Eighth Grave After Dark

The longer we waited, however, the more danger Dutch would be in. With no memory of who she was—of what she was—she was more vulnerable than ever before, and my father had emissaries out there just itching to separate her head from her body. Not to mention the three gods of Uzan. Throwing them into the mix was like bringing nuclear weapons to a knife fight.

Everyone left to clear their schedules, leaving me alone in the house with the Daeva. He stood without saying a word and started for the stairs.

“You’re wrong,” I said.

He stopped but didn’t turn around.

“I’ve never believed myself worthy of her.”

“At least we have that in common.” He took the stairs three at a time, and I couldn’t suppress my doubts about him. Why was he here? What did he have to gain? I’d been suspicious of him from day one, and my suspicions grew stronger by the minute.

Finally, after a long wait, I said, “You can come out now.”

Dutch’s father appeared in front of me. He was almost as tall as I was. Thinner, though. Lighter. “I’ll keep an eye on her until you get there,” he said.

“I have the kid for that.”

He hesitated. “I’ll help.”

“How did you know about the spies?” I asked him. I’d been very curious since he told Dutch about them. How had he known about them in the first place?

He shrugged a bony shoulder. “You understand how it is. You hear things on this side.”

Before he knew what I was up to, I grabbed him by the throat, making it impossible for him to disappear, and shoved him back against the fireplace. I couldn’t actually choke him, since he was already six feet under. I just felt better with my hand around his throat. “I won’t ask again.”

He scoffed. Fought my hold. Failed. “What can you do to me that hasn’t already been done?”

With a smile as sincere as a used car salesman’s, I leaned in to him. “I can send you to hell.”

He stilled, but only for a minute. “Bullshit. You can’t send someone to hell.”

“I’m the portal. I can send anyone anytime.”

“Look,” he said, giving up the struggle. “It’s not what you think.”

“Enlighten me.”

“I had no idea what Charley was. I swear. Not until I died. Only then did I discover that my wildest imaginings didn’t even come close. I mean, seriously? A god? But you know what your father is planning for her. And for my granddaughter.”

“Better than anyone.”

“Well, I did what I do best. In my early years on the force, I went undercover, sometimes for months at a time. I collared more dealers than anyone in APD history.”

“Ah, so you’re undercover. Doing what, exactly?”

“I’m a spy. What else?”

His treachery stunned me. “You’re spying for the very people who want your daughter dead?”

His mouth formed a crooked smile, mostly because I still had him by the throat. “I am. I told you, I’m undercover. And I know who Duff was reporting to. The man in the black Rolls. I’ve seen him. He’s one of your father’s emissaries.”

“You’re not impressing me, Mr. Davidson.” I prepared to send him back to hell. He was better off in hell than spying on his daughter for my father.

“Think about it,” he said. “You knew me before I died. Do you really think I went to hell?”

He had me there. He was a good man for the most part.

“It took me months to get in with them. To convince them I’d been sent by the big man downstairs. And the more we talk about it, the more likely you’ll blow my cover. So if you wouldn’t mind getting the fuck off me.”

He shoved my arm and I lost my grip, but he didn’t disappear. Least he had balls.

“Still don’t believe me?”

“Your word is not evidence,” I said, giving him a long leash. If he disappeared now, I’d know he was lying, and next time there’d be no exchange. I’d throw him into hell before he knew what hit him.

“In your room, underneath the slats on the bed.”

Fine. I’d bite. I strode to our room, the one Dutch and I had shared for over eight months, and lifted the bed off its frame. A picture floated to the ground. I stepped into the square bed frame and picked it up, though I didn’t need to look. It was the picture Dutch had of me when I was around fourteen, the one she’d managed to get from a crazy old lady who lived in a building I’d once inhabited growing up. The man who raised me, Earl Walker, used to take pictures of his handiwork. This one was of me tied up, bruised and bloodied. But I’d endured worse. Still, I felt the emotion that charged through my wife when she looked at it. I wondered why she kept it. She’d even brought it here. Why?

“To remind her,” Leland said. He’d appeared beside me. “She thinks she is going to prevent anything like that from happening to you ever again. She thinks she is your savior, and it’s going to get her killed. Just look at what she tried to do tonight. She tried to trade her life for yours.”

As gratingly right as he was, he hadn’t convinced me of a damn thing. I put the picture in my back pocket and started to pack. “This isn’t evidence.”

“I was just making a point.”

“And that point is?”

“That the man who did that to you—the man you made a quadriplegic and who you think is in a care facility drinking his meals through a straw—is the man in the Rolls.”