The Curse of Tenth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  I didn’t go around touting my ability to understand and speak every language ever spoken on Earth, even to my comrades in the Peace Corps. Too difficult to explain, first of all, and then too difficult to deal with. Once someone found out, they were constantly having me prove it. So I’d had yet to speak Bantu in the village even though I understood everything everyone said.

  But the decision to reveal that little gem did exactly what I was hoping it would. It surprised him enough to reconsider my impending doom. Good thing, because I didn’t think I could’ve outrun him, and that machete was as sharp as a scalpel and sat in the hands of a very skilled hunter.

  I glanced past him toward his wife, her expression on the verge of hysteria.

  “I don’t know if I can help,” I said to her as calmly as I could, considering my heart had been relocated. “But I can try.”

  The girl had been possessed. That much was painfully evident, though my only references were Regan from The Exorcist and Stan Marsh from South Park.

  For some reason, most likely desperation, Faraji’s wife nodded, and I stepped past him to kneel beside their daughter.

  The video began there. It showed the girl for only a second before pulling back and showing me kneeling beside her. I’d had no idea what I was doing. At the time, I hadn’t known demons existed, and I still doubted it after that encounter. Still, whatever it was had left an impression.

  But who’d filmed it? There’d been no one else there. Had someone followed me as I’d followed Faraji? Where had the footage come from?

  I’d spoken to whatever was inside the girl in Latin at first, then in Ancient Aramaic. It just seemed appropriate. It was the Aramaic that got its attention, because soon after, the hut started tumbling around me.

  According to the video, however, the hut hadn’t moved. I was being tossed around like a rag doll. Nkiru screamed and scrambled back. Faraji dropped the machete and held his wife in horror as I was flung from floor to ceiling and everywhere in between.

  I didn’t quite remember it that way, but okay.

  Thankfully, the attack was short-lived. It screamed, the thing inside her, the moment it left the girl to give me a what for. I’d lost all sense of direction as the floor had been snatched out from under me, so I’d never actually seen it. But its screams had filled the space between my ears to splitting precision.

  To anyone watching the video, however, the only sounds that would be heard were the thuds of me hitting this or that and my groans of agony. Everything else would have been silent. Even to Faraji, Nkiru, and Emem, who lay still on the floor, unconscious. But the screams had grated over my nerve endings at the time. A blinding darkness had enveloped me. A blistering heat had burned my throat and lungs.

  Then it stopped. As unexpectedly as it started, it just stopped.

  Unfortunately, I’d been on the ceiling at the time. I fell. Face-first. Bounced up a bit. Then fell again. When I’d finally settled into a prone position, I spent the next few moments whimpering into my armpit and asking no one in particular, “Why?” Sadly, the camera caught it all.

  I gripped the phone tighter as Reyes watched me reenact The Poseidon Adventure—me being the Poseidon—but the way my head bounced off the packed earth was kind of funny. A giggle slid out of me before I could stop it, while Reyes struggled to contain his anger, anger being the predominant emotion at the moment. It was hard to tell with him sometimes, he was so tightly packed.

  The next thing I remembered about that particular night was hearing a soft cry. Well, one other than my own. Then a throat-wrenching sob as Nkiru scrambled back to her daughter. She and Faraji cradled her, Nkiru wailing, her shoulders shaking, but the emotion that had been emanating from her was elation. Utter elation and crushing relief.

  The video stopped there, but I remembered struggling to my feet and hobbling off to let them celebrate in private.

  I also remembered getting lost on the way back to camp. It had taken me what seemed like hours to find it, but I’d been pretty banged up. Turned out, I had only been gone a total of two hours. Another Peace Corps volunteer had found me. Samuel was his name. Was he the one who’d recorded the event?

  It had to have been one of my Peace Corps associates. The villagers didn’t even have running water, much less a video camera.

  “What are we going to do?” Cookie asked as I pressed REPLAY. That last bit was too funny not to watch again.

  “Two hundred thousand,” Amber said just as I was thrown to the ceiling. “Last night Quentin said it only had a few hundred hits, and now it’s over two hundred thousand. It’s going viral.”

  “This is so bad,” Cookie said, repeating an earlier sentiment.

  The angle at which I bounced off a sidewall, my foot punching through the straw before being jerked—shoeless—back out was worth the price of admission.

  “This is so awesome,” Amber said, her voice full of awe.

  And my face slams into the packed earth, bounces back up, and slams again. I laughed softly before catching myself. Reyes stood deathly still. He rarely found the humor in things I did.

  “I’m sorry, Uncle Reyes,” Amber said, believing she’d made some kind of mistake. “I didn’t mean—”

  “He’s fine.” I turned to him, but he continued to stare at the phone.

  He bit down. Lowered his head. Stalked off.

  “I’m so sorry, Aunt Charley.”

  I watched him go, only a little concerned. He did that. Got angry at the strangest things. He was probably mad that he hadn’t been there to save me from the big bad monster. But what could he have done even if he’d been there? Gotten tossed around with me?

  “He’ll be fine, hon. But, seriously, did you see the look on my face?”

  I played it again, and Amber and I burst into laughter at last, doubling over as it shook us to the core. Cookie stood there. Speechless. Sadly, her astonished expression only served to prod us deeper into the darkest caverns of amusement, and my belly started hurting.

  “Charley,” Cookie said, “what are we going to do?”

  “Wait,” I said, holding up an index finger while I tried to gather myself.

  Amber anchored her arm against me and sobered first. “Sorry, Mom. It’s just … she bounces.”

  We crumpled into a heap of giggling Jell-O on the floor.

  3

  What does it mean if the holy water sizzles when it hits your skin?

  —ASKING FOR A FRIEND

  Once I was able to form complete sentences again, I promised Cookie I’d think long and hard about the possible ramification of that video. I’d made a similar promise to my high school principal when he told me to think about my actions that day. Who knew a wolf call would cause John Burrows to run Hailey Marsh over with his shiny new ’Stang? It was a pretty car. And a pretty boy. And Hailey’s legs totally healed after six months of leg braces and another six of physical therapy. Though her dream of the Olympics was pretty much over. I did feel bad about that.

  I had to admit, however, I was very curious who’d posted that video.

  “Quentin and I will find out,” Amber had said, her chin jutting proudly.

  “Quentin and you will do your schoolwork,” Cookie replied. She’d drawn her eyebrows into a stern line, but her voice fell a few inches short of the intended emotion. Quentin did that to her. Turned her all soft and mushy.

  “We will, Mom. Then we’ll find out who posted that video.” She gave me a thumbs-up. “We’re on it.”

  Knowing those two, they’d do it. I thought about putting my friend Pari on it, too, just in case. That woman was a hacker extraordinaire. But I’d give them first crack at it.

  In the meantime, I had to get dressed and get to work, because going to work in my pajamas was apparently the definition of unprofessional. Cookie’s words. I looked it up, though. She was wrong. Webster’s mentioned nothing about pajamas.

  The bulk of Reyes’s anger seemed to have evaporated, but not his sudden … what? Insecurity? Was tha
t what I’d felt wafting off him since we got back? Surely not. He was about as insecure as a jaguar in the jungle.

  As he was leaving, wearing jeans and a white button-down with the sleeves folded up to his elbows, he turned back to me and leaned against the doorframe to the bathroom, where I was pulling my hair into a ponytail. He lowered his head, his dark hair falling forward.

  “I’ll see you for breakfast?” he asked, hesitant.

  “I don’t know. I’ve kind of been seeing someone for breakfast on the side.”

  One corner of his mouth lifted. “And who would that be?”

  “Her name is Caroline. I’m in love with her.”

  “Is that right?”

  “She makes the best mocha lattes I’ve ever had. She splashes in a touch of heavy whipping cream. Makes all the difference in the world.”

  “So, your breakfast is a mocha latte?”

  “Yes.”

  “Mine’s better.”

  Damn it. He was right. As much as I loved Caroline and her amazing mocha lattes, few things on the planet compared to Reyes’s huevos rancheros. He knew what chile did to me. He knew what he did to me, decadent creature that he was. He totally should have been a master chef. Or a male stripper. Or an exotic dessert. Reyes à la mode. I’d eat every bite of him and lick the plate clean.

  Without another word, he pushed off the frame and left, but not before I caught a hint of his earlier anger. It was a protective type of thing, and I couldn’t help but wonder if he was hiding anything else. Did I miss a vital detail in the video?

  I guess I could do something crazy like ask him. We worked in the same building, so the journey wouldn’t be long. He had the restaurant on the bottom floor, and I had the offices on the top, and they both sat about fifty feet from our apartment building.

  It was a great arrangement most of the time. But as I was trying to get back into the swing of things, the closeness only emphasized the distance I’d been feeling from him. The chasm.

  Thankfully, during the fifty-foot walk to my office and the dozen or so stairs and the welcome mat I somehow managed to trip over every single day, I had an epiphany.

  Cookie had beaten me to work, which was a good thing. I needed to announce my epiphany and proclaim my inevitable victory.

  “I am going to seize this day,” I said to her when I walked over to her desk.

  She was on her knees going through a cabinet, so I actually said it to her butt.

  “Good for you,” she mumbled from inside the cabinet. “You can start by telling me where you hid the staples.”

  “I’m serious, Cook.” I peeled off my jacket and tossed it toward a hook on the wall, missing by about twelve feet. But not even that would stop me. “No more wallowing,” I said as the black jacket crumpled to the ground like so many of my exes. “It’s time to take action.”

  “Stapling is an action.”

  “The way I see it, there are two kinds of people in this world.”

  She paused her search and straightened to give me her full, undiluted attention. “This should be good.” She was still on her knees. It was kind of like being worshipped.

  “There are those in this world who, when they have to get up in the middle of the night to pee, turn on the light. And there are those who leave it off.” I graced her with my best look of absolute determination. Jaw set. Shoulders straight. Eyes narrowed—just a little—as I anchored my fists onto my hips and looked off into the distance. “I pee in the dark, baby.”

  “Which explains why you stub your pinkie toe so often.”

  “I am the definition of adventurous.”

  “Not to mention accident-prone.”

  “I am getting my daughter back.”

  A knowing grin slid across her. “Attagirl.”

  Beep, or Elwyn Alexandra, was currently being cared for by Reyes’s human parents. The same parents he’d been stolen from as an infant. They were wonderful people, and I couldn’t have been more grateful for their willingness to help us, but giving her up for good had never been part of the plan. Not my plan, anyway.

  She was also surrounded by a veritable army of both human and supernatural protectors, any one of whom would give up his life for her. Again, my gratitude knew no bounds. But, again, my own need to protect her, to care for her and watch her grow, was stronger than anything I’d ever felt in my life. It was a constant clash of wills, a continuous struggle as though the devil that sat on one shoulder was forever battling the angel that sat on the other, and their arena resided right in the middle of my chest.

  I drew in a deep, determined breath just as the emptiness of my cavernous stomach hit me. “Now that that’s settled, when is lunch?”

  She bent back to her task. “We just ate. But we can play Find the Staples until then.”

  “Fine.” I looked around for something to do. “I’ll just sharpen pencils.” Pencil sharpening sounded important. Right up there with Pilates and solving world hunger. I started for my office, which was a hairbreadth past our reception area, a.k.a. Cookie’s Domain.

  “And hunt for staples?” she asked.

  “Bottom right-hand drawer of your desk.”

  “I’ve already looked there.”

  “They’re under your copy of Man Parts.”

  “What?” I heard a soft bang and then a drawer opening and papers rustling as I started a pot of coffee. “I don’t subscribe to Man Parts.”

  “Oh, you do now. I forgot to tell you.”

  “Charley,” she said with a gasp. “You’re subscribing me to porn magazines?”

  “Only one.”

  Before she protested too much—because the girl loved man parts as much as I did—the door opened, and two men walked in. Men with man parts, most likely. Coincidence?

  I decided to pour all my energy into the art of making coffee as Cookie saw to our guests. We hadn’t had much action since we’d gotten back, so I doubted it was a potential client. They were probably selling vacuum cleaners or Ping-Pong balls or toothpaste. Wait, I needed toothpaste.

  Fingers crossed.

  Cookie stepped to the threshold of our adjoining door and announced the fact that there were two men in her office who’d like to see me immediately. If possible.

  It was all very formal, very professional, like we were a real business again.

  A giddy sensation rushed through me. I turned on the Bunn, hurried to sit behind my desk, and nodded to Cookie. “Show them in, please, Cookie.”

  “Right away.”

  Sadly, the first guy through the door was a jerk ADA named Nick Parker. No idea who the other guy was, but how great could he be with a friend like Nick Parker?

  I stood but didn’t offer my hand in greeting. Nick didn’t take offense. He wasn’t about to offer his, either. He didn’t seem to like it when I proved people he was trying to prosecute innocent of the charges he filed against them. And I’d only done it to him once. Man could hold a grudge.

  “This is Charley Davidson,” he said to his friend, an older man with an aging suit that had seen perhaps one too many decades.

  For him, I held out my hand.

  “This is Geoff Adams,” Parker said to me, and if the feeling of utter desolation weren’t enough to bowl me over, taking his hand and having that emotion injected straight into my heart via a handshake came close.

  They were both upset, actually, but Mr. Adams was more so. Devastation had shredded him from the inside out. Someone had died. I’d have bet my last nickel-plated Glock on it.

  “Please, sit,” I said, gesturing for them to do that very thing.

  I sat as well and then took in Nick Parker, wondering if he was playing me. It was hard to get past the emotions of the older man, but I felt several coming from Nick the Prick, a nickname I’d given him the first time I met him. He’d ordered a drink from me. We were at the bar when my dad owned it, and he knew damned well I wasn’t a server. Yet, he snapped his fingers at me, an arrogant smirk on his face. I’d been itching to break those fin
gers ever since.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked as coldly as I could.

  Nick eyed me a long moment, then looked at Mr. Adams. Sensing he’d have to take the reins, he cleared his throat and said, “Mr. Adams’s daughter was murdered last week, and the main suspect is her boyfriend, a freelance artist named Lyle Fiske.”

  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Adams,” I said as I jotted down names with a pink pen I’d stolen off Cookie’s desk.

  I seemed to repel pens. I could never find one when I needed one. Unfortunately, I did not repel the departed, as was evident by the Asian woman—the one only I could see—who seemed very irritated with my desk lamp, if her tone was any indication. I could hardly blame her. That lamp was always causing problems.

  I focused harder on the potential clients sitting before me. Another wave of grief crushed Mr. Adams, slicing into me as well, as though I were made of butter. I clenched my fist around the pen but didn’t block the flow of energy. I needed to feel everything they were feeling. Clients often lied to me. They often lied to themselves, so I rarely took offense.

  But those lies, the ones that were so rehearsed the speaker believed them himself, were harder to detect. While the grief Mr. Adams suffered was painfully real, raw and cutting and visceral, I also caught a hint of guilt wreaking havoc on his frayed body. It shuddered through him with every breath he took, like an undiagnosed form of pneumonia rattling his lungs.

  I didn’t know the case personally. I’d been out. But I did hear a smidgen of it on the news a couple of days ago.

  “So, you want me to make sure the boyfriend goes to prison for the rest of his natural-born life,” I said.

  It wasn’t a question, but Parker shook his head, anyway. “No. Lyle didn’t do this. He couldn’t have. We want you to do the exact opposite. We want you to prove his innocence and find who did this.”

  I hadn’t expected that. I leaned back in my chair and tapped the pen on my chin. “Why don’t you think he did it?”

  “I just know,” Mr. Adams said, his voice hoarse and hollow. “He—he couldn’t have.” His glassy, red-rimmed eyes met mine. They were filled with absolute conviction. He wasn’t guessing. He knew the guy was innocent.