Wicked Charms (Lizzy and Diesel 3)

“I can’t leave,” Josh said. “I have to stay to lock up the museum.”

“I’ll stay with you,” Glo said to Josh. “This is just like one of those CSI shows.”

I gave everyone a wave goodbye and walked out of the museum into the warm July night. The streetlights cast little pools of light onto the shadowy sidewalk. One of the lights flickered just as I reached it, blinking out twice before flaring back to life, brighter than ever.

I felt a chill ripple down my spine and goosebumps erupt on my arms. A man was standing unde

r the streetlight. He was deadly handsome in a scary sexy-vampire sort of way. He had pale skin, piercing dark eyes, and shoulder-length raven-black hair that was swept back from his face. He was dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit with a black dress shirt. I knew him, and there had been times when I thought his soul might be black as well. His name is Gerwulf Grimoire. Mostly known as Wulf. He entered my life shortly after I moved to the North Shore. He’d introduced himself, touched his fingertip to the back of my hand, and left a burn mark. The scar is still there.

“Miss Tucker,” he said. “We meet again.”

“Nice to see you, Wulf.”

“I’m sure that’s not true,” Wulf said, “but I appreciate the lie. I’m here to relieve you of the coin you just found.”

“What coin? What are you talking about?”

Wulf studied me for a beat. “You really don’t know, do you?”

“I assume you’re not looking for a nickel or a dime.”

“Hardly. You’ll know soon enough about the coin. I’m sure my cousin Diesel is looking for it as well and will enlist your aid. If you’re smart, you won’t get involved. Consider this a warning.”

“I’m not afraid of you.” Another lie.

“I’m the least of your worries,” Wulf said.

There was a pop and a puff of smoke, and Wulf was gone. Vanished.

A text message from Glo buzzed on my phone. Locking up in ten minutes. Going to Ship’s Side on Wharf Street for Jose Cuervo for me, and bringing cute coroner for you. Meet you there.

—

The Ship’s Side was a glorified clam shack with the requisite gray shake siding on the outside and decorated with nets, buoys, and lobster traps on the inside. We were seated at a round table on the back porch overlooking Salem Harbor. Josh was still in costume and still in character.

“I’ll have a grog,” he said to the waitress.

“Sorry, hon,” she said. “We don’t carry grog. You’ll have to settle for beer.”

“You see this?” Josh said. “This is another example of how mainstream society refuses to serve the needs of my people.”

“Your people?” I asked. “Do you mean pirates?”

“We prefer the term ‘Buccaneer Americans,’?” Josh said.

“So does the Buccaneer American want beer?” the waitress asked.

“Aye,” Josh said.

“I can’t help noticing that you talk like a Buccaneer American even when you’re not at work,” Nergal said to Josh.

“?’Tis a terrible curse,” Josh said. “I speak Buccaneer all day, and then I can’t stop. My brain doth think in Buccaneer.”

“I like it,” Glo said. “Sometimes he says I’m winsome.”

“True enough, ye be a winsome lass,” Josh said to Glo.

“Fortunately, I can stop speaking in coroner,” Nergal said.