Eighth Grave After Dark

“You died, but you came back,” Osh said, struggling to understand himself. “That’s the only way it makes sense. You didn’t take up your position as the grim reaper like you’re slated to do.”

“So, the other grim reapers, the ones that reaped, for lack of a better phrase, before me, they were from my world as well?”

“Yes,” Reyes said. “But they were like the angels. No god has ever taken on such a menial task.”

“Then why leave the gene pool?” Garrett asked. “Why bring in a being—a god, no less—when you already have people for that?”

Reyes nodded, agreeing that the whole thing was utterly illogical. “Like I said before, it’s like sending a queen to do the janitor’s work.”

“Or a god,” Osh said, “to clean up someone else’s mess.”

Garrett sat in thought, then looked at me. “So, whose mess are you here to clean up?”

7

A friend will help you if someone knocks you down.

A best friend will pick up a bat and say, “Stay down. I got this.”

—TRUE FACT

Cookie and I compared notes as we ate some of the wonderful fare Reyes and Osh had grilled up. We came up with very little, unfortunately. She was still waiting on information from Kit, and as long as I was stuck at the convent, I just couldn’t do much. I felt helpless, and the dread that had taken up residence in the back of my neck concerning the Loehrs weighed on me. I didn’t know how to tell Reyes what I’d done.

I begged Cook to go, spend at least the night with her husband in a nice place, but she was adamant about staying. Gemma and Denise were still there, too. They’d been hanging out a lot. It was weird and a little disturbing. Well, Denise was a lot disturbing, but she kept to herself mostly. She picked up our plates and made herself useful. So there was that.

Quentin and Amber went back to watching movies, which reminded me, I needed to call Sister Mary Elizabeth before it got too late. If anyone had the lowdown on what was going on up top, it would be her.

Reyes got up from the table to clean the grill. Gemma found a plush corner in the living room in which to read. Uncle Bob had to get back to the city. Osh was nowhere to be found. That guy kept odd hours. Kit sent over the interviews they’d done with all of Faris’s friends, and Cookie couldn’t wait to dive in, so I took the opportunity to chat with Garrett, since we were the only ones left at the table. All our conversations were about prophecies and hellhounds. I wanted to know how he was doing. Kind of. Really I wanted to know how his son was doing and his baby mama, Marika.

I gestured him to move closer. He frowned suspiciously, then scooted his chair over. Like half an inch. Jerk.

“So?” I asked, drinking a cup of hot chocolate. Another one. Since I was officially off coffee until Beep was born, hot chocolate had become my friend. We weren’t as close as me and mocha latte, but we were getting there. It took time to build a relationship. Trust had always been an issue for me.

“So?” he asked, drinking a beer, his beverage of choice.

“How’s Zaire?”

One corner of his mouth went up. “He’s good. I get to see him almost every week.”

“And what about Marika?”

He lifted a shoulder and leaned back in his chair, straightened out his legs in front of him. “She’s doing well. We’ve been talking.”

I scooted closer. “And?”

“She wants to try dating again.”

“Dude, that’s great.”

“I don’t know. She used me to purposely get pregnant and didn’t tell me.”

“Of course she didn’t tell you. What would you have done if she had?”

“Run in the other direction. But it’s still not okay, Charles.”

He was right, of course, but we all make mistakes. I decided to remind him of that. “Do you remember that time I was helping you out with a bust—?”

“You mean that time you butted into my stakeout because you wanted me to lick your coffee cup?”

“Exactly. And what happened?”

“The guy came home. I busted him. End of story.”

“No, before that.”

“You tried to poison me.”

“No, after that.” And I didn’t try to poison him. I just wanted to know if my cup was poisoned. It tasted … poisony. Turned out, I just didn’t rinse well. So much for my theory that my landlord at the time was trying to kill me.

He drew out his exhalation to make his point. A long, needless point. “Fine. I get it.”

“No, what happened?”

“I went into that diner to get a cup of coffee.”

“No. You went into that diner to try to get a date with one of the waitresses.”

“I know the story.”

“And why was I really in the same neighborhood as you?”

“Because you were staking out that diner.”

“I was staking out that waitress. And why was I doing that?”

“Charles—”

I shoved an index finger over his mouth.

He glared.

“Why was I doing that?”

“Because you figured out she was spiking men’s coffees with eyedrops.”

“Yes. She had this weird vendetta thing going on and was purposely making men sick. I saved your ass. You could have died.”

“I wouldn’t have died.”

“You could have gone into a coma like poor Mrs. Verdean’s husband.”