The Last Drop of Hemlock (The Nightingale Mysteries #2)

Chapter One

ONE

The rumor went through the Nightingale like a flood, quietly rising, whispers hovering on lips in pockets of silence.

Dead, the voices murmured. Dead?

On the dance floor or jostling at the bar, voices and drinks raised in equal measure, the club’s patrons didn’t hear it sweeping around them.

They were too caught up in escaping from their daylight lives, too distracted by the music that carried them together, apart, together again, kicking up their heels for the Charleston or catching their breath in a waltz.

They were too busy calling for another drink, another kiss, another song.

Too busy following the rhythm of the music, shaking sweat from their eyes, enjoying being young and free or old and freer.

Dead, the voices murmured where the dancers couldn’t hear. Dead?

Instead, the rumor went through the workers, the waitresses and bartenders, the bouncers and busboys.

They dodged between the tables, guarded the doors, and flirted with customers while they mixed drinks, as light on their feet as the dancers as they moved through the club that was their second home. And the rumor moved with them.

Did you hear? they murmured. Dead.

When the band took a break, the rumor made its way to them too, delivered with a tray of drinks for the thirsty, curious musicians who had watched the whispers rippling around them.

How’d you find out? they murmured back. What’s she going to do?

The rumor went through the Nightingale like a flood, creeping higher and higher before anyone realized it had traveled quite so far.

Dead, the voices murmured. Dead?

Dead.