For Lee, who knows how to fix it when I break it
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Special thanks to my Foundry team for working with me on this project: Mollie Glick, for being so dedicated and taking it (literally) down to the wire—you are a super agent; Katie Hamblin, for taking such good care of me; Rachel Hecht for keeping track of the million and one foreign details; and Deirdre Smerillo and Melissa Moorehead for their tireless contract work.
Special thanks to Liesa Abrams and Simon Pulse for jumping in and loving this Cynical little book, and to Michael Strother for finding the answers when I need them!
Special thanks to F. Scott Fitzgerald for the use of the title. And a special thanks to my readers—without you this book wouldn’t exist. Thank you for your time and your trust in me.
PREFACE
Show me a hero and I’ll write you a tragedy.
—F. Scott Fitzgerald
Sleepy Hollow, NY
August
You will give me the keys.”
Cyn Hargrave’s eyes opened wide. She didn’t know it, but her pupils were dilating. Black swallowing green irises. The man in front of her was defenseless.
“Sure.”
He handed over a small plastic key fob. The sappy, love-struck grin on his face disgusted her.
“Stop staring at me like that,” she ordered. Anxiously looking over her shoulder again, Cyn could almost hear the police sirens that she knew would be coming.
The besotted man just sighed happily. Like he didn’t care what she was doing.
“Yeah—okay, then.” She grabbed the key ring and turned toward the silver sports car sitting two inches away from the nearby curb.
Stop. Forgetting something.
She turned back to the man, pupils flaring again. “You, sit. Wait. And don’t think about me while I’m gone.”
“Okay,” the man said, and promptly sat down.
Cyn returned to the car, wishing as she threw open the door that she had more time to admire the black racing stripe curving sexily up the hood. A red-leather interior screamed her name, and she answered its siren call, sliding behind the steering wheel.
With a flick of her wrist, the engine roared to life, and for just an instant she closed her eyes, savoring the feel. Finally. Something she was in control of.
But the sweet rush didn’t last long. It was chased away again by the pounding urge to check her rearview mirror for those flashing red and blue lights.
They have to know what I did by now. There was so much blood. . . .
A streak of crimson still stained the back of her right pinky. She’d scrubbed for twenty minutes to get it all off, but it wasn’t enough. She wondered if Hunter’s blood would always be on her hands.
Flinching at the sight, Cyn quickly rubbed her hand against her leg as she peeled out, pushing the car into third gear and then fourth as soon as she hit the highway.
Three states away, she finally allowed herself to breathe.
CHAPTER ONE
Hampton Falls, NH
Two months later
The wig was cheap. It made her head itch. A synthetic material, poorly made. Cyn had found it in the donations bin of a Goodwill thrift store. Probably somebody’s Saturday-night castoff. But it made her feel better to have it on. Protected.
“Brunette tonight, huh?” One of the cooks leaned over the disposal in the sink, trying to fish something out of it. “Thought blondes have more fun.”
“They do, Lenny.” Cyn opened another button on the top of her waitress uniform. “Get better tips, too. Guess I’ll just have to use my other charms.”
“Don’t forget who takes care of you around here.”
Tucking her pad into her waist pocket, Cyn blew him a kiss before heading to the counter. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yeah, yeah. Just remember when you bring back all that green that I’m the guy who does the dishes for you at the end of your shift.” Cyn waved two fingers dismissively, like she couldn’t hear what he was saying. “And snaked your ring from the drain last week when you dropped it!” he shouted after her.
Cyn glanced down at the knotted gold ring on her right hand, rubbing it with her thumb. But she didn’t respond.
“Don’t know how that girl does it,” Lenny muttered to himself. “I swear she bewitches those customers or something.” He plunged his hand one last time into the sink and pulled out a bent spoon before adding it to the pile in the box by the back door.
“Order up,” Marv called from the kitchen pass-through. He sat a plate full of steamed clams on the counter and moved to the next ticket, wiping a greasy hand on his once-white apron.
Cyn deliberately ignored him, returning an empty coffeepot to the coffeemaker. The diner was half-full, but she liked to take her time.
“Yo, Cynsation.” Marv rapped on a dented silver bell. “I said, order up.”
“Calm down, Marv. I heard you.” She rolled her eyes and grabbed the plate. “It’s under the warmer. It’ll be fine.”
Dropping the food at table nine, Cyn noticed the empty mug in front of a burly man sitting on a bar stool at the counter. “Do you need a fill-up?” she stopped to ask.
He paused, half-eaten ham sandwich dripping mayo and bits of lettuce down his shirt. “If you’re doing the filling, sweetheart, then I’m doing the taking. But we could rearrange those positions if you’d be so inclined. My truck’s parked right outside.” He flashed a smile of rotted teeth and half-chewed food particles at her.
Cyn leaned in, making sure that the barely buttoned uniform she wore gaped in the front. “Inclined? I do love a man who uses big words.”
The trucker ogled her hopefully. “You do? ’Cuz I know a million of ’em.”
“Well, I just want you to remember one little word. . . .” Eyes wide, pupils flaring, she said, “Tip.”
~ ~ ~
As soon as the trucker was gone Cyn pocketed his seventy-five percent tip and scanned the dining room, judging the beverage-fulfillment needs of her customers. Table three was a guzzler: he’d already gone through two refills before his meal had even arrived. But tables four and five were moving at a slower pace.
Marv lifted a hand to ring the bell again, and she fixed him with a steely glare. Throwing both hands up in the air, he slowly backed off and retreated to the kitchen.
But before Cyn could grab the order that was waiting, a blast of chilly air hit her from behind. October in New Hampshire was cold—colder than the idiot who was currently holding the door open for longer than was necessary must have realized.
She turned to watch him come in. Stamping his feet and blowing on his hands, he looked like a glossy-magazine-styled, twenty-something wannabe hipster. Dark hair artfully tousled, with a gray scarf draped carefully around the top of a fitted jacket.
Cyn dismissed him without a second thought.
The door blasted open again, and this time a teenager came in. Young, blond, and full of spoiled-brat swagger. Cyn recognized him right away. Stephen Grant. All hands and no manners. He thought his daddy’s money could buy him whatever, and whoever, he wanted.
She didn’t like the attitude, but she loved making him spend some of that money on her.
Turning back to the still-steaming plate, she checked the ticket and then dropped the food off at table four. The hipster took table seven. Right next to the back exit.
Stephen sauntered up to the counter and made a show of flipping through the menu even though it was plain to see that what he really wanted wasn’t on it. He cast a calculating look at Cyn, then motioned her over. “When are you going to let me sweep you out of here?”
“Are you insinuating that I’m in need of rescuing?” Cyn fli
pped over her pad to a fresh sheet and clicked the end of her pen open.
“Yeah. And I can be your Prince Charming. Like the fairy tale.”
“Baby, if this was a fairy tale, I’d be more interested in marrying your father and becoming a queen instead of playing princess to a punk like you.” She leaned in and whispered, “He’s the one with all the money, after all. . . .”
It probably wasn’t the smartest thing to say, but he just pissed her off in all the wrong ways. With his slick arrogance and give-me-what-I-want attitude.
Flushed red with anger, Stephen slammed the menu down. “I want a tuna on rye with a side of pickles,” he said coldly.
“Coming right up.”
“Bitch.”
She could feel his gaze burning through her back as she walked away. Mentally sighing, Cyn reached up to straighten the back of her wig and kept moving to table seven. “What can I get for you?” she asked, all bright smiles and eager eyes.
The customers never had any idea just how much of an act it all was.
“Coffee. Black,” Hipster said.
“You got it.”
She told Marv about the tuna ticket, and by the time she’d filled Hipster’s coffee, her order was ready. As she picked up Stephen’s plate, Cyn wished she had opened another button. Sometimes that was easier than dealing with him.
Sliding the plate onto the table, she said, “Enjoy your meal.” She was turning to walk away when his voice stopped her.
“I asked for my bread to be lightly toasted.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, that’s the way I want it.”
Cyn gave him an irritated look. “Why don’t you just eat your food the way it is and stop bothering me? That’s not too much to ask, now, is it?”
He seemed to think about it for a moment. Then he said, “Yes. It is.”
“Excuse me?”
“I want my sandwich remade, and this time it should be lightly toasted.”
Cyn reached for the plate. “Sure,” she said through gritted teeth. “I’ll get that fixed right up for you.”
Marv was in the middle of slopping dirty water onto the floor and pushing it around with a wet mop when Cyn entered the kitchen. He eyed up what she had in her hands and shook his head. “Nope. Sorry. I can’t remake anything. Cleaning duty.”
“S’okay, Marv. I got it.” Scraping the plate clean into the trash, Cyn grabbed a new one from the stack on the prep counter. Then she put two pieces of bread into the toaster and went to the fridge to get a fresh pack of tuna, some mayonnaise and relish, and the jar of sliced pickles. When the toaster popped, Cyn carefully inspected the bread to make sure it was lightly toasted before putting it all together. New sandwich in hand, she walked out of the kitchen to deliver it to her customer.
The guzzler at table three was frantically trying to wave her down again as she passed, but she just smiled at him and held up one finger. He could wait another minute or two. It wasn’t like her tip would suffer for it.
“Here you go.” Cyn plunked the plate down in front of Stephen. “One freshly made tuna on rye, lightly toasted, with pickles on the side.”
He looked up from his phone, feigning surprise at her arrival, and inspected the sandwich. Cyn waited for him to deem it good enough, but he didn’t say a word.
Until she walked away again.
“Um, miss?”
Oh, he’s going to leave me a huge tip for this.
Cyn pivoted back around to face him. “What is it now?”
“I’ve decided I don’t want the pickles.”
“That’s what you have a napkin for. Use it.”
His face cracked a little bit. That smooth, fake smile dissolved into a sneer. “I don’t want them sitting on the napkin next to me. I don’t want them sitting anywhere near me.”
This was moving beyond big-tip territory into straight-up petition-for-sainthood territory.
“Fine.” Cyn picked up one of the pickles. In two crunches, it was gone. She picked up the second one and devoured it just as quickly. Taking a moment to lick her lips, she ran her tongue over her teeth and smiled widely. “Problem solved.”
Stephen looked down at his plate and then back to her. “What about the juice?”
Reaching down, she slowly ran her finger over the left-behind pickle juice and brought it to her lips. He watched her with wide eyes, never taking them off her mouth as she sucked her finger clean.
Cyn knew she shouldn’t be baiting him like this—it was only going to give him the wrong idea.
And she was right.
With one smooth motion, Stephen gripped her wrist. Jerking her toward him.
Cyn had to consciously unclench her teeth to spit out the words “Let go of me. Now.”
Stephen let go all right. But only because the hipster from table seven was suddenly there, introducing Stephen’s face to the counter.
“Be nice,” Hipster said.
Stephen made a choking noise as his fingers fell away from Cyn’s wrist. “What the fuck, man? Let me up.”
All eyes in the diner were on them now. Even with her ever-rotating assortment of wigs, Cyn tried to stick to normal hair colors and bland clothes. The idea was not to get noticed. So much for not making a scene.
“Thanks,” Cyn said quietly as the guy let up on Stephen’s face. “Just a misunderstanding.”
Stephen stood up and kicked the nearest stool out of his way. “I’m not paying for that,” he sneered, gesturing to the plate. “And you can expect a call from my dad’s lawyer. Maybe even the cops,” he said to the hipster.
Cyn froze when she saw him size Stephen up and then reach inside his jacket, exposing the gun that was tucked into a side holster there.
“No need.” He pulled out a badge and flashed it. “Officer Declan Thomas. I’m with the Sleepy Hollow Police Department.”
CHAPTER TWO
Avian Alexander pushed his motorcycle up to the entrance of Pete’s Salvage Yard and put the kickstand down, taking in the heavily padlocked gates that stood before him. The radiator hose on his bike had been patched one time too many, and today was the day it gave up the ghost.
The day the damned junkyard was closed.
He was considering breaking in when his cell phone rang. “Father Montgomery?”
“Ah, I’m glad I could reach you.”
Avian smiled. “Finally decided to get a cell phone and join the—what century are we in now?”
“Twenty-first. And no, I fear I have not fully embraced technology yet. I’m using the phone at the rectory. Are you on your way home?”
“I’m going to be later than expected. A part blew on my bike.”
“Are you all right?” Father Montgomery asked. Then he chuckled. “What am I thinking? Of course you are. But this bike of yours, it’s older than I am. When are you going to replace it?”
Avian glanced down at the motorcycle. It would have been a hell of a lot easier to just go and buy a brand-new Harley. It wasn’t like he couldn’t afford to. He just didn’t want to.
“You know I like my toys old and with a little dirt on them. Like me.”
“My boy, you may be indestructible, but the humans sharing the road with you aren’t.” The years of familiarity that spanned between them was evident in the gentle chiding.
Father Montgomery was the only one who got away with that.
“You worry too much.”
“You’re probably right. But just the same, I’ll leave the outside light on for you. Let me know when you get in.”
“I will.”
“Hey, we’re closed,” a man on the other side of the gates called. “You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
Avian pocketed his phone and looked up. The man’s blue work shirt had the name PETE embroidered on it. Before Avian could respond, Pete’s eyes opened wide. “Holy shit. Is that a Vincent Black Lightning? I’ve never seen one in person before.”
“Vintage 1948. Only thirty were ever made.” Avian lea
ned against the bike and crossed his arms. “So, what was that you said about being closed?”
Pete unlocked the gate. “Nothin’. We’re open now.”
~ ~ ~
As Avian checked the new radiator hose he and Pete had just put on, something from the far side of the junkyard caught his attention. Something he hadn’t seen in a long time. He put two fingers to his mouth and whistled. The large black animal came straight to him.
“Nice dog,” Avian said.
Pete’s face grew nervous.
Anyone else looking at the beast would see something that resembled a cross between a rottweiler and a pit bull. Broad shoulders, massive paws, and oddly colored eyes. There was nothing on the surface to reveal its true nature. But Avian saw what was behind the veil.
Steam rising from its fur. The scent of sulfur on its breath. And eyes that burned hellfire. One bite from this animal, and you would not be long for this world.
Pete’s Salvage Yard was being guarded by a hellhound.
“Is this land consecrated?” Avian asked. Hellhounds only protected sacred ground.
Pete glanced around and then nodded. “Used to be an old German church back in the fifties. Sat right over there.” He pointed off to the left. “The congregation grew old, and they all passed on. Their heirs sold it to my pops, and he bulldozed everything. With their permission, of course.” Pete crossed himself, and Avian fought back an automatic response to recoil at the gesture. “The graveyard is on the other side of the lot. I don’t put any cars over there unless it gets really full and I have to.”
The hellhound came closer and pushed his head into Avian’s outstretched hand, causing dark curls of steam to weave through his fingers. Wrapping around them like smoke-laden tattoos. The scars on Avian’s back burned in response, and the dog whined.
“I know, boy,” he said softly. “Sometimes I miss it too.”
Pete looked on in awe. “He never lets anyone touch him. I just inherited him along with the junkyard when my pops died. Doesn’t even have a name.”
Avian gestured for the dog to return to his post. Slinging one leg over his bike, he started the engine. “I can relate. Everyone I know just calls me Thirteen.”