The Trouble with Twelfth Grave
Page 35“That’s interesting,” I said, trying to keep him talking, trying to think of a way to bring Reyes out, if that were even possible. “Do you know what it looks like?”
He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s important that I find it.”
“Okay. I can help.”
The expression he rested on me next would suggest he didn’t trust me in the least. “And then what, god eater? Will you sup on my soul?” His voice mesmerized. Flooded my body with warmth. Filled my cells with joy. Tugged at something deep inside me. “Will you swallow my heart and claim it as yours?”
I wanted to say, “Why not? Fair’s fair. Mine belongs to you.” But I didn’t.
Apparently, I didn’t need to. His face darkened, but not in anger. “Crawl back here with me,” he said, his words so soft and deep I had to strain to hear them.
I fought the urge to let go of the steering wheel and do exactly that. “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I have a funeral to go to. And you said it yourself. You’re not my husband.” I’d said it as a challenge, daring my husband to fight.
Rey’azikeen’s next line of attack was his fire. He sent it out to caress my skin. I felt flames lick along the most fragile parts of me. The most delicate and sensitive and tender.
“Rey’aziel doesn’t have to know.”
I resisted the gravity of his presence and bit the inside of my cheek to clear my head. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll sup on your soul?”
He locked his gaze again, and moments passed until I blinked and broke the spell.
“I am,” he said. “Afraid. I have been for hundreds of thousands of years.”
“And yet there you sit. I must not be that scary.”
“You’re a fool.”
I ignored the rankle his statement caused. “Why is that?”
He turned to stare out the window. “You should have devoured me eons ago when you had the chance.”
I glanced over my shoulder. “If I had, I wouldn’t have you now. I wouldn’t have Reyes.”
“You have neither of us. All you have is doubt and suspicion and animosity.”
“You’re naïve.” When I failed to rise to the occasion and hurl insults back, he lowered his voice again. “Crawl back here with me.”
“Give me the name of the priest.”
“I don’t know it.”
I gasped. “You lied?” Disappointment swallowed me.
“Malevolent god,” he said by way of explanation.
“No,” I said, almost yelling. I finally pulled over, threw Misery into park, and faced him. “No. Not malevolent. Unruly, perhaps. Rebellious. But not malevolent.”
Surprise registered on his perfect face, but he recovered quickly. And he grinned, as though the heavens had opened up and shone just for him. “Is that what you told my Brother when you begged Him not to send me into the god glass? The hell dimension He tricked me into making?”
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“I’m so close,” he said. He leaned forward, took my hand, and laid it over his heart. “You could take me now. You’d be wise to do so. To devour me before I find the object of embers and ashes.”
“When you find it, what will you do with it?” I asked, trying to eke out information, anything to clue me in to what he was searching for.
He shook his head. “That is not your concern. Your concern is only now. Only this.” He leaned back and dropped his hands to his sides, laying himself completely open, daring me to devour him. Or fuck him. It was hard to say.
And, God help me, I wanted to do both.
“Time’s up,” he said. Then he was gone. I’d only blinked, and from one microsecond to the next, he disappeared.
I shuddered, his powerful allure so enticing, I could hardly form a coherent thought. But the tiny voice coming from my passenger’s seat took care of all the yearnings, all the pangs of desire, in two seconds flat.
“Who was that?” Strawberry asked.
I gaped at her, absorbing her presence before throwing my arms around her.
Strawberry Shortcake, so named because of her pajamas, was a nine-going-on-thirty-year-old departed girl, half-sweetheart, half-demon child, who’d lived with Rocket at the asylum before Rey’azikeen tore it down.
“Where have you been, sweet pea? Were you there when the asylum was destroyed?” Maybe she knew something more about what Reyes was searching for.
“No. I was looking for my brother. I still can’t find him. You promised you’d find him for me.”
Her brother, Officer David Taft, had gone on sabbatical from the police force and hadn’t been seen since. Uncle Bob didn’t seem particularity worried when I questioned him about it. No one had reported him missing, but his only family was sitting in my passenger’s seat, and she couldn’t exactly call the cops. Still, he had friends. Or I’d assumed he’d had friends. None of them had reported him missing.
I’d planned on looking into his whereabouts when all hell broke loose. Literally.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find him. Promise. But have you seen Rocket? Is he okay?”
“You’ll find David? Pinkie swear?”
I held up my pinkie, wrapped it around hers, and swore on its life, apparently. I never quite got the pinkie-swearing tradition.
“Okay, where’s Rocket, love?”
“He’s playing.”
“At the asylum?”
“No. With the other kids.”
“The other kids?”
“The ones at Chuck E. Cheese.”
I blinked, trying to picture Rocket playing with a roomful of children anywhere, much less Chuck E. Cheese.
“His favorite game is Whac-A-Mole. He thinks it’s funny.”
“Well, he’s right.”
“I guess. I have to get back. I’ve looked and looked for David. Your turn.”
17
Apparently “spite” is not an appropriate answer to,
“What motivates you?”
—MEME
On the way to El Paso, I could think of only two words, two things that best described the place: great and tacos.
Okay, El Paso had a lot more to offer than great tacos. Like great enchiladas. Great tamales. Great gorditas. It took me a while, but I finally realized I was famished. And almost out of gas.
As the city came into view, I tried to change while driving, crossed the white line a few times, almost died twice, then finally pulled over before I killed someone. I slipped my clothes off to the glee of many a trucker and slid into the little black dress Cookie had found. The one I hadn’t worn in fifty years. I could only describe the fit as tourniquet-like and thank the gods I hadn’t eaten after all.
Unfortunately, Cookie forgot one little-black-dress fashion essential. Shoes. So, my ankle-high boots would just have to do.
I’d missed the church service for Hector but, thanks to the wonders of GPS, found the graveside service no probs. I threw a casual jacket over my shoulders and made my way to the throng of funeralgoers.
Most were dressed in black. The Catholic priest’s robes waved in the wind as he gave his final soliloquy, praising Hector and his family for being such pillars of the community.
With the service already under way, I walked around the crowd until I could get a good look at Hector’s family. Fortunately, no one stopped me. Bodyguards, as plentiful as they were, had the manners to keep a low profile. They didn’t pat me down when I walked up. They did, however, keep a weather eye.
The priest ordered everyone to bow their heads in prayer, and they did. All but one. A woman in her fifties sitting in the front row kept her gaze locked on the coffin. She wore a black hat with a net pulled down over her face. Despite clear signs of distress—swollen eyes, red nose—she remained a statue, head high, jaw set, mouth firm. Hector’s mother, no doubt.
I scanned not only the faces in the crowd but the emotions rippling through it. Amazingly, considering we were at a funeral, there wasn’t a ton of grief. I’d felt more grief while having lunch at the Frontier when a news program announced that Lost was ending. The guy wasn’t the most beloved sort.
Only one woman, the one I’d assumed was Hector’s mother, Edina, had any real emotion churning inside her. She kept a firm hold on it, but mixed with the devastation was a seething, explosive kind of anger. The kind of anger that screamed vengeance. Whoever did kill Hector would someday face that woman’s wrath.
I’d seen evidence of her wrath in the form of permanent scars on Judianna’s face. Because she’d tried to leave her son. I did not envy the person guilty of killing him. What kind of atrocities would she think up for such a crime?
Another interesting character, a younger woman sitting right next to Edina, also wore all black with a net over her face. Hector had a sister named Elena. Perhaps that was Elena. I’d only seen one picture of her taken from a distance, so I couldn’t be sure. But she was striking with charcoal hair and flawless skin the color of caramel.