Читать книгу The Griffin's Secret - Cate Masters - Страница 6

The inky midnight sky met the black strip of road somewhere ahead of Jackson Grant’s motorcycle like the mouth of hell waiting to gobble him up. He gunned the Harley and gritted his teeth. “I’m all yours.”

The scent of salty ocean spurred him toward the Atlantic shoreline. The speedometer needle twitched in its climb past ninety. He hunkered low against the bike—the only thing he loved that he could still hold. But sometimes surviving wasn’t necessarily the best option, or even a good one. Because sometimes, when fate or the universe or a sadistic ruling entity tried to steal everything a guy loved, he just had to throw his hands in the air and say fuck it all.

Jackson did. For one crazy instant, he was free. No more worry or sorrow. Nothing but right there, right then. With an uncommonly warm May air buffeting his face, he soared through the night. He’d almost forgotten how amazing happiness could be. He threw back his head and actually laughed.

“How dare you.” The familiar female voice boomed through the darkness and into his head.

Killjoy. He squeezed the handlebars and revved the engine faster. “Good-bye and good riddance.”

A sneering chuckle echoed, and lightning flashed, igniting the surface of the ocean. Each eruption of her malevolent mirth crackled through the deep sky, brilliant white neon veins crawling across midnight velvet. Her amusement grew into full-blown laughter, and the smooth dome overhead began to roil, dark clouds billowing like wild black horses at full gallop. Still, she laughed.

Sonofabitch. Could she never leave him alone? No matter how often he moved from one obscure town to another, she traced him.

“What’s so funny?” he yelled at the night.

Her raucous humor grew louder. So did the thunder.

To hell with this and to hell with her. “I said, what’s so funny, bitch?” A twist of his wrist nudged his speed higher, motorcycle engine screaming.

Out of nowhere, headlights blazed in his eyes, dazzling him to blindness. With mere seconds before he smashed against its grill, his precious Harley a permanent hood ornament, Jackson jerked the handlebars away from the oncoming vehicle’s path. Its horn blasted through his ears and vibrated through his skull. Darkness engulfed him as he plunged out of the intense spotlight. Still half-blind, he swerved to where he thought the road was. The front tire bumped and swiveled across gravel. The back tire slid from behind, coming around low to the front.

A screech split the night, brakes resisting the driver’s attempt to stop.

“No.” A thick, cold lump hardened in his stomach, and every muscled turned to steel as he braced for impact.

The truck veered sideways, a wall of white sliding right in front of him in slow motion.

Christ, she wouldn’t. Would she? Jackson barely had time to beg, “Don’t do this.” He pitched forward and held tight. The Harley’s rear wheel spun beneath the truck bed.

“Don’t you want to die?” Her laugh became louder and meaner.

“No. Not yet.” He released the handlebars, rolled off, and hit the ground seconds before the sickening crunch. Metal twisted with a groan, almost like an animal dying. Not again. Please.

Too late. As if to fend off its attacker, the Harley reared up and over. The truck slammed atop the bike, the visual of the crushing weight knocking the breath from Jackson as he scrambled backward, out of range. Springs creaked as the larger vehicle bounced along the motorcycle before the truck’s tires caught blacktop again and sped away.

“Wait, you can’t leave me here alone!” The night swallowed Jackson’s yell.

“Why should you have anything you love when you destroyed what I love?”

Wanting to tear her apart, he gulped back his fury. “I didn’t.” He thought he had no tears left to shed, but his cheeks were wet.

“You will live as long as I live. Suffer the same agony.” Her cackling swelled like a storm cloud.

Like he hadn’t paid enough? “I can’t go on like this.” He couldn’t take much more. At twenty-seven, he was bone weary of this world, but not quite ready to join the Twenty-Seven Club. Not before leaving his own mark on the music world. “Stop laughing!”

“I always laugh at fools. And you’re the biggest fool of all.”

He huffed another laugh, more bitter than hers. “For once, we’re on the same page.” Still didn’t help his current situation.

Out of alternative options, he pushed himself to his feet like he had always done. Pain shot up his leg, but he could still walk, so he limped to where the Harley lay. Handlebars and back wheel both bent, definitely not drivable but possibly pushable. Ignoring the sudden burn in his leg, he dragged the bike upward from the wreckage and shoved it down the road away from the mess, though he might have had more luck pushing an elephant up the stairs.

Had to be a sign. If it hadn’t already been crystal enough, now he saw the truth. He’d hit a dead end in his life. No more long, aimless rides in the dead of night. He’d spent too much time spinning his wheels with no direction, no destination.

Where the hell had he ended up anyway? He couldn’t remember which direction he’d ridden out of town. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. Somewhere down the road, the lights of the Jersey boardwalk beckoned in a flash of crazy colors, a surreal landmark standing out against the blackness.

Distant music mixed with an engine’s rumble grew louder as headlights approached. He curled his lip in disgust. She wants to go another round? Fine, come get me.

Instead, the approaching pickup chugged to a stop, the vehicle as ancient as the driver. The wizened, wiry old man smiled through the open window. The color of wet clay, his pointy, battered hat flopped over, wide brim shading his features. “Get in.”

Tempting. “I’m not leaving my bike.”

The old man climbed out in a flash. Before Jackson knew it, and despite the fact that he stood about as tall as the bumper, the guy opened the gate and drew down a wide wooden plank. He swept his hand in a there-you-go gesture.

Distrusting, Jackson still dragged the bike up the board, swaying beneath the weight. He propped the Harley against the side, then jumped down. “Thanks.”

The old man’s smile never wavered. A nod, and he shoved the board back into the truck bed and slammed the gate shut. He reappeared in the cab before Jackson reached for the door handle.

After clambering in, he kept a wary eye on the old man, whose constant, crooked-toothed smile gave Jackson the willies. “Kind of out of your way, aren’t you?” Elves normally didn’t travel this far from the forest. Or was he a wizard?

“I’m Grundy.” His long, gnarled fingers curled around the shifter and slammed into third gear.

So much for explanations. “Jackson Grant. I appreciate the lift. So what brings you out here?”

When he lifted his head, his clear sapphire eyes sparkled in the dashboard light. “I have work to do.”

Jackson tried to return the smile, but something about the way he said it made him more nervous. Like he was the bull’s-eye in Grundy’s target.

A song came on the radio. Mesmerizing, and he’d probably hum the tune for days. “What band is this?”

“You don’t recognize Malcontent, the most popular rock group in the world?” Grundy’s smile seemed to mock Jackson.

Malcontent? He’d heard the name somewhere. “I don’t listen to the radio much. I prefer to write my own songs.”

“Rightfully so.” Grundy nodded, downshifted, and steered into a parking lot.

Jackson hadn’t noticed the bar wedged among the line of junky shops and pizza joints until they pulled to a stop beneath the neon sign that read Last Chance. Real funny. “What are we doing here?”

The old man pocketed the keys. “An old friend’s coming to see you.”

He expelled a quick breath. “Do you always speak in riddles?”

“No riddle. You’ll soon see.” He climbed out. Spry as before, Grundy disappeared inside.

Jackson blew raspberries. What the hell, might as well, though he only had enough spare cash for maybe one beer. No one would bother the Harley, wrecked as it was. He followed and found Grundy at the bar. The girl behind the counter winked as she set down two mugs.

“Thanks.” He dug in his pocket for some coins.

Grundy laid gnarled fingers on his arm. “Save your money. You’ll need it.”

Another riddle. Jackson raised his mug. “Cheers.”

Someone slapped him on the back. “Hey, stranger.” Stepping around, Darius smiled at him. He was a leaner, meaner version of the guy Jackson used to jam with, playing dives like this one while the preppies and jocks went off to college. Now Darius had an edginess behind his pleasant expression, a sad, haunted look in his dark eyes, like he’d seen things too strange or awful to speak of.

“Hey, where have you been hiding?” Jackson stood for a quick bear hug.

“Hell, I think. But I escaped last week.” Darius beamed at him, then Grundy. “You two found each other. How crazy is that?”

Jackson was thinking maybe not so crazy after all. “Grundy saved me from a long night of walking. You know each other?”

“Old Grundy gave me this sweet ink.” Darius rolled his shirt up his back to reveal an intricate design of a phoenix rising from the ashes. “You called it, man.”

Whoa, expert craftsmanship on the ink. “Called what?” Jackson didn’t normally pry but Darius had piqued his curiosity.

“When I met Grundy, he took me to this very bar and said I was about to go down in flames but I shouldn’t worry. He said I’d rise above and start over. Everything would be better than before. And you were absolutely right.” Darius pointed at Grundy, then chugged the beer.

When did Darius join the ranks of the fanatics? Jackson stifled a wince. “Or maybe you unconsciously changed your life after you chose the phoenix tattoo.”

“I didn’t choose the design. Grundy did. He told me I needed this particular one.” Calm and cool, Darius acted sane even though his words were anything but.

Grundy laughed. “The ink chooses the person. I only embroider the tattoo.”

Jackson would hate to see the old man’s needle if he called his work embroidery. He angled toward him. “What design would you give me?”

“Whatever the ink commands.” Grundy smacked the beer foam from his lips. “Come to my shop and I’ll show you.”

Jackson shrugged. “Maybe sometime.”

Behind the ever-present smile, Grundy’s gaze turned steely. “Why not now?” He shelled out more than enough bills to cover the beer and hopped down.

“No time like the present.” Darius lightly punched his arm. “I’ll go along.” A jerk of his head, and he strode toward the exit.

“Great.” A party. “Look, I can’t afford a tat right now.”

“No payment necessary. Not to me anyway.” Grundy took off, zigging and zagging through the crowd.

Enough with the cryptic remarks. Hurrying to catch up, Jackson called after him, “Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

Grundy whirled and glared at him. “Your fate has come due, Jackson Grant.”

Despite the smile, the hardness of the old man’s stare cut through Jackson like a cold knife.

A gulp, and he nodded. “All right then.” Jackson wouldn’t back down. He knew he owed plenty. Paying his due would either relieve his burden, or kill him. Time to face the music.

* * * *

The jester face atop the whirling carousel laughed at Jackson as they walked past. The screams of the Tilt-a-Whirl riders provided an eerie, yet fitting soundtrack for this strange night. Thunderous pounding and muffled screeches sent a chill over Jackson as Grundy led them around the fun house, then down a dark alleyway. He took out a key that looked like something used in medieval times to unlock the tat shop, then flipped on a light. No sign marked the place, only a skull and crossbones painted in red on the glass door, and no other windows in the place.

Jackson entered last. “How do your clients find you?”

“I find them when the time is right.” Grundy’s head barely topped the counter as he passed it on the way to the right wall. He pointed out the griffin. “This one’s yours.”

Jackson shifted closer to peer at the detailed design. “I’ve seen that before.” But where? The creature had the head and wings of an eagle, the body of a lion. A regal beast composed of two kingly animals. Distinctive, fearsome, and so familiar.

Grundy amiably shook his head. “Impossible. I only use each once and then take them down from the wall.” He removed the sheet from its place. Despite the still air, the rest of the designs fluttered and shifted to fill in the gap. “After you, no one else will have the honor.” He pointed to the table in the center of the room. “Shirt off and lay on your belly.”

Jackson laughed. “I don’t even get to choose where I want the ink?”

“The griffin goes here.” Grundy pressed a finger to Jackson’s back.

Guess he couldn’t argue with free. He whipped the T-shirt over his head and stretched onto the table, ready to get the process finished.

Grundy fussed with his equipment, took his sweet time positioning a stool just so, then climbed up. He swiped a pad across a wide area of Jackson’s back and the sting of alcohol met Jackson’s nose.

Darius plopped onto a broken-down recliner and slung a leg over the arm. “So weird to run into you. I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

Probably thinking he wanted Jackson’s vintage Harley. “Why’s that?” And when would the old man get started? A whisper of cool air was the most he felt against his skin.

Picking at his fingernails, Darius rearranged himself in the chair. “I’ve had the strangest urge to tell you about the crazy roadie gig I worked. Only a few months. Then I escaped.”

Jackson shifted to see his friend better. “Escaped? What?” So he hadn’t joked about being in hell?

Grundy tsked. “Stay still.”

He stopped himself from asking why. Shouldn’t insult the old man, especially when he held sharp objects. Jackson wished he’d hurry the hell up.

“Seriously, man.” Darius sat forward, knee bobbing. “This dude is insane.”

“Really.” So about the same as every other rocker out there.

“I don’t know how I got away alive. Worst job of my life.”

The grittiness in his friend’s voice convinced Jackson the guy believed his own story. Not that Darius’s conviction provided irrefutable proof. “What made it so awful?”

Darius gave an empty laugh. “Oh, I guess because he was a loony-tune rock star, a supreme megalomaniac, a homicidal motherfucker who insisted no one touch his guitar. Or his girl.” He glanced behind him toward the door.

Paranoid? Maybe his friend had gotten into other things during his gig.

Jackson tried not to laugh. “Doesn’t sound so crazy.”

The haunted look returned to Darius’s eyes. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” He whispered the last words, “Until he had a roadie killed for violating his rule.”

Yeah, big difference. “Killed? How?”

Darius jerked his neck. “That was the worst part. He had the other roadies do his dirty work.”

“Either he pays really well, or the roadies are loyal as hell.”

Darius flicked his gaze up, then away. “He cast a spell over them. They had no choice.”

Something had definitely spooked Darius. “What’s the name of the band?”

“Malcontent.”

The catchy song he’d heard in the truck, the earworm he couldn’t get out of his head. A shiver coursed over Jackson and he stole a peek at Grundy, whose smile widened as he nodded. Not that Jackson needed further proof this whole scene had somehow been a setup. Pointing the way ahead for him.

Resigned, Jackson asked, “Where is he now?”

“West somewhere.”

“Where your destiny awaits. With the setting sun.” Grundy tapped his shoulder and descended to the floor.

The old wizard was taking a break already? Jackson wanted to leave. “Where are you going?”

“I’m finished.”

“You can’t be done already.” Jackson had expected to lay there for hours. He strained to see over his shoulder and caught sight of a splash of color.

Grundy jerked his head at the wide mirror on the wall. “Check for yourself.”

Jackson slid his feet to the floor and swaggered over, reluctant to view the fresh ink. He turned, and his mouth gaped. “Amazing. How did you…?” No one worked that fast. No human, at least.

Grundy arched a brow.

The tattoo weighed on him like a separate entity. A stone. A compass pointing west. “The setting sun, huh?”

Grundy’s slow nod confirmed it.

“Must be the direction I need to head.”

Darius shot to his feet. “No way. Don’t go anywhere near him.”

“Not,” Grundy said, “without these.” He pressed something into Jackson’s palm.

He opened his hand to reveal a bracelet of thick strands of woven silver. Beside it was a silver charm with an intricate design of a griffin and shaped like a guitar tuner. “Jewelry? Seriously?”

“A teman bracelet woven in the tulang naga pattern.” When Jackson’s brow remained furrowed, Grundy said, “Teman is the Java word for friend. Like the silver itself, the dragon-bone weave is strong protection against evil.”

Jackson tried not to wince. “You’re hinting my destiny has something to do with evil?”

A shrug. “You are certain to encounter it in some form.”

Darius wagged his finger at him. “Especially if you go to work for Malcontent. I got away, but you might not. Listen to me, man. My life flipped from horrible to amazing after I left.”

“Just like your tat predicted.” Maybe there was something to the idea after all. Jackson lifted the silver griffin and examined it. “What’s this for?”

Grundy put away his tools. “The griffin likewise protects against black magic.”

“Then why do I need this?” He dangled the silver chain.

“Wear it. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.”

Tired of fighting fate and every obstacle it threw in his path, Jackson fastened the bracelet onto his wrist and pocketed the griffin. “Only one thing left to do.”

“I’ll drive you.” The jingle of Grundy’s keys sounded like the sweet music of freedom.

At Jackson’s efficiency, the three of them made short work of boxing up his few belongings. Essentials, he tossed into a duffel bag. Everything he owned fit neatly into the back of the truck, a pathetic statement on his shallow life.

Grundy recommended his friend’s storage facility. “It’s late, but he’ll open up for me.”

“Let me guess,” Jackson said. “He owes you?”

Grundy only smiled, but sure enough, the owner sleepily handed over a key.

After stowing the few boxes, his guitar, and the mangled Harley in a unit, Jackson secured the lock. His heart broke leaving them behind.

“Take it easy, Darius. Thanks for everything, Grundy.” He climbed out of the truck cab and shut the door.

“Stay well, Jackson Grant.” A wave, and Grundy drove away. Darius’s worried face faded behind the passenger window.

Jackson watched the truck grow smaller. Someday he hoped to see the old man again. For now, he strode to the highway and stuck out his thumb. A trucker pulled over and asked where he was headed.

“As far west as I can go.” Starting tonight, he’d forge a new path, one leading away from here and away, finally, from this mess of a life. As much as he loved what his past contained, it was forever out of his reach. Whatever his future held, he intended to grab hold and not let go.

* * * *

Outside the bus window, the world flew by. Layla wished she could reach through the glass beside her bunk and catch the scenery like a butterfly, hold it for a little while to examine all the detail. The real colors, vivid and alive, not muted by the tinted glass. If only the rest of the world could see in as well as she could see out, she might not feel so isolated.

A futile wish, so she released the thought. After rummaging through her small bookshelves above the mattress, she found the sketch pad and began to draw a butterfly. She hummed a song she’d been composing in her mind. A haunting melody she couldn’t forget, yet couldn’t quite figure out the rest.

“Don’t waste too much, love.” The low voice held menace.

She shut her eyes against the unspoken message. Why did so many beg to hear that harsh voice? Who could fall for such a cold man? Loving him would be a terrible waste. Every concert was the worst sort of torture for her.

She made her tone airy and careless. “There’s always more.” Unfortunately. Otherwise, she could go her separate way.

“I said save your energy.” Mal’s words clipped the air.

She sighed. The bus had every luxury except privacy. Next time, she’d remember to draw the flimsy curtain shut. “Fine.” She kept sketching but stopped humming. Out loud, anyway. The melody continued in her head.

He leaned his elbows along the rail. “You just can’t know the absolute thrill of standing center stage.” Like his voice, his features had softened. “The energy of the people pulsing through me, their love flowing to me.” Long hair to his shoulders, his pale blue eyes sparkled as he smiled dreamily. “Holding them captive with each strum.”

No small thanks to her. And if he had his way, she’d never experience the same thrill. “You mean captivated, don’t you?”

His shrug dismissed her argument, then he winced. “What’s the difference? Why must you dwell on petty semantics?”

His mood swings never surprised her anymore. True to his name, Mal couldn’t sustain a pleasant mood for long.

She kept sketching. “No reason.” Except the difference lent a critical distinction to his motive. Pleasing the audience or owning them. He’d almost had her believing he cared about someone other than himself.

A dangerous mistake.

“I’m bored.” Yawning, Mal scratched his belly, thin as the rest of him, and much less awe-inspiring than his costumed stage persona. “I’m going back to bed.”

She waited until he’d shuffled to the rear of the bus and closed the narrow door behind him, then set aside her pad and pencil and slid her feet from the bunk to the floor. She walked to the front where Fred strummed his guitar on the plush cushions, shaved head bent low.

At her approach, he looked up and grinned. “I loved your song, even if he didn’t.”

Too bad no one else would ever hear it. “Play me something sweet.” She closed her eyes and listened to the soft notes he drew from the strings, exactly the kind of soothing music she needed. When he finished after a few minutes, she exhaled slowly. “Divine. And you needed no one’s help.”

Fred cradled the instrument to his chest, concern in his hazel eyes. “Why don’t you go rest? Tomorrow night will be here all too soon.”

Like she needed the reminder. “Tomorrow night and the next and the next. When will it end?”

The guitarist gave a lopsided smile. “Hopefully never. Or at least, not for a long time.”

“Don’t say that.” The very thought sapped her will. After five years of touring with Malcontent, the concerts had begun to blur together, each one the same as the last.

False pleasantries abandoned, Fred met her gaze. “Sorry. I know this life isn’t always fun for you.”

The only one of them who treated her like a living, breathing person. She treasured their conversations, however infrequent. Fred’s soft-spoken kindness acted like a healing balm to her soul, and she couldn’t ruin what small friendship they had by constantly bringing him down. “I love the music. I love life on the road.” If she didn’t spend all her free time in virtual exile on the bus, she wouldn’t mind traveling one bit.

Except for Mal. No one loved him except Mal himself, and the confined quarters strained everyone’s nerves.

Fred grinned. “Your grandfather would be so proud of you.”

Her heart squeezed. “He wouldn’t have been able to stay in the same room with me. What I do is a joke, a mockery of music.” Nothing like his artistic genius.

“No way. You’re—”

“Please don’t try and make me feel better.”

Guitar in hand, he rose. “I’d better get some shut-eye. You should, too.”

She hid her loneliness behind a smile. “I will. Soon.”

He shuffled to the back of the bus.

And as soon as she could manage it, sleep wouldn’t be her only means of escaping an existence she could hardly tolerate. Funny, how many people would do anything to get on board this enclosed hell, and all she wanted to do was get the hell off.

Snuggled under the warm cover, she instinctively reached for the iPad. She’d convinced Mal to get her one so she could watch videos. Research and study, she’d told him, but she was fairly certain he knew otherwise. Sometimes, Mal dropped the bastard persona, but not often enough.

A touch brought up YouTube. Another few strokes, and a list of videos appeared. She tapped Jimi Hendrix’s “Hey Joe” and settled low against the pillows. His intensity never failed to captivate her. The movements of his fingers seemed deliberate, yet amazingly free, dancing along the neck and strings of the white Fender Stratocaster. When he raised the strings to his mouth and plucked them with his teeth, and then flipped the guitar behind his head and still played every note perfectly, goose bumps raised on her skin. Musical genius at its finest. Jimi had no need of magic. He’d given this performance before meeting the woman who’d introduced him to other musical powers and then cursed him in a jealous rage.

So tragic, to have lost a great talent so young. At least he’s free now.

Unlike Layla, who suffered like her mother and grandmother had before her. Soon, she would break free of these bonds. Very soon. With no boundaries, who knew how far up she could go? So high, she could kiss the sky.

But heights such as those could be dangerous. Mal was living proof.