Moonvine: Gold Blood Prophesy

By K.J. Devoir

From Best Selling in "erotic horror" and "vampire suspense" KJ Devoir's Moonvine includes books 1-4 of the ongoing Gold Blood Prophesy series.

Psycho gets the girl.

Leena Sperling has fallen into darkness. Darkness has a name...

ZAND BYRON

 

He's larger than life. He's also a deeply dangerous, twisted soul, a textbook psychopath. But, somehow...she makes him feel.

"You can run, Leena. But I will find you."

Leena: When I arrived to the City of Souls, the tiny cemetery town wrapping the Bay Area foothills where Moonvine Manor is located, I had no idea what to expect or how insane my life would become after moving into the former, Queen Anne, funeral home that belonged to my missing sister. I should have known that being greeted by a tombstone-shaped granite welcome sign was either a sick joke or a bad omen. But I could never have predicted that I would fall in love with the darkness.

 

Zand: I don't want to ever stop making her cry. Her tears are full of human feelings, and I love the taste. She makes me feel, but part of me wants to end the human in her that brings out the human in me. In a heartbeat, I could make her nightmares infinitely darker. I'm a bad man, trying to be good.

*This is a dark, gothic romance. Check TW (trigger warnings) in Author's Note of book!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gothika Books
• Release date: Mar 13, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224562565

Book preview

Moonvine

DARK ROMANCE PNR THRILLER

GOLD BLOOD (1-4)

K.J. DEVOIR

Gothika Books Gothika Books

Copyright © 2024 by K.J. Devoir

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This contemporary romance is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. This e-book is licensed for your personal use only. This e-book may not be resold.

Contents

Author’s Note

Prologue

Part I

1. Inheritance

Leena

2. Outsider

Zand

3. Nightrider

Leena

4. Dark Beauty

Zand

5. Watcher

Leena

6. Widow’s Peak

Leena

7. I’m Dead

Rachel

City of Souls

8. Blood

Leena

9. Keys

Leena

10. Le Morte

Rachel

11. Blorgans

Rachel

12. Deep

Rachel

13. Relics

Rachel

14. Forbidden

Rachel

15. Muse

Zand

16. Haunted

Leena

17. Dark Triad

Leena

18. Vampire

Rachel

Blood Tunnels

19. Black Lace

Leena

20. Psycho

Leena

21. Tomb

Rachel

22. Burial

Rachel

23. Sadness

Leena

24. Elder

Zand

25. Trauma Bond

Leena

26. Bound

Leena

Part II

27. Ashes

Leena

28. Blood Donor

Rachel

29. Coven

Zand

30. Feeling

Leena

31. Anything

Zand

32. Bitten

Leena

33. Slave Girl

Rachel

34. Blood Vow

Templar

35. Sad Fuck

Leena

36. Mercy

Zand

37. Blood Art

Leena

Sex & Blood

38. Secret Way

Leena

39. Young Blood

Zand

40. Slaver

Templar

41. Claimed

Rachel

42. Anhkar

Zand

43. Dark Knight

Leena

44. Kindred

Rachel

45. Traitors

Templar

46. Sisters

Leena

47. Lovers

Zand

Part III

48. Treacherous

Leena

49. Gold Blood

Templar

50. Post Trauma

Leena

51. Dacian

Leena

52. Mind Game

Rachel

53. Keys

Zand

54. Haunted

Leena

55. Spies

Zand

56. Forbidden

Rachel

57. Twins

Leena

58. Dolls

Templar

59. Dinner Guest

Zand

60. Intruder

Rachel

61. Portal

Leena

62. Coven

Zand

63. Coup

Zand

64. Prisoners

Leena

65. Huntress

Rachel

66. Unhuman

Leena

67. Human

Zand

Part IV

68. Board Walk

Templar

69. Dhampir

Leena

70. All Better

Leena

71. Craving

Zand

72. Immortal

Rachel

73. Enemies

Zand

74. Dissonance

Leena

75. Bad for Her

Zand

76. Good for Him

Leena

77. Traitor

Rachel

78. Phantom

Leena

79. Revenge

Templar

80. Prisoner

Leena

81. Pawn

Rachel

82. Dying

Leena

83. Déjà vu

Rachel

84. Nightmare

Leena

Epilogue

Part V

85. Ophelia

Zand

Xavier Layne’s Story

Coming Soon

Also By

About the Author

kjdevoir.com

Author’s Note

Zand and Leena’s story is a dark, erotic gothic horror romance that contains graphic content: violence, gore, and explicit sexual scenes, including dubcon/noncon, blood play, and knife play.

Follow/Subscribe & gain early access to my WIPs, bonus stories, exclusive Swag, coupons, giveaways, extended editions, & more! https://reamstories.com/kjdevoir

Prologue

He’s so fucking twisted.

His voice is low and purring when he tells me that he likes the sound of my whimpering. The psycho cat caught himself a little birdie and can’t stop licking his razor-sharp chops.

I know I made a big mistake; I let myself believe in lies. Even the eyes of a predator can demonstrate something resembling love, but it’s more a dark, ravenous, insatiable need.

His need, his possession, became the antidote to my isolation.

But he is the cause of that isolation. His depravity consumed everything in its wake, whittling away at those dear to me and then squashing my will until there was only vulnerability—raw, painful, and bleeding. Like a hole in the heart slowly draining.

That’s when he finally got me. That’s when I begged.

He likes it when I beg.

Down here in the dark, dank tomb, I can feel the shadowed spirit of death lingering in the cold air around me. I try so hard not to panic, but the sinking pit in my gut has a mind of its own, and I can’t stop shaking. Nobody can hear if I scream or cry out in agony. Knowing this makes the pain worse—bottled, pressurized, crushing. Nobody can hear me but him.

Part One

HIS TO HAUNT

Inheritance

LEENA

More dead than living.

The unseen ocean is beyond a big highway, across a stretch of fields, over cliffs. The scent of it on the fog brings back happier memories. I haven’t visited the beach since I was a kid. My sister Rachel was still with us then. We’d jump the smaller waves and ride the big ones, pretending we were mermaids.

Today, the only thing I’m swimming in is a sea of tombstones that wind the base of the mountain chain to my right. They call it a cemetery town—a fucking cemetery town! There are more graveyards than houses, with the occasional little brick floral shop offering condolences in the rolling sea fog.

Even the welcome sign looks like a gravestone, a round-topped slab of rough granite sticking up from the ground in mulch with plain, bold font: Welcome to Moonvine.

Being welcomed here feels like a bad omen, just like it was for Rachel, but I must stay positive. Stop thinking; just drive.

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, the fake diamonds wrapping it cut into my palms, probably leaving red, scaley marks. Kimmie got me the cover for my twenty-second birthday this summer. It’s cute in a flashy, Kimmie sort of way.

I consciously loosen my grip a tad. Navigating this steeply narrow road after driving five hours through the California desert with nothing but four-forty air conditioning and Mom’s random staccato gasping when I hit the brakes, I’m about ready to pull over, and rip the thing off, give my hands a break. I’m sure Kimmie would understand.

We’ve always been the type of besties who balance each other with our differences. She is the energetic fire sign; I am the moody water sign. She went to beauty college and is working on opening a spa. I went into psychology. She’s the classic extrovert: creative, messy, and open to new experiences. An introvert, I’m classified as a conscientious personality. I’m organized, thoughtful, and reticent about change.

But now we’ve done a one-eighty. I’m changing the script by moving away. This relocation is about a hundred miles between us, which isn’t changing soon.

The cemetery ends, followed by another floral shop and another graveyard. Does it ever end?

When I first heard about my surprise inheritance, I looked up Moonvine online. The little historical town borders Colma, which was never supposed to be a civilization but a literal necropolis where all of San Francisco buried its dead—the Gold Rush dead, the plague dead, the earthquake dead, millions of dead with very few above-ground inhabitants. The Silent City. The City of Souls.

Even the original San Francisco graves were relocated here, which accounts for the abandoned tombstones being repurposed in strange places, used as gutters and sea walls, and otherwise scattered about. The tombs of those who couldn’t afford to have their bit of stone moved with the remains of their deceased destined for a mass, unmarked grave.

This is a disturbing thought, especially considering the local legends about the walking dead and vampires mentioned as a side note in the article I read. The article included a disclaimer claiming the journalist couldn’t resist making a dig, and no pun intended.

A wind gust sways my car around a sharp turn, and the pockets of fog rearrange into a disorienting patchwork. I swerve to miss a branch but fail with a miserable thunk. Damn! Eyes clinging to the strip of road visible through the low clouds, I resist glancing to my right. If Mom were awake, I’d know. I couldn’t drive slow enough to please her the whole way here.

When she finally dozed off, it was pedal-to-the-metal time. If only I could have listened to my music, the trip would have flown by.

After slowing the vehicle around a sharp turn, the fog begins to break, the evening sunlight cutting through. Trees appear, redwood phantoms quivering around a decorative fountain pond, apartments behind it. I slow down and get a better look at the street sign. Moonvine Lane. That’s our road.

San Bruno mountains, rasps Mom, startling me with her sudden wakefulness. I glance over. She’s squinting at the map with her light on, her black eyeliner smudged along the corner of her eye.

She’s been wearing it thicker since she began randomly time-shifting—even with a degree in clinical psychology, I had to look that one up. Sometimes, people with dementia revert to an earlier time when things make more sense. Mom’s go-to is the early ‘90s—her college years when she was into Goth culture. Never mind the fact that I wouldn’t have been born yet. Time is conflated as she fluidly moves between then and now.

We pass the apartments, where a tall, black-haired man, ghostly pale in dark clothes, stands in the small parking lot. He turns toward my car, and the cloud-filtered sunset glints off his eyes. I lift my hand at him, neighborly. His sunset eyes burn into mine. He doesn’t smile or wave back. He turns, looking up beyond the apartments toward a sloping yard.

I follow his line of vision, my gut fluttering at the sight of the big, grey structure streaked in purple sunlight.

That the place, Leena?

I…think so. It is the only building on this road that seems worthy of the name Moonvine Manor, and it resembles the picture I have, though a different color. Besides, there are no other houses on this dead-end road unless they are buried in the adjoining woods, which is hard to believe. So, this must be it.

The house grows exponentially as we approach.

Stacy, the estate handler, referred to it as a Gothic Queen Anne, which I guess means a Victorian on steroids, multidimensional and ornate, with a spire spiking from a tower, imposing over the anachronism of modern, flat-roofed apartments downslope.

Wow. Pretty rad, says Mom—her new favorite word. I smile at her. Every day is a new glimpse into college-aged Annie Sperling. Even though it’s weird, I’m glad she’s having a good time with it. It’s her way of coping with what life has thrown at her.

It’s huge, I mutter, shaking my head.

Almost too big, she adds, spinning positive by adding a qualifier. I know what she’s thinking. It will be impossible to keep clean. Unless we hire an army of maids, it must be tackled in stages, not all at once.

But really, a lot of that will fall to me. Her stage-three dementia can sometimes make it hard for her to focus to the point of completion.

When she was diagnosed, she threatened that if I put her in an old folk’s home, her ghost would haunt me posthumously. She has no husband, siblings, or other children to help her. I said I wouldn’t abandon her, that she cared for me when I was little, and I’ll care for her when she’s old. Adding that, it’s cheaper than outsourcing. We both laughed.

But it hasn’t been easy. At least in this oversized house, there will be plenty of much-needed space apart, which makes dating or having a boyfriend a better prospect. But I can’t think about guys right now, not with this sinking realization that my first time coming here is…after Rachel’s gone.

Suspicious death.

The phrase stalks me, jumping out at random intervals, nipping at my nerve endings, making my extremities tingle with quietly controlled panic as my thoughts twist into a pit of unanswerable questions.

My sister, an unsolved murder. Alleged. I hate that word. It’s nothing more than a giant, noncommittal What the fuck?

Her body is missing, but there is enough proof surrounding her disappearance—mainly in the form of blood—that she is assumed dead. Her phone pinged once at a location not far from here, and at that very spot, more blood was found—too much blood loss for a five-foot-six female weighing one hundred forty pounds.

It’s the most horrible thing I have ever known. But no matter how traumatized we may feel, it’s nothing compared to what Rachel went through. She is the real victim here.

I press my lips between my teeth, holding back tears. I wish it could be different. I wish for a lot of things.

That woman’s meeting us, right? asks Mom, sifting through her fringed, black leather purse.

Stacy, yeah.

After stumbling with the security code box and feeling surprised that the rusty iron gate opens, I slowly pull through, heading up the sloping drive.

As I pull to a stop, there is this still moment of pause, like we’ve come to meet our master. The Goliath house looms like a primordial God.

I turn off the engine.

Curvy trim wraps the base of each level, and shingles cover the upper half, but not the brightly colored mermaid kind of cute storybook Victorians. This hulking giant is painted in shades of grey, the scales mimicking reptilian. A weathervane with a turquoise sphinx oscillates in the breeze atop a high-peaked roof, the clouds forming a dark halo above.

A few more seconds of God-fearing observation pass before Mom clears her throat.

Alright then, she sighs with finality.

Yep, I agree, sucking in air then roughly exhaling. Hand on the door handle, I pause in fear of the unknown. Alleged.

Bullshit.

Somebody hurt my sister. Whoever it was is still out there.

Still. Out there.

Chills tingle my spine, creeping over my shoulders. I should calm down. There is another car here, and at any moment, Stacy, the estate handler, will appear like a beacon of light to guide us through the foreign shadows.

I get out, scanning the driveway. The gusty air smells like the end of summer, like fallen, withering petals, leaves, and vines, and with a hint of rotting trash. It never gets or stays cold enough in California to freeze out the smell of rot.

But it feels chillier here than I’m used to inland. The proximity to the ocean creates a different atmosphere. The air is thicker, and the sky is moodier. The old house hulks, creaking in the wind.

Other than legal stuff, Stacy only told me a bit about the place. It was repainted a year ago—a lot of grey paint with black trim. Kudos to whoever tackled that beast. She said it has a new front door. Yay, I guess. Other than that, the house is ancient. It was built in 1890-something and served as a funeral home for over a hundred years.

But the picture attached to the legal papers didn’t capture the asymmetrical enormity of it, with wings and bays in every direction—I mean, holy shit, Batman.

There is a countless array of windows spanning one, two, three, or four stories, forming a glass mosaic—half-circle sunbursts over rectangles, spandril-topped squares, oval peek-a-boos, and a tiny pyramidal window at the base of the tower. There are too many windows, like dark and murky undead eyes within the recesses of a great, leaden skull.

Hauntophobia comes to mind. But that unofficial term is usually applied to children who fear haunted houses. I am not a child, and the house isn’t the real reason this place gives me the creeps. My reasons are much worse.

I’ve had three months to prepare mentally and physically for this relocation. But I’m still baffled that Rachel gave this monstrosity to me and that she had already planned a will at such a young age. We’d barely seen each other in years.

She was sixteen, eight years older than me when she left home and didn’t look back. Then, one day, the cops showed up, asking my dad questions. He was livid. Punched a hole through the wall after the cops left. Mom and I knew to stay away from him when he was in a violent mood.

He’d been accused of abuse. A couple of weeks later, the charges had been dropped. Mom wouldn’t tell me more than that, and I didn’t ask again. I didn’t want to know, I guess. Even today, it’s too disturbing to let my mind explore the possibilities. Who did he abuse? Rachel? In what way? These questions comprise a small, guiltily-avoided dark corner in my mind.

What good will knowing Dad’s secrets do me? I barely talk to him. He hasn’t been a real father; he is more of a sperm donor type.

Deep down, it’s not hard to imagine him hurting people. He was never really around for us. Distant. Manipulative. Into hard drugs. Always cheating on Mom. Though he came from money, he squandered his wealth.

But whatever. None of this explains why Rachel singled me out in her will, a half-sister from her forgotten past. Surely, she had relatives on her mortician dad’s side who could have taken the house. Like her cousin, or maybe they were not on the best of terms. I wouldn’t know much about her life.

At least, for a time, I knew she was alive and well in the world. I didn’t know how much that mattered until she was gone.

I didn’t expect the shock of the news to hit me like a hurricane, knocking the wind from me. I went from not breathing to hyperventilating. Consoling Mom sobered me. I didn’t cry after that first night. But I know it’s still in me, a well of uncried tears threatening a deluge if I let down my guard.

She should be alive. Rachel was only thirty years older than me. No kids.

I’ll get the luggage, says Mom at the trunk as I shuffle in my soccer sandals along the hedge-lined drive toward the white car, keeping my nerves calm with controlled breathing.

A shiny, vintage black Camaro sports car is parked further back. One of these cars must belong to what’s his name, which reminds me of the weird part of the terms of this inheritance.

Rachel intended to give me the house and the five acres it sits on, but her cousin contested the will to where there is an added stipulation: the groundskeeper is to remain, his salary written into the estate’s will. He is entitled to the carriage house where he lives, which I’m assuming is that smaller grey building on the other side of the drive, like a dollhouse version of the main house.

Stacy was very clear that, at least for now, there’s nothing I can do about this arrangement legally unless I have the money to fight it for who knows how long in court. She said that my other option was to attempt to sell the house. But she warned me a funeral home isn’t an easy sell and could sit for years on the market. She said the other, easier option would be to work out a deal to give the home to the cousin who contested the will.

But there’s the rub. This inheritance is the only reason I’ve accepted a well-paying internship at Sherwin, Hodge’s Psychology and Associates—a perfect post-college job while I work on my master’s degree online. Otherwise, I could never have afforded to live and work even within a two-hour radius of downtown San Francisco. It’s impossible when even a tiny shoebox rents for three thousand dollars monthly.

Even though this manor is not technically a home, that is precisely what I will use it for—a landing spot for my fledgling career. In the meantime, I’m sharing it with a stranger.

I can only hope that he’s not a total alpha-hole. But he’s a groundskeeper, so I doubt it. He’s probably a calm, simple, down-to-earth man of bee-keeping age. Good at fixing things.

Stacy emerges from the white car, which answers the question about the Camaro. The groundskeeper probably attends car shows in his spare time. Old guys are into that.

Leena, sings Stacy, heels clicking on concrete as she reaches me. She almost sounds as relieved to see me as I am to see her.

She has perfectly pressed short dark hair, which she tosses back, smiling. She is dressed like a realtor, in pink heels and a loud, pink-and-black camisole top with jeggings. She’s big-city skinny, with solid-looking shoulders and veins running down her arms and hands like she spends hours daily at the gym. Cycling class. Cross-fit. Or maybe she’s a runner. I bet she lives in San Francisco proper. She must make good money.

Maybe I will be just as skinny after a year of living here. I’m shaped like an ordinary girl, athletic but soft around the edges. I grew up swimming and dancing before college, which was all books and parties. I’m the girl who generally watches what she eats and loves to hit a park trail for a walk or jog but isn’t obsessed with keeping a strict routine.

Stacy gives me a quick once-over, and I feel I don’t quite meet her expectations. I’m wearing baggy cut-offs, a dark blue cotton tank, and soccer sandals. I started the day in a tidy, long brown ponytail, but after hours of driving, who knows? Comfort was my only aim for today.

It’s so nice to meet you in person, she smiles, shaking my hand.

Yeah, nice to meet you, too, I smile back before turning to Mom, who is rolling her black suitcase, which matches her blouse.

She’s always wearing black, and I’m always wearing blue. They say people dress for their moods. Go figure.

The sky cracks, triggering our collective gaping at the flashing sky—late summer in California can be stormy, and autumn often arrives unfashionably early with a bang.

Well, exclaims Stacy, hands clasping at her chest. My apologies, ladies, but this must be a quick tour. I’m on the other side of the bay and would rather avoid driving in the rain at night. There wasn’t supposed to be a storm. But…you know how that goes.

I understand, I nod. Sorry, we couldn’t get here earlier.

Traffic? she nods rhetorically.

Yeah. Traffic was a bitch, a steadily thickening metallic flurry before finally fading to the backwoods of Moonvine.

Shall we? She puts her hand out, letting Mom and me lead the way. I’m sure that’s the polite thing to do, but surely, she knows the place better than me.

Turning, I climb the big stone steps, which lead to a large patio framed by columns and decorative walls encasing a fully circular arch around the landing. I pass through the old-world portal, ferns dangling over black wicker furniture. One plant still has a price tag hanging from it. Beside the door is a table with a large package. Expecting to see Rachel’s name on the label, my stomach jumps. But the package is addressed to Zand Byron.

He must have added those ferns recently, muses Stacy from behind as I fumble with the screen door. I do hope you and your cousin will get along well. He’s a fabulous artist. I have a piece by him in my living room.

Brows furrowing, I pause. Oh, you must mean Rachel’s cousin, not mine. I’ve…never met him, I add, my nostrils flaring as I open the front door to a big waft of musty, old-home air, the burned-out smell of lingering sandalwood incense and candles, not entirely masking a mildew odor.

Inside the foyer, wood paneling and ornate trim wrap around to a dizzying height. Wood everywhere—the floors, the walls, the roses on the archways and trim, and the big banister. A grey carpet runs up the center of the winding staircase, where a faint light filters down from above.

Dark grey and black floral wallpaper stretches along the stairway’s upper half, with wood paneling below.

I sniff my nose, wondering how long it will take to freshen the air and if my clothes and hair will start smelling musty.

Stacy shuts and locks the door, which initially hits me as odd. Back in our little neck of rural California, we didn’t lock the doors unless we were gone for the day or when we went to bed at night.

But we weren’t near a major city, and our old house wasn’t formerly a crime scene. For all I know, Rachel’s blood may still be soaked into the driveway outside, just where her car was parked before being hauled off for investigation.

My stomach turns queasy at the thought of finding the remaining blood evidence.

The house has fabulous bones, cuts Stacy’s voice. She isn’t letting on if she is disturbed by my sister’s disappearance.

She smiles. I’ll text you some local home repair contacts. The roof is in a questionable state. Hasn’t been replaced in twenty years. Let me show you something down the hall.

We follow her to a doorway just off the kitchen. She creaks the door open and pulls on a big lever, revealing a shallow space. She sticks her head in, craning her neck.

"This…is an elevator," she explains.

I cock a confused brow. That was not what I was expecting her to say.

But it’s…so low and narrow, says Mom.

Yes, well, it’s for caskets. Lowers them to the embalming room, Stacy says matter-of-factly.

Oh. Is that located in…the basement? I ask, picturing a hand painstakingly applying makeup to cold, ashen skin.

She shuts the door. Yes. Beneath the house.

I sigh with a nod. Down there means out of sight, out of mind. I can’t imagine having to clean and decorate a former embalming room. I may lock off this closet altogether. The idea that something could ride up from the pitch-black bowels is unsettling—a zombified disease-carrying rat, for instance.

So you know, a couple of the bedrooms on this floor were used as viewing rooms.

She pauses, waiting for me to get her meaning.

Oh, I see. To view the bodies, I mutter.

Mm-hm, she says, turning.

We follow her as she opens doors along the hallway, peeking in.

Most of the bedrooms are upstairs. One of the rooms has a trap door built into the floor—another casket lift. You can decide what you want to do with it. Also, there is a seasonal attic. But…of course, I can understand why you may not want to go up there just yet.

We stop just outside a doorway, and Mom and I look at each other, confused.

Why not? I shrug.

Stacy blinks at me. Oh, um. I’m…sorry. Well, the attic is where…Rachel...

Mom gasps, startling me. My Rachel wouldn’t try to hang herself. It’s a lie.

Stacey’s eyes widen, stunned. She darts her gaze at me, and all I can do is shrug.

I…uh… she stammers. The moment goes awkwardly quiet.

I’d forgotten about the supposed attempted suicide. Mom had mentioned it a few months ago.

She’ll probably be back in time for dinner. Why don’t you join us? asks Mom, deepening the awkwardness.

Stacy’s jaw slackens, and she looks stupefied. I’m not sure what I can say to make this less awkward. I can’t blame this on dementia aloud. Mom would deny it and then hate me for embarrassing her.

Did you know Rachel well? I ask, moving the conversation forward.

Stacy smiles. I remember when she first came here. Just a teen. I’ve been the estate handler for some time, you see. She sighs. I…wish I could stay longer. How about I check in next week and chat more?

I nod at her. Of course, yes.

Oh, she says, pulling a big manila envelope from her large Louis Vuitton tote bag. Rachel wanted me to hand this to you directly. I slipped some photos and history about the house in there. I…tried and failed to get pics of the basement as she requested.

I’m about to ask her why when a high-pitched meow rises, and I turn toward the twin black, furless cats jogging up the hall, tails in the air.

Oh, I meant to tell you about the cats, offers Stacy. Sorry about that. If you don’t want them, Zand says that he will take them. Just…let him know.

I bend to pet one as it throws itself against my leg, nuzzling its head into my calf.

Hey there, kitty.

Sphynx cats. Twin girls, Sekhmet and Baset. I can never tell them apart, says Stacy. Well, then. I…wish I could stay longer, but…"

Leaving Mom, I walk Stacy outside, inhaling the rain-promising air. The wind has blown all the fog away, replaced by incoming storm clouds. The wind intensifies, rocking the ferns above.

I follow her down the steps.

What was the deal with getting pics of the basement, Stacy?

Oh…the photographer friend I brought got spooked and quit on me. Swore that a ghost was following her when we stepped inside the house. I had planned to return and get the pics myself but was stopped by Zand, who advised against it. The basement is in ill repair. You know, the Byron’s go all the way back—so he can answer any questions you have. Especially about the grounds.

Something occurs to me now. I hadn’t put it together until this moment.

Is Zand…the groundskeeper?

Oh, yes. Sorry, I thought I’d mentioned that.

So, the cousin who contested the will is the groundskeeper. Duh. I guess I figured the cousin was a relative looking out for an old employee who lived on the property or something. But it’s all the same guy. Zand Byron.

What a name.

Outsider

ZAND

Code two-thousand-two.

Hit and Run - injury or death.

I slow my vehicle, analyzing the scene. Right place at the right time, with no accident report leading me here today. His lifeless form sprawled into a dough-like shape on the asphalt, battered and rolled, sprinkled with black specks.

That’s probably his half-burned convertible Lamborghini crumpled along the roadside, compressed into a red lunch box with wheels—meals on wheels for the carrion.

I crack my window, glancing at the sky. It’s windy, with a probable chance of rain. So, I leave the extra lighting in the van, pulling out only my camera and flicking the light switch on before stepping closer to my subject.

He’s lying on his stomach, but his head and shoulder are twisted. Flown from the vehicle, then stopped by the heavy weight of his body. Older looking than me, I’m guessing in his early thirties, blood slipping past his tongue, edging his lower lip before spilling over. I don’t need to check his wrist to know that his pulse is non-existent.

I squat down and sniff what’s hitting his chin—scented like the metallic tang of rust. Still oxygen-fresh enough that I pull the anticoagulant vial from my pocket, letting it fill, then quickly closing the lid before slipping the sample inside my leather jacket.

I toss my hair off my face, narrowing my eyes. Who is this guy? I don’t usually care unless the death seems sus. This one has me curious.

He is wearing an authentic-looking Patek Philippe watch. Even the fakes are costly. About thirty-k. Three hundred k for the real deal. If I were into throwing money at watches, I might acquire one myself. But I’d rather invest elsewhere.

One dress shoe on his foot. Fine clothes, high thread count suit—smoothly soft, form-fitted, and he’s oddly shaped, too. Stumpy in the legs, pouchy in the gut, narrow shoulders for a man. But his fine threads hug him like a gently fitted glove. Custom specs, to this degree, are costly.

A car slowly passes, pausing with their phone to their ear as they scan the remnants of the accident. That would be the call to 911, which means I’ve got about seven minutes to finish this gig.

When the car leaves, I pull his wallet from his pocket, flipping through it until I see the scroll, gold double C’s. Lev Peters. VIP Member. A Crown Club card confirms my instincts. Considering his association with the known mafia haunt—which is spitting distance from this crash site, added to the proximity to the nearest police station—this scene is soon to become a media hotbed.

Quickening, I hurry to get the needed photographs before the responders arrive.

I wonder if Lev’s brakes were tampered with. Either that, or he was run off the road—or maybe both. If it matters enough, someone at the lodge will talk about it.

Camera in hand, I crouch at his still-warm body, zooming through the lens on the bubbling drool of spit and blood. After a few seconds, I stand, panning out, filming the damaged vehicle and metal scraps lying about before zooming in on the dress shoe on the sidewalk.

I approach the car, confirming that it’s empty.

Lev drove alone, then crashed a few blocks from the club, where the road veers just near the cliffs. It’s good that he didn’t disappear down the hillside. I can only zoom so far, and I wouldn’t want to hassle with climbing down the rock-slide-prone cliffs.

Wilhelm Drive is notorious for sending bikers flying, their bodies crushed with boulders as they hit the bottom of the rock’s cliffs, remains swallowed by the salty sea.

Headlights hit the street before a dark blue BMW slides in beside my van. A suited guy with a nasty fucking scar down his cheek gets out. Contrasting with his classy suit, he has an edge that screams wannabe gangster.

I laugh inside, a smirk edging my mouth. I know the bastard. He’s a Rossi. The Rossis and the Byrons have long brushed elbows.

This side of the Bay Area is a small community in terms of the local population. In a crowd of tourists gathering at the nearby Rush Street bars and casino, the locals stand out like spots of loud color in an otherwise beige malaise.

Well, what happened here? Rocco sings, slipping his hand under his dress jacket as he slowly approaches the body with a sneer. The fucker’s ready to grab his gun from his jacket if that body so much as twitches, rigor mortis or not.

Seems obvious, I shrug at his fake inquiry.

His careful approach to the dead body, then the car, which could have had a trigger-happy thug inside it, though it doesn’t, amuses me.

The sound of a distant siren cuts closer, and Rossi’s posture straightens alert, only briefly examining the body before returning to his car, but not without giving me a once-over. He steps close enough to remind himself of our height difference. He frowns, head tilted upward.

I’m a few above him at six foot two and a half. He is broad in the shoulders; I’ll give him that, even if he is shaped like a box of fruit loops.

The sneer on his face hasn’t changed. His gaze shoots at my black van, dipping to the license plate.

You see where he came from, Byron?

My smirk deepens. Nope.

He senses I don’t mean it, but