The Griffin's Secret

  Cover Copy

  In this contemporary re-telling of Grimm’s classic fairy tale The Griffin, two people must risk everything to free themselves from the invisible prisons that keep them from love…

  Jackson Grant had it all—the girl he loved, his Harley, and his guitar. Until a tragic accident stole it all away. Now, more than scars and a tattoo remain. Jackson has a secret. Cursed by his dead girlfriend’s mother, he can never fall in love again or his beloved will die. With his heart on lockdown, he keeps to himself—until a roadie gig with Malcontent, the world’s most popular band, entwines his fate with sweet, wounded Layla’s…

  Music is what Layla lives for. She has no choice. She’s bound by magic to serve Malcontent, cursed to propel them to stardom with her musical powers. Then Jackson appears and gives her hope that he’s the hero who will save her. A reluctant hero, yet one she can’t resist. But freedom will come at a price—and who will pay…?

  Books by Cate Masters

  Rock Bottom

  Twice In A Blue Moon

  Griffin’s Secret

  The Goddess Connection Series

  Goddess, Awakened, Book One

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  Griffin’s Secret

  Cate Masters

  LYRICAL PRESS

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  Copyright

  Lyrical Press books are published by

  Kensington Publishing Corp. 119 West 40th Street New York, NY 10018

  Copyright © 2014 by Cate Masters

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  All Kensington titles, imprints, and distributed lines are available at special quantity discounts for bulk purchases for sales promotion, premiums, fund- raising, and educational or institutional use.

  Special book excerpts or customized printings can also be created to fit specific needs. For details, write or phone the office of the Kensington Special Sales Manager:

  Kensington Publishing Corp.

  119 West 40th Street

  New York, NY 10018

  Attn. Special Sales Department. Phone: 1-800-221-2647.

  Kensington and the K logo Reg. U.S. Pat. & TM Off.

  Lyrical Press and the L logo are trademarks of Kensington Publishing Corp.

  First Electronic Edition: May 2015

  eISBN-13: 978-1-61650-705-3

  eISBN-10: 1-61650-705-5

  Printed in the United States of America

  Dedication

  For Gary, always

  Chapter 1

  The inky midnight sky met the black strip of road somewhere ahead of Jackson Grant’s motorcycle like the mouth of hell waiting to gobble him up. He gunned the Harley and gritted his teeth. “I’m all yours.”

  The scent of salty ocean spurred him toward the Atlantic shoreline. The speedometer needle twitched in its climb past ninety. He hunkered low against the bike—the only thing he loved that he could still hold. But sometimes surviving wasn’t necessarily the best option, or even a good one. Because sometimes, when fate or the universe or a sadistic ruling entity tried to steal everything a guy loved, he just had to throw his hands in the air and say fuck it all.

  Jackson did. For one crazy instant, he was free. No more worry or sorrow. Nothing but right there, right then. With an uncommonly warm May air buffeting his face, he soared through the night. He’d almost forgotten how amazing happiness could be. He threw back his head and actually laughed.

  “How dare you.” The familiar female voice boomed through the darkness and into his head.

  Killjoy. He squeezed the handlebars and revved the engine faster. “Good-bye and good riddance.”

  A sneering chuckle echoed, and lightning flashed, igniting the surface of the ocean. Each eruption of her malevolent mirth crackled through the deep sky, brilliant white neon veins crawling across midnight velvet. Her amusement grew into full-blown laughter, and the smooth dome overhead began to roil, dark clouds billowing like wild black horses at full gallop. Still, she laughed.

  Sonofabitch. Could she never leave him alone? No matter how often he moved from one obscure town to another, she traced him.

  “What’s so funny?” he yelled at the night.

  Her raucous humor grew louder. So did the thunder.

  To hell with this and to hell with her. “I said, what’s so funny, bitch?” A twist of his wrist nudged his speed higher, motorcycle engine screaming.

  Out of nowhere, headlights blazed in his eyes, dazzling him to blindness. With mere seconds before he smashed against its grill, his precious Harley a permanent hood ornament, Jackson jerked the handlebars away from the oncoming vehicle’s path. Its horn blasted through his ears and vibrated through his skull. Darkness engulfed him as he plunged out of the intense spotlight. Still half-blind, he swerved to where he thought the road was. The front tire bumped and swiveled across gravel. The back tire slid from behind, coming around low to the front.

  A screech split the night, brakes resisting the driver’s attempt to stop.

  “No.” A thick, cold lump hardened in his stomach, and every muscled turned to steel as he braced for impact.

  The truck veered sideways, a wall of white sliding right in front of him in slow motion.

  Christ, she wouldn’t. Would she? Jackson barely had time to beg, “Don’t do this.” He pitched forward and held tight. The Harley’s rear wheel spun beneath the truck bed.

  “Don’t you want to die?” Her laugh became louder and meaner.

  “No. Not yet.” He released the handlebars, rolled off, and hit the ground seconds before the sickening crunch. Metal twisted with a groan, almost like an animal dying. Not again. Please.

  Too late. As if to fend off its attacker, the Harley reared up and over. The truck slammed atop the bike, the visual of the crushing weight knocking the breath from Jackson as he scrambled backward, out of range. Springs creaked as the larger vehicle bounced along the motorcycle before the truck’s tires caught blacktop again and sped away.

  “Wait, you can’t leave me here alone!” The night swallowed Jackson’s yell.

  “Why should you have anything you love when you destroyed what I love?”

  Wanting to tear her apart, he gulped back his fury. “I didn’t.” He thought he had no tears left to shed, but his cheeks were wet.

  “You will live as long as I live. Suffer the same agony.” Her cackling swelled like a storm cloud.

  Like he hadn’t paid enough? “I can’t go on like this.” He couldn’t take much more. At twenty-seven, he was bone weary of this world, but not quite ready to join the Twenty-Seven Club. Not before leaving his own mark on the music world. “Stop laughing!”

  “I always laugh at fools. And you’re the biggest fool of all.”

  He huffed another laugh, more bitter than hers. “For once, we’re on the same page.” Still didn’t help his current situation.

  Out of alternative options, he pushed himself to his feet like he had always done. Pain shot up his leg, but he could still walk, so he limped to where the Harley lay. Handlebars and back wheel both bent, definitely not drivable but possibly pushable. Ignoring the sudden burn in his leg, he dragged the bike upward from the wreckage and shoved it down the road away from the mess, though he might have had more luck pushing an elephant up the stairs.

  Had to be a sign. If it hadn’t already been crystal enough, now he saw the truth. He’d hit a dead end in his life. No more long, aimless rides in the dead of night. He’d spent too much time spinning his wheels with no direct
ion, no destination.

  Where the hell had he ended up anyway? He couldn’t remember which direction he’d ridden out of town. Must have hit his head harder than he thought. Somewhere down the road, the lights of the Jersey boardwalk beckoned in a flash of crazy colors, a surreal landmark standing out against the blackness.

  Distant music mixed with an engine’s rumble grew louder as headlights approached. He curled his lip in disgust. She wants to go another round? Fine, come get me.

  Instead, the approaching pickup chugged to a stop, the vehicle as ancient as the driver. The wizened, wiry old man smiled through the open window. The color of wet clay, his pointy, battered hat flopped over, wide brim shading his features. “Get in.”

  Tempting. “I’m not leaving my bike.”

  The old man climbed out in a flash. Before Jackson knew it, and despite the fact that he stood about as tall as the bumper, the guy opened the gate and drew down a wide wooden plank. He swept his hand in a there-you-go gesture.

  Distrusting, Jackson still dragged the bike up the board, swaying beneath the weight. He propped the Harley against the side, then jumped down. “Thanks.”

  The old man’s smile never wavered. A nod, and he shoved the board back into the truck bed and slammed the gate shut. He reappeared in the cab before Jackson reached for the door handle.

  After clambering in, he kept a wary eye on the old man, whose constant, crooked-toothed smile gave Jackson the willies. “Kind of out of your way, aren’t you?” Elves normally didn’t travel this far from the forest. Or was he a wizard?

  “I’m Grundy.” His long, gnarled fingers curled around the shifter and slammed into third gear.

  So much for explanations. “Jackson Grant. I appreciate the lift. So what brings you out here?”

  When he lifted his head, his clear sapphire eyes sparkled in the dashboard light. “I have work to do.”

  Jackson tried to return the smile, but something about the way he said it made him more nervous. Like he was the bull’s-eye in Grundy’s target.

  A song came on the radio. Mesmerizing, and he’d probably hum the tune for days. “What band is this?”

  “You don’t recognize Malcontent, the most popular rock group in the world?” Grundy’s smile seemed to mock Jackson.

  Malcontent? He’d heard the name somewhere. “I don’t listen to the radio much. I prefer to write my own songs.”

  “Rightfully so.” Grundy nodded, downshifted, and steered into a parking lot.

  Jackson hadn’t noticed the bar wedged among the line of junky shops and pizza joints until they pulled to a stop beneath the neon sign that read Last Chance. Real funny. “What are we doing here?”

  The old man pocketed the keys. “An old friend’s coming to see you.”

  He expelled a quick breath. “Do you always speak in riddles?”

  “No riddle. You’ll soon see.” He climbed out. Spry as before, Grundy disappeared inside.

  Jackson blew raspberries. What the hell, might as well, though he only had enough spare cash for maybe one beer. No one would bother the Harley, wrecked as it was. He followed and found Grundy at the bar. The girl behind the counter winked as she set down two mugs.

  “Thanks.” He dug in his pocket for some coins.

  Grundy laid gnarled fingers on his arm. “Save your money. You’ll need it.”

  Another riddle. Jackson raised his mug. “Cheers.”

  Someone slapped him on the back. “Hey, stranger.” Stepping around, Darius smiled at him. He was a leaner, meaner version of the guy Jackson used to jam with, playing dives like this one while the preppies and jocks went off to college. Now Darius had an edginess behind his pleasant expression, a sad, haunted look in his dark eyes, like he’d seen things too strange or awful to speak of.

  “Hey, where have you been hiding?” Jackson stood for a quick bear hug.

  “Hell, I think. But I escaped last week.” Darius beamed at him, then Grundy. “You two found each other. How crazy is that?”

  Jackson was thinking maybe not so crazy after all. “Grundy saved me from a long night of walking. You know each other?”

  “Old Grundy gave me this sweet ink.” Darius rolled his shirt up his back to reveal an intricate design of a phoenix rising from the ashes. “You called it, man.”

  Whoa, expert craftsmanship on the ink. “Called what?” Jackson didn’t normally pry but Darius had piqued his curiosity.

  “When I met Grundy, he took me to this very bar and said I was about to go down in flames but I shouldn’t worry. He said I’d rise above and start over. Everything would be better than before. And you were absolutely right.” Darius pointed at Grundy, then chugged the beer.

  When did Darius join the ranks of the fanatics? Jackson stifled a wince. “Or maybe you unconsciously changed your life after you chose the phoenix tattoo.”

  “I didn’t choose the design. Grundy did. He told me I needed this particular one.” Calm and cool, Darius acted sane even though his words were anything but.

  Grundy laughed. “The ink chooses the person. I only embroider the tattoo.”

  Jackson would hate to see the old man’s needle if he called his work embroidery. He angled toward him. “What design would you give me?”

  “Whatever the ink commands.” Grundy smacked the beer foam from his lips. “Come to my shop and I’ll show you.”

  Jackson shrugged. “Maybe sometime.”

  Behind the ever-present smile, Grundy’s gaze turned steely. “Why not now?” He shelled out more than enough bills to cover the beer and hopped down.

  “No time like the present.” Darius lightly punched his arm. “I’ll go along.” A jerk of his head, and he strode toward the exit.

  “Great.” A party. “Look, I can’t afford a tat right now.”

  “No payment necessary. Not to me anyway.” Grundy took off, zigging and zagging through the crowd.

  Enough with the cryptic remarks. Hurrying to catch up, Jackson called after him, “Look, I appreciate the offer, but—”

  Grundy whirled and glared at him. “Your fate has come due, Jackson Grant.”

  Despite the smile, the hardness of the old man’s stare cut through Jackson like a cold knife.

  A gulp, and he nodded. “All right then.” Jackson wouldn’t back down. He knew he owed plenty. Paying his due would either relieve his burden, or kill him. Time to face the music.

  * * * *

  The jester face atop the whirling carousel laughed at Jackson as they walked past. The screams of the Tilt-a-Whirl riders provided an eerie, yet fitting soundtrack for this strange night. Thunderous pounding and muffled screeches sent a chill over Jackson as Grundy led them around the fun house, then down a dark alleyway. He took out a key that looked like something used in medieval times to unlock the tat shop, then flipped on a light. No sign marked the place, only a skull and crossbones painted in red on the glass door, and no other windows in the place.

  Jackson entered last. “How do your clients find you?”

  “I find them when the time is right.” Grundy’s head barely topped the counter as he passed it on the way to the right wall. He pointed out the griffin. “This one’s yours.”

  Jackson shifted closer to peer at the detailed design. “I’ve seen that before.” But where? The creature had the head and wings of an eagle, the body of a lion. A regal beast composed of two kingly animals. Distinctive, fearsome, and so familiar.

  Grundy amiably shook his head. “Impossible. I only use each once and then take them down from the wall.” He removed the sheet from its place. Despite the still air, the rest of the designs fluttered and shifted to fill in the gap. “After you, no one else will have the honor.” He pointed to the table in the center of the room. “Shirt off and lay on your belly.”

  Jackson laughed. “I don’t even get to choose where I want the ink?”

  “The griffin goes here.” Grundy pressed a finger to Jackson’s back.

  Gues
s he couldn’t argue with free. He whipped the T-shirt over his head and stretched onto the table, ready to get the process finished.

  Grundy fussed with his equipment, took his sweet time positioning a stool just so, then climbed up. He swiped a pad across a wide area of Jackson’s back and the sting of alcohol met Jackson’s nose.

  Darius plopped onto a broken-down recliner and slung a leg over the arm. “So weird to run into you. I’ve been thinking about you lately.”

  Probably thinking he wanted Jackson’s vintage Harley. “Why’s that?” And when would the old man get started? A whisper of cool air was the most he felt against his skin.

  Picking at his fingernails, Darius rearranged himself in the chair. “I’ve had the strangest urge to tell you about the crazy roadie gig I worked. Only a few months. Then I escaped.”

  Jackson shifted to see his friend better. “Escaped? What?” So he hadn’t joked about being in hell?

  Grundy tsked. “Stay still.”

  He stopped himself from asking why. Shouldn’t insult the old man, especially when he held sharp objects. Jackson wished he’d hurry the hell up.

  “Seriously, man.” Darius sat forward, knee bobbing. “This dude is insane.”

  “Really.” So about the same as every other rocker out there.

  “I don’t know how I got away alive. Worst job of my life.”

  The grittiness in his friend’s voice convinced Jackson the guy believed his own story. Not that Darius’s conviction provided irrefutable proof. “What made it so awful?”

  Darius gave an empty laugh. “Oh, I guess because he was a loony-tune rock star, a supreme megalomaniac, a homicidal motherfucker who insisted no one touch his guitar. Or his girl.” He glanced behind him toward the door.

  Paranoid? Maybe his friend had gotten into other things during his gig.