo held halfway to his mouth. He pushed a second cup toward me. “Is that any way to greet the man who brought you coffee?”

  Despite the luscious aroma of dark beans tempting me closer, I held my position for a long moment before lowering my gun. “You’re early.”

  “Figured we could talk.” He swept his dark gaze over me, and I refused to acknowledge the goosebumps erupting over my skin. “Nice outfit.”

  “Thanks.” I set my gun down on the counter next to the barely hidden journal lying under the spiral notebook. For a moment, my mind stumbled as anxiety tripped my pulse. Did he see it? Look through it? No way was I up to explaining what it was or how it ended up in my hands. From under my lashes, I studied his expression, unable to tell. I reached for the coffee, grateful my hand didn’t shake. “What did you want to talk about?”

  He sipped and set his cup down, then pulled out one of the barstools. “Do you mind?”

  I shook my head then chased back my nerves with a fortifying mouthful of the hot caffeinated brew.

  He sat then curled his hands around his cup. “Yesterday, you asked why the Cordova Family was interested in Keith Thatcher.”