Grim Shadows

FOURTEEN

LOWE’S LEGS WEAKENED AS he gaped at the impossible creature that had landed on the bracketed cornice above the house’s entrance.

Like the Sphinx, it had a feline body, albeit more the size and shape of an alley cat than some majestic lioness. But its head was that of a hawk—curved beak, beady gold eyes. And it had enormous, feathered brown wings that were gilded at the tips.

A giant cat with wings. Or a giant bird with paws.

He must’ve inhaled some of the bone ash.

But the ragged screech that blasted from the open beak of the beast wasn’t an illusion. And neither were the terrified shouts circling around him. Part of him wanted to join them.

Only one voice was calm. Firm. Steady. And it said, “A griffin.”

He darted a glance at Hadley.

“Chimera,” she elaborated. “Mythical beast.”

“Egyptian?” he choked out.

“Maybe the canopic jar was warded with some sort of magic.”

“Magic,” he repeated. The Davidsons were running into Gloom Manor with Mr. Farnsworth. Perhaps Hadley and he should be doing the same.

Hadley wasn’t paying attention. Her calm and collected scholar’s gaze was fixated on the fantastical creature flapping its wings on the roof. “Or perhaps the crossbars are cursed, and that’s why my mother—”

The griffin took flight, diving toward them like a fallen angel. The wings weren’t just gilded; they were covered in golden symbols. Dozens. Hundreds. God, never mind all that—the thing was fast as lightning. Beak and claws, fur and feather, it all rushed through the air behind a disarming screech.

At the last moment, he shoved Hadley behind him. He hadn’t realized he’d drawn his dagger until the beast was on him. He struck out blindly, shielding his face as it swooped past. A slash connected with flesh—real flesh that oozed blood. Real fur. Horribly real stink of something foul and putrid. Something dead and rotting and rancid.

Something from the grave.

He swung around to track it. The griffin made a massive, arcing turn in the air before coming at them again.

Jesus! Nowhere to go. And trying to stab it midflight was like fishing in the air with no line. “Get behind me!” he shouted at Hadley, but not soon enough. The thing was on them again, and this time Lowe spied golden claws extending from its paws.

He threw himself over Hadley’s head and struck out at the incoming attacker. No hit with the dagger, but his hand knocked against a furry rib cage. Wings flapped. The beast struggled. And for a moment there was nothing but the stench of death and an ear-piercing squawk like a goddamn Harpy—so loud, he barely heard Hadley cry out when the bird swooped away.

“It took the crossbar!” She flailed against him and they stumbled to their feet. Her left glove was slashed.

In a panic, Lowe spun around to find the griffin flapping furiously against the palm tree. Either Lowe’s blow had set him off balance, or whatever dark magic powered the creature was having trouble managing the weight of the crossbar. But sure enough, from the grip of his brown beak, a rod of gold flashed.

Gold worth about as much as his life, because without it, he had nothing.

Lowe raced for the griffin, not sure if it was out of his reach yet or what he’d do if it was. But something changed when he was still several strides away. The griffin was losing his battle with gravity. It was making horrific sounds, flapping and throwing itself against the palm tree’s ringed bark, as if it were wrestling an invisible foe or swarmed by furious bees.

The crossbar dropped from its mouth.

Lowe swiped it off the lawn and backed away. The beast was still going down. Maybe the damn thing was going to explode like a magical bomb. Best not chance it.

“Run!” he told Hadley, grabbing her hand as he darted into the street. Where was the damned taxi? Did he not pay the man to wait, for the love of God?

Hadley pointed across the road. “There!”

He couldn’t shove her into the backseat fast enough. He slammed the door behind him and looked out the back window, rubbing away condensation from the pane until he could see the dark shape of the griffin writhing at the base of the palm.

“You got it?” Hadley asked.

He opened his hand and showed her the crossbar before pocketing it.

“I thought you said the first rule was ‘never run.’”

“I said never take the back door. You okay? Did it break skin?”

She tugged her glove off. “No. Just feels like there might be a bruise later.”

He pulled her arm closer to inspect her hand. At the last moment, he remembered not to touch her and awkwardly withdrew, mumbling an apology. The look on her face was indeterminable. Hurt, wary, panicked? He had no idea.

“Go, please,” he told the driver.

Dark eyes stared back at him in the rearview mirror. Now that was a panicked look. No telling how much the poor man had seen. “Where to?”

Where? Good question. Would the griffin revive itself and fly its rotting feline corpse around the city until it found them again? Regardless, he had to get the crossbar to a safe place.

On a sigh, Lowe collapsed against the seat. Dark blood tipped his blade. “Just get us off this damned hill as fast as you can. I’ll decide once we’re back in civilization.”

• • •

LaZy SuZan’s Automat was a café in North Beach that billed itself as San Francisco’s only “European Electric Self-Serving Kitchen.” Hand-lettered signs declared: NO WAITING. NO TIPPING. OPEN DAILY FROM SIX A.M. TIL MIDNIGHT.

While Lowe hunted a public telephone, Hadley found them an empty café table next to the expansive front window. She removed her coat and surveyed the far wall, where lunchtime crowds peered inside the glass doors of hundreds of tiny metal compartments, each fitted with a coin slot. Signs above indicated what was served: soups, hot meals, sandwiches, cakes, and pies. Coins went in, door popped open, food was taken. No servers, no hostess—a couple of uniformed employees cleaned tables as others bussed trays of dishes back and forth to the hidden kitchen.

“The temptation of unlimited food with the allure of slot machines,” Hadley said when Lowe returned with a tray loaded down with slices of pie and two steaming cups. He’d actually remembered to get her tea and not coffee. “How charming.”

He pulled a chair around the small round table until he had a better view of the window. A little too close for Hadley’s comfort, especially when he paused in the middle of doling out silverware, eyes trained on the front of her dress. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered that he’d noticed she’d removed her coat, or embarrassed. But she’d worn the damn dress, hadn’t she?

He cleared his throat. “You’ve never eaten here?”

“I don’t often find myself patronizing North Beach establishments,” she said, eyeing the unmarked entrances across the street. Speakeasies. Gambling. Jazz.

“The Gris-Gris Club is right across the street—see that covered door on the side road? My brother met his wife there. Nice place. I’ll take you sometime.”

A nervous thrill surged inside her chest. He probably was just making conversation. “A nightclub,” she scoffed, as if it was the silliest thing she’d ever heard. “Might be hard to dance when you’re being attacked by flying cats.”

“Been almost an hour,” Lowe said, snapping his pocket watch shut. “Maybe we’re in the clear. Try this.” He slid a wedge of pale yellow pie in her direction. “Meyer lemon. Don’t tell me you hate lemon or we can’t be friends.”

“I love any kind of pie. I have a terrible sweet tooth.” After he dove into his, she took a bite. Tart, sweet, and cool. “It’s delicious. Is this your usual lunch?”

“Lately, it’s been whatever I’m in the mood for. I ate a lot of godawful food on the excavation. Every once in a while, we’d have something local that surprised me—the coffee was excellent—but mostly we ended up relying on tinned goods. But since I got back, I’ve been eating my way through all the things I’ve missed.” He nodded at her plate and smiled. “Go on.”

He’d already stuffed her full of mints, and now he was practically shoving the pie down her throat. She took another bite, then another, suddenly famished, before she noticed Lowe staring at her face. “What?”

A wolfish smile slowly lifted his cheeks. “Nothing. I just enjoy watching you eat.”

“Well, I do, you know. Everyone always tells me I need to eat more, but I’m not some picky birdlike eater. My metabolism’s high, or I’m just built this way, I don’t know.”

His gaze pored over her like sticky syrup. “I like the way you’re built.”

A vulnerable heat spread down her body. And to her great horror, her nipples tightened, bawdily prodding the thin fabric of her dress. She slowly set her fork down and crossed her arms over her breasts. When had he slung an arm around the back of her chair? She gave him a cross look, and he removed it.

“My guy is on his way. Before he gets here, maybe we need to take a good look at this.” He glanced around and scooted his chair closer to hide what he laid on the table between them. “Too close?” he murmured near her ear. “I won’t touch you again, I promise.”

It sounded as though he meant it. Good. A relief. And at the same time muddily disappointing. Flustered, she took a sip of her tea, nearly scalding her lips—why in the world was it so damned hot?—and then promptly attempted to quiet her bouncing emotions.

“Are you counting again?” he whispered.

“I’m fine.” She exhaled and slid a quick glance his way. “Really.”

He lifted both brows but didn’t push her. Whatever his faults, he had a knack for knowing when to stand down. Without another word, he unwrapped the handkerchief between their plates. Hadley stared down at it, grateful for the distraction.

The gold crossbar was startlingly bright in the gray light filtering in through the window. A conservative design bordered the front, and a small mechanism protruded from the bottom, presumably used to attach the bar to the base. Odd symbols were embossed into the back.

“Looks like a match to me,” she said.

“Agreed.” He rewrapped the crossbar.

But something else bothered her. “If the griffin was a magical construct, where was the spell?”

“The spell that released it, or brought it to life, you mean?”

“Yes. The crossbar wasn’t housed inside any sort of wrapping when I found it, so the logical assumption would be that there was some sort of spell written on the inside of the urn.”

“None of the canopic paintings showed additional symbols inside the jars, but maybe there was a spell scribbled on a piece of paper that was stashed with the crossbar. Could’ve fallen onto the lawn and we just didn’t spot it.”

“True, but regardless, why didn’t my mother warn me about this?”

“She did mention the crossbars were dangerous,” Lowe argued. “It wasn’t attacking us—it wanted the crossbar.”

“Protecting it. A final magical safety net, perhaps.”

He propped his forearms against the edge of the table and leaned forward. “Seems odd that a griffin would guard the jackal-headed jar. Why not the falcon-headed one, Qebehsenuef?”

“I agree. If my mother was so meticulous about all the other details, why was she sloppy about that?”

“Especially when she could’ve buried the crossbars in a field and been done with it.”

“Precisely. Details were important to her. The game was important. The magic doesn’t seem to fit.”

“And now we don’t know what to expect if we find another one of the pieces. Another magical guardian? Maybe I need to listen to Winter and start carrying a gun.”

Whatever made him feel better. At least she knew the Mori specters could take down the griffin. “I’m more concerned about where to look for another piece.”

“I contacted someone this morning about death records. He’s going to see what he can pull together. Hopefully he’ll have it for me in a couple of days.”

Oh.

“I wasn’t trying to hide it,” he argued. “We talked about this last night.”

“But when were you going to tell me? And while we’re on the subject, who is this man we’re meeting? How do I know you aren’t handing the crossbar off to someone who’ll melt it down and sell it for gold?”

Lowe swigged his coffee. “Because the amulet pieces can’t be destroyed, for one.” He set his cup down and gave her a look weighted with a calm intensity. “And sometimes you just have to let go and trust people.”

“Easier to do when the person you’re trusting is principled.”

“I’ve got more principles than you’d imagine.” He leaned closer and spoke in a low voice. “Besides, you think keeping dark secrets isn’t the same as lying? Maybe we’ve got more in common than you want to admit.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Too long. The heat she’d felt minutes before washed over her again.

“I want to be kept informed of your progress with the death records,” she said, pulling the plate of pie closer. “Perhaps we should exchange telephone numbers.”

And after they’d done so, he’d agreed—promised—to contact her the minute he got the list. And with that out of the way, they finished their sweet meal in silence until Lowe waved to someone through the window.

The front door opened and a halo of dark curls bounded into the automat. A toddler. Very pretty, with a plump face grinning above a coat buttoned to her chin. She flew into Lowe’s arms, and he lifted her into his lap, smiling just as big.

“Stella,” he said. “My favorite girl. All healed up from your fall?”

The girl didn’t respond, but when he bit the tip of her nose, she opened her mouth and grinned some more.

Hadley glanced up at the man approaching the table. He had the same dark hair as the girl and was dressed in a plain suit and coat. A pleasant face. Kind.

“Got here quick,” Lowe said to the man.

“Streetcar was almost empty, and we were already on our way out to the Japanese Tea Garden.”

“To see the koi fish?” Lowe asked the girl, waving his hand like a fish tail swimming through water.

She nodded.

“If the weather holds, that is,” the man said. “Might rain.”

Lowe poked his head around Stella’s curls. “Hadley Bacall, this is Adam Goldberg.”

She stood. He was a few inches shorter than her, but many men were. She started to hold out her hand to shake, but realized her gloves were in her coat pocket, ruined by the griffin’s beak. She canted her head instead. “A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Goldberg.”

“Adam, please, and you, as well.” Between two blinks, his gaze discreetly swept up and down her figure. “Lowe’s mentioned you.”

“Has he?”

“You’re the curator.”

“Yes.” She gestured toward a seat. “Won’t you join us?”

He hung his hat and sat next to Lowe as the girl looked up at Hadley. “This is Stella, my daughter.”

“Hello,” she said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

The girl didn’t respond.

Hadley was terrible with children. She tried again. “What’s that you have in your hand? A windup cat?”

No answer.

Her father spoke in her stead. “Lowe brought it back from Egypt.” He turned to Lowe and said, “All week, it’s been either the cat or Raggedy Ann.”

“Farbror Lowe did a good job, ja?” He wiggled the cat before speaking to Hadley. “Adam and I are old friends. We grew up together.”

“And you work together now?”

“On occasion,” Adam said.

“What exactly do you do, if I may ask?”

Adam’s eyes flicked toward Lowe’s. “Whatever harebrained thing he needs me to do.”

Lowe turned Stella around in his lap to face the table. “In my family’s business, it pays to have trustworthy people to make things disappear for short amounts of time. Think of Adam as the troll under the bridge.”

“Troll?”

“Dragon!” Lowe said with a merry chuckle. “I meant a dragon guarding treasure.”

“Better.”

“Anyway, he keeps things safe. He’s holding on to the base already. He’s agreed to stash all of it.” Lowe slid the handkerchief-wrapped crossbar across the table. “Just as we discussed.”

A thousand doubts went through Hadley’s mind. Where did this man live? Where was he “stashing” the amulet pieces? What was stopping him from selling them off to someone else?

Lowe’s thigh knocked against hers. “Your father told me to keep them safe. Adam is very, very careful. And ten times more trustworthy than me.”

She gave Lowe a sidelong look.

“Okay, a thousand times more trustworthy.”

“That’s better.”

Adam laughed. “She already knows your con artist ways.”

“Oh, I think there’s another word for the kind of artist he is,” she said, suppressing a smile. “And it starts with bull.”

The men’s hearty laughter surprised her. Stella, as well, who grinned along with them like she was in on the joke. Hadley glanced at the windup cat on the table.

“I have a cat, too,” she told the girl. “He’s black, just like yours.”

The girl still didn’t answer.

“She can’t hear,” Lowe said in quiet voice.

A prickling, warm embarrassment trickled through Hadley as she looked between Lowe and the girl’s father. “I’m . . .” What? So sorry for the father? For the girl? Making a faux pas?

“She’s an excellent lip-reader, though,” Lowe said, smiling down at the girl. “And she’s learning how to use sign language.”

“Mostly she’s learning to stomp her foot and shake her head,” Adam said, giving Hadley a kind smile she didn’t quite feel she deserved. Stella banged the cat on the table and made a gruff noise. “Like that,” Adam said. “My wife passed a couple years back, so it’s just the two of us. She could probably stand to learn some feminine manners.”

“Absolutely not,” Lowe said, winding up the black cat. “Feminine manners are overrated. You stomp your foot all you want, sötnos.”

A rush of emotions welled in Hadley—tenderness for the father and his daughter. Pity, too. And something else: a nagging envy for the easy companionship and bond Lowe shared with these people, and a longing to have the same.

Watching Lowe hold the small girl tore something loose inside Hadley. This was real and good. He cared about them. Trusted them—and they trusted Lowe.

And for no real logical reason, she decided at that moment, she trusted him, too.