Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(62)

Hammett bent low and kissed her hand. The stiff hairs of his mustache made her skin crawl, and she held her breath, terrified of having another vision of drowning bodies. But he wore no ring, and though she didn’t want him touching her, nothing supernatural occurred. “Delighted, miss. I quite liked seein’ ya laugh. We need more of that around here. How old are ya? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

“Thereabouts,” she said, trying to act casual as she gently pulled her hand from his grip.

“And who is the lucky chap gettin’ all your affection?”

“Charlie Han,” she said, inventing a name for him as fast as she could.

Hammett eyed him with almost as much interest as he had with Astrid. “Young and handsome. You speak well. They’d like that. But I’d feel wrong if I didn’t admit that they got a fondness for Nordic blood in Heaven. No offense.”

“None taken,” Bo said in a low voice, but Astrid knew damn well that was a lie, even if she hadn’t felt his legs turn to marble beneath hers and the menacing vibration running along his bones like electricity through wire. She silently told herself to keep her eyes down and not give her own aggrieved feelings away, praying Hammett didn’t notice. And he didn’t.

“The two of you attached or looking to play?”

What in the world did that mean? Astrid could only guess, and it didn’t sound good.

“We might be open to adventure under the right conditions,” Bo replied casually.

A small noise of protest escaped the back of her throat. Bo hugged her tighter and she cleared her throat.

“That’s fine,” Hammett said, smoothing down the edges of his mustache. “Well, I can’t promise anything, considering their preferences. Mary here, yes. They’re fond of dames like her. But you? I don’t know. I might be able to get you up there for a trial . . .” His brow wrinkled. “What do you do for living?”

Astrid remembered Mr. Haig’s words. You need to be useful.

Bo remembered them, too, apparently, because his answer came fast. “I fish. I . . . pilot fishing boats.”

It was halfway true. He did fish, sometimes. But not so much the last few years, though he certainly knew his way around a boat. Astrid did, herself. All Magnussons did.

“A fisherman, eh? Yes, that’s not bad. Might be of interest to them.” He sniffled and scratched his nose, thinking, and then smiled broadly. With the flick of his fingers, he’d reached inside his suit and withdrawn two small business cards printed on gilded stock. “You’ll need these to get in,” he said, handing them to Bo. “New Year’s Eve, 9 P.M. We’re having a party. Come to the carousel and ask for booth seven.”

New Years Eve? That was so far away—a week and a half. She couldn’t tell if Bo was discouraged by this, but she certainly was.

Before she could stop him, Hammett picked up Astrid’s hand again and kissed it a second time. Once again, no vision haunted her, but something else was there. Something dark that made her feel as if a nest of snakes wriggled beneath her skin. It was all she could do not to snatch her hand away.

“I’ll be looking forward to it, my dear,” he breathed over her hand, eyes jumping from hers to Bo’s. Then, without another word, he stood, turned around, and exited the booth.

“Oh God,” Astrid murmured, letting out a shaky breath. She wanted to set fire to her hand and burn off the place he’d kissed.

“Hold it together,” Bo whispered. “Let’s get out of here, yes?”

She nodded and pasted on a smile as they left the way they came in, circling back around the carousel, through the taxi dancers, and back into the front room, where they crunched over peanut shells and headed through the front door.

Once outside, they strode down the dark sidewalk and didn’t stop until they got to the car. Bo started the engine and pulled out the gold cards. Astrid leaned closer and they inspected them together under a slant of streetlight beaming through the windshield. The cards were identical. They each said:

THIS CARD ADMITS ONE CHOSEN SINNER

THROUGH THE PEARLY GATES INTO HEAVEN

COURTESY OF THE PIECES OF EIGHT SOCIETY

—PREPARE FOR JUDGMENT—

Embossed in the bottom right-hand corner was something vaguely familiar to both of them: a variation on the mysterious symbol from the turquoise idol.

TWENTY-ONE

Bo sped away from Terrific Street feeling spooked yet cautiously victorious. They had the gold symbol from the idol as leverage. They had their tickets into Heaven. And they’d made it out of Hell without getting stabbed or having any dark visions of midnight rituals. Now all they had to do was wait.

“Where are we going?” Astrid said from the passenger seat as the Buick’s wheels spun waves of water over sidewalks as they passed.

Bo wasn’t sure. His first instinct—Get the hell out of here, fast!—was now cooling to a simmer, and something new was taking its place. He had no bootlegging runs tonight. The warehouse was empty. The docks were empty. There was no one to track down, meet, or haggle with. No errands. Nothing.

“You listen to me, Bo Yeung. You will not take me home.”

Her words shot straight through him, getting the attention of something primal and beastly that crouched in the corner, waiting to be loosened. All their touching in the carousel had left an erotic buzz in his veins. And Mad Hammett touching her had stirred up a dark possessiveness with gnashing teeth and a hunger to claim.