Starling (Southern Watch Book 6)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Oh, good,” Guthrie cut right over him. “Because I’ve got bales of this shit, pothead.”

  “That’s enough,” Duncan mumbled.

  Erin saw Duncan put a hand on Guthrie, who eyed it, the pale hand across her ebony skin right at the elbow. She gave him a surveying look, cool, maybe a little pissed off—it was hard to tell with Guthrie—but she just said, “Fine,” and actually shut up.

  “So what the hell we gonna do now?” Casey asked, looking around the room. “And where is everybody else?”

  “There’s a football game tonight in Athens,” Barney Jones said. “Half the town’s probably there. Midian versus—”

  “The entire underworld,” Guthrie said under her breath. Everyone heard her anyway. That shut everybody up for a minute. Duncan must have squeezed her arm, because then: “What? Oh, right.” And she quieted again.

  “It seems we have several problems,” Nguyen said, “in addition to Sheriff Reeve dying. Which one should we focus on?”

  “What—or who—killed Reeve,” Hendricks said.

  “The missing persons,” Arch said.

  “These shadowcats,” Erin said. They’d all spoken at the same time, and exchanged uneasy looks. Well, she and Arch did. Hendricks didn’t look like he gave a rat’s ass.

  Brian’s voice rang out over the bullpen. “Oh, good, we’ve got clear priorities.”

  “Shut the fuck up, stoner boy,” Hendricks said, tilting his head to look at Brian under his hat brim. “I could smell you before I saw you. Way to honor your daddy by bucking up and being a man. Do we need to get you some Mary Jane chewing gum so you can ease off the habit, you fucking burnout?”

  “Jesus, cowboy,” McMinn said, snorting with a barely controlled laugh.

  “He’s throwing the heat,” Drumlin agreed.

  Something about that made Erin see red. “What the fuck are you on his back about?” She cast a look at Brian, whose face was flaming and whose mouth was shut tight; the Marine had embarrassed the biggest brain in the room into silence. That was Hendricks though, the biggest asshole in sight, even bigger than Guthrie, and something snapped in Erin, and she just wanted to see his big fat fucking ego take a broadside and sink. “None of us are your girlfriend Starling, so why don’t you stop trying to fuck people in the ass?”

  “Holy shit,” Drumlin said, and let out a low whistle.

  “Wait, so is he actually fucking that crazy redhead?” McMinn asked, sotto voce.

  “This isn’t productive,” Ms. Cherry said. “We should focus on—”

  “You jealous?” Hendricks said, taking the air out of the room as he stared at Erin. “It’s been a while since I rode your back, and I know you enjoyed getting a finger or two dipped in your ass.”

  “I’d rather fuck Duncan at this point, now that I know what you are,” Erin fired back. She was in no mood to put up with his bullshit tonight.

  “Go get some,” Guthrie said, elbowing Duncan. “She’s ready for you.”

  “Shut. Up,” Duncan said forcefully.

  “Both of y’all need to shut up,” Arch said, and the big man had stormclouds over him. “I’ve heard about enough of this lover’s quarrel—”

  “Hey, when I need relationship advice from the saddest man in town,” Hendricks said, his voice crackling with fury, “I’ll fucking give you a call, Arch, at your reverend’s house.”

  It was like someone had hooked an industrial-grade vacuum superpump to the air conditioning and sucked all the air out of the room in one big burst. Arch looked like a thunderhead swelling. “Excuse me?” The restraint was evident, cabled steel over his response.

  “Hendricks—” Duncan said warningly, but this time Guthrie clamped a hand down on his arm, and he shut up mid-thought.

  “Jesus H. Christ,” McMinn breathed.

  “Did you just go after this man’s wife?” Barney Jones said, his own countenance darkening, maybe more than Arch’s.

  “No, I went after him,” Hendricks said, not letting wisdom or discretion keep anger from carrying him away. “Alison’s problems are over; now we’re dealing with Arch’s issues—”

  “He just lost his wife,” Keith Drumlin said in a near whisper, face white as a cotton ball.

  “Yeah,” Hendricks said, subtle as a gunshot to the belly, “and he’s coping real well with it.”

  Erin just blinked, not really sure what to say. She saw red again, and realized that whatever needed to be said, she didn’t fucking care anymore; she just wanted to go low and hit Hendricks so he’d shut the hell up. “You should talk. When your wife died you basically became a soulless, demon-hunting son of a bitch. And look at you now,” she almost crowed. “What a fucking prize, sticking your dick in a redhead hooker every night. Bravo. You’re really doing great things, douchebag.”

  Ms. Cherry stirred at the counter. “Please don’t insult my Lucia like that.”

  “When she’s Starling, she ain’t your Lucia,” Erin fired back at the madam. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” she spat at Ms. Cherry, whose eyes narrowed as she stared back, “but your employee ain’t exactly operating like a normal human being, or even a normal hooker.”

  “Cuz she’s got, like, an angel riding shotgun in her head, right?” McMinn asked, drawing every eye in the room toward him. “I mean, that’s what she is, right? Come down to save our asses from whatever?” He looked straight at Guthrie and Duncan.

  Duncan just stayed still, but Guthrie was cool, almost disgusted. “Don’t fucking ask me about those things like I know any of them.”

  “Sorry you all had to see Erin get jealous of who I’m fucking now, guys,” Hendricks said, almost laughing, the motherfucker.

  “Good grief,” Arch said, disgust rolling off the big man like smoke off a fire. “You really think it’s about that?”

  “I think it’s either about that, or that some of you delicate little flowers are losing your nerve,” Hendricks said.

  Arch’s face looked like someone had closed the door to any lighter emotions. Only fury emanated from him now. “You think I’m losing my nerve?”

  “No,” Hendricks said, in what probably passed for delicate for him. “I think you’re fucking up in relation to how you’re dealing with Alison’s death, but given that you suicidally threw yourself in front of a fire-breathing demon this afternoon—no, nerve’s not what you’re lacking, Arch.”

  “You know nothing about me,” Arch said, and he got right up in Hendricks’s face, so close he almost knocked the hat right off the cowboy’s head.

  “I been where you’ve been,” Hendricks said, not backing down a fucking inch. “You sure I don’t know a thing or two?”

  “None of this is helping the situation,” Barney Jones said, trying to interpose himself between Hendricks and Arch by putting a hand on each of their chests.

  “A man died tonight,” Father Nguyen said. “I don’t think Sheriff Reeve would want us all to fight over these petty things.”

  “No, but he’s hung around us enough by this point that he wouldn’t exactly have to pick his jaw up off the floor,” Hendricks drawled.

  “Why are you such a sack of fuck all the time, Hendricks?” The question escaped Erin before she could contain it.

  Hendricks surveyed her with a cool gaze. “I’m just saying it how it is, and some of you are getting pissed about it.”

  “That’s what I do too, kid,” Guthrie said. “No one appreciates a truth-teller. I mean, think of the noble history—Cassandra, Joan of Arc—what happens? They put you up on a cross and pound in the nails.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Drumlin said, putting his head down and covering his eyes.

  “Yeah, exactly.” Guthrie grinned.

  Hendricks rolled his eyes at the demon. “All I’m saying—we should saddle up and get revenge on whatever killed Reeve.”

  “So I can jump in front of your dumb butt again before you get cooked?” Arch asked, still inches from Hendricks’s face. “Maybe I don’t feel like losing another set o
f clothes this time.”

  “Well, then I guess you’re going to fail your Lord as well as your pregnant wife,” Hendricks said.

  It was like someone picked up the entire room by the neck and throttled all the goddamned life out of it. You could have heard a bead of sweat drip to the floor in the silence. The slow tick of heated air through the ducts was the only sound for a long moment that seemed to extend into infinity … then snapped back as everyone in the room spoke at once.

  “Holy living fuck,” McMinn breathed.

  “The hell did you just say?” Braeden Tarley ground out a raspy question.

  “Arch …” One of Barney Jones’s hands was on the big man’s swelling bicep, the other on his chest.

  “What … the … fuck …” Brian whispered, now on his feet.

  “This is some sweet, prime, human drama right here,” Guthrie stage whispered to Duncan, who slapped him on the wrist again.

  “Shit,” Hendricks said, and his lips were pursed, face pale. “Arch … I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said—”

  The punch was like a roaring train coming out of a hidden tunnel, no choreographing to it, just a straight uppercut from the waist that pitched Hendricks back. The cowboy hit the counter and bounced off, hat askew but still on his head, lip split wide and a trickle of red already working its way down his chin. He staggered and caught his balance, then put a hand to his lip and checked. It came back bloody. “Yeah,” he said after staring at it smeared on his finger, “I deserved that.”

  “Damned right you did,” Arch breathed, in a voice darker than midnight. He seemed to be barely holding himself back from doing a lot worse. Jones’s hand pushed against his chest, but not too hard.

  A bell rang behind them, tinkling loudly in the dead quiet of the bullpen, and in came Benny Binion, wearing a smile, almost ear to ear on his broad face. “Hey,” he said, peppy as if he’d just dipped his lily. “Did you guys hear?” He didn’t even wait before he let loose the news. “Reeve won the recall election! Beat the piss out of it, 62% to 30%.” He guffawed. “We won.” He looked around, and his face started to fall a little at a time, picking up on the state of the room. “What?”

  Ms. Cherry let out a little sniffle, and the rest of them hung in silence until Brian broke it. “Benny … did you not check your messages?”

  Benny stared for a second, then fumbled for his phone, fishing down in his pocket and dragging it out. “Y’all sure do seem …” He stared as the screen lit his face, and then he stared harder. “Awww … Jesus Christ …” He looked up. “Y’all ain’t serious …”

  But it was true, and he knew it was true, Erin could tell. She just hung her head.

  Reeve was dead. And as she looked around the room, it almost seemed to her that if they couldn’t get their shit together, and put this fighting behind them …

  The watch might not long survive him.

  *

  Drake opened the Kamado grill’s lid, admiring the links of sausage smoked within. They’d been cooking at a touch under 160 degrees for about three hours, with a nice Jack Daniel’s wood chip sprinkled in for flavoring among the premium lump charcoal. He still had the whole human roasting on the spit, but that’d be hours before it was ready. This was a little something he’d started up a while ago, figuring to try it out.

  The heat rose, smoky and pleasant, when he lifted the circular lid. It hit his eyes, drying them, not that it mattered. They weren’t real eyes, after all, but he could feel the smoke in them nonetheless. He spared a fleeting thought for how these cattle reacted to such stimuli. Cooking them on the grills that they made? Delicious. Both the irony and the meat. But their eyes probably ached to take in such smoke, drying out those delicate membranes.

  He’d eaten eyes before. They weren’t his favorite. There were prime cuts of meat and then there were the scraps. Eyeballs were the scraps in his opinion, much like the brains. Perhaps a very innovative chef could find use for all the parts, in the name of sustainability or some such, but Drake knew what he liked, and he wasn’t too proud to simply state it—some cuts were better. Some cuts were decent, and could be prepared beautifully.

  And the rest was only worthy of throwing out. Which was why he needed a steady supply of meat.

  This sausage smelled wonderful. Rich, delicately flavored, and carrying the hints of the smoke. He’d spent extra on the charcoal, and of course the grill itself was a marvel, with its cast-iron cap and bottom vents to allow control of the temperature in the coal bed. It was really quite the innovation, and Drake found himself smiling as he made the simple adjustments and watched the temp slowly climb on the circular thermometer face on the front of the grill. It had a smooth yet dimpled skin to it, and he ran his fingertips over it, his shell enjoying the tactile contact and flaming heat. It was like a dragon’s egg, a hot reminder of the awesome power that humans had discovered when they’d harnessed the ability to use nature’s own tool to cook their food.

  Drake pulled a skewer off the grill with his bare hand; no need for grill gloves for him, his skin not really skin, his flesh not edible the way these beasts were. Delicately popping the end of the sausage into his mouth, he took a bite.

  Fatty juices poured out, and Drake felt a little stir of joy within. It was subtle—no, not subtle—glorious. The fatty marbling made scraps into greatness with the aid of wood chips and fire. Maybe there was some use for scraps after all, albeit limited. It was a delicacy, after a fashion, but not one he’d enjoy every day. He took a second bite, but already the pleasure was fading. Now the juices seemed a little less sweet, the flavor just a little less succulent.

  No, he decided, putting the skewer back on the grill, this wasn’t for him. It was comfort food, not culinary greatness. A fun novelty, but not the new heights he was seeking.

  He had enough choice cuts to keep him in good meat for quite some time, and there was a certain comfort in that. But there was a sense of stagnation too, like he was trapped in the grill with the hot, suffocating air, like one of the cattle. Drake frowned, something he didn’t do often, as he pondered the problem.

  It always came back to the veal.

  Demons had been eating children for thousands of years. It wasn’t new per se, but it was new to Drake—and Drake wanted it.

  He craved it. It was the forbidden fruit, and he hungered for it.

  But how to get it? How to get not just a little, but a lot of it? There were places, of course, in cities, but here?

  Rural Free Delivery of children seemed unlikely, even from the Class A suppliers back in the major cities. Why hadn’t he sought this before? Why had he always restricted himself to human food until now? When such lovely opportunities had abounded?

  Probably the taboo. The fear of getting caught. It was against the Pact, after all. That the Pact was violated every day seemed a small matter, now that he was in the heart of this … this movement. He’d never been to a hotspot before, and watching the rampant fall of this town was opening him to new possibilities, new horizons.

  He wanted to eat the meat of a child, dammit.

  But how? They were still here, in this town, of course, but … not readily available. Guarded? Well, by their parents, but …

  He’d surely killed parents by now. He’d preyed on some older folks. Preyed on some younger ones too, but it’d been his bad luck not to pick a house that had a tricycle outside or some similar sign, in his huntings.

  But …

  What if there was a way to get more, all at once, without the frustration of constantly missing? A soft target, one that would provide ample … rewards?

  Where did children go where they weren’t protected by angry parents who would throw themselves into the path of danger for their children?

  Ah.

  Of course.

  Drake’s frown disappeared as the delicate hints of a plan formed, like the wisps of blue smoke wafting out the cap of his grill. They rose, drifting off and becoming a part of the very air, the very world around him—just lik
e his plan soon would.

  Interlude, Too

  Two Years Ago

  “Do you feel safe at home?”

  The dark-haired doctor read the question off the form to Lucia. Lucia kept her eyes down, right around the doctor’s chest, where she wore one of those pure white lab coats that had the name “Darlington” printed across the right breast. Lucia kept focused on that, her hair brushing against the rough pillow in this hospital bed. Her ribs, pain radiating from the bones, a steady ache in her head, and her eyes—

  She just kept them focused right on that name: Darlington.

  The doctor’s voice was soft, and she asked the question again: “Do you feel safe at home?”

  “Home’s fine,” Lucia said, and her voice sounded dead even to her, quiet and distracted. “It’s … fine.”

  The doctor shuffled foot to foot, cleared her throat. “Doesn’t seem like that’s the case.”

  Lucia would have shrugged, but it would have hurt too much, so she just kept her voice low and sullen, though not intending to. “It’s fine.”

  The doctor had been standing at the side of her bed, and now the dark-haired woman leaned in closer. “Lucia,” she whispered, and looked at the door behind her, which was closed. “There’s no one here but the two of us. You don’t have to lie to me.”

  “I’m not lying,” Lucia said in a monotone.

  “Did your boyfriend really beat you up?” the doctor asked. “Is that what happened?”

  “Nothing happened,” Lucia said. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  The doctor let out a sigh, frustration just oozing out of the woman. She was young … ish. Younger than most doctors, Lucia thought, but a lot older than her. Worlds older. “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me, Lucia.”

  “I’m fine,” Lucia said. “I don’t need help.”

  The doctor sunk back slightly. “You’re beat all to hell. This, to you, is fine?”

  Lucia still couldn’t shrug. “It’ll be all right.”

  The doctor just stood there. Lucia couldn’t see her face. It was white, that much she could tell, white against the beige walls, and she had a little perfume on that overcame the smell of disinfectant that this hospital reeked of. Michael and Karen had hovered over her in the ambulance the whole way. Oh, they’d looked concerned, but she knew why they did it—so that she couldn’t answer any questions without them hearing her answers.