The Trouble With Twelfth Grave

by Darynda Jones

  Rocket. Rocket would know. But his telling me would be breaking the rules. His own set of moral rights and wrongs that made sense to Rocket and to Rocket alone. Would he break the rules if it were super-duper important?

  He would just have to. I would give him no choice. People were dying at someone’s hands, and my best and only guess was the priest, unless Rey’azikeen had lied. Unless he hadn’t taken out the two supernatural entities trapped inside the god glass with him, the demon assassin Kuur and the malevolent god Mae’eldeesahn.

  “Why would I lie about something so trivial?”

  I flinched and looked in my rearview. Reyes, or Rey’azikeen as the case would be, sat in the backseat, lounging like a delinquent schoolboy in the back of a classroom. Knees spread. Hands resting on his thighs. Expression dark as he locked his gaze onto mine in the rearview. His irises fairly sparked with energy.

  It took everything in me to tear my gaze from his and focus on the road.

  “You know the name,” I said, almost accusingly. “The name of the priest.”

  “Yes,” he replied as though teasing me. Tempting me.

  It worked. I practically salivated for it. “May I have it?”

  “Tell me where it is and you may.”

  “Reyes, look, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I need more information. I’ll help you find it, I swear.”

  He turned away from me, frustrated. “I don’t have more information.”

  “Okay.” I frowned in confusion. “What do you have?”

  “It is ashes. It is embers. That’s all I know.”

  “The god glass? The pendant I sent you through?”

  “Why would I need that?”

  “If you don’t know what you are looking for, why are you looking for it?”

  “I do know. I just don’t … have access.” He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that Rey’aziel is keeping it from me. He won’t give me access to the information I need.”

  How could Reyes essentially keep something from himself? It made no sense.

  Then again, if Reyes was keeping information from Rey’azikeen, it meant that he was in there. Somewhere. Somehow. Holding the information close. Denying Rey’azikeen access to that part of himself.

  My heart left my chest and soared. Metaphorically. He didn’t know what he was even looking for. He didn’t know because Reyes was still in there.

  “That’s interesting,” I said, trying to keep him talking, trying to think of a way to bring Reyes out, if that were even possible. “Do you know what it looks like?”

  He scrubbed a hand over his face. “It’s important that I find it.”

  “Okay. I can help.”

  The expression he rested on me next would suggest he didn’t trust me in the least. “And then what, god eater? Will you sup on my soul?” His voice mesmerized. Flooded my body with warmth. Filled my cells with joy. Tugged at something deep inside me. “Will you swallow my heart and claim it as yours?”

  I wanted to say, “Why not? Fair’s fair. Mine belongs to you.” But I didn’t.

  Apparently, I didn’t need to. His face darkened, but not in anger. “Crawl back here with me,” he said, his words so soft and deep I had to strain to hear them.

  I fought the urge to let go of the steering wheel and do exactly that. “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I have a funeral to go to. And you said it yourself. You’re not my husband.” I’d said it as a challenge, daring my husband to fight.

  Rey’azikeen’s next line of attack was his fire. He sent it out to caress my skin. I felt flames lick along the most fragile parts of me. The most delicate and sensitive and tender.

  “Rey’aziel doesn’t have to know.”

  I resisted the gravity of his presence and bit the inside of my cheek to clear my head. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll sup on your soul?”

  He locked his gaze again, and moments passed until I blinked and broke the spell.

  “I am,” he said. “Afraid. I have been for hundreds of thousands of years.”

  “And yet there you sit. I must not be that scary.”

  “You’re a fool.”

  I ignored the rankle his statement caused. “Why is that?”

  He turned to stare out the window. “You should have devoured me eons ago when you had the chance.”

  I glanced over my shoulder. “If I had, I wouldn’t have you now. I wouldn’t have Reyes.”

  “You have neither of us. All you have is doubt and suspicion and animosity.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “You’re naïve.” When I failed to rise to the occasion and hurl insults back, he lowered his voice again. “Crawl back here with me.”

  “Give me the name of the priest.”

  “I don’t know it.”

  I gasped. “You lied?” Disappointment swallowed me.

  “Malevolent god,” he said by way of explanation.

  “No,” I said, almost yelling. I finally pulled over, threw Misery into park, and faced him. “No. Not malevolent. Unruly, perhaps. Rebellious. But not malevolent.”

  Surprise registered on his perfect face, but he recovered quickly. And he grinned, as though the heavens had opened up and shone just for him. “Is that what you told my Brother when you begged Him not to send me into the god glass? The hell dimension He tricked me into making?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  “I’m so close,” he said. He leaned forward, took my hand, and laid it over his heart. “You could take me now. You’d be wise to do so. To devour me before I find the object of embers and ashes.”

  “When you find it, what will you do with it?” I asked, trying to eke out information, anything to clue me in to what he was searching for.

  He shook his head. “That is not your concern. Your concern is only now. Only this.” He leaned back and dropped his hands to his sides, laying himself completely open, daring me to devour him. Or fuck him. It was hard to say.

  And, God help me, I wanted to do both.

  “Time’s up,” he said. Then he was gone. I’d only blinked, and from one microsecond to the next, he disappeared.

  I shuddered, his powerful allure so enticing, I could hardly form a coherent thought. But the tiny voice coming from my passenger’s seat took care of all the yearnings, all the pangs of desire, in two seconds flat.

  “Who was that?” Strawberry asked.

  I gaped at her, absorbing her presence before throwing my arms around her.

  Strawberry Shortcake, so named because of her pajamas, was a nine-going-on-thirty-year-old departed girl, half-sweetheart, half-demon child, who’d lived with Rocket at the asylum before Rey’azikeen tore it down.

  She let me hug her for, like, an hour before getting enough and pushing me away.

  “Where have you been, sweet pea? Were you there when the asylum was destroyed?” Maybe she knew something more about what Reyes was searching for.

  “No. I was looking for my brother. I still can’t find him. You promised you’d find him for me.”

  Her brother, Officer David Taft, had gone on sabbatical from the police force and hadn’t been seen since. Uncle Bob didn’t seem particularity worried when I questioned him about it. No one had reported him missing, but his only family was sitting in my passenger’s seat, and she couldn’t exactly call the cops. Still, he had friends. Or I’d assumed he’d had friends. None of them had reported him missing.

  I’d planned on looking into his whereabouts when all hell broke loose. Literally.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find him. Promise. But have you seen Rocket? Is he okay?”

  “You’ll find David? Pinkie swear?”

  I held up my pinkie, wrapped it around hers, and swore on its life, apparently. I never quite got the pinkie-swearing tradition.

  “Okay, where’s Rocket, love?”

  “He’s playing.”

  “At the asylum?
”

  “No. With the other kids.”

  “The other kids?”

  “The ones at Chuck E. Cheese.”

  I blinked, trying to picture Rocket playing with a roomful of children anywhere, much less Chuck E. Cheese.

  “His favorite game is Whac-A-Mole. He thinks it’s funny.”

  “Well, he’s right.”

  “I guess. I have to get back. I’ve looked and looked for David. Your turn.”

  Before I could question her further, she was gone. And I was wasting time on the side of the interstate when I had a funeral to crash.

  17

  Apparently “spite” is not an appropriate answer to,

  “What motivates you?”

  —MEME

  On the way to El Paso, I could think of only two words, two things that best described the place: great and tacos.

  Okay, El Paso had a lot more to offer than great tacos. Like great enchiladas. Great tamales. Great gorditas. It took me a while, but I finally realized I was famished. And almost out of gas.

  As the city came into view, I tried to change while driving, crossed the white line a few times, almost died twice, then finally pulled over before I killed someone. I slipped my clothes off to the glee of many a trucker and slid into the little black dress Cookie had found. The one I hadn’t worn in fifty years. I could only describe the fit as tourniquet-like and thank the gods I hadn’t eaten after all.

  Unfortunately, Cookie forgot one little-black-dress fashion essential. Shoes. So, my ankle-high boots would just have to do.

  I’d missed the church service for Hector but, thanks to the wonders of GPS, found the graveside service no probs. I threw a casual jacket over my shoulders and made my way to the throng of funeralgoers.

  Most were dressed in black. The Catholic priest’s robes waved in the wind as he gave his final soliloquy, praising Hector and his family for being such pillars of the community.

  With the service already under way, I walked around the crowd until I could get a good look at Hector’s family. Fortunately, no one stopped me. Bodyguards, as plentiful as they were, had the manners to keep a low profile. They didn’t pat me down when I walked up. They did, however, keep a weather eye.

  The priest ordered everyone to bow their heads in prayer, and they did. All but one. A woman in her fifties sitting in the front row kept her gaze locked on the coffin. She wore a black hat with a net pulled down over her face. Despite clear signs of distress—swollen eyes, red nose—she remained a statue, head high, jaw set, mouth firm. Hector’s mother, no doubt.

  I scanned not only the faces in the crowd but the emotions rippling through it. Amazingly, considering we were at a funeral, there wasn’t a ton of grief. I’d felt more grief while having lunch at the Frontier when a news program announced that Lost was ending. The guy wasn’t the most beloved sort.

  Only one woman, the one I’d assumed was Hector’s mother, Edina, had any real emotion churning inside her. She kept a firm hold on it, but mixed with the devastation was a seething, explosive kind of anger. The kind of anger that screamed vengeance. Whoever did kill Hector would someday face that woman’s wrath.

  I’d seen evidence of her wrath in the form of permanent scars on Judianna’s face. Because she’d tried to leave her son. I did not envy the person guilty of killing him. What kind of atrocities would she think up for such a crime?

  Another interesting character, a younger woman sitting right next to Edina, also wore all black with a net over her face. Hector had a sister named Elena. Perhaps that was Elena. I’d only seen one picture of her taken from a distance, so I couldn’t be sure. But she was striking with charcoal hair and flawless skin the color of caramel.

  What was even more striking was not her lack of emotion but the stable of emotions she did possess. Anger and something akin to hatred emanated out of her in hot, hostile waves. An interesting juxtaposition considering her brother had recently died.

  But no one at the funeral took me by surprise save one. Aunts and uncles stood around, trying to cry for Edina’s benefit. Nieces, nephews, cousins, and friends gave their respects as the funeral came to a close. Stoic bodyguards patrolled the area and kept an eye on their charges. But one person, one of the bodyguards, the one standing directly behind Elena, surprised me to such a strong degree, I almost gasped when I realized who it was.

  He was barely recognizable. He’d gained mass since I’d last seen him in his patrol uniform, along with a sharp suit, even sharper haircut, and dark, perfectly trimmed stubble. Like most of the guards, he wore sunglasses, but I recognized him nonetheless. Officer David Taft. Strawberry’s brother. The brother neither she nor Uncle Bob had seen in months.

  No wonder Strawberry couldn’t find him. He was a different animal. Almost unrecognizable. A chameleon, able to blend in with this lot. He’d have to be to survive, but the difference in his manner and appearance stunned me.

  Ubie had told me Officer Taft could have taken another position, something undercover, which would explain why his new assignment didn’t appear on his record, but I didn’t believe it. How would APD not know if one of their officers joined another organization?

  And now I knew what had happened to him. He’d joined the FBI. Kit told me they finally had someone on the inside, someone with connections to the family. I never dreamed it would be Taft.

  Although he wore sunglasses, I knew the moment he spotted me. Anxiety spiked within him. And adrenaline. And annoyance. Jerk. He hardly owned the world. If I wanted to attend a funeral, I’d attend a funeral. And yet he didn’t flinch. His stonelike expression remained completely intact.

  I could practically feel him shooting daggers at me. With as much stealth as I could muster, I dropped my gaze and shook my head, hoping to get my point across. I had no intention or desire to blow his cover. Those things took years to build. The fact that he had gained access to such a close-knit family was both impressive and befuddling.

  I couldn’t help but wonder about his connection to the family. Was he from this area? Was he related?

  After the funeral came to a close, a line formed for the condolences. I lined up, ignoring the fact that I could barely breathe in my little black dress, and passing out was a serious concern. I waited my turn regardless. I would get an even better sense of everyone up close and personal, as they say.

  When I reached the grieving mother, I took her hand and offered my sincerest apologies. And I meant it. I could not imagine losing a child.

  Mrs. Felix thanked me softly. Her fragile hold slipping, she sniffed into a handkerchief before regaining her composure and offering her hand to the next in line.

  When I shifted my attention to Hector’s sister, I didn’t dare risk a glance at Taft. Even the smallest infraction could cost him his life. Or me mine. Neither was ideal.

  I took her hand in mine and knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, she’d done it. A ripple lay just beneath the righteous indignation. A ripple of guilt. She tried not to feel guilty. She truly believed her actions justified. I just couldn’t quite suss out why. What motivated her to take her brother’s life.

  Still, the act alone was enough to startle me. To murder her own brother. Her own flesh and blood. I stood taken aback for a split second before recovering and offering her my sympathies.

  But another emotion leeched out of her. Certainty. All-consuming, absolute certainty. She knew she would get away with it. She harbored zero doubt. Zero apprehension.

  At this point, I could do one of two things. I could walk away and report my findings to an angry but ultimately grateful—one can dream—Detective Joplin, because no way was I telling my FBI buddy I’d disobeyed a direct order and come to the funeral. Or I could bait the guilty party and hope to shake something loose.

  I realized something about myself in that moment. I loved to bait. And I really loved shaking shit loose. Loose was so much better than tight, thought the girl in the body cast. This dress was so going to Goodwill.

  I leaned in to E
lena as though to kiss her cheek and whispered, “What would your mother think?”

  Elena yanked her hand back and stared up at me. I winked and went on to the next bereaved family member. When I’d finished offering my sympathies, I took out my phone, pressed the button to call Cook, and started toward Misery.

  An arm linked with one of my own. I glanced to my side at Elena Felix as she matched my stride step for step.

  She offered me a calculated smile. “Walk with me,” she said, leading me toward a sleek black limousine.

  “Of course.” Not that I had any choice. I glanced over my shoulder and noticed two men following us, Taft and another bodyguard who resembled a well-dressed vault door.

  “After you,” she said, gesturing me inside.

  No way was it going to be this easy. Still, I’d ruffled her. I felt tremors of trepidation in her the moment she walked up to me. Guilt did that to a person. I could have been talking about her use of cocaine when I asked what her mother would have thought. Or the fact that the sun rises and falls on a daily basis. But a guilty person will always, always apply what is said to what that guilty person did.

  Elena ducked in after me, and Taft after her. The other man took the passenger’s seat up front with the driver. After she got settled, Elena held out her hand for my phone.

  I passed it to her, but she didn’t bother checking it. I’d already dialed Cookie. The screen was black but if there was a God, and by that point in my life I was fairly certain there was, she’d picked up.

  Elena handed it to Taft, a man I barely got along with and who had about as much use for me as a light bulb had a koozie. But he cleaned up well. I couldn’t wait to tell Strawberry what her brother had been up to. If I lived that long. Then again, I was a god.

  He put the phone in the front pocket of his jacket, mic side out. Hopefully Cookie would be able to hear and ascertain what was going on. Or she’d think I’d butt dialed her again and hang up. I was so bad about that.

  I decided to fill Elena in so she’d know what she was getting herself into should she start shit. She sat across from me with Taft by her side. Close by her side.