Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (26 page)

Verbena shook her head. “No, I can’t go back there.” She looked down at her feet. “I was hoping you’d let me stay here. I ain’t had no schooling—Charlie made me stay home and mind the stills and the dawgs. But I ain’t afraid of hard work. I’ll do anything. Sweep up, mop. Whatever.”

“I’ll talk it over with Toby,” Beck said. “I’m sure we can find something for you to do.”

“Really?” Verbena looked up, her eyes wide. “You mean it?”

Beck smiled. “Sure. How do you feel about waiting tables?”

A woman stuck her head in the food pickup window that connected the kitchen to the bar, a woman with creamy brown skin, exotic features, and thick, wavy black hair.

“Aw, hell,” the woman said, a familiar twinkle of mischief in her tilted brown eyes. “And here I was hoping to get my old job back.”

The room spun and the floor pitched under Beck’s feet. “Latrisse,” she gasped.

“Hello, Becky,” the woman said. “Long time no see.”

Beck screamed.

“B
ut you’re dead.” Beck stared in disbelief at the woman kicked back in her recliner. “I was with you when you died.”

They were in her living room, and Beck was sitting on the couch in Conall’s lap. Beck had taken one look at Latrisse and her head had gone all swimmy. For the first time in her life she’d fainted, passed out cold from the shock of seeing Latrisse alive and well.

Conall had been there to catch her before she hit the floor. When she’d opened her eyes she was home, in his arms. She was safe and warm, and totally confused.

“Easy, my sweet,” Conall murmured in her ear. He held the brandy glass to her lips. “Take another sip.”

He sounded worried, and she liked that. She
really
liked that he called her his “sweet.” But she hated the brandy. It was too strong and it reminded her of Charlie’s moonshine.

She turned her head. “No, I don’t like it.”

“Nevertheless, you will drink it.” He lowered his voice to that dark, sexy rumble that did things to her insides and melted her resistance. “For me.”

Beck growled in frustration and took another sip. It burned her throat. “There. Happy?”

“Yes,” Conall said. “For the moment.”

Latrisse grinned and crossed her legs. She wore a cropped red leather jacket over a lemon yellow knit top, jeans, and purple suede half boots with five-inch heels and bright red soles. Latrisse had always liked bright colors.

“I like this one, Becky,” she said. “He’s bossy. You need bossy.”

“Yes, she does,” Conall agreed.

Conall had whisked Beck away from the bar via the demon hunter express, and a few minutes later Latrisse and Toby had toodled up the driveway in Toby’s truck.

“Closed the bar,” Toby announced as they’d come through the French doors. “Nobody left anyway. Whole place cleared out when you hollered. Thought you was the Wampus Kitty.” He held up two six-packs of beer and a bottle of brandy. “Figured you might need a little something to calm your nerves. It ain’t every day your best friend comes back from the dead.”

And here they were, sitting around talking like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal. Latrisse had been dead with a capital D. And now she wasn’t. Beck had seen a lot of strange things, but she couldn’t wrap her mind around this one.

“I don’t understand,” Beck said. “Toby and I carried your body back to your mama. She had you cremated. There was a memorial service and everything. She kept your ashes on the mantel until—” She stopped, remembering. “Your mama’s house got broken into a few months ago.”

Song Chung Jackson, Latrisse’s mother, was a widow. Her husband, Vince, an African American airplane mechanic, had brought his wife and baby daughter back to his hometown of Hannah when he’d retired from the Air Force. He’d died two years after Latrisse. From a broken heart, Beck had always believed. Another sin she laid at the demons’ door.

“Song’s house got burglarized?” Toby said. He took a swig of beer. “I didn’t know that.”

“Yeah, I think it was in May or June,” Beck said. “You should read the paper.”

Toby chuckled. “Why, when you’re gonna tell me what’s in it anyway?”

“I didn’t tell you about Song.”

“Yeah,” Toby said. “What’s up with that?”

Beck rolled her eyes. “I called your mama and asked her what happened,” she told Latrisse. “She said she got home from bingo one night and found the front door wide open. Something must’ve startled the thieves because they took off in a hurry. Nothing was missing, but the urn that contained your ashes was lying on the floor, broken. Your ashes were gone, nothing left but a little powder. She was pretty shaken up.”

Latrisse looked at her and continued to drink her beer.

“Well?” Beck said.

Latrisse sighed and sat up straight in the recliner. “Family legend has it we’re descended from a vermillion bird on my mother’s side.”

“A what?” Beck asked.

“A phoenix,” Conall said. “A beautiful, mythical bird with magnificent plumage that rises from its own ashes.”

“I know what a phoenix is,” Beck said, giving him a repressive glare. “I just never heard it called that before. So why now? If you’re a phoenix, why didn’t you rise up as soon as you were cremated?”

Latrisse took another pull of her beer. “Beats me, Beck. I was nowhere and then I was standing in a house buck naked and these two dudes were looking at me like I was Freddy Krueger. They ran out the door and I lit out after them. I was majorly freaked out. I didn’t know where I was or
who
I was. I stole some clothes and wandered around for months, working odd jobs, before my memory came back.”

“How long did you have amnesia?” Beck asked.

“I started getting flashes almost immediately,” Latrisse said. “But nothing that made any sense.” She shrugged. “One night there was a bad storm. I woke up and it was all there.”

“When was that?”

Latrisse picked at the label on her beer. “Late August.”

“August?” Beck said. “That was months ago. Where have you been?”

“Trying to figure things out. I had my memory back, but I wasn’t sure.” Latrisse pulled another strip of paper off the bottle. “I mean, what if they weren’t my memories? What if I was bat shit crazy? I did some poking around on the Internet, found you and my mama. Decided to come back and check it out.” She set the empty bottle on the table by the chair. “And here I am.”

“Have you seen Song?” Beck asked.

“Of course.”

“How’d she take it?”

“Better ’n you,” Latrisse said. “She didn’t bust my eardrums.”

“You startled me.”

“Remind me never to startle you in the future. You caused a stampede.” Latrisse rose to her feet. “You look tired. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“What are you going to tell people?” Beck asked.

“That Mama and I had a fight and I left.”

“But, you
died.
Your obituary was in the paper.”

Latrisse waggled her brows. “I got better.”

“Be serious,” Beck said. “Song kept your ashes in a jar.”

“It was symbolic. I was dead to my mother until I made amends. It’s a cultural thing.”

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Beck said. “Like anybody’s going to believe that shit.”

“Who’s to say any different?” Latrisse said. “I’m the only Blasian in town.”

“The sepulchral urn in which your ashes were interred,” Conall said. “Where did your mother obtain it?”

“No idea,” Latrisse said. “I was sort of dead at the time.”

“I went with Song to pick it out,” Beck said. “It was made in Hannah by a local artist.”

“From Hannah river clay?” Conall asked.

“Yes,” Beck said, eyeing him. “Why?”

He shrugged. “Just curious.”

Toby and Latrisse left, and Conall and Beck were alone. Mr. Cat came to the window and meowed, and Beck let him in and fed him. The cat strolled over and rubbed against Conall’s legs. Something passed between warrior and feline. Mr. Cat went to the door and asked to go out.

“What was that all about?” Beck asked, shutting the door behind the cat.

“I promised him tomorrow I would give him an entire can of the smelly wet stuff he so greatly enjoys
if
he afforded us some privacy tonight.”

“You bribed my cat.”

“I was desperate.”

“Desperate for what?”

“For you,” Conall said. He lifted her in his arms and sniffed her hair. “Also, I have an inexplicable craving for the fried edible tubers you serve at the restaurant.”

“You’re saying I smell like a French fry. How romantic. For future reference, that is not the way to get into a girl’s pants.”

“I assume that expression is another euphemism for sexual intercourse, such as
getting laid
or
having a roll in the hay.”

His black eyes were warm. Beck wrapped her arms around his neck and grinned up at him. “Very good. Somebody’s been doing their homework.”

He took her into the bathroom and put her down. A wave of his hand and the shower came on.

“I have given the subject a great deal of thought,” he said.

“What subject is that?”

“Coupling with you. And for future reference,
this
is how I get into your pants.”

He waved his hand again and Beck’s clothes slid from her body and fell in a heap on the floor. Conall’s clothes went the same route. Beck’s heart did a funny little
tha-thump
at the sight of him. The guy should never wear clothes, he was too plain gorgeous. That would be fine by her.

But that would mean other women would get to see him naked, and she was
not
okay with that. She was in major lust for the captain of the Dalvahni, and she wanted him all to herself for however long they had together.

“You
have
been studying,” she said with approval.

“Yes, but I need more hands-on experience.”

He picked her up and carried her into the shower, where he washed her hair and body with great care. The slope of her shoulders, the curve of her rump, her breasts and nipples, the sensitive skin of her belly, the aching place between her legs—all were given the same careful attention. He took his time, enjoying her soft sighs and shivers of longing, his hands hot and lingering as he carefully rinsed the soap from her skin.

“My turn,” she said.

She soaped her hands and washed and rinsed him, enjoying the play of her hands over his smooth, olive skin and rippling muscles. She caressed his wide chest and bulging pecs, and traced the fascinating ridges of his taut, lean belly. Her hands moved farther down to his hard, jutting erection. He was beautiful there, too. She wrapped her fingers around him and stroked.

“Hey, I wasn’t finished,” she protested as he lifted her by the waist and pushed her against the wall.

“Neither am I,” he said.

He stepped between her thighs and thrust inside her.

Conall Dalvahni was a very good student, Beck mused as he proceeded to show her some of what he’d learned; a very good student indeed.

 

Tommy waited until the moon was up before he crept out of the underbrush. The bar appeared empty; no customers and no lights. The parking lot was deserted. He slogged up the embankment to the porch. His legs didn’t work so good anymore and he had trouble getting up the steps.

He found two cases of red beans on the porch beside some cans of tuna. There was a piece of paper taped to the top of the cans. The eye rot had set in for real and the vision in his left eye was gone. He unfolded the note with difficulty and read the message slowly, struggling to make out the words:

The note made Tommy want to bawl, but he couldn’t. His tear ducts were gone. He sat down on the steps instead and opened a can of beans. They were the easy-open kind and Beck had left him a spoon, bless her. His fingers were swollen and spongy, so he used the handle of the spoon to pry off the lid. He shoveled the beans in his mouth and opened another can.

The beans didn’t satisfy his terrible craving for flesh, but he didn’t know what else to do. He was so screwed. The burning hunger worsened by the hour, and the Maker was no longer in his head.

That should have been a good thing, but it scared Tommy. The geis was still upon him, but the Maker had left him to rot. Probably, he should throw himself in the river and let the varmints eat him.

But, what if that didn’t free him? What if his spirit stayed stuck to his skeleton at the bottom of the river, trapped in the darkness and the muddy silt forever, and slimy things made a nest of his bones?

The thought made Tommy shudder, but he didn’t want to hurt anyone, either. He wished he was dead,
really
dead. How many times in his life had he said that when he was having a bad day? You could take every shitty day he’d had while alive and roll them into one, and it wouldn’t hold a candle to this.

There were worse things than being dead, and he was one of them.

Junior Peterson materialized at the foot of the steps. “You let those
things
loose. I spent the night inside the piano, thanks to you.”

“I didn’t have a choice,” Tommy said, indignant. “The Maker made me do it.”

“Where’s the cat?”

“I run her off.” Tommy flipped the top on a third can of beans. “She was getting on my nerves.”

“Right.” Junior paused. “Scared you’d eat her?”

“Yeah.” Tommy jabbed the spoon into the slimy beans. “I almost ate a squirrel this morning. All I can think about is brains, brains, brains. I don’t know how much longer I can stand it before I eat somebody.”

“So what’s stopping you?” Junior asked. “From eating brains, I mean.” He held up his hand. “Not that I’m condoning it, mind you, but I am curious. Zombies eat brains, don’t they?”

“I’m a vegetarian.”

The ghost looked dumbstruck for a moment, and then he began to laugh.

“Oh, my,” Junior said with a gasp. Tears ran down his face in a silver stream. “A vegetarian zombie? I declare, that is the funniest thing I’ve heard in years.”

“Glad you think so,” Tommy said. “The preservation spell is wearing off, and I’m starting to decay. Bad enough I had to die, but this? I never did nothing to deserve this.”

Junior’s amused expression faded. “No, you didn’t, but it is what it is.”

“It blows.”

“Yes, it does.” Junior’s voice held sympathy. “So, what are you going to do about it?”