by Jenn Bennett
“It’s a different world up there,” he said. “Everything’s fancy. The booze is better. And to get up there, you have to either be beautiful or interesting—that’s what my friend told me. But I think now that I know better; it’s that you need to be useful. Because that’s where Mrs. Cushing’s people find their marks.”
Mr. Haig began frequenting Heaven and found there was a private area up a secret set of stairs where a society of rich socialites met once a month.
“Pieces of Eight, they call themselves,” Mr. Haig said, and all the hairs on Bo’s arms rose as a terrible chill ran through him. “None of the members use their real names, and you can’t enter until you’ve put on a mask. They throw wild parties. I’m talkin’ wild. Things I’ve never seen or experienced before. Things I can’t talk about in front of a lady.”
Astrid started to protest, but Mr. Haig refused to budge on this. Bo was grateful, honestly. He didn’t want to hear about, talk about, or remember anything in the least bit wild. “Please continue,” he encouraged, nodding at Mr. Haig.
The man coughed into his hand again. “Yes, well . . . all I’ll say is that I was going through a rough time, and these people made me feel like I was part of something big. And when they asked me to pilot a yacht last December, I was in no place to refuse the kind of money they were offering, so I didn’t question why anyone would pay that much for a nighttime trip across the Bay. And it was the biggest mistake of my life.”
Six fresh-faced recruits were taken aboard the yacht with six Pieces of Eight members. “And that’s when I met Mrs. Cushing. She told me where to take the yacht, out near the coast between Muir Beach and Tennessee Cove. I was to kill the engine and stay put until she came and got me. I had to promise not to leave the pilot room. But they’d given me . . . well, I wasn’t quite sober, you see. And a terrible squall came up. After my accident with my own boat, I wasn’t all that keen on piloting the yacht in the middle of a storm—especially after one of the windows blew out.”
The glass cut up his face. He deserted the pilot room seeking first aid and found the main salon covered in blue symbols and his passengers in the middle of the same ritual Astrid saw in her vision.
“I’d seen a lot of strange things in Babel’s Tower,” Mr. Haig said, shaking his head and staring out at the radio orchestra beyond the engineering room window. “But these recruits . . . It looked like they were going to drown them. Cold-blooded murder. And there was a strange white light coming from Mrs. Cushing, and it was like a rope, pulling me in. I felt like the whole boat was collapsing on itself. Like . . . like we were sitting on a whirlpool that would take us all down. And then Mrs. Cushing saw me, and I felt like I was looking into the devil’s own eyes.”
“What happened next?” Astrid asked, her own eyes wide with alarm. Bo felt something warm on his arm and realized that she was searching for his hand. He wrapped his fingers around hers and was surprised by the strength of her grip. She wanted comfort; he squeezed back, happy to provide it. Happy she wasn’t mad at him, however momentarily.
Mr. Haig shook his head before he answered her question, looking blank and haunted. “I panicked. The cabin’s doors were open to the deck. I ran outside and jumped overboard. Hurt myself on some rocks, but managed to swim to shore,” he said, nodding toward the stiff leg. “Almost didn’t make it. Thought I was surely dead, but I reckoned it was better to die in the water than on that cursed boat.”
The dim room was quiet for a moment, but for the crackle of electricity coming through the amplification equipment and the soft strains of the orchestra beyond the window. Bo finally asked the question at the forefront of his thoughts.
“Did you see what happened to the Plumed Serpent?” he said, studying Mr. Haig’s troubled eyes. “Do you know where it went for the last year?”
Mr. Haig stared at him for a moment and said, “I don’t know where it went, but I can tell you what I saw when I got to shore. Lightning struck it—a great big white streak from the night sky. And when it did, the damned yacht disappeared into thin air.”
NINETEEN
Shaken up and anxious, Bo matched Astrid’s quick steps back through the executive offices. They didn’t speak until they were heading down the stairs, out of earshot of the people working on the sixth floor. And even then, she was only focused on what they’d just learned from Mr. Haig.
“That had to have been Mrs. Cushing in my vision,” she said, her heels click-clicking as she trotted down the stairs. “She was the woman in the red robe. She was elderly then, but that ritual must have restored her youth. That’s the only thing that makes sense. But how come she wasn’t on the yacht with the rest of the survivors when it crashed?”
“I don’t know, but the police chief said she helped with their investigation last year after the boat went missing. So she had to have gotten off it somehow.” Astrid glanced back at him, eyes fixed on where the gold coin jingled in his coat pocket. He’d taken out the coin and showed it to Mr. Haig before they left the radio station. Astrid had been surprised but didn’t say anything until now. “So it’s a pirate coin, not a disk? Where’s the rest of the idol? Did you destroy it?”
“I sent it along to Mrs. Cushing’s house,” he said, and then briefly told her about prying off the coin and his reasons for doing so. Though Mr. Haig hadn’t been able to identify the symbol on the gold coin, he’d vaguely remembered seeing the turquoise during the ceremony on the yacht. And even if he couldn’t help them with the exact nature of the ritual, he’d at least been able to point them toward Babel’s Tower. It could be dangerous for Bo and Astrid to show their faces there, especially after the threatening letter Bo sent along with the idol. But as long as they didn’t run into Max or Mrs. Cushing, no one should recognize them, and Bo believed that the benefit gained would outweigh the risk. Maybe he’d try tomorrow, if they were open; tonight he had bootlegging runs to manage.
Astrid came to a quick stop on the fifth-floor landing and spun around to look at him as shoppers filed out of the cafe. “How did you find me? It was Jonte, wasn’t it? I knew he was up to no good. ‘I have to telephone Greta,’” she mimicked in Jonte’s low Swedish accent. “That dirty liar.”
She swung around and started to head down the next flight of stairs but stopped again. “You shouldn’t even be out! Dr. Moon told you to stay in bed today and rest. You’re probably tearing those damn stitches right back open, but you don’t even care, do you?” She waved dramatically at his side, squinting at his coat as if she were checking for blood. “And why do you smell like gum?”
“Velma came by the pier,” he said. “It’s one of her remedies. Speeds healing.”
And at the moment, it was itching terribly, so he supposed what Velma had told him about the wound knitting itself together was true. At least the pain was lessening.
Pale blue eyes blinked at him, big and round. “Are you feeling better?” she asked in a softer voice.
He nodded once. “Been worse. Good job with Mr. Haig. That was smart, tracking him down.”
Astrid shrugged off his compliment and descended the stairs at a brisk clip, fur-trimmed coat flying behind her like a cape. She passed the fourth floor and kept going.
He jogged to catch up. “In a hurry to get somewhere?”
“Maybe I am,” she said, lifting her chin.
“I see. Where would that be?”
Her mouth twisted up. She clutched the handbag dangling from her wrist and, instead of continuing her descent, made a sharp turn onto the third floor. Women’s dresses. She strode past a holly-decorated column to browse holiday gowns displayed on headless wirework mannequins.
He trailed behind her, sighing heavily. When she stooped to inspect the beads around a gown’s hem, he finally said what they were both surely thinking. “So . . . you went to see Sylvia this morning.” His voice sounded calm. He quickly wiped away the sweat blooming on his forehead while her head w
as turned.
“Uh-huh.” She stood and ran her fingers along the dress’s neckline.
“That must have been interesting.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Lots to talk about.”
“Uh-huh.” She squinted at the price marked on a hanging manila tag.
He tore off his hat and ran his hand over the crown of his head. “Why did you go to her?”
“I needed her help tracking down the captain. You always say telephone operators are . . . helpful.”
He didn’t like the way she enunciated “helpful.”
“So that’s all?” he pressed. “She just gave you the radio station address?”
“We may have discussed some other things”
Dammit. “If you wanted to know something, all you had to do was ask me. Have I ever held anything back when you’ve asked?”
She whipped around to face him, her face livid with anger. “No, but apparently I haven’t been asking the right questions, have I? Twins? At the same time?” She whacked him on the arm with her handbag. “What’s”—whack!—“the matter”—whack!—“with you?!”
When she reared back to hit him again, he grabbed the handbag. “Stop it.”
“I will not! How am I supposed to feel about that? Is this your typical Saturday night entertainment?”
“No! Jesus, Astrid!” Shoppers began watching them, so he lowered his voice and let go of her handbag. “That was not typical. That was absolutely a-typical. I’ve never done anything like that before, and damn sure haven’t done it since.”
“Not even two women, but”—she looked around, lowered her brow, and whispered hotly—“sisters? Honestly! That’s the most perverted thing I’ve ever heard.”
His coat suddenly felt like it was made of bricks; his shoulders dropped under the invisible weight. “I wasn’t even supposed to be there. Sylvia called me at the warehouse and caught me when I was about to head home. I’d just unloaded a shipment of rum and I was tired, but she made me feel guilty . . .”
“I’ll bet,” Astrid muttered beneath her breath as they waited for a nosy woman to pass. “Then what? They stuck a gun to your head when you walked in the door?”
“No.” Bo leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Sylvia was already half cut when I got there. Amy poured us all drinks. I had a couple.”
Oh God. Was he really telling her this? One look at her squared jaw and he wanted to race out of the store like a coward. He put his hat back on.
“I won’t lie. It was exciting—for all of ten minutes.”
“My, my. Virile and efficient. Aren’t you just the epitome of manhood.”
“The truth is, I didn’t actually go through with it, not with both of them. Only Sylvia. Amy was just . . . a bystander. Do you understand?”
“I don’t know if want to.”
“Look, I sobered up the minute it was over and couldn’t get out of there fast enough. It took months for Sylvia and me to get back to acting normal around each other and just be friends. And I haven’t so much as kissed her hand since—hers or anyone else’s. There’s been no one for years. Not. One. Single. Kiss. I swear it, Astrid.”
She considered this, her face softening slightly, but he could see her fighting it. He ducked his head lower to look into her eyes. She turned a haughty cheek toward him but didn’t pull away, so he spoke in her ear. “Can you say the same?”
The accusation vibrated between them. Her face twisted up. She tried to turn around, but he grabbed her shoulders. A nearby shopper gasped, and he looked up to see someone talking to a matronly store manager and nodding in their direction.
That’s all he needed, to get thrown in jail for accosting a blond woman in a department store. He grabbed Astrid’s hand and dragged her through round racks of clothes, behind the mannequins, searching for privacy. Three curtained doorways lined the wall, and a memory flashed back to him of Astrid’s naked body stepping from behind the changing screen.
He’d never been able to get that damned image out of his head.
Red curtains were drawn on two of the three fitting rooms. A white-haired attendant with a measuring tape draped around her neck was standing guard, waiting to help customers who needed tailoring. Someone called her, and she turned to answer. Seizing the moment, Bo pulled Astrid into the last fitting room and yanked the curtain closed.
It was spacious here, bigger than his own room back at the Magnussons’ home. Gilded floral wallpaper and two stuffed chairs circled a long mirror.
He released his grip, shook away the memory, and pinned her with his eyes. “Go on. Fair is fair. I told you about Sylvia and Amy. Now you tell me about Professor Luke.”
A low whine buzzed in the back of her throat as she backed away, heading toward the changing screen. “Bo . . .”
“Three months ago. You were practically bragging about it in your letters, throwing it my face! How do you think that made me feel? I prayed to every divinity in the universe that I was wrong—that nothing really happened. But now that I see your face, I know it’s true. You lost your virginity to a college professor you barely even knew!”
“I didn’t lose anything. It was mine to give.” She pointed a thumb at her chest. “My decision.”
“And you gave it to him? While I was stuck here, making myself sick imagining another man’s hands all over you?” And unable to do anything about it. He was angry now, remembering how impotent he’d felt. How panicked.
How devastated.
“I was trying to get over you!” she snapped.
A distant part of his brain raised a warning flag, but he ignored it and charged Astrid in two strides. “You will never get over me. Do you hear me? Never! You will never be free of me, because I won’t let you go. I will put a bullet in any man who touches you. I will go to jail for you. I will die for you. My ghost will haunt you from the grave.”
Her pupils expanded, black overtaking all but a ring of blue around the edges. Her breasts rose and fell rapidly. She made a tiny noise that his body recognized: surrender. A switch flicked inside his head. His ability to reason shut down. He flung an arm around her waist, roughly pulled her against him, and captured her mouth with his.
It was a punishing kiss, full of violence. And she gave it right back to him, digging her nails into his neck, knocking his hat off to grab the short hair at the back of his head. A fireball of lust rocketed through his body, tightening his balls and making him uncomfortably hard. He shifted his hold, grabbing handfuls of her coat to feel the swell of her buttocks beneath, and pulled her hips to his. He thrust against her below and licked into her mouth above. Trying to get closer. To get inside.
She let go of his hair, and he felt her hand dive between their crushed bodies a second before it palmed his erection through his pants. Her grip bordered on brutal. His cock was hot iron pressing against her possessive fingers. He groaned beneath her touch.
“No one else,” she whispered angrily against his lips. A threat and a vow.
He doubled her hand with his own to reinforce it for a moment, helping her hold him, and then released it to cup the curving mound between her legs through the fabric of her dress. The whimpering noise she made was intoxicating.
“No one else,” he whispered back.
Her hand slid away and she threw her arms around his neck. A second later, he was encouraging her legs to part and lifting her off the floor as she jumped upon him, thighs circling his hips, dress hiked up. He stumbled one step as she clung to him. Reached out for support and toppled the changing screen, which clattered to the floor with a muffled bang.
He winced at the sound, but Astrid just gave a little gasping laugh, her eyelids heavy with lust, breath coming fast. It only made him want her more. He walked her two steps to a single narrow shelf, knocked off a pincushion and a wooden hanger with one hand, and set her down with her back against the
wall.
She didn’t quite fit. Her coat was too bulky. He wanted it off. He wanted everything off. Wanted to take her right here, right now. Years of wanting could be erased in a blink. His mind and body roared for it. Demanded it. The intensity of his feelings was terrifying.
Trying to slow himself down, he slapped both hands on the wall to either side of her head and let his forehead drop against hers. His chest heaved. The stitches in his side protested. His cock ached.
“Astrid,” he begged, but he wasn’t quite sure what he wanted. For her permission? For her to stop him? For her to assure him that everything was going to be all right between them—that their passionate vows to each other weren’t empty promises?
“You belong to me, Ah-sing,” she whispered. “You have always belonged to me.”
His heart lifted right out of his chest and soared.
He dropped grateful kisses on her nose and eyelids, tasting kohl and the salt of her skin. He paid attention to everything, so that he could remember it later: the fluttering of her pulse when he pressed his lips to her temple, the warm promise between her legs as he nestled his erection against the silk of her chemise. The crack of the wooden shelf beneath her backside . . .
The shelf snapped off the wall.
She fell and pulled him down on top of her.
They tumbled to the floor with loud bang!
Everything hurt. He’d surely torn his stitches and ruined all the progress Velma’s poultice had made. But he really didn’t give a damn. He could bleed all over the floor as long as she was in his arms.
“Are you all right?” he asked, but she was already laughing, and that only made him want to kiss her again.
The fitting room’s heavy velvet curtain flew open. They turned their heads in unison to see the white-haired attendant, frumpy store manager, and three wide-eyed customers gaping at them.