Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(8)

And she might be, but Bo would be damned before he sat by and let it kill her.

“Hold on,” he mumbled repeatedly as he carried her out of the yacht’s salon, doing his best to shield her drooping body from the sting of rain.

“That girl needs to go to a hospital,” the officer yelled over the howling wind, dogging Bo’s heels. “I can’t help you. I’m not allowed to leave my post.”

Bastard. Bo would remember that later, but at the moment, he didn’t care. He made it to his car and heard Astrid moan as he set her down in the front seat. She still didn’t open her eyes.

“You’re going to be fine,” he told her. “Everything’s going to be fine.”

He just wasn’t sure if he believed it.

THREE

Astrid woke in fits and starts, occasionally seeing snatches of the dark city whizzing by a rain-splattered car window. Though she’d only been inside this car a couple of times before she left for college, she knew she was riding in Bo’s new forest green Buick Brougham, because it smelled like dyed mohair velvet upholstery and the lemon drops he stashed in the glove box. She did her best to concentrate on those familiar scents, but the bubbling memory of her dream kept pulling her back under.

Not a dream. It was too strange, too bright and surreal. And she’d been far too conscious when it was happening, as if the turquoise idol had opened a door when she’d touched it, and she’d lifted outside her body and stepped into another time.

When she finally kicked away the thick haze that held her under, she was lying in a hospital bed on top of drum-tight sheets, and a nurse in a crisp white pinafore apron and pointed hat was taking blood from her arm. “There she is,” the nurse said with a kind smile. “How are you feeling?”

“A little weak,” she admitted.

“I’m Nurse Dupree,” she said, removing the syringe and tourniquet from her arm. “Do you know who you are?”

“Someone who stupidly drank too much . . . uh, grape juice.” The woman seemed nice, but she might be a teetotaler. Best to play it safe.

“But what’s your name, dear?”

“Astrid Cristiana Magnusson,” she enunciated carefully.

Behind the nurse, Bo let out a small sound of relief.

“I’m all right,” she told both of them. “A little dizzy, but it’s passing.”

After the nurse bandaged her arm and ran through a list of symptoms that Astrid didn’t have, she left with a blood sample and a promise to return shortly. “A lot going on tonight with those boat survivors and the police,” she said. “I’ll try to get a doctor in here as soon as I can.”

Bo’s anxious face peered down from the side of the bed. “You scared the life out of me.” He blew out a long breath and ran a hand over his hair. A moment later, it was hard to tell if he was genuinely concerned . . . or merely irritated at her for inconveniencing him.

He picked up a pitcher from her bedside table and poured water into a glass.

Astrid looked around and realized they were in a room with three other beds—one of which was occupied by a man in a full body cast, who seemed to be sleeping. Distant commotion and chatter echoed down the spotless white hallway outside the propped-open door. The occasional nurse scurried back and forth.

“Are we at Saint Francis?” she asked. “Are the boat survivors here?”

“Down the hall. Drink,” he encouraged, holding out the glass as she sat up in bed.

She took it from him and gulped down the lukewarm water, requesting another glass when she’d emptied it. “Remind me never to get sloshed again.”

“I don’t think this was from the champagne. I told the nurse you fell and went unconscious after the yacht crashed into the pier. I didn’t tell her why, exactly.” He paused and looked at her seriously. “Do you remember what happened?”

“I touched the blue idol and fell out of myself.”

“You . . . what? Hold on.” Metal zinged as Bo pulled the privacy curtain, separating her from the man in the body cast. “Tell me everything.”

Now she had his full attention. Finally. She patted the bed next to her and scooted over to give him room. He hesitated a moment before sitting down. Like it pained him. It was clear he was trying to keep some space between them. She shifted her leg to erase that space, mentally tallying a point in her favor, and began explaining the sensation she’d felt when she’d touched the object.

“It was an electric pain,” she said. “A shock. I felt hot.”

Then she recounted her strange vision . . .

She’d been on the yacht. In the salon.

It was dim, the room lit by candlelight. Night loomed beyond the band of windows. Nothing was wrecked—no cracked mirror behind the bar, no glass on the rug, or strewn furniture—but the blue symbols were still painted on the walls . . . and on the floor. Standing inside the ritual circle were six people dressed in white robes.

The survivors.

And facing them around the outside of the circle were six additional people. Each of them stood naked in a puddle of rough, brown fabric, wearing nothing put pairs of strange-looking boots.

Bright blue stones glowed in their hands. Miniature idols, like the one Astrid had picked up. Six people, six idols. One by one, each of the expressionless nude participants handed the turquoise statues to the survivors before picking up the brown fabric that pooled around their strange boots. Brown burlap sacks, big enough for a man to stand inside. They pulled the sacks over their heads like cocoons and cinched them closed from the inside.