VenCo(21)



Just then the other stewardess whispered to her, “Girl, your skirt,” pointing at the small tear up the side split where the fabric had been ripped. “What happened?”

Vivian fingered the tear. “I don’t know. Must have caught it on something.” Then she went about her business, checking the seats for left items and then collecting her own things. She hummed to herself as she rolled her wheelie bag into the terminal. She was tired, but at least it had been an uneventful flight. It was almost as if it hadn’t happened at all.



When Jay checked in to his suite at the Royal York, the desk clerk handed him a manila envelope with his name written across it in florid calligraphy. His assistant, Laurent, was very efficient but fond of his flourishes.

“It was delivered an hour ago,” the clerk said.

Jay gathered his things and walked across the lobby to the elevator. He liked these older hotels with their thirty-dollar room service smoothies and dimly lit restaurants with velvet banquettes. He enjoyed the fresh linens and patterned carpet covering every inch of floor so that footsteps were muffled. This hotel even had the Library Bar, staffed by ancient male bartenders. He might indulge, given that it was guaranteed he wouldn’t run into a member of the witches’ Tender network there, posing as a regular bartender.

He disembarked on the executive floor and let himself into his suite. The air smelled like clean dust, the way he imagined a silk-lined coffin would smell from the inside. Once, in Russia, he had dug himself a grave to lie in, just to see what it felt like to be so close to your own mortality. Then he’d filled it with the bodies of three young witches he’d slaughtered in the cold-to-creaking woods.

He threw his coat and bag onto the end of the bed and picked up the phone to call room service. After ordering a rare porterhouse, a bottle of Chianti, and a large bowl of fresh grapes, he sank into a low chair by the fireplace to open the envelope. Inside was a single sheet of creamy paper with four handwritten entries, each one followed by an address and directions.

Luck Ngyon Freshly New Salon, nail tech



Lucky Simpson-O’Reilly Mother St. Theresa’s Catholic Secondary School, grade 10 student



Luck-Ann Manchester Homemaker



Lucky St. James McManus Personnel, temp worker





That Laurent had found only four women in the Greater Toronto Area with first names that were a variation of luck was, well, lucky. This wouldn’t take too long. He placed the page on the glass table in front of him and leaned over it, concentrating.

“Who are you? Who . . . are . . . you?”

A knock at the door.

He got up, tipped his head to either shoulder, and smoothed his dark hair, then went to answer the door.

“Good evening, Mr. Christos. I have your room service order.”

He stepped to the side and waved the server in.

The boy was beautiful—fine-boned with long lashes and strong legs under his stiff uniform pants. He pushed the cart inside, laden with silver domes, the bottle of wine, a crystal wineglass, and a slim vase holding a single white carnation. It was an odd choice, such a cheap flower with such an expensive spread.

Jay followed him and watched him remove the domes. The boy looked up, smiling a polite room service smile that revealed crooked teeth, a glimpse of the real under the uniform.

Jay waited for it, the small sign that would let him know if a new game was beginning. And then the boy’s eyes dropped, moving across Jay’s torso. Ah, here it was. He really must travel more often, even if it was commercial.

“Excellent,” he said. “I’m famished.”





9

The First Leg of the Journey




“Well, well, if it isn’t Miss Lucky St. James and her wicked old grandmother.” Clermont had opened his door holding a martini adorned with a toothpick spearing a sweet pickle. “Just in time for afternoon cocktails.” He was dressed in the muumuu Stella had unearthed the other day and then gifted to him. It was too long, trailing behind him like the world’s ugliest wedding gown.

Lucky had been seriously considering the VenCo offer but too scared to make the leap, until she woke up from a particularly vivid dream. Then she’d emailed Freya and told her she was in. At the last minute, she realized there was no way she could leave Stella behind, so she spent a few hours convincing the woman to leave her cat and come on a quick road trip. She’d just leave her at the motel when she actually went to her meeting. It was better than leaving her a whole country away.

Freya had replied with an address, assuring her they would take care of all the arrangements while she was on the road. So here they were, dropping off instructions for Jinxy’s care with Clermont, who had agreed to look in on the cat—two pages, single-spaced, with numerous bullet points.

“Jesus Christ, is this a cat, or a bomb I’m supposed to defuse?” he asked, scanning the pages as Stella and Lucky stood at the door.

“Oh, and don’t open the window too much. He’s liable to jump,” Stella said. “Maybe you should write that down too. Lucky, do you have a pen?”

“I don’t need to write it down.” Clermont rubbed his forehead. “What the hell, Stelly, you think he’s stupid enough to leap from a third-story window? Is he missing an eye or a brain?”

Stella said, “He is not a moron. But we’re very close. With me gone, he might try to leap to his death.”

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