“And here I was thinking you were wasting my time,” Zane drawled. “Any other players I need to look into?”
It was risky as shit to open this Pandora’s box, but between Cass’s visions and his gut, he couldn’t shake the feeling there was something out there. “Two. But, Zane, tread carefully.”
“Oh, now you’re just being a tease.” Predatory anticipation darkened Zane’s voice.
“Dana Marr and Cole Burton.”
Stunned silence filled the line. “As in Burton Entertainment?”
“Yes.”
A low whistle came back. “And the Marr chick?”
“Cole’s current companion.”
“Dare I ask what kind of shit you stepped into, Grayson?”
The imagery was spot-on. “The kind that can get deep quick.”
“Then I’m not the only one who needs to watch my step,” Zane said. Before Grayson could respond, Zane went back to business. “What am I looking for?”
“Connections that tie the players together. Whatever kind you can find outside the obvious.”
“The obvious being you?” Zane shot back.
Grayson winced. “Me and Cassandra Alcmene.”
That earned a knowing chuckle. “Cassandra? Sounds like a story.”
“Maybe later.”
“I’ll hold you to it. What’s my timeline?” Zane asked.
“ASAP. I’m dealing with an unknown hex.”
“That means you’re heading out to Walter’s.”
“On my way now,” Grayson confirmed.
“Need backup?”
Grayson’s lips twitched. “You know him. Me visiting is bad enough. No sense in adding to the old man’s torture.”
“Right. Do me a favor—text me when you’re heading back so I know you’re alive.”
Zane’s dry tone lit a spark of amusement. “Will do.”
“Right. Let me see what I can dig up. I’ll reach out tomorrow. Later.”
“Later, Zane.”
Forty minutes later, Grayson drove past a diner that had seen better days, its street-facing windows decorated with hand-painted menu specials. He turned off the sun-beaten asphalt and into a dusty parking lot that held a pair of well-maintained motorcycles and a couple of older trucks. He parked in a spot in the far back corner next to a prehistoric pay phone haphazardly perched next to a weathered metal lamppost. Grayson popped open his glove compartment and shuffled through a collection of paper napkins and receipts until he found a small metal tin. He pulled it out and popped the lid. Inside, where mints had once lived, was an odd collection of polished glass and etched bones and stones. He thumbed through them until he found what he needed then put the rest back.
Grayson stepped out of the car, pocketed his keys and the piece of glass, and closed the door, leaving his phone behind. The street was quiet, not a surprise considering that Rattler Springs’s business district covered maybe four blocks. No one was out, because it was too hot to be walking around—not that there was much shopping to be had. At least a third of the storefront windows were dark or boarded up. Road trippers heading to and from the bright lights of Vegas might swing into the diner and nearby gas station, but the only other shop that held signs of life was the feed store at the other end of the street. It was one of those small towns that defied logic, somehow supporting a scattered population that might stretch into three digits on a good day.
Gravel crunched underfoot as he took the handful of steps necessary to get to the pay phone. Faded spray paint crawled along the metal sides, and on the sun-worn directions above the receiver, someone had used a sharpie to invite visitors to call Barb. He took a moment to make sure there were no accidental witnesses to what would happen next since Walter was borderline paranoid and violently committed to his privacy.
Grayson contemplated the handset, which was stained with dust and other things he didn’t want to think about, and reached for his magic. He wrapped his power around the rune stone in his other palm and murmured, “Sýn mér.”
