Demon Child strolled in then and stopped short at the door, her eyes as wide as flying saucers as she took note of Reyes. While I couldn’t really see him—he was all dark fog and mist—she must have been getting an eyeful. Her jaw dropped, and she stood there, staring at him.
As if suddenly uncomfortable with the audience, Reyes moved to the window, and a chill settled over me with his absence. Demon Child stood stock-still, as if afraid to move. It was funny.
“This morning,” Taft said, luring me back to the task at hand, “the girl you described wasn’t from the accident scene.”
“Duh. Figured that.” My attitude didn’t seem to faze him.
He lowered his chin, clenched his hands on the dresser. “It was my sister.”
Damn. I should have known this went deeper than just some kid he knew from elementary school.
“She drowned in a lake by my parents’ house,” he added, his voice strained with sadness.
“He tried to save me,” Demon Child said, her eyes still locked on Reyes. “He almost died trying to save me.”
Steeling my heart against the daughter of Satan, refusing to notice her tiny arms locked at her sides, her large blue eyes glowing in wonder, her doll-like mouth slightly agape, I leveled my best scowl of disgust on her.
“Gross,” I said.
“What?” She finally tore her eyes off Reyes, but only for a split second before relocking onto him as if she had a radar tracking system in her corneas.
“You love him so much?” I asked her, quoting her earlier sentiment. “He’s your brother.”
“Is she here?” Taft asked.
“Not now, Taft. We have more serious issues to deal with at the moment.”
Strawberry’s expression morphed into bemusement as she finally focused on me. “But I do love him. He tried to save me. He was in the hospital for a week with pneumonia from all the water that got into his lungs.”
“I get that,” I said, raising a hand as if giving witness in church. I keep forgetting that there are siblings out there who actually love each other. “But he’s still your brother. You can’t be stalking him like this. It’s just wrong.”
Her bottom lip quivered. “He doesn’t want me around anymore, anyway.”
Double damn. Concentrating on anything besides the tears gathering between her lashes—taxes, nuclear war, poodles—I asked, “What do you want to do?”
“I want to stay with him.” She wiped her cheeks with the sleeve of her pajamas, then sat on the floor with her legs crossed. She started drawing circles in the carpet and allowed her eyes to stray to Reyes for only brief moments at a time. “But if he doesn’t want me…”
Pulling in a long, tired breath, I said to Taft, “She tells me you tried to save her.”
He looked at me in surprise.
“That you spent a week in the hospital afterwards.”
“How does she know that?”
“I was there,” she said. “The whole time.”
I relayed what she was saying to Taft and watched as his expression became more and more astounded with every word.
“She said you hate green Jell-O now, which you’ve refused to eat since your stay in the hospital.”
“She’s right,” he said.
“Do you want her to go?”
My question threw him. He stumbled over one answer after another before finally saying, “No. I don’t want her to go. But I think she’d be happier somewhere else.”
“No, I wouldn’t!” she yelled, jumping to her feet and scrambling beside him. She grabbed his pant leg as if holding on for dear life.
“She wants to stay, but only if you want her to.”
After a moment, I realized Taft was visibly shaking. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Me neither. I wasn’t kidding when I said she was evil.”
Ignoring me, Taft said, “If she wants to stay, I’d love to have her. But I don’t know how to talk to her. How to communicate.”
Uh-oh. I could see where this was headed. “Look. I don’t do the whole interpreting gig, savvy? Don’t even consider coming to me every time you want to know what she’s up to.”
“I could pay you,” he said, sounding a lot like Sussman. “I have money.”
“How much we talking?”
After a soft knock on the door, Uncle Bob poked his big head with his burly mustache into the room. “We’re heading out,” he said.
“What are you doing with Teddy?” I asked, concern leaping into my voice.
“He’s going to a safe house with a couple of uniforms. We’ll make more permanent arrangements tomorrow.”
Taft and I stepped out of my bedroom to a near-empty apartment. The DA took my hand, pumping it hard in enthusiasm. “Ms. Davidson, you have done an outstanding job here today. Outstanding.”
“Thank you, sir,” I said, choosing not to mention that my outstanding work involved falling through a skylight and making a ham-and-turkey sandwich. “Uncle Bob helped. A little.”
The man snorted and headed out the door. After Teddy pulled me into a big bear hug, he followed. The hug felt nice. He would be okay. Well, if Price didn’t get to him.
“Are we on for the sting tomorrow night?” I asked Ubie as the last of the officers shuffled out.
“The task force wants to meet with us first thing tomorrow morning. We’ll see. This could be enough to bring him down.”
“Wait, no,” I said in protest. “Uncle Bob, we can’t risk Teddy’s life. We have to get more evidence on Price without resorting to Teddy’s testimony. And we still have to find Father Federico. What if Benny Price has him?”
Uncle Bob lowered his brows, frustrated himself. “Right now, Teddy’s testimony is all we’ve got. We need to bring this guy to his knees, Charley, and we need to do it soon. We have to put a stop to his whole operation.”
I stood my ground, refused to budge, stomped my foot … metaphorically. “Just give me one chance. You know what I can do. We have to at least try.”
With what looked like the weight of a sumo wrestler on his shoulders, Uncle Bob thought about my offer. “Let’s see what the task force has to say tomorrow.”
“What are you cooking up now?” Cookie asked after Ubie left.
“Oh, you know me,” I said, pointing at Amber with a grin. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
Amber had fallen asleep on the couch, her hair a perfect arc framing her delicate features. That girl was going to be such a heartbreaker.
Cookie pursed her mouth against a smile and shook her head. “Flirting’s exhausting work.”
“Damn straight, it is,” I said, rounding the sofa to open the door.
Cookie nudged Amber awake, then led her across the hall to their apartment. After a couple of near misses with a doorjamb and a potted plant, Cookie turned to me and said, “Don’t think we’re not going to talk about what happened today.”
Oh, right, the near-death experience. “Well, don’t think we’re not going to talk about your attitude,” I said, angling for a distraction.
She winked at me and closed her door.
And then we were alone. I stood grasping the doorknob as if it were a life raft, shaking with anticipation. In a whispery rush of air, he materialized behind me. The earthy smell of elements, rich and potent, surrounded me. Then his arm encircled my waist while the other reached up and closed the door.
He pulled me back against his chest, and I melted against him. It was like falling into fire, his heat blazing against my skin, everywhere at once.
“You’re him,” I said, my voice shakier than I’d hoped. “You were there when I was born. How is that possible?”
His mouth was on my neck, searing my flesh as his hand reached under my sweater and trailed flames over my stomach. Cautiously, he tested the area where the tip of his blade had sliced. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I was grateful for his concern.
Then his mouth was at my ear. “Dutch,” he said, his breath fanning across my cheek.
“At last.” I turned into him, but he pulled back, studied my face, and I finally had a clear, undiluted view of the magnificent being known as Reyes Farrow.
He did not disappoint. He was the most glorious man I’d ever seen, solid and fluid at once, his lean muscles sculpted from a stone that could liquefy between heartbeats. Coffee-colored hair tumbled over a strong brow and curled behind an ear. The deep mahogany of his eyes, laced with spikes of gold and emerald green, shimmered with barely controlled lust. And his mouth, full and masculine, parted sensually. I now recognized his attire; a prison uniform, as Elizabeth had said. The sleeves had been rolled up to expose his forearms, long and corded with sleek muscles.
With infinite care, he slid his fingertips over my bottom lip, his expression severe, like a child who’d just discovered fireflies and wanted to know what lay behind the magic that illuminated them.
When his finger brushed along my lower teeth, I bit down softly, enclosed my lips over the tip, and suckled the taste, earthy and exotic, off his skin. He hissed in a sharp breath, rested his forehead on mine with eyes closed, and seemed to struggle for control as I drew more of him into my mouth. I wasn’t sure if it was for me or for him, but he braced an arm on the door and pushed me back against it with a groan, his other hand suddenly around my throat, holding me captive as he fought for control over his body.
It was the sexiest thing that had ever happened to me. My body responded to his every touch with a jolt of arousal. A hunger—so hot, it ached—pooled in my abdomen, swirled and expanded with the white heat of desire. I wanted him forever, and in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if he died. Would I still get to have him? Would he come to me after he passed, or would he cross over and leave me to navigate the earthly plane alone? I was so afraid I’d lose him if his physical body expired. I wanted him to wake up, to be mine in flesh as well as in spirit. I was selfish that way.
“Reyes,” I said, my voice breathy with need as his mouth found an especially sensitive spot behind my ear, “please wake up.”
He leaned back with brows furrowed as if he didn’t understand; then his head descended and his mouth covered mine, and I lost all sense of reason. The kiss started soft, his tongue drifting across mine, tasting and teasing with infinite care. It grew quickly like a wildfire, intensified, became savagely fierce and demanding as he plundered my mouth, explored and invaded with a driving primal need. The kiss siphoned every last bit of uncertainty I’d tucked away. He tasted like rain and sunshine and flammable substances.
He stepped closer, pushed into me, and a spark ignited between my legs. Just as my hands dipped in search of the hardness pressed against my abdomen, he stopped.
In a movement so quick it made me dizzy, he broke the kiss and spun around. His robe materialized instantly, a liquid entity that encased us both, and I heard the sing of metal coming to life, of a blade being drawn. A sinister growl, deep and guttural, thundered from his chest, and I blinked to awareness—so weak, I could barely stand. Was someone in the room with us? Something?
I couldn’t see what lurked beyond Reyes’s wide shoulders, but I could feel tension solidify every muscle in his body. Whatever lingered near, it was very real and very dangerous.
Then he turned back to me, wrapped his free hand around my waist, and pulled me against him, his mahogany eyes glowing as they searched mine, begging for understanding. “If I wake up,” he said, his voice an agonized whisper, “they’ll find me.”
“What? Who?” I asked, alarm seizing my heart.
“If they find me,” he continued, his gaze lingering on my mouth, “they find you.”
Then he was gone.
About three seconds later, I hit the floor.
Chapter Eighteen
When fighting clowns, always go for the juggler.
—BUMPER STICKER
Had I been asleep for the last twenty-seven years? Were there beings and entities I’d never seen? Beings so dangerous and savage that only something supernatural could fight them?
I sat in the conference room with Uncle Bob, unable to fully focus after last night. Garrett was there, too, as well as the DA, the lead detective on the Price task force, the lawyers, and a very fidgety Angel. We were finalizing the plans for the evening. It was tricky making plans when not everyone in the room was in the loop, but Uncle Bob sold it. I knew he would.
Garrett and Angel had been surprisingly quiet. Garrett, I could understand. He was against the whole thing. But Angel had a prime opportunity to flirt with a hot, departed lawyer in a miniskirt, and he didn’t take it. In fact, he hardly looked at her. I couldn’t imagine what ate at him. Was it Reyes? Did he know I had fantasies about him that bordered on criminal?
After the detective and the DA left, Uncle Bob turned to me. “Okay, what’s the real plan?”
Back to reality. A weak grin slid across my face. “I go in with my ridiculous video and fabricated evidence and get Price to confess everything.”
“You can do that?”
“I can do that.”
“Damn,” he said, impressed already, “you really are a whisperer.”
Garrett shifted in his seat but refused to say anything.
“What if we can’t find him?” Barber asked in reference to their search for Father Federico. “What if the task force doesn’t know about all of Price’s holdings? Maybe they’re keeping him somewhere else?”
“Or they’ve already killed him,” Sussman said.
“That’s always a possibility,” I said, “but Price is Catholic, through and through. I just think he’d have a hard time offing an ordained priest.”
“So, Barber and I are searching his holdings,” Elizabeth said, “while Sussman and Angel assist you?”
“That’s the plan.”
“What’s the plan?” Uncle Bob asked. I summarized our ideas, and he gave us a thumbs-up. Good thing, ’cause we really didn’t have a Plan B.
“Angel,” I said as everyone was taking off, “are you going to spill, or do I have to resort to the torture techniques I learned last year during Mardi Gras?”
He smiled and added a bounce to his step for my benefit. “I’m good, boss. I can do this with my eyes closed.”
“Only ’cause you can see through your lids.”
“True,” he said with a shrug.
I checked my phone. Cookie’d left me a message. “You just seem so sad,” I said, dialing voice mail. “Like someone stole your favorite nine millimeter.”
“I’m not sad.” He started down the hall, then turned back. “Least not when I look at you.”
Aw. That was sweet. He was totally up to something; I just couldn’t put my finger on what it might be.
“Guess what? Guess what?” Cookie chimed happily into the phone. “I got her name. I called that cell mate of Reyes’s, that Amador Sanchez, and threatened to have him picked up on a parole violation if he didn’t spill. I got her name and address. She’s—” The voice mail beeped; then another message started. “Sorry. Damn phones. She’s still in Albuquerque. Her name is Kim Millar, and she’s still here.”
My knees weakened beneath my weight. I grabbed a pen and paper off a uniform’s desk as I walked past, earning a hostile glare for my efforts, and wrote down the address.
“He didn’t have a number, but he said she works from home, so she should be there when you get this.”
I could have kissed that woman.
“I know. You could kiss me. Just find Reyes’s sister, and we’ll make out later.”
With a mad chuckle, I jumped into Misery and headed downtown. The anticipation growing inside me had my heart and stomach switching places. I glanced at my watch. Twenty-four hours. We had twenty-four hours to stop this.
The ride gave me time to contemplate what Reyes had said the night before. What did he mean when he said they would find him? Who would find him? Was he being hunted? I chose not to think about what Reyes had been growling at. Clearly there were things out there that even
I couldn’t see. Which brought up an important conundrum: What was the point of my being a grim reaper if I couldn’t see everything out there? Shouldn’t I be kept in the know? Seriously, how could I be expected to do my job?
After pulling up to a gated apartment complex, I padded across the walk to the door of 1B and knocked. A woman about my age answered with a towel in her hands, as if she’d been drying dishes.
Stepping forward with my own hand outstretched, I said, “Hi, Ms. Millar, I’m Charlotte Davidson.”
She took it warily, her paper-thin fingers cold to the touch. With dark auburn hair and light green eyes, she looked nothing at all like Reyes. A tad Irish and then some.
“What can I do for you?” she asked.
“I’m a private investigator.” I fumbled for a card and handed it to her. “May I speak with you?”
After studying the card a long moment, she opened the door wider and gestured me inside. When I stepped into the sunlit room, I scanned the area for photos of Reyes. There were no pictures at all, of Reyes or otherwise.
“You’re a private investigator?” she asked, leading me to a seat. “What can I do for you?”
She sat across from me in the front room. The morning sun filtered in through gauze curtains and bathed it in warmth. Though her furnishings were sparse, they were clean and in perfect shape.
Wondering if she had a touch of OCD, I cleared my throat and contemplated how to begin. This was harder than I’d thought it would be. How did you tell someone her brother was about to die? I decided to save that part for later.
“I’m here about Reyes,” I began.
But before I could elaborate, she said, “Excuse me?”
I blinked. Had she not heard me? “I’m here about your brother,” I repeated.
Because I had mad skill at reading people, I could tell instantly she was lying when she said, “I’m sorry. I have no idea who you’re talking about. I don’t have a brother.”
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