As time grew on, he’d found another way to relax—driving. There was a time when he’d go fly for hours, but centuries later, it had lost a bit of its magic, not to mention all the idiots who saw a griffin minding his own business and who absolutely had to take pictures. Now, driving through the countryside with the windows down and music up, that was the way to let go.
He zoomed through the countryside, one arm locked up on the top of the steering wheel. His eyes were squinted. He didn’t know why. His Ray-Bans shielded his eyes from the buffeting winds anyway. His left arm hung out the window, letting the air push around his fingers as he listened to his music blare on the radio.
His foot pushed heavier onto the accelerator. His engine roared to life, pushing him back into the seat as he accelerated. Nobody was out here. Not really, maybe the odd car or two, but for all intents and purposes, he was alone with his thoughts.
He wasn’t sure if he liked that.
Maybe today, this would be a good time to have some distraction. But alas, nothing came—leaving him to think and to process the events of that day.
He still saw her face in his mind’s eyes when they’d finished making love. Her eyes had widened, her hands pulled back. She’d been surprised. Startled. But not upset. She’d smiled, and though she looked confused by what had happened, she seemed happy. He knew what she felt. Whatever that was, whatever force had come over him, it had been powerful and then, without warning, it had vanished. It was as though some invisible figure had put them together, and for a second, he considered that possibility. Maybe a spell or a curse?
Had she seduced him with some kind of spell? No, that didn’t make any sense. People had tried that before. Griffins were invulnerable to such ridiculous spells. And even if she’d somehow gotten something like that to work for some completely unknown reason, she wouldn’t have been as taken aback as she had been. It had gone both ways. Perhaps an outsider, someone watching from the shadows? He dismissed that as soon as he thought of it. What an absurd concept, like someone was watching from behind the curtains, forcing random strangers to have sex. There was nothing to gain there. No blackmail opportunities and nothing lost.
But whatever it was, he’d felt it. A part of it still lingered in him, resting in his chest and making his heart hang heavy. It felt almost like lust, but more like a craving than a desire for sex. Like he was supposed to be with her, not just share bodies for a little while. Now that he was away, it felt like he was missing something. And all he wanted was to go back, to see her smile again—almost like he wasn’t quite whole without her.
That was crazy, though.
He eased off the accelerator as he made a turn. He should pull himself away from this case. He’d been emotionally entangled here. At this point, even if she started doing something illegal, he probably wouldn’t notice. Whatever this feeling was, it was screwing up his perception. She was still on his mind, and every time he thought of her, a warm, bubbly feeling spread through his body. Something positively bizarre was happening, something that could seriously keep him from making good decisions.
He drove on. Everything pointed to him needing to go away. Everything. But he wouldn’t, and he already knew it. His fingers curled around the steering wheel. Yes, this feeling was new and foreign, but everything in him screamed to chase it. To follow it and see where it led, to go down the rabbit hole and discover where he ended up. Worst-case scenario, he ended up angry and frustrated. Best-case scenario, well, he had no idea where this could go.
He drove for an hour, cruising along and feeling the wind massage his hair. Nothing could compare to flying, but flying along with a supercar was a close second. The speed, the purr of the engine, the responsiveness of the metal beast, it was almost like getting to fly. People still gawked, but at least they didn’t frantically take pictures like their lives were going to end if they didn’t get a selfie with him flying in the background.
When he finally returned home, he pulled up in front and studied his house. It was nice. Living for centuries had its benefits. At the road, a menacing metal fence kept everyone out, and if that didn’t work, the dogs prowling the kept grounds were sure to keep anyone from thinking about trespassing. A winding stone driveway led up to his house, perched on the side of the hill and overlooking everything nearby like an ominous guardian. It was old now, but he’d bought it new a hundred years ago.
A million times, he’d seen his house. But it looked…strange, different somehow. Like in a different light, or as though he’d never seen it before. His brow furrowed. Huh. Whatever had happened, had happened in a big way. He shook his head, clearing the confusion out or at least shedding it for now. He rolled up to the keypad in front of the gate, mindlessly reaching out to tap in the entrance code before his eyes landed on an envelope that had been sloppily duct-taped to the side of the keypad.
He paused, frowning. His gaze flittered over to the mailbox ten feet away, then back at the envelope. Okay. So someone had felt that they couldn’t wait for him to get his mail. Impatient bugger. He considered leaving it just to piss off whoever had gone through all the work of getting it there, but on a whim, he reached out of his window and snagged it.
Closer inspection of the envelope revealed…nothing. It was just an envelope. Nothing spectacular, nothing unusual. No return address marred the otherwise pearly white surface. Whoever had sent it wanted to stay in the shadows. That, or they were dumbasses who forgot to write a return address on it. Seeing how weird the day had been so far, his money was on some secret, shadowy figure from the depths.
Been there, done that. It wasn’t an everyday occurrence, but every now and then, someone liked to send him something like this. Sometimes it was a bribe for a case, but that was back when he wasn’t retired from the Immortal Council. Every blue moon, it was a threatening note. He’d gotten one back in the 80s that had the whole cut-out letters from a magazine crap. Moron. Blackmail, threats, tips, the list was endless. It was exciting the first time he’d gotten one, but now, it was as interesting as a notice that houses in his neighborhood were getting a special on their phone and internet bundles. Regardless, his curiosity got the better of him, and he decided to open it there instead of waiting to get back to the house.
His finger found the edge of the envelope and tore it open delicately. Nothing sprang out. He slipped his hand in, gripped the folded-up parchment inside, and removed it. Before reading it, he glanced around. Nobody was watching, or if they were, they were watching from some hidey hole. His attention fell back to the paper. Let’s see what Mr. or Mrs. Shadowy wanted to tell him.
It was a letter. Thick, expressive script swooped across the paper in a rich red ink. Messy handwriting scrawled from the top all the way down to the bottom. It was sloppy, and based on the slight scent of liquor seeping from it, the person had been drinking. He drew in a long sniff. Perfume. Faint and indistinguishable to a human’s nose. Vanilla, perhaps?
No signature. He snorted. Figures. Shadowy figure after all. His eyes scanned the writing, making sense of the poorly scribbled words.
Beware was the first word, and it only got more serious from there. Following the drunken, sloppy thoughts of whoever had written it, Oakley read the letter. The more he read, the more his face fell and the more his mind began to race.
The writer threw wild accusations at Poppy, throwing her up there with the worst of the worst, a monster who had killed once and wouldn’t stop until she was put away. Claimed that she was a sociopath, and that she was an abusive person to everyone she met, and a liar, and a thief, and a crook, and a whore, and a cheat, and so forth. The list went on, the writing growing worse by the word until at the end, it was hard to understand. By the end of the letter, Poppy’s good name had been thrown into the dirt, beaten senselessly, and left for dead. She’d apparently committed every crime known to man, and was a vindictive, corrupt psycho who reveled in tormenting and ruining people’s lives.