Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

by Darynda Jones

  Getting them out without releasing the evil entities inside had been on my to-do list for a while. But Reyes had figured out I’d kept the god glass a secret from him. And why. So, I decided to do what I did best. I changed the subject.

  “About this bodyguard position, you offering?”

  He sat watching my mouth for the longest time, causing my insides to tingle. Then he bit his bottom lip and wet it. The movement was so innocent, so everyday, yet it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.

  “I don’t know,” he said at last. “What does it pay?”

  I cleared my throat. And my dirty mind. “I can’t afford much. I’m already having to switch to cheaper toothpaste just to keep Cookie on.”

  He tsked, the sound both humorous and sensual. “The sacrifices we make.” He had yet to lift his gaze from my mouth, and I could’ve cut the pheromones hanging thickly in the air with a switchblade.

  The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could take him to the broom closet and tear off his clothes, or I could wish that I’d taken him to the broom closet and torn off his clothes for the rest of the day.

  Broom closet it was.

  Just as I’d decided to jump on the idea—and him—I remembered my latest gig. The one that he was not going to be happy about. The one that I really should have discussed with him before accepting, not that my PI business was any of his, but it had been a sensitive subject in the past. Like third-degree-burn sensitive.

  Best to get it out in the open. Rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak. Cut open a vein and hope he still cared enough about me afterwards to apply pressure.

  I cleared my throat and straightened my shoulders. “So, yeah, I got a new case today.”

  “You don’t say.”

  “I just want you to know that I already accepted it.”

  He finally met my gaze, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean … I mean Shawn Foster. The Fosters’ son came in today.”

  He stilled but gave no other clue as to his thoughts.

  “He knows, Reyes. He knows he’s not the Fosters’ biological son. And the adoption agency that supposedly did the paperwork should the Fosters ever have to prove they’d gotten him through legitimate means? He knows that was bogus as well. He believes, as do I, that he was abducted as a child. Just like you were.”

  I could feel rather than see the darkness slide over him like a cloak. His poker face was top notch, but he was not a happy camper shell. “He asked you to look into it?”

  “He just waltzed into the office and hired me.”

  “How did he know to come to you?”

  “See, now here’s where it gets interesting.” I was so good at lightening the mood. Not so great with lightening my hair, though. Peroxide and I did not get along. “I’ve done a few drive-bys past the Fosters’ house since we’ve been back. You know, just to check on things. Totally, 100 percent innocent. But he noticed. I know, right? My bad.”

  “I thought we’d agreed you weren’t going to look into the Fosters.”

  “We did,” I assured him, jumping to explain. “And I wasn’t looking into them. I was looking around them. Like, peripherally. Shawn just happened to notice.” When Reyes didn’t say anything, I continued. “But it’s all good. Shawn and I are on the same page. He had a lot of great information. I had a lot of great information. Combine that with what you told me, and I think we could put them away, Reyes. I think we could get a conviction.”

  “And you think that’s what I want?”

  “Don’t you? I mean, how can you not? They abducted you, Reyes. Then they allowed you to be abducted again by a monster, if that’s what really happened, and you just want them to get away with it?”

  “I want you to drop it.”

  “Reyes, I’ve already accepted the case. I was hoping you’d understand. Shawn wants to know. He wants to find out where he comes from. Find out who his real parents are. What his real life would have been like. He has questions just like you did.”

  “Drop the case.”

  It was an order, plain and simple. And the fact that he actually thought I’d follow it was comical. Or it would’ve been if he weren’t seething underneath that calm exterior.

  “No. I’m sorry, but I can’t. This isn’t just about you anymore.”

  He leaned forward, so close I could feel his breath on my mouth when he spoke. “Drop the case or I’ll drop it for you.”

  Oh, no, he didn’t. I narrowed my lids and set my jaw. “Try.”

  Heat exploded out of him. It was an inevitable part of who he was, of what he was, but this time the heat hit me like wall of fire.

  He struggled to tamp it down. I could feel at least that much in the strangling density of his emotions. He fought to regain control.

  And I struggled to stand my ground. This was important. The Fosters were criminals. They needed to be brought to justice. And the moment he believed he could threaten me into doing anything against my will was the moment he and I were going to have to seriously reevaluate our relationship.

  My phone rang just as he stood to leave. “Wait,” I said to him.

  He stopped but didn’t look back at me.

  I checked my phone. It was Cookie. “This’ll just take—”

  “We’ll talk about this later,” he said, and then he strode away. Just like that. His anger leaving heat streaks on the air.

  I answered. “Hey, Cook. What’s up?”

  “He’s having an affair.”

  I’d started to get up, too. Several sets of eyes watched me, mostly women’s, curious about Reyes and me. I sat back down. “Did he tell you that?”

  Her breath hitched. “He didn’t have to. I practically threw myself at him, and he barely noticed.”

  The sigh of relief I let loose made me light-headed. “Cookie, he is not having an affair. I’d bet my bottom dollar on it. Or even just my bottom. But I’ll look into it for you if you’d like.”

  “I’d like. But that’s not why I called.”

  “I’m downstairs. Heading up now.”

  “I’m still at home. I’ve been looking into the Fosters’ backgrounds.”

  “At home?”

  “I go into research mode when I’m upset.”

  “Ah, okay,” I said as Valerie, Reyes’s manager in training, cleared my table. “Hit me. What’d you find?”

  “Well, they don’t make sense.”

  “Child abductors rarely do.”

  “No, it’s like they were never born.”

  “So, they were hatched?” I teased. I smiled at Valerie. She almost smiled back. It was so much better than the sneer I usually got from her. I got the feeling she didn’t like me much.

  “That makes about as much sense as what I’m finding. Neither one of them have birth certificates on file in the states they say they were born in.”

  “Oh, now that’s interesting.”

  “Isn’t it? Right now I’m looking at their employment records. Mrs. Foster has a copy of a birth certificate on file at the pediatrician’s office she manages. It was issued in West Virginia, but according to the state records there, there was no female child born on that day in that town. Eve Bathsheba Foster was never born.”

  “Her birth certificate is fake?”

  “I believe it is.”

  “Wait. Her middle name is Bathsheba? For reals?”

  “The thing about the birth certificate is, who’s going to double-check something like that? When someone hires you, unless it’s a job where you need a certain level of clearance from the government, your employer will just get a copy of your birth certificate and call it good. They only need it to cover their asses should any problems arise later on.”

  “True.”

  “And how hard can it be to get fake documents in today’s day and age?”

  “Have you looked up Mr. Foster’s?”

  “I’m looking for the actual record now. His was a little harder to track down, but he filed for
a conceal carry permit a few years ago under the name Abraham Boaz Foster.”

  “What the hell is up with their names?”

  “No idea. I don’t have a copy of the actual certificate, but get this—according to what was written on the application, both Mr. and Mrs. Foster were born on the same day, in the same town, at the same hospital.”

  “Okay, that’s weird, right?”

  “Oh, it gets better. Mrs. Foster’s birth certificate lists her maiden name as … are you ready for this?”

  “Cookie, you’re killing me.”

  “Foster.”

  I sat back down. “Are you sure?”

  “As sure as Shirley.”

  I didn’t know who Shirley was or why she was so sure of herself, but Cookie seemed pretty confident in her findings. “Okay, let’s say they did fake their birth certificates for some reason, who would go to all that trouble to fake one only to put the wrong surname on it?”

  “Maybe the forger messed up?”

  “I’d say.”

  I needed to get up close and personal with Mrs. F. To get a feel for her. She was clearly capable of kidnapping. What else was she capable of?

  We’d been hired to find Shawn’s real parents, but this case provided the perfect opportunity to delve further into Team Foster. If we were going to prove that Shawn had indeed been abducted, we’d need all the ammo we could get when we went to the DA.

  “I think I should pay Mrs. Foster a visit today.”

  “Okay, she’s at lunch right now, but she’ll be back at two, and she’s working until six. I checked.”

  Man, she was good. “Perfect. Now I just need a reason to visit a pediatrician’s office and not actually see the pediatrician.”

  5

  She has moments when she seems stable, but then so does nitroglycerin.

  —MEME

  Since I had a few minutes, I decided to hit up an old adversary for info on said adversary’s CI, his confidential informant. The confidential informant I had yet to find. The one who’d been slated to kill my uncle Bob, according to Reyes, who could see exactly when people were penciled in for a visit down under and what they did to get there.

  Reyes had met Guerin in prison. He didn’t think much about it at the time. Many of the inmates had locked themselves into a visit to the fiery pits long before they ended up behind bars. But Reyes had recognized Uncle Bob as the detective who’d put him away. No animosity. Just fact.

  Guerin had been in prison for stacking up too many petty crimes, but he had yet to do the deed that would get him sent under. That wouldn’t happen for a few years. Still, Reyes saw it the moment he met the kid, and though the time had come and gone, the threat was still there.

  Since we’d been unable to locate the petty criminal, there was no way of Reyes seeing into him. Of him being able to tell if the kid’s inevitable trip to the netherworld had been postponed. Or rescinded altogether.

  And that was where Parker came in. I’d had a run-in with ADA Nick Parker a few days ago. ADA, surprisingly, did not stand for Abnormally Dimwitted Asshole. Who knew?

  He’d basically blackmailed me into solving a case for him. I solved the case, mostly because it needed solving, but I never liked being blackmailed. It brought out the worst in me. Especially when the leverage was a threat against my daughter. My claws came out. In a fit of anger—and right around the same time I threatened to take over the world—I let ADA Parker know that. I did something I didn’t even know I could do. I touched my mouth to his and showed him the supernatural world that raged around us in all its glorious detail. I showed him what I was, but more importantly, what I was capable of.

  If nothing else, he’d never blackmail me again. I just hoped he was okay. Mentally. I’d left him in a state of shock. But hopefully he learned Rule #1 in the Charley Davidson Handbook: don’t fuck with the reaper.

  Just kidding. I didn’t have a handbook, but I did have a handbag. A Prada knockoff.

  Wait.

  I stopped halfway in and halfway out of Misery when the realization of a lifetime dawned. I was a gazillionaire now.

  Well, Reyes was. Dude was a genius.

  Still, I could totally afford a real Prada handbag now. Holy cow. I scooted my ass across Idris Elba, my driver’s seat. The one that hugged me in tight curves and kept me safe under the most hazardous conditions. The one that heated up with the push of a button. That warmed my nether regions to exquisite perfection.

  Damn, I’d lost my train of thought. Oh, right. Prada. This would take some thought. I couldn’t rush into such a big decision. Should I go with the fall line or wait for the new spring line to be out? My brain was going to explode with all the possibilities. Maybe I should just go to Target. Get my usual.

  I turned Misery on, literally, and started to back out. But first, I flipped off the angel—this one with long black hair and pale skin—that was crouched on my hood, gazing at me through the windshield.

  I floored it. The angel, completely unimpressed, simply spread his massive wings, rose up a few inches, and landed with his feet in front of my grill. His moves were more graceful than a ballet dancer’s. Smoother than a mocha latte. And cooler than Christopher Walken, though not by much.

  Then, with two fingers, he saluted me. It was a very human gesture. I stared for a moment in surprise before realizing my foot was still on the gas pedal. I slammed on the brakes. Then I sat for a moment, stunned. I’d almost backed into oncoming traffic. I surveyed my surroundings, made sure I hadn’t run over any pedestrians, then offered the angelic being my best glare. He tipped an invisible hat. Not knowing how to take the gesture, considering the source, I shoved Misery into drive and headed to Parker’s office.

  Fifteen minutes later, Parker’s assistant told me he was in court, so I meandered that way. I didn’t know what case Parker was prosecuting but found the courtroom easily enough. A few spectators in the gallery were just going back in after a break, so I fell in line and went with the flow, following a tall white-haired man who reminded me of Colonel Sanders.

  We sat behind the prosecutor’s table. Hopefully, Parker would see me and I could pass him a note to meet for coffee. I needed to know if he’d heard from Guerin.

  But Parker was too busy to look up when he walked back into the courtroom, shuffling papers and speaking quietly to his colleague. All very important. Very Zen. I didn’t want to screw up his Zen, so I sat patiently, searching for my own Zen.

  We stood as the judge came into the room, much like one would when a king entered, or the president, or a male stripper when the women in front of you are really tall.

  Parker called his next witness, a woman who’d been held up at knifepoint by the defendant. This seemed a pretty open-and-shut case. The guy was guilty. I felt it on him the moment he walked in. The woman was nervous. She stuttered and mumbled and had to be asked to speak up more than once, and every time she had to repeat herself, the defendant smirked and shook his head.

  The poor woman was scared. Terrified. And he was enjoying it. She was a mouse, and the defendant, a large, hairy man with sideburns straight out of the seventies, was a cobra. And his behavior caused her to stutter even more.

  Normally, this was the point in ADA Nick Parker’s life where he turned a hilarious shade of red. He had the patience of a pit viper and zero empathy to boot. But not this time. He was frustrated. I could feel it. But no red or purple or even a soft shade of pink. What the hell? Where was the entertainment value in that?

  “Let the record reflect that the witness has pointed to”—Parker had turned toward the peanut gallery and met my gaze at last—“has pointed to the defendant, James Wi…”

  Parker’s voice trailed off, and he just sort of stood there, staring at me.

  “Mr. Parker?” the judge said, trying to get his attention.

  I smiled and wiggled my fingers as inconspicuously as I could. Then I flashed him a piece of paper. I’d planned on gesturing toward his associate, letting him know I was going to giv
e my message to her, but Parker did something I never expected. Something pretty much no one expected, so I wasn’t the only one having to scrape my jaw up off the floor thirty seconds later.

  He stilled.

  I stilled.

  He blinked.

  I blinked.

  He took in a sharp breath.

  I blinked.

  He dropped to his knees in the middle of the room, clasped his hands over his head, and bent forward, laying his forehead on the carpet and rocking.

  Was he…? No. He couldn’t be. I mean, why would he worship me? Was worship the right word? Maybe he was seizing.

  I blinked.

  The judge blinked.

  The bailiff blinked.

  We all sat speechless for several long minutes.

  “Mr. Parker,” the judge said at last. “What are you doing?”

  Parker’s shoulders started to shake, and I realized at that moment that there was a chance, an ever-so-slight chance, that showing him the supernatural world around us may have affected him a tad greater than I’d imagined.

  * * *

  The judge called the bailiff over and pounded the gavel, calling for a recess.

  I rushed past the bar to Parker’s side. “Dude,” I whispered, patting his head, “you can’t worship me. I’m not that kind of god.”

  But he was gone. Praying and chanting and kind of whimpering. The bailiff helped him up, and I followed them into the judge’s chambers despite the bailiff’s stern, questioning brows. He had great brows.

  “He just needs water,” I said. “He does this all the time. It’s a nervous condition.”

  Parker wouldn’t look at me. On the bright side, his face was finally that hilarious shade of red I knew and loved. He kept his hands clasped and his head bowed.

  “Do we need to call an ambulance?” the judge asked.

  The court reporter had followed us in as well. “I’ll do it.”

  The judge nodded. The bailiff went for water. And I kicked ADA Parker in the shin.

  His head snapped up, and he looked at me at last.

  “Cut it out,” I said from between gritted teeth. “What the hell?”

  “You. It’s you.”