Summoned to Thirteenth Grave (Charley Davidson #13)

by Darynda Jones

  “How do you do that?” I asked as we walked up the path. It probably helped that he was all kinds of smexy, but still.

  He grinned and took my hand. A warmth spread though me, the act so sweet, so endearing. Then I realized why he took my hand.

  He gestured to our right. “It’s been following us all day.”

  A Shade demon, one that had crossed through what was surely now a departed human. It stuck to the shadows, hovering in all its gray glory. How am I always the last to know these things?

  “Will it do anything?” Before he could answer, I asked, “Can it do anything?”

  “Your guess is as good as mine.”

  We walked to Dr. Clarke’s door and knocked. His house, a one-story sandstone with a neat lawn and a row of rosebushes bordering the front walk, spoke of a man with both reserved tastes and a green thumb.

  A woman in her late sixties answered. She gave me a quick once-over, but when her gaze landed on Reyes, apprehension rushed through her. He did that.

  “Hi,” I said, thrilled that she even answered the door, “I was wondering if Dr. Clarke was in.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and hesitated. “He’s fallen asleep in the recliner again.” She focused on Reyes. “With a Smith & Wesson on his lap.” Back to me. “Can I ask what this is about?”

  “Yes,” I said, my admiration soaring. “I’m sorry. My mother was a patient of his, and I wanted to ask him a couple of questions.”

  “He’s been retired for twenty-eight years.”

  “Really?” I asked, the surprise in my voice evident. “Then my mother might have been one of his last patients.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, let me check.”

  She all but slammed the door in our faces. I gave Reyes an admonishing glare. “Stop looking so sketchy. You scare people.”

  Without taking his eyes off the door, he raised a middle finger in response.

  Stealthy.

  “That’s funny. Clearly, your life means little to you.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  “It’s a promise.”

  A lopsided grin tugged at his full mouth as the door opened.

  “Come in,” Mrs. Clarke said.

  “Thank you.”

  She showed us to a bright, only slightly outdated living room, and indeed the good doctor was sitting in a recliner with a blanket over his legs. And either he was really happy to see us or he actually had a Smith & Wesson in his lap.

  We introduced ourselves while Mrs. Clarke went for some lemonade.

  “So,” he said, giving us a once-over and gesturing toward the sofa that catty-cornered his recliner, “your mother was a patient of mine. How old are you?”

  We sat on the sofa, my knees almost touching his. “Twenty-eight. You delivered me.”

  “From sin?” he asked with a deep belly laugh.

  Mrs. Clarke shouted from the kitchen, “Scott Clarke, I told you that joke is offensive!”

  He dismissed her with a wave. “What can I do for you?”

  “Well, I don’t want to upset you, but my mother died in childbirth, and I wondered if you might remember what happened.”

  His expression changed to one of recognition. “You’re Charlotte Davidson.”

  “I—I am.”

  “I remember your mother. Beautiful girl, that one.”

  I beamed at him. “Thank you. I thought so.” When she crossed through me, I remembered thinking that very thing. “I think so,” I corrected when he gave me an odd look. “From pictures.”

  “Of course.”

  “Can you tell me about the delivery? Was there anything unusual?”

  He shifted in his chair. “Not that I can remember.”

  Mrs. Clarke brought in glasses of lemonade. I took mine and offered a thanks while wondering what to do next. He was lying. Just like Uncle Bob. Was this some sort of conspiracy?

  I studied my lemonade before venturing further. “Dr. Clarke, I understand why you might not want to tell me if something went wrong.”

  “That’s just it. Nothing went wrong. There was no reason for her to die. She carried to full term. Her blood pressure wasn’t elevated. Her vitals were strong. Her heart rate was within normal range. She began seizing as you were being born. Then she just stopped breathing, and all attempts to bring her back failed. Thus, I suspect, explains your presence here. You have questions you want answered.”

  He didn’t lie that time. Not a bit.

  “I do have questions, but probably not the ones you think.”

  “What do you mean, sweetheart?” Mrs. Clarke asked, sitting in a matching recliner beside her husband.

  I drew in a deep breath. “I was just told something else went wrong. Something . . . unusual. More unusual,” I added.

  The doctor exchanged glances with his wife, and I exchanged a glance with Reyes, wondering what could have happened that he wouldn’t, or couldn’t, tell me. So I chose another tack.

  “Why did you retire so young?” I asked him. He couldn’t only have been in his late forties, early fifties when he accepted the gold watch.

  After another round of glances, he acquiesced and said, “The way I see it, when you start hallucinating in the delivery room, it’s time to call it a day.”

  My spine shot straight up. “Hallucinating. What did you see?”

  “Oh, I can’t say for sure. And it isn’t worth mentioning, anyway, being a hallucination and all. Truth be told, I’d been looking to retire and make my wife my sugar mama. She comes from money.” He added a conspiratorial wink.

  I laughed softly, leaned forward, and put my hand on his knee.

  We’d ruffled him. I felt the emotion as clearly as I felt Mrs. Clarke’s anxiety. She didn’t want us upsetting her husband. I didn’t want that, either, but the entire human race needed to know what happened in that delivery room.

  “Dr. Clarke, nothing you can say would surprise me.”

  “Want to make a wager on that?”

  I held out my hand, ready and waiting for a handshake to seal the deal.

  He shook his head and gave up. “I could’ve sworn I saw . . . something. Just for an instant. Just for a split second. I’m not afraid to say it. It scared me, it was so real.”

  Reyes’s pulse sped up. He’d been in the delivery room that day. It was the first time we saw each other. In this life, anyway.

  “Dr. Clarke, what did you see?”

  “You promise not to have me thrown into the loony bin?”

  After a quiet giggle, I held up my right hand and made an X with the index finger of my left. “Cross my heart.”

  He hesitated a moment longer, then acquiesced. “A demon. I saw a demon.”

  In a reflexive move that ranked right up there with Betamax and New Coke, I whirled around and ogled my husband. Then, coming to my senses, I gathered myself, turned back, and asked, “Can you describe it?”

  “Dutch,” Reyes said from behind me. “Is that necessary?”

  I knew what he was thinking. He’d caused a good doctor to retire. Not that I knew for certain he was a good doctor. He could’ve sucked, but I doubted it. If nothing else, he probably had great bedside manners. Something he and Reyes had in common.

  “Your mother was pushing and, like I said, I only saw it for a second, but it was huge.”

  Check.

  “And black.”

  Check. The robe Reyes used to wear when he appeared to me was a huge black mass of undulating waves. He’d had a flair for dramatics in his younger years. And later. He’d been appearing to me as the Big Bad up until a little over a year ago, before we’d been officially introduced.

  Dr. Clarke continued. “And it was shiny with these scales and claws and sharp, pointed teeth.”

  Uncheck. Uncheck. Uncheck. Uncheck.

  “Scott,” Mrs. Clarke said, bringing him back to us with a pat on his hand.

  But I sat there stunned. He most definitely was not talking about my husband.

  “Like I said, a hallucinati
on, but it looked so real.” His eyes watered at the memory. “Especially when it tore into her flesh.”

  I dropped my glass and toppled the coffee table over when I bolted off the sofa. Then I quickly recovered and knelt to pick up the glass. Reyes took a knee beside me to help, but his face had paled. It struck him as hard as it did me.

  “I’ll get a towel,” Mrs. Clarke said, hurrying to the kitchen.

  “Dr. Clarke, have you seen things like that before?”

  “Not like that.”

  I stopped and looked up at him. “But other things?”

  He lifted a noncommittal shoulder. “When I was a kid.”

  He could see into the supernatural realm when he was a kid and had grown out of it. I’d heard of that.

  “But you can’t believe that was real, honey,” he said to me.

  Mrs. Clarke handed me a towel.

  I dabbed at the carpet and said to her, “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be silly. He scares me with his stories, too.”

  Reyes took the towel to the kitchen, and I sat back down, my head reeling. “You only saw it for a second?”

  “Yes, thank God. But it wasn’t real. Your mother didn’t have a mark on her. I’d imagined the whole thing.” He offered his wife a weak smile, but I could feel his emotions. He was lying, probably for her benefit. He knew it was real.

  “Thankfully, I haven’t seen anything like it since, except that one time Gayle got one of those mud masks from Sri Lanka. ’Bout gave me a heart attack. I kinda think that was her plan, though. Knock me off for the insurance money.”

  She reached over and swatted his arm, the love in her eyes crystal clear.

  “Why their mud is better than ours I’ll never know.”

  Reyes came back but remained standing. Apparently, that was his subtle hint that we were done here. I was so bad at that whole subtly thing.

  “Is that why you ordered the autopsy?” I asked him. “Because of what you saw?”

  “Actually, your father insisted.”

  “Really?” Pride sprouted inside me. I knew he loved my mother. How could he not? I couldn’t imagine what he’d gone through when she’d died and left him with two children, one a newborn.

  “He was grieving. He wanted answers. And he was a cop.”

  “Yes, he was. Thank you. And thank you for your time, Doctor.”

  I leaned forward and shook his hand.

  “Mrs. Clarke.”

  “You take care, honey,” she said.

  “I will.”

  We hurried outside. The second the door closed, I bent at the waist and gulped huge rations of cool air.

  Reyes put a hand on my back and rubbed.

  “A demon attacked her,” I said, astonished beyond belief. Nothing in this world could have prepared me for that scenario. “That was the last thing I expected to hear.”

  “You and me both.”

  I stood and scrubbed my face with my fingers. “How? Why?”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “No, it does.” I stalked off to get away from the Clarkes’ house. “Did a demon kill my mother?”

  “I don’t know. But I wouldn’t put it past him.”

  “Him?” When he didn’t answer, realization hit home. “Lucifer.”

  “If I had to guess, I would say he was trying to stop you from being born. Or kill you before you could defend yourself.”

  “No wonder Gemma and Uncle Bob didn’t notice anything unusual. They couldn’t have. But you were there, too. You didn’t see it?”

  “I arrived just as you were being born. Your light had summoned me. Maybe your light killed it before I got there.”

  “This is just too much.”

  He closed the distance between us. “Let’s go back and regroup.”

  “Okay, but I need to make a pit stop on the way. Cookie texted the address of a possible serial killer. I need to go check him out.”

  “What is it with you and serial killers?”

  “Right? I’m like a serial-killer magnet.”

  “No, you’re an all - things - great - and - fucked - up magnet.”

  He had me there.

  * * *

  Because I wasn’t quite as good at following directions as Reyes, I parked about half a block from our desired destination, a.k.a. Thaniel Just’s house. Once I realized my mistake, I seriously, and I mean seriously, considered getting back in Misery and driving the rest of the way to the house, but the walk would do me good. After one hundred years cooped up inside the vacuum of space, I needed to get out. Stretch my legs. See the world. Or well, half a block of Elm Street.

  “So, this guy’s name? Thaniel Lee Just. How serial killer is that?”

  Gemma tsked at me, her disappointment evident. “Charlotte Jean Davidson, you can’t decide a guy is a serial killer based on his name.”

  “Gemma, he lives on Elm Street. That can’t be a coincidence.”

  She crossed her arms and sat back. “I give up.”

  She was so fun.

  We found Thaniel’s house, a small A-frame with a half-built Harley in front and a red Ford Raptor parked in back.

  I walked up to a large window and peeked inside while Reyes pulled out his phone and checked the news outlets.

  “No lights on. I don’t think anyone’s home. But . . .”

  “But what?” He walked up beside me.

  “Look at that workbench.”

  A workbench sat in the middle of what should have been his living room, complete with a welder, grinder, and other tools used in metalwork. He even had his own smelting pot and blacksmithing station.

  “He makes his own weapons.”

  “That’s it,” Reyes said, lifting his phone again. “We’re calling the police.”

  I deadpanned him and went around the house to see what else I could see. “Darn it!” I yelled to the son of Satan. “He has blinds. You know, we could always just kind of hop inside.” I walked back to the front.

  “I’ve done worse. But how about we give him a chance to answer for his crimes before we sentence him to death by lethal injection?”

  “You seem to think there’s nothing to this.”

  “Pari saw him one time and made an assumption.”

  “Yeah, but Pari’s assumptions are pretty dead-on.”

  “Like the time she told you one of her clients was going to rob a bank and you showed up to stop him with your uncle and twenty cops in tow only to find out he was the janitor? And that he was going to mop the bank, not rob it? Like that time?”

  “That was completely different. She misunderstood him. This guy has dozens of names carved into his body.”

  “And I have the map to the gates of hell on mine.”

  I crossed my arms and sat on the half-built Harley. “All right, what gives, Farrow? You sure are going to a lot of trouble to defend this guy.”

  “I’ve been there, in his shoes. People judge you before they get to know you, and maybe no matter how bad what you did sounds on the surface, you still did it for the right reasons.”

  “Are we talking about Thaniel? Because I’m not sure there is ever a right reason to serial kill.”

  He tilted his head in a noncommittal gesture.

  “Okay, what are you not telling me? Are you still mad about Amber?”

  “I’m still mad you did that without even consulting me first. You’re not the only one who’s affected by your rash decisions.”

  “And what were the odds you would’ve let me do it?”

  He clenched his teeth, his jaw muscles tensing.

  “My point exactly.”

  A male voice wafted to us from inside the house. “You know that chair you’re sitting on is kind of expensive.”

  Startled, I jumped off the Harley and whirled around to see a guy around my age with sandy hair and light blue eyes scrutinizing me from the door of the A-frame.

  I brushed off where I’d been sitting and showed him my teeth. “Sorry about that. Are you Thaniel?�
�

  He popped open an energy drink and tipped the can to his lips before answering with, “Who wants to know?” He was younger than I was expecting, with one of those baby faces that made it hard to pinpoint his age exactly but was part adorable and part smexy as fuck. Not that I’d noticed.

  “I was just wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

  He gave Reyes a once-over, then studied me a good thirty seconds before saying, “Shoot.”

  I stepped back onto the porch to get closer to him, to be able to read his emotions better, then hit him with my best shot.

  “Okay, first, have you killed anyone lately?” I was busy. I didn’t have time to beat around the bush. But the only emotion I could detect was annoyance. And possibly mild curiosity.

  “Damn,” he said, turning to go back inside his humble abode. “What gave me away?”

  I followed him. There was something familiar about him. Something that tugged at my insides the second my gaze landed on his.

  Reyes hung back while I walked into the lair of a killer. Or not. Either way.

  “You make your own knives,” I said, impressed with the array of sharp, finely crafted instruments on display.

  “Among other things.”

  He kept his back turned to me, thus I couldn’t see his face, but his emotions were all over the place. Not worry, however. Or panic. If my side hobby were killing people and someone had asked me about it, I’d have been a little taken aback.

  Then again, wasn’t that one of the traits of many a serial killer? Arrogance? Maybe he thought he was untouchable.

  Well, I had two words for him: Al Capone.

  He wore a long-sleeved T-shirt, so I couldn’t see the markings Pari talked about.

  “Who told you I’d killed someone?” he asked.

  “No one. Just a guess.”

  He turned to me at last. “You should get a new hobby.”

  “Probably. You don’t seem too worried about me. Maybe I’m a cop.”

  “You’re not a cop.” He gestured toward Reyes outside. “He damned sure isn’t a cop. So, what, then? Did Merry’s mother send you?”

  Awareness prickled up my spine. “You know Merry?”

  “I did, yeah.”

  The prickling turned to sharp stabs of apprehension. “It’s funny, you speaking about her in the past tense like that.”