Oh for Luck's Sake Read online

  Oh, For Luck’s Sake

  Bad Luck Dragon 1

  Shan Marin

  Copyright © 2019 by Shan Marin

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

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  To my bad luck

  You’ve saved me countless times

  Thanks!

  ♥

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Also by Shan Marin

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  CASSIE

  By the time I broke into the temple, my client was dead and I owed that snot-shitter Goblin Joe ten thousand dollars.

  I froze, my body half-way through the window, my eyes locked on the crumpled form inside. Fuck my life, I thought with great vehemence.

  My back rippled. I reined in my dragon half, only allowing scales to emerge from my hands, covering my skin in dense, protective armor. My nails curved into claws, and my eyes glowed, enhancing my night vision. I scanned the interior of the building through the gap between the boards.

  Wooden pews lined the sides of the chamber, and a large central aisle led to an altar with four podiums. My client lay sprawled in the center of the aisle, surrounded by a puddle of blood. I caught a glance of a feminine statue behind the altar but my focus remained on the shadows where evil might lurk.

  The seconds ticked into minutes.

  Nothing moved.

  Whoever killed my client had left, but that didn’t mean danger didn’t linger.

  “Easy, Cassie,” I muttered to myself.

  Slowly, I commanded the dragon part of my nature to settle. The scales slipped back under my skin, and my fingernails returned to their usual, bitten state. I leaned against a board, and the nails gave way, widening the space so I could slip inside silently.

  Death and mildew choked me, and I shielded my nose with my knitted scarf as I examined the murder scene. I knew the body lying in the aisle, arms outstretched to the altar, had to belong to my client, Jane-Ann, because I was here on her invitation.

  I also knew she was dead, because her headful of blonde curls lay ten feet from the rest of her body. Jane-Ann’s remains sprawled across the stone floor, chest down, her hand clenched loosely around a purse. She wore oatmeal linen trousers, now stained with dirt and blood, and low heels.

  Her blossom pink blouse lay torn open along her spine. Two jagged gashes sat high on her back, by her shoulder blades. I bit my lip. She had torn the shirt herself, trying to fly from danger, but her wounds filled in the rest of the story.

  Poachers.

  “Motherfuckers,” I muttered into the darkness. “They killed her for her wings.”

  This wasn’t the first poacher kill I’d seen. It wouldn’t be the last, either.

  Dropping to my knees, I swept a hand over my face, and pushed back the urge to vomit. I fumbled for my purse, found a crumpled Kleenex, wiped my soggy face, and took a steadying breath. My fingers curled around my cellphone, and I redialed the last number on my call list.

  It wasn’t Maura who answered, but a male voice I didn’t recognize. Probably a patient. “Hello?” he said.

  “I need a song,” I said.

  The man on the other end hesitated. “Ms. Lee? Just a minute. I’ll get Maura.”

  I hit the button for speaker phone and set the cell on the floor. Murmured conversation came through the line, but nothing distinct.

  I’d only spoken to Jane-Ann twice on the phone, but she’d been sweet and polite. The first time had been a month ago, when she had called to arrange delivery of a charmed item; a magical talisman containing a lock of hair she couriered to Goblin Joe’s office.

  On our second call she had insisted, with a warble in her voice, that I deliver the completed binding charm to her in person. I don’t know why Jane-Ann chose this venue, but back in the day it had probably been a lovely spot. Maybe she was religious. Maybe she knew it would be deserted.

  Behind the altar, a statue of a benevolent woman dressed in flowing robes smiled down at Jane-Ann’s corpse.

  “Couldn’t you have helped her?” I asked the stone figure. It continued to smile, its hands outstretched.

  “Cassie-girl?” Maura sounded weary. She’d probably been awake for days, catching catnaps between patients.

  “I need a song,” I said. “Her name was Jane-Ann.”

  Maura hesitated for a second. I pictured her leaning against the wall beside the phone in my apartment building, closing her eyes to fight back tears. Maura cried for them all. It was one of the many reasons I loved her.

  She cleared her throat. Her voice rose in a reedy song of mourning. The song called the Sentinels, begging them to take in the souls of the fallen, and thanking them for their protection. I knew the tune, and most of the words, but I never joined in. The Sentinels had done jack-shit for me, and I wasn’t a hypocrite.

  As Maura sang, more voices joined in, including Herbert, and the unknown male voice who had answered the phone. I let them sing, until the final notes faded, echoing in the empty temple. When I heard the others leave, I pressed the phone to my ear.

  “Thanks, Maura.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. She was dead when I arrived.” If I’d been faster on the pedals. If I hadn’t gone back for my jacket. If I’d ignored that red light… Then, I might be dead, too.

  “Poachers?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “Fucking butchers.”

  “Where are you?” she asked. I described my surroundings.

  “That’s a temple of the Sentinel, Nyonia. Goddess of Air and Fertility.” I glanced up at the winged statue. Explained the giant boobs. Maura half-laughed, half-sobbed. “ Jane-Ann sought Nyonia’s protection. Ironic, because Nyonia herself was murdered.”

  I scoffed. “Nyonia couldn’t protect herself, and the other Sentinels disappeared decades ago instead of stepping up. Jane-Ann chose wrong.”

  “Hope lives in hearts,” Maura said. “While a heart beats, so does hope. Be safe, Cassie-girl.”

  We said our goodbyes. I stared at the phone in my hands. “Screw hope,” I said to the statue. “I need money.”

  A clutch purse lay beside the torso, and I tugged it out of Jane-Ann’s limp fingers. The silk fabric had absorbed the moisture from the ground and when I rummaged through the contents, I discovered the interior was damp. Gorge bubbled in my throat.

  Don’t think about the liquid, Cassie. Just don’t.

  The driver’s license tucked inside showed her full name to be Jane-Ann Resset. On the phone, she had refused to reveal her surname, as if her anonymity meant something. There was nothing out of
the ordinary in the wallet, just the regular stuff you would expect from a bored trophy wife looking for magic to reignite the love missing between her and her workaholic husband.

  Tucked into the I.D compartment, I found a folded photograph. On the worn surface, Jane-Ann beamed out at me, her arm slung around a man wearing sunglasses. He wore his hair slicked back, revealing a high widow’s peak. He was handsome in a male-model-playing-a-billionaire way. I flipped the photograph over and read the inscription: Jyri and Jane-Ann on Honeymoon. I pulled out a business card for Apex Industries.

  “Boom,” I whispered. “Jyri Altimir.”

  I tucked both the business card and the photograph in with the driver’s license in my pocket. From what little I knew of this Altimir, I could say he wasn’t a top-notch husband. Happy wives don’t ask to spell their hair into a charm of binding. Yet, even bad husbands deserved closure.

  Hoping against all hope, I searched the wallet, then the purse, and finally patted Jane-Ann’s pockets. Zero cash. Either Jane Ann had been mugged, or she had intended to stiff me on the money she owed me.

  I sighed. “Just my luck.”

  The charm in the pocket of my faux leather jacket felt like a stone albatross where it brushed against my ribs. It was a pricey item, hand-cast in silver, and since the witches built especially for Jane Ann, using her own hair, it would have zero resale value. Which meant I now owed Goblin Joe the money it took to cover the cost of the charm.

  Plus all the back pay from all the other jobs my rotten luck had screwed over.

  “Motherfucking hellfire.”

  Jane-Ann deserved better. A better husband, a better Procurer, a better death. What she got was a husband who likely cheated on her, and me, a lousy, broke-ass supernatural cursed by fate.

  At least one of us could do right by her.

  I didn’t relish facing what came next.

  I closed my eyes, and tilted my head back. Deep inside, my magic stirred, eager for release. It had been a long time since I’d last used my luck dragon magic. The roil of power threatened to force its way out. I put a firm damper on that idea. I’d suffered enough tonight already.

  I drew out a thin tendril of luck, and let it slip into the air. The rest of the magic seethed, but settled. The magic led to a room in the back where I found a pile of thick tablecloths. I returned to Jane-Ann’s corpse with two. I drew my scarf around my nose and mouth before wrapping her body and head in the fabric and tying the ends closed.

  I hauled the bundle onto my shoulder. I wasn’t a slouch in the strength department, and she was fairly light, being a winged-creature, but I wanted as little contact as possible. The tendril of magic hung in the air. It tugged me to the left of the altar where I spied a door.

  A staircase wound down into a cool cellar. On the far side, I found a marble block surrounded by chairs. Low tables bore unlit candles, the wax dribbled down to cover the wood in a sheet of white. A wake space, set up to mourn the dead.

  “Gee, whizz,” I muttered. “What amazing luck.”

  It was a good spot. Concealed enough that she would not be found by anyone who was not specifically searching for her, and cool enough that her corpse could be retrieved later. I lowered Jane-Ann’s body onto the block. Stepping back, I scrubbed my hands on my jeans, trying to remove the icky sensation of guilt etched into my skin.

  Jane-Ann’s problems were over, but mine continued.

  All I wanted now was a hot shower, a stiff drink, and the chance to slowly absorb the horror of tonight. I climbed out of the window through which I’d entered, managing to both rip my jeans on a loose nail, and step in a pile of dog crap.

  So it begins.

  I was still cursing when I hopped on my bicycle and pumped my legs to conquer the incline back to the main road. I had traveled half a mile along the road when the front tire exploded, sending me flying over the handlebars.

  I hit the dirt hard, rolling a few feet before stopping on my back, looking up at the dark night sky.

  “Thanks bunches,” I said to the heavens. “Couldn’t we have counted the dead client or the dog poop as balancing the scales? What next?”

  As if hearing me the skies opened and rain pounded down hard enough to sting my skin. I groaned and curled into a ball of self-pity. If anyone knew anything about luck, it would have to be the daughter of a luck dragon, born with the envious fortune one only dreamed of.

  A long time ago, in my frivolous youth, I used up all my good luck on a single, painful event.

  I groaned and rose to my feet, dusting gravel out of my scraped knee. I dabbed my cut lip on the hem of my T-shirt. My injuries would heal quickly, thanks to my luck dragon nature, but for now I had a supermodel pout and a pirate’s limp.

  I didn't expect any different from the universe. I’d made my choice and reaped the consequences. For every piece of good luck I used, I collected bad luck a thousand times over. Because magic, above all else, called for balance. I’d ruined that balance.

  “That’s me,” I muttered, “Queen of the Fucked Life.”

  I eyed my crumpled front wheel. Old Faithful would never ride again. I picked up the bike frame and, with all my might, hurled it into the ravine where the bushes swallowed it up.

  The burst of violence didn’t improve my mood.

  I brushed the wet hair out of my face, shoved my hands into my pockets, and began the long trek back into town on my own two feet.

  The dirt track I followed linked up with the main road just in time for a passing car to splash me. I didn’t mind the mud, as I was already soaked, but the sight of the maggot-ridden raccoon in the puddle made my stomach lurch. Its sightless eyes reminded me of Jane-Ann’s.

  I bit back the wail growing in my throat. Shove that shit deep, Cassie, and keep your ass moving. I hitched my jacket higher. Maybe the rain would wash the festering raccoon guts off.

  “Hope lives in hearts,” I chirped, mocking Maura’s optimism.

  I traveled along the side of the road, my head down, thoughts black as the tarmac. When headlights washed over me, I threw my arm over my face to shield my eyes. The car slowed as it passed me, then pulled ahead to execute a U-turn.

  “Great,” I muttered. “Fucking great.”

  The window rolled down. “Get in the car, Cassie,” said a familiar feminine voice.

  I stopped and turned to face the expensive car. The hood gleamed under the streetlights, and each raindrop slid off the finish, too embarrassed to ruin the beauty. At the wheel, her hands locked at ten and two, sat Sonya the Heartless.

  Oh, my day just gets better and better.

  I plastered a fake smile across my face. “Hey, Sone. I don’t want to mess up your interior.” I gave her a thumbs up. “Thanks for the offer, but I’m okay walking.”

  Sonya shrugged. “I don’t care. Get in, Cassie.” Her accented voice harbored no refusal.

  I dropped my shoulders in surrender and reached for the handle. Cringing internally, I slid onto the leather, keeping my back straight. I shifted in my seat and ignored the squelch of my pants.

  “Seatbelt,” Sonya chided.

  I fumbled with my purse and dropped it between my feet before pulling the belt across my chest. It had barely clicked into place before the engine hummed, and we set off in a rumble of gravel.

  While I appreciated the ride, Sonya scared me. We had worked together when I’d shadowed her as a newbie Procurer. Goblin Joe thought we might get along but, while she’d been polite, we’d never clicked. Just too different, I guess. Sonya enjoyed luxuries and the screams of her enemies. I enjoyed dumb action flicks and pizza.

  Call me biased, but in my experience, the wealthy and powerful didn’t give a shit about the little folk like me. I’d scrambled for every penny I earned, but Sonya had been born with a golden stick up her ass. I don’t know why she slummed it, working, when she could retire a socialite and attend parties hosted by celebrities.

  Sonya wrinkled her nose. “What is that smell?”

  “I think th
at might be the dead raccoon juices,” I said, trying to levitate myself off the seat. Mud dripped from my thick-soled boots onto the floor mat. I could only imagine what the rain water and dirt on my ass must be doing to the dead cow I cozied up against.

  She could afford to buy a whole new car if she wanted to, I reminded myself. She probably would, too.

  Yeah, I’m a bitter broad. I’ll admit it.

  As if feeling my disdain, Sonya turned to me. She studied me with her ice-blue eyes, her pale blonde hair swept up and pinned back in an intricate style of braids. She’d lived centuries to my decades and was one of the last valkyries born before the birth restrictions placed on supernaturals.

  Without a word she leaned forward and pressed a button on the console. The seat beneath me warmed. Another button press, and classical music tinkled in the background. As much as I hated everything about this car and the world of wealth and privilege it represented, it was a comfortable ride.

  The rain hammered on the windshield as we drove. I flipped down the sun visor mirror and attempted to fix my appearance. The dyed strands of my hair clung to my temple and neck, leaving swirls of pastel blue and pink along my pale skin. I looked like a drowned rat and smelled like a drowned raccoon.

  “I like your hair,” she said. “Last time I saw you, your hair was neon green. Too harsh. The pastel colors suit you.”

  “Oh, thanks.” Stop right there, I warned myself. Just accept the compliment. My mouth failed to obey. “It distracts people from my face,” I quipped.

  Smooth. So smooth.

  Sonya ignored my attempt at self-deprecating humor. “Don’t hate on yourself. The world will do that to you enough.”