The Griffin's Secret. Cate Masters

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      Darius shot to his feet. “No way. Don’t go anywhere near him.”

      “Not,” Grundy said, “without these.” He pressed something into Jackson’s palm.

      He opened his hand to reveal a bracelet of thick strands of woven silver. Beside it was a silver charm with an intricate design of a griffin and shaped like a guitar tuner. “Jewelry? Seriously?”

      “A teman bracelet woven in the tulang naga pattern.” When Jackson’s brow remained furrowed, Grundy said, “Teman is the Java word for friend. Like the silver itself, the dragon-bone weave is strong protection against evil.”

      Jackson tried not to wince. “You’re hinting my destiny has something to do with evil?”

      A shrug. “You are certain to encounter it in some form.”

      Darius wagged his finger at him. “Especially if you go to work for Malcontent. I got away, but you might not. Listen to me, man. My life flipped from horrible to amazing after I left.”

      “Just like your tat predicted.” Maybe there was something to the idea after all. Jackson lifted the silver griffin and examined it. “What’s this for?”

      Grundy put away his tools. “The griffin likewise protects against black magic.”

      “Then why do I need this?” He dangled the silver chain.

      “Wear it. When the time comes, you’ll know what to do with both.”

      Tired of fighting fate and every obstacle it threw in his path, Jackson fastened the bracelet onto his wrist and pocketed the griffin. “Only one thing left to do.”

      “I’ll drive you.” The jingle of Grundy’s keys sounded like the sweet music of freedom.

      At Jackson’s efficiency, the three of them made short work of boxing up his few belongings. Essentials, he tossed into a duffel bag. Everything he owned fit neatly into the back of the truck, a pathetic statement on his shallow life.

      Grundy recommended his friend’s storage facility. “It’s late, but he’ll open up for me.”

      “Let me guess,” Jackson said. “He owes you?”

      Grundy only smiled, but sure enough, the owner sleepily handed over a key.

      After stowing the few boxes, his guitar, and the mangled Harley in a unit, Jackson secured the lock. His heart broke leaving them behind.

      “Take it easy, Darius. Thanks for everything, Grundy.” He climbed out of the truck cab and shut the door.

      “Stay well, Jackson Grant.” A wave, and Grundy drove away. Darius’s worried face faded behind the passenger window.

      Jackson watched the truck grow smaller. Someday he hoped to see the old man again. For now, he strode to the highway and stuck out his thumb. A trucker pulled over and asked where he was headed.

      “As far west as I can go.” Starting tonight, he’d forge a new path, one leading away from here and away, finally, from this mess of a life. As much as he loved what his past contained, it was forever out of his reach. Whatever his future held, he intended to grab hold and not let go.

      * * * *

      Outside the bus window, the world flew by. Layla wished she could reach through the glass beside her bunk and catch the scenery like a butterfly, hold it for a little while to examine all the detail. The real colors, vivid and alive, not muted by the tinted glass. If only the rest of the world could see in as well as she could see out, she might not feel so isolated.

      A futile wish, so she released the thought. After rummaging through her small bookshelves above the mattress, she found the sketch pad and began to draw a butterfly. She hummed a song she’d been composing in her mind. A haunting melody she couldn’t forget, yet couldn’t quite figure out the rest.

      “Don’t waste too much, love.” The low voice held menace.

      She shut her eyes against the unspoken message. Why did so many beg to hear that harsh voice? Who could fall for such a cold man? Loving him would be a terrible waste. Every concert was the worst sort of torture for her.

      She made her tone airy and careless. “There’s always more.” Unfortunately. Otherwise, she could go her separate way.

      “I said save your energy.” Mal’s words clipped the air.

      She sighed. The bus had every luxury except privacy. Next time, she’d remember to draw the flimsy curtain shut. “Fine.” She kept sketching but stopped humming. Out loud, anyway. The melody continued in her head.

      He leaned his elbows along the rail. “You just can’t know the absolute thrill of standing center stage.” Like his voice, his features had softened. “The energy of the people pulsing through me, their love flowing to me.” Long hair to his shoulders, his pale blue eyes sparkled as he smiled dreamily. “Holding them captive with each strum.”

      No small thanks to her. And if he had his way, she’d never experience the same thrill. “You mean captivated, don’t you?”

      His shrug dismissed her argument, then he winced. “What’s the difference? Why must you dwell on petty semantics?”

      His mood swings never surprised her anymore. True to his name, Mal couldn’t sustain a pleasant mood for long.

      She kept sketching. “No reason.” Except the difference lent a critical distinction to his motive. Pleasing the audience or owning them. He’d almost had her believing he cared about someone other than himself.

      A dangerous mistake.

      “I’m bored.” Yawning, Mal scratched his belly, thin as the rest of him, and much less awe-inspiring than his costumed stage persona. “I’m going back to bed.”

      She waited until he’d shuffled to the rear of the bus and closed the narrow door behind him, then set aside her pad and pencil and slid her feet from the bunk to the floor. She walked to the front where Fred strummed his guitar on the plush cushions, shaved head bent low.

      At her approach, he looked up and grinned. “I loved your song, even if he didn’t.”

      Too bad no one else would ever hear it. “Play me something sweet.” She closed her eyes and listened to the soft notes he drew from the strings, exactly the kind of soothing music she needed. When he finished after a few minutes, she exhaled slowly. “Divine. And you needed no one’s help.”

      Fred cradled the instrument to his chest, concern in his hazel eyes. “Why don’t you go rest? Tomorrow night will be here all too soon.”

      Like she needed the reminder. “Tomorrow night and the next and the next. When will it end?”

      The guitarist gave a lopsided smile. “Hopefully never. Or at least, not for a long time.”

      “Don’t say that.” The very thought sapped her will. After five years of touring with Malcontent, the concerts had begun to blur СКАЧАТЬ