His formerly smiling face turned hard and he said, “Briggs don’t come here much.”
“Oh,” she replied as she tried to suppress a surge of panic. “Is there another bar nearby? Maybe he just gave us the wrong address.” Damn it, she’d let the accent slip. She needed to get a handle on the situation and decide if retreat was in order.
“The Bush is the only place in town.” He gave them the once over and said, “I didn’t figure someone like you’d be associatin’ with that type.”
She wasn’t sure what “type” the man referred to, but the feral gleam in his eyes had her settling on retreat. Time to backtrack and get out.
“Well he’s more of an acquaintance. Friend of a friend.” Vivian batted her eyelashes and smiled even brighter. When in doubt and in a den of rednecks, she thought it best to play dumb.
Before he could answer, Vivian felt a bump at the back of her stool. She turned around and found herself way too close to a greasy-haired man in jeans and a ratty old T-shirt. He was also covered with the acrid scents of beer and lust. He leaned in and said, “Evenin’, miss. Buy a purty gal a beer?”
“That’s sooooo sweet,” she answered, pitching her voice an octave or two higher. “But we need to be on our way. Still got a long drive ahead of us.”
He leaned in closer and whispered, “Why don’t you leave the little queer and try on a real man for size?” His eyes looked glazed, and Vivian wondered if he was drunk, stoned, or maybe both.
“I’m gonna have to ask you to back off now.”
Anger warred with fear, but she held her ground and refused to back away. She also refused to look to the reaper for help. Feminine pride wouldn’t allow it and she felt more than capable of fighting her own battles. His hand crept up her thigh and she stifled the urge to strike him.
Apparently, estrogen and pride could be a lethal combo, too.
“I believe the lady wishes to be left alone.”
Shit! Darkmore somehow managed to wedge himself between Vivian and her would-be attacker. She put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard, hoping a bit of pain would remind him of his promise to keep a low profile. He shook her hand off and spoke to the man in an icy, calm voice.
“Do sit down, Mr. Milford.”
To her surprise, Milford took a seat on the stool formerly occupied by the reaper. He kept his gaze locked on Darkmore’s the entire time, apparently under the reaper’s influence. Having experienced it herself a time or two, a jolt of fear surged through her psyche.
“Now then, Mr. Milford, why do you insist on soliciting the attention of women who are clearly out of your league? Even if you did manage to enchant my companion through alcohol or the drugs in your back pocket, the all-to-brief encounter wouldn’t erase the shame. No matter how many whores you bed, you’ll always see her face and remember, won’t you? Your long-suffering wife whom you abandoned while she battled cancer, when she could no longer service your carnal desires.”
“H-how do you know about Janelle?”
“Oh, you’ve had a brush with my kind before. Remember your near overdose from last year? No one else came to your bedside—not your brother, or your mother, not even the children you sired. They despise you.”
“No,” he whispered, his eyes shining with unshed tears. The predatory impulses had fled at the reaper’s first words. He’d looked confused at first. Now he looked like prey.
“Lazarus, stop. We need to get out of here.” A group of burly men from a corner pool table had taken notice of them. They probably weren’t Milford’s friends, exactly. Milford didn’t look the type to have many friends. But he belonged here, and small communities like this took care of their own, especially when confronted with outsiders asking too many questions about the wrong people.
The reaper hungered. Being trapped in a mortal body had left him vulnerable in the physical sense, but he seemed to retain most of his powers. And his appetites. She could hardly blame him. The pathetic creature in his claws deserved to be there if half of what Darkmore had said was true. Being a rapist was reason enough to draw the reaper’s hunger. Add in neglect of a terminally ill spouse and probably a laundry list of other deadly sins, and he was a meal fit for a reaper.
But not with an audience. The reaper didn’t appear to notice as the men shuffled closer. He kept on talking, tormenting the evil little man in his clutches as wisps of the man’s life force left Milford and fed Darkmore.
“Oh yes, Thomas, they do. In a few years they’ll forget the toys, trips to the beach, Little League. All they’ll remember is dear old drunken daddy slamming the front door to the home they lost shortly after when no one could pay the bills.”
“Stop,” he said, placing his head in his hands and shuddering.
“What the hell’s goin’ on here?”
Vivian felt the hair on the back of her neck rise at the sound of the barkeep’s raised voice. Every eye in the joint focused on her and the reaper. Unless they were willing to burn the place down and destroy every human in this hellhole, they’d be lucky to make it out alive.
They could, but it would be breaking the rules. More than their lives would be forfeit if they called that much attention to their presence.
“Tommy, you ain’t crying, are you?”
After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, the bartender burst out laughing. A few others joined in before the catcalls started.
“What’s a matter, Tommy?” a rough voice shouted. “Your boyfriend there break up with you?”
“Shit, someone stick a quarter in the juke. Tommy’s got a tear in his beer!”
“Shut the fuck up!” Milford roared. He’d managed to shake off the reaper’s spell and looked like he was ready to take a swing at Darkmore. Milford might be soft in the middle, but his fists were meaty enough, and whatever he did for a living gave him plenty of muscle in his upper body.
Time to split.
“I don’t think our friend is gonna show, so we’ll just be on our way,” Vivian said, slapping two twenties on the table and grabbing the reaper by the hand. He didn’t move, so she tugged harder. Vivian turned to give him a verbal lashing, but one look at his posture and focus on Thomas Milford set off more alarm bells.
Mr. Milford was filled to the brim with delicious rage, shame, and anguish. And the reaper was still hungry. The man’s earlier pain hadn’t satisfied him. Darkmore had only a taste of the ugliness in Milford’s soul instead of a full meal.
Vivian slapped him as hard across the face as she could manage.
Then she yelled at him. “Get your no good, drunk ass up and walk it to the car! I swear I can’t take you nowhere.”
The look he gave her in return would have chilled her to the bone even if she hadn’t known he was a reaper. He might have found her intriguing, entertaining, and a worthy companion, but she was under no illusion that she was more important to him in this moment than his need to feast on human suffering. She stood between the reaper and his prey. It wasn’t a good place to be.
But she had to protect him.
In spite of her fear, she leaned in close and put a shaking arm around him as though to help him out of his chair.
“Not another word,” she whispered with a hiss. “Let’s just get the hell out of here before something bad happens.”
They made it as far as the parking lot before something bad did happen.
Chapter Ten
Vivian figured Tommy boy might be dumb enough to follow them, but she hoped they could hop back in her car and hightail it out of there before he caught up with them. What she didn’t count on was the reaper slowing them down. On purpose.
“Git on back here, you fuckin’ freak!”
A few more crude comments and laughter let her know they had a small audience trailing them. Just keep walking. Don’t engage them. Just keep on walking.
“I’m tellin’ y’all, he’s some kind of mind-readin’ freak!” Milford shouted.
“Aw Tommy, quit talkin’ shit!”
“He sure is purty, though. Put him in a dress and gimme enough beer and I’d probably fuck him.”
“I said git on back here, freak,” Milford yelled. “Don’t be hidin’ behind some fancy little city cunt. Be a man!”
The reaper pulled free from Vivian and spun around to face Milford.
“Lazarus, don’t! It’s not worth it—”
He punched Milford in the gut. The man doubled over in pain but didn’t fall down.
“Hey faggot! Get your goddamn hands off my brother!”
Against her better judgment, Vivian tried to get between the men so she could drag Darkmore out of there. Instead, strong arms gripped her shoulders and a dirty palm covered her mouth. They pulled her away even as she screamed in protest. She bit the filthy hand over her mouth, earning a curse and a cuff to the ear. Four other men jumped Darkmore.
She watched in horror as their fists collided with the reaper’s face. To his credit, he gave as good as he got from them even without using his spirit power. Once he’d recovered from the initial shock of the attack, he dodged many of the other blows. Darkmore delivered fewer punches with greater effect, driving up through his legs and body to transfer as much impact to his opponents as possible. He even managed to knock one man to the ground and break his nose judging from the blood and the man’s cries of pain.
One small and vicious-looking pit-bull of a man broke a beer bottle and came at Darkmore. The reaper ducked to miss the sharp glass, but lost his balance and landed on the ground. When the man charged him again, Darkmore threw gravel at his face and used the resulting blindness to knock the bottle out of his hand and push him hard against a nearby car. The lapse in attention to his other attackers, however, earned him a kick to the back of the knee. He collapsed and another man came up from behind and whacked him with a tire iron.
Vivian flailed and kicked her attacker as she tried to free herself. Judging from the grunt of pain and muffled curses, one of her kicks landed between his legs. When she felt his grip relax, she elbowed him in the ribs, and he let her go. She ran to the reaper.
The two men left standing took turns kicking Darkmore. Vivian recognized the steel-toed work boots, imagining the damage they likely inflicted on the reaper’s mortal body. She leapt on the back of the bigger man and wrapped her arms around his neck. He smelled of cheap aftershave and stale sweat. The man managed to grab her arms and dug into her flesh with his fingers and ragged nails. It hurt like a mother, but the adrenaline coursing through her veins allowed her to ignore it and focus on getting free.
She had to stop them before they killed the reaper. If he died, his soul would be fair game for others of his kind, creatures with appetites as dark as his, if not darker. He’d be at the bottom of the ladder, the newest and lowest reaper. Given his long existence, he’d made more than a few enemies. If he fell into the hands of those enemies, they would torture him and feast on his suffering until his essence shattered.
She couldn’t lose him. She wouldn’t.
Vivian bit her opponent hard on the shoulder. He backed up and slammed her into the side of the white serial-killer van, knocking the wind out of her. She didn’t know if she’d be able to hold onto him much longer, but at least they’d stopped kicking Darkmore.
A loud shot rang out in the night, then another. The sounds echoed through the dark lot before a booming voice shouted, “Break it up!”
The crowd of drunken brawlers and spectators hit the ground or scattered. Vivian’s attacker dropped her and ran. She crawled along the ground toward Darkmore, trying to ignore the sharp jabs of gravel. Her knees fared better, being covered by jeans, but her hands and elbows stung. Pushing aside her own discomfort, she touched the reaper gently on the shoulder.
“Lazarus, can you hear me?”
He didn’t respond. More alarming, his breath was shallow, and she could hear crackling and wheezing when she put her ear to his chest. He probably had a whole host of internal injuries, but her primary concern was for his lungs. Vivian’s experience caring for her disabled sister left her all too familiar with signs and symptoms of respiratory distress. She worried his lung had been punctured by a fractured or broken rib. A hospital wasn’t an option. Too many questions. They’d call the police, which would draw too much unwanted attention.
Ignoring the chaos around her and the danger still posed by the unseen gunman, she focused on the reaper. Memories of Mae pierced her heart, and the familiar wave of protectiveness and resentment welled up in her chest. Damn him for putting her through this again—the terror, the guilt, the knowledge that she and she alone was responsible for keeping him alive and knowing she didn’t have the power or force of will to do it. She’d lost her sister. If she didn’t act, she’d lose Darkmore, too.
She lifted him by the shoulders and cradled him in her arms, focusing all of her mind and energy on the reaper’s broken body.
She felt the familiar pull as light emanated from her open mouth, her nose, and her eyes. Channeling all of her pain, doubt, anger, and sorrow, she pressed her lips to Darkmore’s and willed him to take in the spirit light that would both feed and heal him. He jerked and she had to release him for a moment while he coughed and caught his breath.
“What happened?” he whispered.
“You got your ass handed to you by a bunch of rednecks,” she said, blinking back useless tears. “Now hold still and let me heal you.”
He took a small breath and swallowed her light, then took a deeper one. Those deeper breaths meant his lungs were healing, thank God. Some of the bruises on his face began to fade. She hoped the same healing mojo was working its magic on the injuries she couldn’t see.
To her surprise, he covered her mouth with his hand to stop the flow of light.
“I wasn’t finished. You need more—”
“It’s enough,” he said, grimacing. He was clearly still in pain. Vivian opened her mouth again, but he cut her off.
“We have more pressing matters to attend to right now.”
The reaper nodded at something behind her. She turned and squeaked with surprise as she came face to knee with a strange man. He was dressed in camo and had a gun in his right hand.
“Congratulations,” he said, his voice deep and silky, like smooth single malt Scotch. “You passed the test and then some.”
“What?”
He barked a laugh, put the gun back in its holster, and offered her a hand. The reaper managed to sit up on his own and had scooted away from her. She hesitated for a moment and then took it. Standing almost eye-to-eye, she recognized the man as one of the soldiers she’d smiled at in the bar. The man looked to be in his late thirties to early forties, splashes of grey mixed in with his dark, buzz cut hair and beard stubble. The easy smile and relaxed posture didn’t diminish his aura of danger, and she didn’t miss the few sparks of green light that escaped the fingertips of his free hand.
“Sergeant Briggs is gonna love this,” he said, still chuckling. “Come on, let’s get your friend in the van.
Chapter Eleven
Vivian followed Chester Newman, gun-toting second-in-command to the Briggs rebel force, as he drove the reaper. They’d tucked Darkmore into the back of the white serial killer van, which Chester owned. She wasn’t happy with the situation, wasn’t happy leaving her injured and vulnerable reaper in the hands of a stranger, but the van would be a more comfortable ride. They traveled around five miles to what looked to be an aging apartment complex located not too far from the Burnin’ Bush and still in the boonies on the outskirts of Jackson. Classic 1970s construction, the bland brick rectangle buildings held six units each, three across and two up. Not exactly quite ready to be condemned, but probably not too far from it, the building appeared deserted save for a few vehicles parked near the back and lights visible from inside a few of the units.
Chester referred to it as ‘headquarters.’
He led Vivian to one of the unoccupied units and left her to unload their belongings while he fetched Darkmore. The small
apartment had little in the way of creature comforts, but it was warm, clean, and safe. After she’d hauled in the final load of their belongings, she plopped down on the couch. Exhaustion, not to mention the aches and pains associated with brawling, took over. Exhaustion won.
A sharp sting in her arm jolted her awake.
“Ouch! What was that?”
She opened her eyes and saw a very large man leaning over her. His hair was also cut short, military style, and he wore desert camo, too. Like Chester Newman, he filled out his camo pants, not to mention the tight, sandy T-shirt that covered broad shoulders and ripped biceps. Definitely military, or ex-military, he had light brown skin and brown eyes, and a face that was probably warm and inviting when not scowling.
Remembering the events from earlier in the evening, she panicked and jumped to her feet. Adopting a defensive stance, she asked, “Who are you? And where is Darkmore?”
“Your friend is resting in the other room. He’s still a little banged up, but should be fine in a few weeks. I hear that’s thanks to you. You didn’t tell me you had so many useful skills, Miss Tennessee Woman.”
“You’re Briggs?”
He smiled, revealing bright white teeth and dimples, “That’s right. Expecting someone a little different? Maybe someone a little whiter?”
She tried to hide her shock, embarrassed that he’d recognized it. Then she decided to hell with it. With everything else that had happened over the past few weeks, this little faux pas seemed pretty trivial.
“Yeah, I guess I did. With a name like Waylon I was expecting a bubba.”
“My Mama liked Waylon Jennings. Don’t ask me why. I can’t stand that shit.” He grinned at her. “She was white, so maybe it was an ethnic thing.”
Vivian rubbed her arm sore arm and remembered the rude awakening. “Hey, what in the hell did you stick me with anyway?” she asked, eyeing the medical bag resting beside the couch.
The Quick and the Dead Page 11