Fourth Grave Beneath My Feet

by Darynda Jones

I thought of Pari. She could see ghosts ever since she’d had a near-death experience as a child. “But, why target them? What do they have to gain?”

  “Because they can often see auras.”

  “Okay,” I said, still not catching on.

  “And if they can see auras”—she put a hand on my arm—“they can see you.”

  I did a mental slap to the head. Sometimes I was so thick. “Of course. That explains why they chose Quentin. He can see the light around me.”

  I’d have to check in on Pari, make sure she hadn’t been possessed since I saw her last.

  “That’s how they can track you. And according to the latest conversations, the demons are closing in. That’s why they sent you a guardian. Why they sent you Artemis. They knew this was going to happen.”

  Damn. I figured there had to be some ghastly reason full of gloom and doom. Artemis couldn’t have just been a belated housewarming gift. “Can they hurt her?” I asked, suddenly concerned. “Can the demons hurt Artemis?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard.” She cleared her throat and took my cup. “Would you like some more tea?”

  “Sure, thank you,” I said absently.

  The mother superior walked back in and sat down as Sister Mary Elizabeth gathered our cups and stood to make more tea.

  She planted her best disdainful expression on me.

  I smiled. Inspected the craftsmanship of the cabinetry. Thrummed my fingers on the table. Checked my watch. Or checked my wrist where a watch would have been had I not forgotten it.

  “You know,” she said after a long moment of reflection, “it took me a long time to—” She struggled to find the right words. “—to believe in Sister Mary Elizabeth’s abilities.”

  Oh, cool. This wasn’t going to be about me and my shoe box full of sins. Because we could be here awhile if that were the case. “I understand,” I said, trying to be understanding. “It takes people a long time to believe in mine, too. There’s nothing wrong with that.”

  “Actually, there is. She was sent to us by God, and I questioned it. I questioned his gift. That is something I’ll have to answer for when the time comes.”

  That seemed kind of harsh. “I don’t think using logic and human instinct is a sin.”

  Her smile was more congenial than affirming. “From what she has told us, there is a great and terrible war on the horizon.”

  “That’s right,” Sister Mary Elizabeth said, nodding in enthusiastic confirmation as she sat back down, handing me a fresh cup of tea. “And it will be brought forth by an impostor.”

  “An impostor?” I asked.

  The mother superior placed a hand on Sister Mary Elizabeth’s arm to stay her.

  “No way,” I said, looking back and forth between the two of them. “You have information that I could use, and you won’t hand it over?”

  “It is not our place,” the mother superior said. “This information is sacred. It was given to us so that we may pray.”

  “I can pray,” I said, insulted. “Just tell me what to pray about. I’ll totally put it on my to-do list.”

  The woman’s iron demeanor relaxed a little as a smile twitched at the corner of her mouth. “Prayer must be lived, not checked off a laundry list of duties.”

  Crap. She was right. “But we’re talking about my life here.”

  “And the lives and salvation of everyone on Earth. You are destined to play a part. You simply must decide which part to play.”

  “Riddles?” I asked, unimpressed. “You’re giving me riddles?”

  Sister Mary Elizabeth’s eyes were wide with innocent ardency as she watched our exchange. She looked like a kid watching her favorite Saturday-morning cartoon.

  Fine, they were keeping the good stuff to themselves. “Can you at least tell me what I’m capable of?”

  The sister’s mouth spread wide. “Anything you can imagine.”

  “I don’t know,” I said, trying not to be disappointed. “I can imagine a lot.”

  The mother superior patted her protégée’s arm. “Time for bed,” she said, her voice maternal, caring.

  That was my cue to leave. They promised to keep an eye on Quentin until it was safe for him to venture out, but they knew more than I did. I tried not to feel resentful. Not hard, but I did give it an ounce of effort before I gave up and resented the heck out of the entire human race. Not sure why. Fortunately, I was over that by the time I got to Misery, dripping wet, as it had started to rain again.

  I called Cookie. She knew where I’d gone and would be frantic with worry. Or driven to the brink of insanity with lust. Reyes did that to her. He probably did that to a lot of girls.

  “Well?” she asked when she picked up.

  “Do you think we’re really alone in the universe?”

  “Were you abducted by aliens again?”

  “No, thank goodness. Once was enough for me.”

  “Oh, whew. So, what happened with Reyes? Did you see him?”

  “Saw him. Argued with him. Barfed.”

  “You vomited?”

  “Yes.”

  “On Reyes?”

  “No, but only because I didn’t think of it at the time. I’m going to Pari’s to check on Harper before I head home. No need to let the fact that I’m wearing a bra go to waste.”

  “Wonderful, then you have a few minutes to fill me in.”

  I figured as much. I explained everything that had happened in the shortest sentence structure possible. Pari didn’t live that far away. Brevity was of the utmost importance. By the time I got there, every molecule in my body was vibrating. It would seem that recaps of Reyes were almost as good as the real thing. How could any man be so inhumanly perfect? Probably because he was inhuman. His presence seemed to cause a disturbance in my space–time continuum. I felt disoriented around him. Unbalanced. And hot. Always hot.

  “What about the bill?” she asked, her voice full of hope.

  “I told him to send a check.”

  “A check?” She seemed appalled. “Couldn’t he just work out what he owes us?”

  “Maybe, but he owes me much more than he owes you. I think he only owes you like two dollars.”

  Her voice turned deep and husky. “I could do a lot of damage for two dollars. Send that boy over here, and I’ll prove it.”

  She scared me sometimes. I ended the call after promising I’d brush the vomit taste out of my mouth as soon as possible. But my mind drifted back to the problem at hand. Or, more specifically, problems. As in multiple. They were back. The demons in all their glory. And they had a plan. I made plans sometimes, too, but they rarely involved world domination. Hot dogs on a grill, maybe. Tequila.

  After searching for a space, I parked behind the tattoo parlor in front of a sign that said NO PARKING. Since it didn’t specify to whom it was referring, I figured it couldn’t possibly be talking to me. I hurried through the rain. Got drenched again anyway. I had every intention of complaining to Pari and Tre, but they were both busy evoking whimpers of agony from their patrons, so I left them to it and cruised to the makeshift guest bedroom. Harper, who seemed to have taken an interest in Pari’s wall texture, jumped up the minute I walked in.

  “Did you find anything?”

  “Not a lot. How are you doing?” I asked, sitting on the sofa and motioning for her to sit beside me.

  She did reluctantly. “I’m okay.”

  “I talked to your stepmother today. Why didn’t you tell me this has been going on since you were a kid?”

  She stood again and turned her back to me, embarrassed. “I didn’t think you’d believe me. No one ever believes me, especially when I tell them the whole story.”

  “I’ll tell you what,” I said, knowing exactly how she felt. “You promise to trust me, and I’ll promise to trust you, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  I finally convinced her to sit back down, but she hid behind her long dark hair.

  “Can you tell me what happened? How all this got star
ted?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “Your stepmother said it started right after she married your father.”

  Harper rolled her eyes and faced me. “She always says that, because this is all about her. All about their marriage. It couldn’t possibly have anything to do with me, with the fact that I’ve been traumatized almost my entire life.” She threw her arms up in frustration, and I liked the glimpse of her she offered me. The fighter. The spirited and capable woman I knew she was if she’d put up with a psychotic stalker her entire life.

  I let an appreciative smile slide across my face. “Better.”

  “What?” Her pretty brows crinkled together.

  “Never mind. Why don’t you give me your version of what happened?”

  She drew in a deep breath, leaned back, and said, “That’s just it. I don’t remember. They got married. Yes, against my wishes, but I was only five, so I really didn’t have much of a say. They went on their honeymoon. I stayed with my maternal grandparents in Bosque Farms while they were away.” She focused on me again. “My real grandparents on my biological mother’s side, who were wonderful. Then we came back and that’s when everything started. Right after their honeymoon.”

  I took a memo pad out of my bag and started taking notes. It seemed like the right thing to do. “Okay, tell me exactly how it all started. What do you remember noticing first?”

  She shrugged. “I’ve gone over this so many times with therapists, I’m not even sure which parts are real and which parts I made up. It was so long ago.”

  “Well, I’m glad that you realize some of your memories could have been a product of years of prodding by professionals. They could have been a fabrication of your own mind trying to cope with the circumstances. But let’s just say, for argument’s sake, that they aren’t. That every single thing you remember really happened. What can you tell me?”

  “Okay. Well, I guess it started when I found a dead rabbit on my bed.”

  “So, a real rabbit? Dead?”

  “Yes. I woke up one morning and there it was. Lying dead on the foot of my bed.”

  “What happened?”

  “I screamed. My dad came running in.” Her gaze darted toward me, then away. “He took it away.”

  She was still in therapy mode, worried what I would think, how I would analyze her every move. “I get it, Harper. Your dad came to your rescue. So, maybe that was a way to get his attention, yes? Is that what you learned in all those years of therapy? That you were just seeking your father’s attention?”

  She wilted. “Something like that. And maybe they’re right.”

  “I thought we had an agreement.” When she turned back to me, I continued. “I thought we were going on the assumption that you are not making things up. That you did not imagine or fabricate any of this.” I leaned in closer. “That you’re not crazy.”

  “But it makes sense.”

  “Sure it does. So does exercise, but you don’t see me doing it on a regular basis, do you? And if it would make you feel better, I could analyze you myself. Tell you all the reasons why you’ve pulled these accusations out of thin air. I minored in psychology. I’m totally qualified.”

  A timid smile emerged from behind her hair.

  “I know how you feel. I’ve been analyzed to death as well. Not, like, professionally, though I did date a psych major who said I had attention issues. Or at least that’s what I think he said. I wasn’t really paying attention. Anyway, where was I?” When she didn’t answer in less that seven-twelfths of a second, I continued my rant. “Right, so what I’m trying to say is that—”

  “You’re crazier than I am?” She crinkled her nose in delight.

  With a laugh, I said, “Something like that. So, what happened with the rabbit?”

  “Nothing really. My dad said the dog brought it in, but the dog wasn’t allowed in the house.”

  “Can you describe the rabbit? Was there any blood?”

  She thought back. Her brows furrowed in concentration; then a slight rush of fear flitted across her face. “Nobody’s ever asked me that. In over twenty-five years, not one person has asked me about that rabbit.”

  “Harper?”

  “No. I’m sorry, no, there was no blood. None. Its neck was broken.”

  “Okay.” She seemed to be making a connection in her mind of some kind. I wondered if she was still talking about the rabbit. I kept silent awhile, let her absorb whatever she needed to, then asked, “What happened later? What led you to believe someone was trying to kill you?”

  She blinked back to me with a shake of her head. “Oh, well, just little things. Strange things, one right after another.”

  “Like?”

  “Like the time my stepbrother set my dog’s house on fire. With him in it.”

  “Your stepbrother did this? On purpose?”

  “He says it was an accident. I believe him now, but I didn’t at the time.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that same night, my electric blanket caught fire.”

  “With you in it,” I said knowingly.

  She nodded. “With me in it.”

  Well, asshole stepbrother just jumped to the number one position of possible suspects.

  “But they always happened like that: in twos.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I had a birthday party about a week after the first incident, the dead rabbit thing. And my stepmother’s sister came to the party with her two horrid children.” She actually shivered in revulsion. “They were so aggressive. Anyway, she gave me a rabbit. A white rabbit just like the one in my room, only someone had torn a small hole in the back and had taken out part of the stuffing so that its head flopped to the side.”

  “Like its neck was broken.”

  “Exactly.”

  What a loving family. I didn’t want to bring up the rabbit I’d found in her kitchen. It could have been the same one, or it could have been placed there more recently, but I was afraid if I mentioned it, I’d lose her altogether.

  “Everyone laughed,” she continued, “when I got upset. My aunt held it up to me, flopping its head from side to side. She had a shrill laugh that reminded me of a jet engine during takeoff.”

  “And you were five?” I asked, horrified.

  She nodded and proceeded to pick lint off her dark blue coat.

  “What did your father do while all this was going on?”

  “Working. Always working.”

  “What else happened?”

  “Just odd little things. Jewelry would go missing or my shoelaces would be tied in knots every morning for a week.”

  Things that could definitely be chalked up to a bratty brother playing practical jokes.

  “Then I started seeing someone in my room at night.”

  “That’s creepy.”

  “Tell me about it.”

  “And you never recognized who it was?”

  After shaking her head, she said, “But it didn’t get really bad until I was around seven. My stepbrother gave me a plastic ring with a spider on it.” She grinned sheepishly. “We liked spiders and bugs and snakes and things.”

  “Spiders are cool as long as they respect personal boundaries,” I said. “Namely mine. But why do I get the feeling it doesn’t end there?”

  “That night, the same night he gave me the ring, I was bitten three times on the stomach by baby black widows as I lay sleeping. They found two of them in my pajamas.”

  “Someone could have put them there while you slept.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think your brother had anything to do with it?”

  “I wondered for a long time. We weren’t very close at first, especially after the doghouse thing. But we grew to love each other very much. He was the only one in my family who believed me, stood up for me even against my stepmother. It infuriated her.”

  “I can imagine.”

  And I could. Harper’s stepmother was abo
ut as loving as my own, but mine never set a black widow on me or lit my electric blanket on fire. There was a time when I thought she was trying to microwave my brain cells with the remote control, but I’d been on a three-day Twilight Zone marathon with too little sleep and too much coffee. And I was four at the time.

  “So, this went on your whole life?” I asked.

  “Yes. I’d find dead mice in my room or dead bugs in my shoes. One time I poured a cup of milk, and in the time it took me to put the milk in the refrigerator and butter my toast, someone put a dead worm in it. Another time I came home from a sleepover and found that all my dolls were bald. Someone shaved their heads. Of course, no one saw anyone go into my room. It was just me trying to get attention again.”

  I pressed my mouth together in disapproval. “What are we going to do with you?”

  She chuckled and I was glad I could help her sprinkle a little humor onto an otherwise horrific situation. It always helped me cope. Life was too short to be taken seriously.

  I decided to find out where she’d run off to for three years. That is a long time to sow the old oats. “Your stepmom said you disappeared.”

  “Yes. When I hit twenty-five, I’d finally had enough. I told them to kiss my butt and left. Completely disappeared. I changed my name, got a job, even took some night classes. But when my dad got sick, I had no choice. I had to come home.”

  “When was this?”

  “About six months ago.”

  “But how did you know your father was sick?”

  She bowed her head, her face softening in remembrance. “I had a contact,” she said; then she curled the edge of her jacket into her fingers. “But my stepmother was hardly happy to see me. I stayed with them at first, despite the glares of disapproval.”

  “I swear our stepmothers were conjoined twins in another life.”

  “Then another dead rabbit showed up on my bed, and everything came rushing back to me. I realized then that I’d willingly walked back into a recurring nightmare.” Tears pushed past her lashes.

  I gave her a minute, then asked, “Can I ask you, when your father passes away, who inherits the estate?”

  She sniffed. “I do. My stepmother and brother have a sizable sum coming to them, but I get the house and about seventy-five percent of the assets. It was part of the agreement when they got married. I think she signed a prenup.”