One Dark Wish Read online

  Also by Sharon Wray

  Deadly Force

  Every Deep Desire

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  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2019 by Sharon Wray

  Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks

  Cover design by Eileen Carey/No Fuss Design

  Cover images © Eudald Castells/Getty Images; VicW/shutterstock; Sabphoto/shutterstock

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  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—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Epilogue

  Sneak peek at In Search of Truth

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  In memory

  of

  Jeremiah E. Brennan

  Beloved Dad and Pop Pop

  Missed daily. Remembered forever.

  Prologue

  “The man bowed.” Sarah Munro hiked her straw bag higher on her shoulder and followed the officer down the Savannah Police Department’s hallway. He held a cell phone to his ear, and she yanked his arm. “And a woman died tonight.”

  He nodded, but his deep frown, as well as his dismissive wave, told her he wasn’t too concerned about the murder. Or the fact that Sarah had found the body in the Savannah Preservation Office’s courtyard fountain.

  Was a death in the historic district so commonplace that it didn’t warrant its own investigator? Frustrated, she followed him around the corner toward the second-floor landing when her cell phone buzzed. A text from her father. Where are you?

  She halted near the stairs, her fingers hovering over the phone’s keyboard. She debated how much to tell him. Then again, he probably already knew.

  She texted, I’ll be home soon.

  Someone bumped her as they passed, and she moved closer to the vending machine that carried only rows of Coke cans. Her officer stood nearby, talking on the phone, while federal, state, and local LEOs congregated in groups around the open area. Her father had told her that the city had numerous task forces, all trying to combat the rising crime rate. She and her dad had returned to Savannah nine months ago, and in that short time, they’d both noticed the uptick in drug use and violence.

  It’s dark. I’ll come get you, her father texted back.

  No. Not only did she not want her father worrying about her, he wasn’t supposed to drive. I’m leaving soon. Drink your tea.

  I hate that tea. It tastes like sh*t.

  Despite the ache in her chest, she smiled. Yes, he hated the tea. Yet it was the only thing that helped with his recurring seizures. And if he thought that being even more cranky than usual meant she’d ease up on the herbal leaves, he was wrong. I don’t care. Drink it.

  She glanced at her officer—who was still on his phone—and debated leaving. If the cops wanted her statement, they knew where she worked. The same place where a woman had been murdered. “I’m leaving, Officer. But I know what I saw.”

  He ignored her, and she turned toward the stairs.

  “Sarah?” A male voice cut through the station’s din, ringing phones, and metal chairs scraping along seventy-year-old linoleum.

  She blinked one man into focus. Tall, broad shoulders, long blond hair tied at the base of his neck, angular face, and deep, ocean-green eyes. The kind a girl could lose herself in. “Nate?”

  Was that her breathy voice? She swallowed, and a warm flush rose from her neck to her cheeks. She wasn’t sure why, but since meeting Nate Walker yesterday, she’d felt shaky and incoherent and…restless.

  Does he know what I did to his map?

  “I heard what happened.” He touched her arm before shoving both hands in the front pockets of his jeans. His biker jacket stretched across his shoulders, the black leather rustling with the movement. “Are you okay?”

  “I wasn’t hurt.” She stared at the red-and-white vending machine and blinked. Adopted daughters of cops didn’t cry. They endured. “This is my fault, Nate. I’d asked my assistant to do some research for me. I had no idea she was staying late.”

  “This isn’t your fault.” He leaned in closer, the scar on his cheek appearing deeper and more ragged. His pine-scented aftershave tickled her nose. “I’m sorry.”

  She wiped her palms on her chiffon skirt, relieved he didn’t seem to realize she’d secretly photographed the seventeenth-century map he’d brought to the preservation office for her to look at. The map included the only layout she’d ever seen of the remote, colonial-era Cemetery of Lost Children on the Isle of Grace. Even though the property’s owner—and Nate himself—had both told her to stay away, she was determined t
o visit as soon as possible.

  She was a terrible person. “My dad was a police chief in Boston, so unfortunately I’m used to things like this. I’d just hoped Savannah was safer.”

  “Nate?” A man built like a wrestler with long, black, braided hair yelled from the lobby on the first floor. “We gotta go, man.”

  Nate ignored him and kept his attention on her mouth. “I couldn’t help but overhear. What did you see?”

  She licked her lips. “You’d never believe me.” She wasn’t sure she believed it herself. Loud voices downstairs distracted her. Two military policemen in full uniform and carrying weapons had entered the station. “That’s odd. What do you think they want?”

  Nate took her hand and led her into a nearby alcove. “What did you see?”

  She pressed her hands against his chest. His heart pounded, and he radiated heat like an engine revving. “What are you doing?”

  “Nate?” The man with the braid ran up the stairs. “Time to go. Now.”

  “Please, Sarah. Tell me.”

  The MPs were right behind Nate’s buddy.

  “In the shadows, I saw a man bow.”

  She heard Nate’s sharp inhale right before he kissed her, his gentle hands on her shoulders at odds with his demanding lips. His warmth wrapped her in an erotic haze and he tasted like mint and summer breezes.

  Had she moaned? Good golly Moses.

  “Excuse me, ma’am.”

  Nate broke off the kiss because the man with the braid had taken his arm and dragged him down the hallway to the emergency exit, the MPs on their heels. Chills scurried along her arms, and she wrapped her sweater around herself. She touched her swollen lips, still stunned. Still tasting his peppermint mouthwash. Still inhaling his scent that reminded her of freshly cut grass and pine trees.

  Nate glanced at her before he hit the metal exit and disappeared. The door slammed shut with a loud reverb. Apparently, he’d locked it as well. When the MPs couldn’t force it open, they turned and ran past her, one of them brushing her skirt as they headed toward the stairs.

  What do MPs want with Nate Walker?

  “Miss Munro?” The officer who’d been ignoring her touched her elbow. “I’m ready for your statement.”

  She pulled away, her attention on the MPs racing out the front doors. She was a woman who sought the truth in both her professional and personal life. But tonight’s revelation was more than a cheap magazine tell-all. It was an earth-shattering event that stripped away the delusions she’d been carrying her entire adult life. One delusion in particular: when Nate’s lips had touched hers, she discovered she’d never truly understood what it meant to be kissed.

  “Ma’am?”

  She nodded. She’d give her statement. Then go home to her father. But as she followed the officer into an interrogation room, she couldn’t help but wonder if she’d ever see Nate again. No. If she was being honest with herself, which she always tried to be, she wondered if she’d ever kiss Nate again.

  Chapter 1

  Two weeks later, Sarah was lost. The pirated Isle of Grace cemetery map on her phone was useless. And the rustling and grunting sounds she’d heard from the woods told her she wasn’t alone.

  She clutched her camera and studied the seventeenth-century headstones and crosses leaning every which way in the sandy soil. Ancient oaks layered with Spanish moss hid whatever—or whoever—had made those noises.

  The hand-painted sign TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT. THEN PROSECUTED. NO KIDDING. nailed to a tree reminded her to keep moving. She couldn’t leave before photographing Saint Michael’s statue.

  The headless archangel stood at the central tomb in the Cemetery of Lost Children, on a four-foot plinth with one hand raising a sword to Heaven and the other clutching his shield. She snapped a picture. He was naked, quite unusual for a colonial-era tomb, but she was more interested in the initials TT carved below his feet.

  Sarah adjusted her hood and knelt on wet wildflowers to take more photos, her jeans soaking up the dampness. The rustling and grunting started again. A tingly feeling spread through her body. “Who’s there?”

  A nearby group of blackbirds took flight.

  She stood. “Hello?” Her voice echoed in the empty spaces around her.

  A deer appeared from behind a limestone crypt, stared at her, then slipped into a copse of pecan trees.

  Her shoulders dropped in relief. What is wrong with me? She wasn’t usually so jumpy. Maybe it was the cemetery’s creep factor. Maybe it was stress over her father’s health and their meeting with the social worker later today. Or maybe it was the fact that she couldn’t sleep without remembering the pressure of Nate’s lips against hers.

  It’d been two weeks, and she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Or the MPs following him. Or that perfect, once-in-a-lifetime kiss. She touched her lips and studied Saint Michael again. He protected acres of defenseless, centuries-old headstones with a confidence she envied. If she had half his courage, she might not have ended up trespassing in an abandoned cemetery, at seven a.m., in the rain. Then again, he’d lost his head while she, at least, still had a job.

  For now. She needed these photos for her grant proposal, and if she didn’t take them today, there wouldn’t be another chance.

  “Lady Sarah.” The British-accented voice coming from behind her was heavier than a whisper but lighter than a question. “Have no fear.”

  Her mouth went dry, and she turned, ready to use her camera as a weapon. Five yards away, a man emerged from behind a crumbling vault, too far for her to hit him with her camera but too close for her to run and not get caught. A green jacket covered black jeans, and his black boots crushed white daisies. He came forward.

  “Who are…” She paused because his walk belied his height and width. It had to take tremendous strength to maintain control over every muscle so he could move with that eerie-yet-elegant fluidity. Before she could speak again, he swept his arm forward and bowed at the waist.

  OhGodOhGodOhGod

  “You’re…a…” She couldn’t even stutter the words Fianna warrior. Many believed that the Fianna had disappeared in 1149, after the Second Crusade, but she knew the truth. She wiped a sweaty palm on her hip and pretended that speaking to a man who’d committed his life to an army of merciless assassins dating to the Roman invasion of Britain was normal. Because, seriously, if he was here to kill her, she’d be dead already. “Aren’t you?”

  He nodded and said in a modulated voice, “My Prince calls me Cassio. I carry a message.”

  How long has he been watching me? “What message?”

  Cassio shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat. The shoulders of his coat were darker than the rest, soaked through. “You must stop your unholy toil.”

  “My toil?” She removed her camera from around her neck and knelt to pack it away in her camera bag with her rolls of film. Her hands shook, betraying her calm and casual demeanor. “You mean my job at the Savannah Preservation Office? It’s only temporary until I return to the Smithsonian.”

  “No, my lady.” Cassio pointed to Saint Michael.

  Oh. That. “I’m just submitting a grant proposal. To restore a seventeenth-century diary.” She stood and inhaled the damp air, but the sting of mildew and decay burned the inside of her nose. She took another step away. “Not a big deal.”

  He raised an eyebrow, deepening the scar across his forehead. “The Prince has requested you leave this diary, and the love story it hides, alone. ’Tis a sad fable, best forgotten.” Cassio held out his hands palms up. “No good comes from retelling old tales.”

  So the Prince, leader of the secret army of assassins called the Fianna, was taking an interest in her research. What did such a powerful, dangerous man want with the diary of a seventeenth-century teenage girl? She exhaled and straightened her shoulders. A million thoughts raced through her mind, but one was
uppermost: he hadn’t bowed all the way to the ground—the sign of imminent execution—yet.

  She offered a pedantic smile, as if she was talking to a student in a graduate seminar. “The seventeenth-century love story between the brutal pirate Thomas Toban and his Puritan lover Rebecca Prideaux is not a fairy tale.”

  “You are correct, my lady. Fairy tales don’t end with the hero killing the heroine because she betrayed him.”

  His smile reeked of condescension, and she fisted her hand to stop herself from slapping him. Because hitting a ruthless assassin? Really bad idea. “You’re wrong about Thomas and Rebecca’s love story.”

  “Yet your ideas about the lovers have been rejected.” He crossed his arms and gave her the same kind of narrow-eyed glare her boss had perfected. “By your peers, no less.”

  The Prince had read her article in The British Journal of Eighteenth Century History? And knew about her Great Betrayal? Wonderful. “I don’t understand. As you say, my reputation is in tatters and I’m barely hanging on to my job. Why does the Prince care about my research involving Rebecca’s diary? I’d think, as leader of the Fianna, he’d have better things to do.”

  “This is his better thing.” Now Cassio’s voice resonated with a darkness that sent shivers along her spine, burning and chilling at the same time. “The Prince won’t ask again, my lady.”

  “I—”

  “Sarah, don’t say another word.” The deep male voice came out of the shadows off to her left. “Cassio, back the fuck up. Slowly.”

  Nate?

  Sarah couldn’t move. Her limbs were frozen in place, partly from Cassio’s death threat and partly from Nate’s sudden appearance. What is he doing here?

  Nate emerged from the shadows in a black field jacket, jeans, and combat boots, pointing a gun at Cassio. His long blond hair was tied behind his neck, and he didn’t stop moving until he stood between Sarah and the warrior.

  “How now, brother?” Cassio tilted his head. “Let there be no fray between us this day.”

  Nate moved his aim from Cassio’s chest to his head. “I told you I was taking care of this.”

  “Yet you weren’t.”