Free Hearts of Fire by Kira Brady Page B

secrets. Didn’t they? “I want to speak to your boss. The police have stopped asking questions, but I know there’s more. I want the truth.”
    “The truth?” His expression went flat. He glanced at the body and back at Kayla. “Looks like a drug overdose.”
    “I don’t believe that.” And neither do you.
    “The coroner’s report not good enough for you, is that it?”
    “Not for me. Not for anyone with half a brain.”
    He stepped around her and picked up the fallen bag that held Desi’s effects. She fought down the urge to snatch it back.
    “She ever mention Norgard? The Drekar? The Kivati?”
    Kayla shook her head at each. Sorrow washed over her, and a strange sense of betrayal. She had thought she and her sister were close, but none of those names sounded familiar. Desi’s stories had involved wacky new friends, grumpy professors, and off-the-hook parties. At least in the beginning. Since Thanksgiving, she’d talked solely about her coursework: the mythology, legends and folklore of the Pacific Northwest. Finally growing up, Kayla had thought. Getting serious. Pulling all-nighters in the library, not the clubs. And then Desi had become distracted. Distant.
    A hint of worry had germinated at the back of her mind, but Kayla hadn’t pushed. She’d figured her sister would talk about it when she was good and ready.
    But maybe Kayla should have pushed in this instance. She might have done something to avoid this outcome if she had known. Peer pressure, a bad relationship, depression, addiction. These things were solvable, with help. If only Desi had asked.
    Hart lifted the paper bag to his face and sniffed it. What was it with the sniffing?
    “The necklace is a piece of jade carved with Babylonian cuneiform. Doesn’t matter how it got into your sister’s possession, but it belongs to my boss and he wants it back.”
    “What’s your boss’s name?”
    He ignored her and rifled through the paper bag.
    “Yo, buddy, I’m talking to you.” She tried to snatch the bag back, but he restrained her easily with one hand while he dumped the bag’s contents on the metal table. She struggled against him. It was like trying to move a mountain. “Stop it! I’m calling security.”
    “Good try, babe. Things work a little differently here. Now when I drop my hand, you’re going to stay right there like a good little girl while I go through this.”
    “Screw you.” She kicked him in the shin.
    “Tempting.” His eyes scoured her body. “Against the cold metal wall? Or should we dump the dead girl off the table and bend you over it?”
    Kayla swallowed the bile that rose in her throat. She couldn’t stop the hot tears that welled in her eyes. “Bastard.”
    Hart looked away uncomfortably. “Yeah, that’s the truth. Just ... just stay there.”
    When he let go, she stayed where she was.
    He separated the pile of belongings on the table, pulling out a change of clothes, two hollowed silver needles with rust-colored tips, a club ID bracelet, which read “Butterworth’s” in elegant gold foil, and an envelope addressed to her in Desi’s loose scrawl. Inside was a single business card. He took it out and read the name. The muscles in his jaw clenched. She almost expected him to bare his teeth and snarl.
    “What is it?” she asked.
    “Nothing.”
    She snatched the card out of his hand and read, “Emory Corbette, Kivati Hall.” On the back Desi had written Give him the key.
    She glanced at Hart. “What key? Who is this guy?”
    “Your sister never mentioned him?”
    “No.” And it hurt. “Who is he?”
    “The Raven Lord. A ruthless son of a bitch.”
    “The what now?”
    One edge of his mouth kicked up.
    “What exactly is the Raven Lord? What would my sister be doing with some crackpot who makes up titles for himself?”
    “You might not want to call him that.”
    “What, Raven Lord?”
    “Crackpot.”
    “Whatever. Is this a friend of yours?” Hart shook his head, but he looked amused. Kayla