Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

by Darynda Jones

  “Well, maybe someone needs to talk to the—”

  “I’m going to stop you right there,” I said, holding up a hand. “This has to be handled with care. If those girls think Amber and Brandy went to the principal about them, things could get bad. They could retaliate.”

  Uncle Bob’s temper flared. He squeezed his girls tighter. Helplessness sucked, but there wasn’t a whole lot he could do in this situation without potentially making things a lot worse for Amber. For his daughter.

  Brandy’s mom rushed up then. “Is it over?”

  I nodded.

  “Did you catch him?” she asked, but before I could answer, she went on a rant. “See where this gets you?” she asked Amber. “You girls flirt with boys and wear spaghetti straps and short skirts and think there won’t be any consequences. You only have yourself to blame.” She pretended to be talking to both girls, but her remarks were aimed directly at Amber.

  “I beg your pardon,” Cookie said.

  “Mom,” Brandy said, “it wasn’t even a boy.”

  “You’re gay?” she asked Amber, appalled.

  That was it. I turned on her with a growl a microsecond before Osh saved me from a moment that would forever live in infamy. It could’ve gotten ugly fast. Instead, Osh plowed into the woman with his skateboard.

  The woman whirled around and glared at him.

  “Sorry,” he said, having way too much fun. He stepped on his skateboard and caught it in one hand. It was kind of magical.

  “This is a sting, Osh. You aren’t supposed to enjoy it.”

  He laughed and lifted his chin toward Cookie and Uncle Bob.

  “This … boy is with you?” she asked.

  “Mom, let’s just go,” Brandy said, now humiliated if the shade of her face were any indication. She clearly liked “this … boy.”

  Osh sidled closer to Amber. Dipped his head to look her in the eyes. “You okay, kid?”

  She nodded, her smile shy when he tweaked her chin playfully. Then she waved good-bye to Brandy as her mother dragged her off.

  “Finally,” Osh said, easing closer to me. “I thought we’d never be alone.”

  “Oh, my God, what is it with teenaged supernatural beings?”

  He flashed me a wicked grin, then leaned in. “She’s okay.”

  Beep. Beep was okay. When I almost collapsed in relief, he winked and rolled off. Mostly because security had spotted him.

  I tapped Uncle Bob’s shoulder as I watched Osh glide in and out of the throngs of shoppers. “Did you clear up that whole shoplifting thing yet?”

  Ubie chuckled. “I’ll get right on that.”

  I stepped to Amber. Put an arm around her waist since Ubie had claimed her shoulders. “I’m so sorry, hon.”

  “People suck.”

  “Yes, they do,” Osh said as he raced past us again. Kid was so going to get arrested.

  But it did the trick. Amber laughed. There were tears in her eyes when she did it, but she laughed nonetheless.

  I’d take it.

  18

  Life isn’t a fairy tale. If you lose a shoe at midnight, you’re drunk.

  —MEME

  We were still at the mall well past two when hunger hit. According to Osh, Reyes was going to keep an eye on Beep for a while. He wouldn’t get too close. Those were the rules. Our visits were very much like today: an orchestrated sting operation. We had to get in and out before anything—any supernatural being not working for us—noticed our presence.

  By the time Uncle Bob took Amber and Cookie home, I had almost starved to death. I glanced around at the offerings. Mall food. I’d eaten worse.

  After scoping out something that sounded only slightly less nutritious than a marshmallow cream puff, I sat down to eat. Uncle Bob sat down with me.

  “I thought you were taking them home.”

  “I was. Then I remembered we came in separate cars.”

  “Want some?” I asked, scooting my delicacy closer to him.

  “What is it?”

  “No idea. It looked good.”

  “Hmm.” He took a bite, then got to his point. “How are you doing?”

  “Truth?” I asked, adding a hard edge to my voice.

  He dropped his gaze. “Of course.”

  “I’m in awe, Uncle Bob.”

  His gaze drifted back up. “Awe?”

  “Of you. What you did for me … I can’t ever repay you.”

  “What I did for you?” The astonishment in his voice bordered on comical. “Charley, you’re special. I mean, I already knew that, and I know that you know that I already knew that, but … you are really special.”

  “So are you.”

  “No. Not like you. Not like … where did you come from?”

  “Well, one night, my mommy and daddy decided to play doctor—”

  “That’s not what I mean.” He only pretended to be gruff with me. “How did we end up with you? Of all the people on the planet.”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “I’ll second that.” He took another bite, then glanced down at my stomach and asked, “But you’re good?”

  I leaned forward and, just to make him as uncomfortable as humanly possible, kissed his cheek. “I’m better than good.” Not that I wasn’t worried about Eidolon, but Beep was safe, Amber’s stalker had been ferreted out, and I no longer had a knife in my stomach. That hurt so much worse than I thought it would.

  “I’m glad,” he said. “Are you going to finish that?”

  I pulled it back. “Yes. Go get your own.” I pointed out where I got the mystery meal just as my phone rang.

  “Be right back,” he said, excited.

  Shattered screen or not, I didn’t recognize the number, so I refrained from answering with, “Charley’s House of Hot Pickles,” and just said hello. It was so boring, I almost fell asleep.

  “Charley Davidson?”

  Damn. What bill did I forget to pay? I was so bad at the whole bill-paying thing.

  “You are going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard.”

  “I am?” This person must’ve had ESP, because I didn’t even know I was going to drive to the Giant on Fourth and Vineyard. It was uncanny. And, frankly, a little out of my way.

  “You are if you want to see your client Shawn Foster alive again. Come alone. Call the cops and he dies.”

  The caller hung up, and I stared at my phone for a solid thirty seconds before dialing Shawn’s number. It rang a few times before voicemail picked it up.

  “Shawn, if you get this, please call me.”

  Just because they said they had Shawn didn’t mean they actually did. Granted, most people wouldn’t say something like that if it weren’t true, but how did I know it wasn’t Eidolon saying “Hi” again?

  I wasn’t about to call Reyes back from his mission. Beep was our number one priority, and Shawn was my client, my responsibility, not his.

  I put the phone away and schooled my features, contemplating the irony of someone calling and threatening me should I call the cops when I was in the process of having lunch with one. What were the odds?

  Uncle Bob sat down with his own mystery meal.

  “Who was that?”

  I didn’t want to completely throw off my oblivious uncle. I might need him should things go south. Which, sadly, was often the case.

  So, I’d give him a clue. If I ended up dead—a possibility Reyes swore impossible, but I remained far from convinced—Uncle Bob would know where to look for my body before it decayed too much.

  “That was my hairdresser, Mrs. Foster.” I put my phone away. “Cookie knows her.”

  He crinkled his brows as he chewed. “You call your hairdresser Mrs. Foster?”

  “’Parently. I gotta head that way. I forgot I had an appointment.”

  He nodded and took another bite. Poor guy.

  “I wanted to thank you, Uncle Bob.”

  He swallowed and leveled a curious stare on me. He was such a great guy. Even with th
e seventies style ’stache.

  “You know, just for being you.” I leaned over and hugged him then left my trash on the table and hurried toward the exit, praying I’d see him—and his ’stache—again.

  * * *

  I hopped in Misery and drove to the spot Shawn’s abductors had instructed, knowing that this could be my fault. I’d turned over the wrong rock when looking into the Foster case. I’d struck a nerve. The only thing I didn’t know was whose nerve I’d struck.

  Well, that and how the hell they knew I was working with Shawn Foster on this. I had to think. Whose milk did I spill?

  The Fosters. That was it. They were the ones with the most to lose. But he was their son. So, who else? Maybe it was someone else involved in Veronica Isom’s case. Or with the fake adoption agency. Or even with the missing girl we were looking for, Dawn Brooks.

  While they all pointed back to the Fosters, I no longer believed they’d worked alone on any of it. They had followers. Believers who would likely do anything for them. Even abduct their son?

  I thought about calling the Fosters, but what would I say? I still couldn’t tip them off to the fact that Shawn had come to me.

  I’d taken the fastest route. I pulled up to the Giant and put Misery in park. First, I would meet with the person on the phone, then I’d have Ubie run a trace on Shawn’s.

  I hadn’t been sitting there thirty seconds before my phone rang again.

  “Leave your phone and walk to the abandoned car wash on the other side of Dion’s.”

  “First, let me—”

  They hung up before I could insist on hearing Shawn’s voice.

  I clenched my jaw and contemplated if I should stuff my phone into my boot. Deciding against it, I left it on the floorboard with my bag, locked up Misery, and headed that way.

  After crossing the street, I rounded Dion’s and, as sure as death and taxes, an abandoned car wash sat on the other side. It looked unassuming enough. Had probably been a family-run business. How bad could it be? Then again, the Mansons had been a family.

  Stepping inside one of the tall bays with weeds growing out of the cracks in the cement, I looked around and saw no one.

  Then I heard a male voice. “Back here.”

  I whirled around and followed it to the back of the building. A mixture of weeds and ivy had grown along the chain link fence so that no one could see the back of the car wash from the restaurant next door. This just didn’t bode well.

  A man, clean and dressed in khakis and a baby-blue button-down, coaxed me over with a nod. He looked about as much like a kidnapper as my accountant did.

  And then it hit me. Of course. I was so stupid.

  He stood by a dark blue sedan, the trunk open. After motioning me over, he patted me down and told me to take off my boots. When he was satisfied, he said, “Get in.”

  “Look, you haven’t done anything yet.” He was so young. For a kidnapper, anyway. He looked in his early thirties. Clean cut. Well groomed.

  It was all a ruse to get me to come along quietly. No one had Shawn. The Fosters were behind this. They’d used him to get to me.

  “What do the Fosters want with me?”

  So far, the guy had done two stupid things. He’d joined a cult of crazy people. And he’d worn a rope belt with khakis. Unless he was a sailor in his spare time, that was just tacky. But I was willing to forgive him his trespasses until he knocked the ever-lovin’ craptastic out of me.

  He backhanded me. My head whipped to the side and hit the edge of the trunk lid, sending a sharp jolt of pain rushing through me.

  “Get in.”

  I glared at him to make my point, but he only stared, unmoved. Lifting one leg over the rim of the trunk, I crawled inside, still hoping for the best. After all, these were the God-fearing kind of abductors. How bad could this be?

  I’d scared them. The Fosters. And somehow they had put two and two together. They were smarter than I’d given them credit for. My bad. Though I should have known. They’d gotten away with child abductions and murder for over thirty years. They had to be at least semi-intelligent.

  After climbing in, I expected the trunk to close down on me. What I hadn’t expected was the shot of electricity he’d hit me with. He’d Tasered me! Jolts of electrical currents rushed through my muscles and crashed against my bones. My body stiffened, my head jerked back, and I lost all motor control.

  When he turned the gun off, I shouted a few expletives like I had Tourette’s then went completely limp. I couldn’t even lift my head, so when I felt a needle pierce the skin on the inside of my elbow, I could do nothing about it. Except seethe.

  This guy had serious issues. I saw a promising career as a serial killer if he lived that long, because I was suddenly in a killing mood.

  Still reeling from electroshock therapy, I realized I may have bitten off more than I could chew. Uncle Bob was never going to let me live this down. Reyes was going to kill me. And Cookie … well, at least Cookie would mourn me.

  The kidnapper slammed the trunk lid closed, and I lay in total darkness as we drove. The drug didn’t knock me out entirely. I remembered hitting pothole after pothole and thinking he was aiming for the things.

  I thought about summoning Angel. About three seconds before I lost consciousness.

  * * *

  We hit another pothole. That had to be what roused me from my sleep. I blinked and tried to gain my bearings with little success. Mostly because I couldn’t see shit.

  My shoulder and hip ached from the hard surface I’d been riding on. And the bumps in the road didn’t help. We took a sharp turn. A few seconds later, we slowed. I heard voices outside, then the trunk lid popped open, and two sets of arms reached in to drag me out.

  At first, I thought we were in an underground garage. It was dark and cold. Then I realized night had fallen.

  I shook my head. How long had I been in that trunk? The dried drool on my cheek would suggest quite a while. And I had to pee like nobody’s business.

  They dragged me into an outbuilding of some kind. Perhaps a storage building or a barn. It was lit with lanterns strewn across a dirt floor. I knew the floor was dirt because I tried to walk but couldn’t quite manage it, so my feet dragged along the ground, stirring up clouds of dust.

  Then they dropped me, and I fell forward, landing on my knees and palms and face. I pushed up and took in my surroundings. Mostly I just saw legs. Several sets of them. Then I saw someone very tall. I raised my head, tried to look up, but it took every ounce of strength I had not to fall face-first again.

  I finally sat back on my heels and my gaze traveled the length of the really tall guy. But he wasn’t so much tall as … hanging. Shawn Foster was hanging by his wrists, his arms over his head, his mouth gagged, his face and body bloody and bruised. They really did have him. It wasn’t the Fosters after all. Then who?

  A woman stepped into my line of sight. She wore Sketchers, jeans, and a button-down. But the higher my gaze traveled, the more my head spun. I couldn’t seem to keep the room steady. Whatever they’d given me was powerful.

  “Aren’t you something,” the woman said, squatting down in front of me, her smile genuine.

  Mrs. Foster. It was Mrs. Foster, looking as happy as a python at a bunny farm.

  “I’ve never seen anything like her,” a man said. Probably Mr. Foster.

  Around us stood a group of about fifteen people, if my leg count was correct. Mostly adult males, but a couple of women and even a teen or two. Were they watching their parents torture the Fosters’ son? Because that could not be healthy.

  Mrs. Foster leaned closer. She cupped my chin in her hand and asked, “What are you?”

  “Wasted. What did you give me?”

  She displayed a smile that was so smug, my palm itched to slap it off her. Still, violence was never the answer.

  I smiled back. I’d had just about enough of the Fosters and their personal brand of crazy. “You’re going to die soon.”

  A l
oud slap sounded, and I lost sight of her as my head swung way too far to the side. Apparently, she didn’t get the violence-is-never-the-answer memo. The world tilted and I struggled to stay upright.

  “You think we don’t know how to handle your kind? We’ve been doing it for years, sweetheart. Decades. It’s why we were put on Earth. To smite the work of the devil. To erase the abominations to God. To cleanse the Earth of your kind.”

  “That shouldn’t take long. There’s only one of me.”

  “Is that right?” Mr. Foster asked. I could see him more clearly now. His short brown hair wasn’t as groomed as it had been at the diner and he had a layer of scruff on his jaw. But he was still an incestuous wiener. “Well, then, this should be easy.”

  “Why did you … why are you hurting your own son?”

  Mr. Foster knelt before me. “You know perfectly well he’s not our son. It was only a matter of time.”

  “We tried to do a good deed,” Mrs. Foster said.

  As she spoke, the Diviners clapped and shouted an occasional “Hallelujah!” or “Praise be!”

  “We took him in,” she continued. “Raised him. Nurtured and cared for him. He was so full of light when he was a baby, but even light can be corrupted. As you are well aware.” She tsked and walked back to Shawn. “Even the brightest of lights can be swayed. He went to you. He turned to you, a corrupted soul, to investigate us, the Divine. He knew the consequences.”

  Somehow I doubted that. “He had nothing to do with my investigation.”

  She whirled around and glared. “He turned to you and your evil husband.”

  They knew about Reyes? “Dude, you are so much eviler than the man who’s going to snap your necks like kindling.” That came out wrong.

  A surge of whispers erupted but then quieted just as quickly. “Please, Mrs. Farrow,” Mr. Foster said. “Or do you still go by Davidson like so many of the unclean in this world?”

  I didn’t see the connection.

  “Practically planning ahead for adultery and divorce.”

  “When you put it that way.” Freaking psychos. “In my own defense, Mrs. Foster kept her maiden name as well.” I snorted until the inevitable slap put a stop to that nonsense. “Fine. Oh, my God. What?”

  “Shawn’s fate was sealed the moment he sought your counsel,” he said.