Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(20)

Relief washed through Astrid’s limbs.

“Now, then,” Bo said, patting Max’s suit jacket with one hand to search for weapons. “You want to tell me just who the hell you are and why you were stupid enough to touch her?”

Max’s elbow swung backward and struck Bo in the jaw. Hard.

Bo let out muffled grunt of pain as he stumbled backward. His shoulder cracked against the restroom wall.

Shouting savagely, Astrid jumped out of the stall and tried to whop Max with her handbag. This time he wasn’t surprised. His arm shot up and he swatted it as if it were a fly. His signet ring caught her on her wristbone—the ring is inlaid with turquoise, her mind realized as pain shot up her arm.

Pain, and something more . . .

Time seemed to slow. In the space of a few rapid heartbeats, Astrid watched Bo shake his head like a wet dog and quickly retrain his gun on Max.

Just not quickly enough.

Max raced through the restroom and was already pushing open the door into the club. Chaos erupted as he plowed through the bar area. Bo growled and took off after him, only to come to a skidding stop when Astrid cried out in horror.

Like an electric bee sting, a strange series of aftershocks radiated from the spot Max’s ring had clipped her on the wrist. The shocks buzzed and hummed until they wracked her entire body. The stark-bright light of bathroom dimmed. And all around her, dark water poured from the cracks of the tiled walls.

Dark, odious water.

It flowed down the mirrors. Flooded the sinks and overflowed, cascading black waterfalls onto the floor until it began filling the restroom, rising and rising, covering her feet and climbing her legs. It was briny seawater, reeking of salt and rotting fish, and it quickly rose over her knees.

She tried to wade through the icy water, tried to get to Bo. He looked so confused. Why was he just standing there, staring at her like she’d lost her mind?

Then she realized that she might actually have lost it. Out of the floodwater, a dark shape bobbed to the surface.

It was the size and shape of a human body, and it was encased in a burlap sack.

Astrid swayed and fell into blackness.

EIGHT

Bo holstered his Colt and squatted by Astrid’s collapsed body. His shoulder ached where he’d slammed it against the tiled wall, but he ignored its protest and flipped her faceup.

It wasn’t like the first time on the yacht when she was unconscious. Her eyelids were fluttering, the whites of her eyes showing. He shouted her name, and ice blue irises rolled back into view and stared up him.

His head dropped in relief.

“Bo,” she said weakly before turning her face to survey her surroundings. “The water is gone? My clothes are dry?”

“Whoa, now. Don’t try to sit up.”

“Did you see the water? Did you see . . . the body in the sack?”

“What?” His fingertips skimmed a red spot on her forehead that was already swelling. She flinched and muttered a weak complaint.

“You hit your head,” he told her.

She made a frustrated noise and pushed herself up to sit, despite his protests. “You didn’t see it,” she said miserably.

Another vision.

The door to the restroom burst open, and noise from the club blared. One of Gris-Gris’s enforcers, Joe, lunged through the doorway. “Bo? What’s going on?”

“The man who ran out of here . . .” Bo said. “Someone stop him. He attacked Miss Magnusson.”

Joe didn’t question him or ask for more information. He just shouted over the clamor and disappeared into the crowd. Bo knew everyone who worked at Gris-Gris, from the janitors to the house band’s drummer, and any one of them would pitch in to help.

“What is happening to me?” Astrid whispered. Long lashes, thick with mascara, blinked up at him, a pleading anxiety behind her eyes.

He couldn’t bear it any longer. Screw decorum. He gathered her in his arms and pulled her against his chest. She didn’t resist. Slender arms circled his back as she lay her head on his aching shoulder and buried her face in the collar of his jacket.

She felt impossibly good, soft and warm, clinging to him. His heart was an overexcited child that raced madly with the thrill of possession, no matter how fleeting.

He heard the door open. Knew Astrid heard it, too. Yet both of them were hesitant to release each other.

“Bo Yeung,” a commanding feminine voice called out. “I leave Gris-Gris for two hours and come back to pandemonium. Should’ve known you’d be involved.”

He glanced up to see the owner of the club standing in the doorway, arms crossed over her breasts. Her eyes fell on Astrid and all her irritation turned to worry.

“Lord,” she swore. “What kind of trouble have you been into?”

—

Bo didn’t believe the attacker could just disappear into the night after running through a club half filled with people, but he had. According to Astrid, “Max” was the only name he’d given her. It didn’t matter. Bo had tracked down people with less information than that, and for far more trivial reasons. He’d find him. No one hurt Astrid and got away with it.

No one.

Following Velma’s efficient strides, Bo ushered Astrid through a door behind the bar and into a short hallway. To their right, the club’s bustling kitchen gleamed bright behind a windowed swinging door, but they were headed left. A tall painted bookcase was empty but for a small stack of old menus and a metal dustpan. Bo released a hidden latch on the side and swung the bookcase away from the wall to reveal a doorway and a low-ceilinged room. He turned on the lights. Rows of shelves lined with Magnusson-imported liquor bottles led to an open area with a desk, where the club’s bar manager did the accounting.