Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(7)

All this made Bo feel better, actually. Whatever bizarre activities the survivors had been up to, they weren’t ghosts or monsters.

He revised that opinion when he swept the flashlight’s beam up the walls. Witchy symbols were drawn in bright blue paint. A large ritual circle was painted in the center of the salon floor, around which a dozen or more candles had melted into the wooden floorboards.

“What in God’s name were these cranks up to?” Bo murmured.

“They’re occultists,” Officer Barlow said. “Devil worshippers or something.”

“What language is this?” Astrid asked.

“No idea,” Bo said.

The officer shrugged. “Who cares? They were probably all taking narcotics. A lot of heroin’s been coming into the city this year. Or maybe you knew that already . . .”

Bo did, but only from gossip. The Magnussons didn’t have anything to do with narcotics. They only sold alcohol, and not bathtub gin, either. Top quality. And all of it smuggled by ship from Canada, some of which was originally imported from Europe. One of those European imports was a very particular brand of black-label champagne—one that no one else in San Francisco sold. Bo would recognize the bottles anywhere; after all, he’d inspected every shipment of it, checking for false labels, evaluating the bottle marks, and tasting the contents.

Several empty bottles of that very champagne lay on the floor of the salon.

He picked one up and sniffed. Definitely Magnusson stock. Only a few speakeasies around town that sold it, along with the occasional special order for a political fund-raiser or some socialite’s wedding.

He didn’t like finding it here.

“Must have been one hell of a party,” Barlow said. “Hope it was worth it, because as soon as we can get them identified, they’re all going to be locked up for stealing this boat.”

“Is that what happened?” Astrid asked. “They stole it?”

Barlow shrugged. “What else would it be? You saw them. They were young—your age, and vagrants, I’d guess. They took the boat for a joyride, got looped up on drugs, probably sailed up the coast and got lost.”

“For a year?” Astrid said.

Bo shared her disbelief. He wasn’t convinced that vagrants had such expensive taste in hothouse flowers and champagne. And other than the damage to the furniture—which could have been caused by the storm—and the painted blue symbols, the room had been kept up. No piss in the corner. No signs of anyone holing up in here. Hell, there wasn’t even dust on the bar. He lifted his fingers to his nose and smelled wood polish.

“The chief mentioned a man who’d claimed to have captained this boat when it went missing last year,” Bo said. “Know anything about that?”

Barlow made a snorting sound. “Sure, I heard about him. It was just some geezer with a few screws loose who ended up in a mental institution. Claimed that he’d been hired to pilot the yacht, but a storm threw him overboard and he swam ashore.”

“Interesting,” Bo said.

“Not really. The yacht’s owner had never laid eyes on him. We see that kind of stuff all the time. Lonely people with too much time on their hands read about cases in the newspapers and show up at the station, claiming they can help us. They never do.”

Astrid stepped over broken glass and stumbled into Bo.

“Whoa,” he said, putting a hand on her arm to steady her. For a moment, he wondered if she hadn’t sobered up as much he’d originally thought, but then he realized he was wobbly, too. The storm outside was picking up speed. He leaned against the bar for support and held on to Astrid, relishing the excuse to do so, even for a few stolen seconds.

“All right,” Officer Barlow complained when the boat’s swaying finally calmed. “I don’t have all night. Let’s get to the engine room.”

“What’s this?” Astrid bent to pick up something that had rolled across the floor.

Bo flicked the flashlight’s beam near her feet. Bright blue stone glinted as her fingers reached for it—something about the size of his hand. Turquoise, maybe. When she picked it up, a brief flash of white light ringed her hand like a wreath of electric smoke.

She went rigid, convulsed, and collapsed to the floor.

“Astrid!” Bo cried out as he dropped to her side.

The flash of light was gone, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. He couldn’t tell if she was breathing. He bent low and listened over Astrid’s open mouth.

Breath, thank God. And his shaking fingers felt a pulse at her neck.

“Christ!” Barlow shouted. “What’s the matter with her? She having a seizure or something?”

“Astrid, wake up,” Bo said into her face, afraid to shake her. Afraid not to.

Her fingers still clutched the turquoise object. He pried them open and tried not to touch the thing, but it was unavoidable. The stone was hot, but no light flashed when he touched it—a carved figure, from what he could make out in the dark. Some kind of miniature idol. He pulled out a handkerchief and quickly rolled the figure into the linen before stashing it in his jacket pocket.

What the hell was that thing, and what had it done to her? She was unmoving. Completely unresponsive. She felt limp and fragile in his arms as he scooped her off the floor. Barlow’s annoying voice buzzed around Bo’s head, suggesting they not touch her because she might be suffering from whatever ill magic had cursed the blue-faced survivors.