Angels of Darkness (46 page)

But the girls weren't at the coffee shop—and he and Radha wouldn't be slaying Gregory Jackson unless they planned on breaking one of the most important rules that a Guardian had to follow: not to hurt or kill humans. One psychic touch told Marc that the kid behind the cash register was human, through and through. The demon might have taken his shape at some point, but it wasn't here now—and so Gregory Jackson probably wasn't the demon's default identity, the form the demon used when it wasn't shape-shifting and stirring up trouble.

“It figures,” Radha murmured. “Finding him after one conversation would have been too easy.”

She'd
had one conversation since coming to Riverbend. Marc, on the other hand, had talked to about thirty people so far, starting with the county sheriff and his deputies. Still, he had to agree. It would have been too easy.

But it wasn't a wasted trip. Gregory might have seen something that homecoming night, especially if he was with Miklia. He might not know
what
he'd seen, but that was Marc's job—to figure out what fit and what didn't.

On the other hand, he could imagine quite a few places where Gregory Jackson wouldn't fit. Marc wasn't a small man by any measure, and it wasn't often that he had to look up at someone, let alone a seventeen-year-old kid who must have weighed the equivalent of him and Radha put together, all muscle. A small monitor hanging in view of the front counter played a classic football game, and Jackson kept an eye on the television while Marc showed his identification and asked for a few minutes.

“I have a break in five,” Jackson said.

Marc glanced at the screen. “The '84 Orange Bowl?”

“Yeah.” Jackson flashed a big smile. “Nebraska's about to go for the two-point conversion instead of the tie, and lose it all.”

In other words, he'd talk when the game was over. Standing near the glass case of pastries, Radha narrowed her eyes on Marc, but whatever she intended to say had to wait. A black-haired woman in a flour-dusted apron emerged from the back of the store, drying her hands on a towel. No question where Jackson had gotten his height from. Her eyes were level with Marc's.

“Are you here to talk to my son?”

“With your permission,” Marc said. “We need to ask him a few questions.”

“Is he in any trouble?”

“No, ma'am. We're just gathering information.”

“All right, then. And since you're here on the government's dime, you make sure you order something.”

Radha tapped her claw-tipped forefinger against the glass case. “I want that.”

A four-layer slice of white coconut cake. Jackson's mother retrieved the plate and slid it across the counter. “Forks are at the station by the window. Gregory will bring your coffees out to you.”

“In about four minutes,” the kid said, watching the game again—but even distracted, he made the correct change.

“Pfft. Worthless boy.” She flicked his bottom with the towel, but it was easy to hear the affection in her voice—and easier to feel her pride.

Definitely not a demon, either.

The shop held a mix of mismatched tables and chairs, centered beneath long striped curtains hanging from the middle of the ceiling and drawn back to the corners of the room. A few big pillows and long benches along the walls provided more comfortable seating areas. Pop music piped through the speakers, and Radha danced her way across the floor with small steps and long swings of her hips. With a twirl of blue skin, orange scarves, and black hair, she chose a sturdy square table and sank gracefully into the wooden chair. Less gracefully, Marc sat opposite her, then watched her scrape off half the frosting before digging her fork into the cake.

Before taking a bite, she asked, “You follow American football?”

“This is the Midwest,” he said. “I remember that game, and when Nebraska lost. I don't know if a thousand demons descending on a city would have caused the same amount of rage and despair coming from those fans.”

“Ah.” Radha nodded. “You should visit my territory during the Cricket World Cup.”

Maybe he would. “But you follow the matches a bit, don't you? Soccer, too. Because not everyone in your territory follows them—and up north in my territory, it leans toward hockey—but every once in a while, you run across someone who
should
know the language of the sport, but doesn't.”

“And it's either a demon or a liar. You're a clever man, Marc.”

“Well, I enjoy it, too.” He liked the strategy involved, the endless play variations. “And—”

He broke off as, beneath the table, a slight weight fell across his thighs. Radha's icy feet pressed between his legs.

She grinned at him. “I'm trying to warm them up.”

God. Her toes wriggled, as if she were snuggling in deeper. Suddenly rock hard, he waited for them to wriggle higher, to torment him a little more. They didn't.

“And what is everyone else seeing?” he asked.

She didn't even glance at the few other people in the coffee shop. “My feet are firmly on the floor. I'm wearing black pumps.
Boring
black pumps. And your muscles are so tense.”

Her toes rubbed against his inner thighs. Biting back a groan, Marc caught one of her feet. Still cold, but to a Guardian, that wasn't necessarily unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all.

“What are you doing, Radha?”

Making him pay for that long-ago hurt? A little friendly teasing? Something more?

He'd take anything she dished out, but he damn well wouldn't respond until he knew what she wanted in return.

“I'm having fun.”

“Working me up?”

“Am I?” Her eyes began to glow, the gold flecks brightening, casting their own light. Not an illusion at all. A Guardian's eyes did that when they were affected by a deep emotion. “Can a celibate warrior be worked up?”

By Radha? She could probably get a rise out of a stone.

“Marc.” It was a soft warning. “I'll cover your eyes.”

She drew her foot back. Reluctantly, he let it slip from his grip—realizing that his eyes had begun to glow, too, but that she'd cast an illusion to conceal the green light.

Jackson set two frothy cappuccinos in front of them, swiveled a chair around, and straddled it. “So, agents. It's my turn, huh?”

Word had obviously been getting around. Marc wasn't surprised. But he did wonder what had been spreading. “So you know what we're here for?”

“Somebody died, and you think it's connected to Jason Ward. So you're here hoping that someone remembers some little detail, like a stranger hanging around.” He rested his crossed forearms on the table, leaned in. “So, fire away. I can tell you now, I barely knew the guy.”

“But you met him a couple of times?”

“Not officially met, but I saw him. He never came in here, at least not while I was working, but he was in the bleachers at a few games. I was benched, so I had time to look at the crowd.”

“Was he at the homecoming game?”

Jackson's eyes narrowed, as if looking backward. Slowly, he nodded. “Yeah. I remember him there. But I didn't see him the rest of the night.”

“You knew Jason was Miklia's brother?”

“Nah. Not then.”

“You knew him from the video store?”

Jackson shook his head. “That was closed by the time we moved here.”

Strange. Why recall one stranger in a crowd? “Why did you notice him, then? And remember him?”

As if uncertain, Jackson looked from Radha to Marc, before sighing. “All right. It's not like this is a secret anyway, right? Everyone knows that Ward had those fangs made. Cosmetic dentistry or what-ever.”

That had been the explanation the coroner had given. “Yes.”

“Well, I saw him up in the stands once, cheering. I saw those teeth”—he glanced toward the counter where his mother stood, then leaned in and lowered his voice—“and it creeped me the fuck out. You know what I'm saying? The next game, he wasn't there at first. Then, in the fourth quarter, he suddenly shows up and I thought he was the devil or something. Stupid shit my mom would slap me up the back of the head for. So when I heard about those teeth, that there was a real reason behind them, it was kind of a relief.” He sat back again. “I felt sorry for Miklia, though. That was rough for her. A stake through the heart—what is that?”

Probably the least efficient way to kill a vampire, so it was all about setting the scene, and the impact it would have on the family who found him. “That's what we're trying to find out. Did you see Miklia the night of the dance?”

“For homecoming? Yeah. They came in once, wearing those dresses. I think before they went to the dance, because they asked if I'd be there.”

“Did you go?”

“Nah. Dances aren't my thing. I worked that night, just so that I had an excuse to get out of it.”

So far, then, Sam had been the last to see them. “You were friends with her then?”

“Not really.” The kid shrugged, but his emotions skittered about—a little uneasy.

“But you know her well now.”

“Nah, I wouldn't say that. I see her a lot—she comes in here practically every night—but we don't talk much.”

That uneasiness was still there, but Marc didn't think the boy was lying to him. He glanced at Radha, saw the confusion creasing her brow.

Delicately, she said, “We were told that you were bumping uglies.”

“Truth?” Surprise and amusement sent Jackson rocking back with a laugh. “No, nothing like that. I don't have time for that. Moving here, the injury—it set me back. But I've already got a postgraduate year at a prep school lined up back East, so I'll have a chance to get in front of the recruiters again. I don't have time for girls, especially not ones into the crazy shit they are. Who said that we hooked up?”

Crazy shit? Marc met Radha's eyes. “We can't divulge—”

Jackson waved it off. “Ah, it doesn't matter. Maybe someone saw us together in the gym last fall, back when she was looking for advice about getting into fighting shape, building up her endurance.”

What the hell? “Fighting shape?”

He nodded. “That's what she said. I was like, whatever. It's all the same to me.”

“Was this before or after her brother died?”

“After,” he said immediately. “I mean, that was the only reason I agreed. I've got work here, correspondence classes, my own workouts, regular classes . . . I don't have time to be a personal trainer. But she asked, and her freak brother had just died, so what the hell was I supposed to say? She and her friends are a little freaky, too, but at least they aren't going to the dentist for fangs. Oh, bam!—I just got it. Did this other guy killed have fangs, too? Is that the connection?”

“Yes,” Marc said. He'd told the sheriff the same thing, so the lie would be consistent. But at last they were getting to the reason for Jackson's uneasiness. “What do you mean, freaky?”

“Not the good kind of freaky, you know what I mean? No, they bring in all kinds of books, sit around here reading them.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice again. “And I'm not getting into their business, but after a while, I see a page here, a drawing there. It's all demon shit. What is it called?
Occult.
Occult shit. They've been coming in for months, reading that stuff.”

How many months' worth of reading would the city library have on their shelves? “All of it from that little library?”

“No, that old librarian there wouldn't carry something like that. Check this. I went in there once to pick up
The Lightning Thief
for my little sis, and that old lady told me to be careful, that the Greek god stuff might lead to practicing voodoo—then she called my mom, in case I didn't pass that warning along. The old lady got an earful then.” Jackson laughed, sat back again. “Nah, Miklia and the others have some volunteer thing worked out, and they use the library loan system. She told me that once when I asked how she could stand volunteering for the old bat—it's just so that they have easy access to the books they want.”

“Do you overhear what they talk about here?”

“They don't talk. They just text each other.”

Marc's gaze shot to Radha's face. Her grin appeared, widening to the edge of a laugh. He could barely stop his own.

“Seriously?” she asked.

“Yeah. I asked her if she thought the music in the shop was too loud for a conversation. She said, ‘You never know who is listening'—all serious and shit.” He rolled his eyes. “Anyway. If you want to stay and talk to them, they'll probably be here around five thirty, just after the library closes. I should probably get back to work. There's a rush that comes in right at five.”

It was almost that now. Marc didn't have anything more for Jackson, not right now. He looked to Radha. She shook her head.

“Thank you, Gregory,” Radha told him. “Good luck with the knee and the recruiters next year.”

“Thanks. If all goes right, in five years you'll see me throwing in a championship bowl.”

“I hope it does.” She watched him walk back toward the counter, then looked back to Marc. “Some days, I really like people.”

“You don't usually?” Marc didn't believe that.

“Oh, I do. But there are some who make me wonder why the hell we're doing this: always fighting, seeing our friends killed by demons, always seeing so much crap we can't stop—and most of it stuff that humans do to each other. Not to mention outliving every human around us. And then someone comes along and you think: I'm going to get that bastard demon just so he can't touch this one.”