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Authors: Lexi George

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BOOK: Demon Hunting In Dixie
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“Wrong. Take a good look in the mirror, girl. Half the guys in this place have a boner just looking at you.”
“Addy,” Evie said in a scandalized whisper.
Addy set her glass down. “I don't want to hear it, Evie. You've been out-ed. You're beautiful, and it's time you accepted it.”
“Maybe.” Evie worried her bottom lip. “How do I get Trey to leave me alone?”
“Kick him in the bean bags. Guys hate that.”
Evie giggled. “Oh, Addy, you are so bad. You always know how to make me laugh.”
“That's what friends do.”
Addy looked around. Trey was on the other side of the ballroom. Meredith stood beside him, looking stylish in a pale blue strapless gown that probably cost more than the combined gross national incomes of several third world countries. Her pixie features were pinched in an expression of unhappiness. She spoke to her husband. He ignored her, his gaze fastened with unnatural intensity on Evie. Meredith put her hand on Trey's arm. He shrugged it off and strode toward them.
“Here comes Trey,” Addy murmured.
“Oh, no.” Evie looked frantically around the room. “What do I do?”
“Relax. The Death Starr's right behind him, and she looks mad as a hornet.”
Trey Peterson moved across the dance floor toward them with the grace of a natural athlete. He was all that and a bag of chips in high school; quarterback, class president, prom king. The Petersons were old money, having made a fortune buying and selling timber at the turn of the twentieth century . . . some people claimed by less than legal means. The Petersons were a Big Deal in Hannah, and that made Trey Peterson a big deal, too.
Tall and fit, with dark blue eyes and light brown hair that was slightly thinning on top, Trey was still a handsome man. He wore his custom-made tuxedo with the unconscious arrogance of the terminally rich.
“Ladies,” he said, sauntering up to them. The watchful, hungry way he looked at Evie reminded Addy of a snake sizing up its next meal. “Evie, would you honor me with another dance?”
“I-I,” Evie stuttered.
Meredith charged up behind him, her size five silver designer evening shoes pumping up and down with the hammer-blow force of the driving wheels of a steam locomotive.
“Trey Peterson, how dare you humiliate me in front of the whole town like this!” Evie's soap must have worked. Meredith's pale, powdered complexion, though mottled with anger, had returned to its former smooth glory. “You haven't danced with me once all night, and here you are asking that fat sow to dance for the second time. I won't have it, I tell you. I won't!”
Her voice rose to a shriek, drawing attention.
Addy shook her head. “You should watch what you say, Meredith. All that negativity could bring on a relapse. Seems to me I warned you about being ugly to Evie.”
“You don't scare me, Addy Corwin,” Meredith said. “I won't stand idly by and let Whaley Douglass steal my husband.”
Suddenly, Brand and Ansgar were there. Brand slipped his arm around Addy's waist, and Ansgar drew a trembling Evie to his side.
Ansgar eyed Meredith with icy distaste. “Adara is right. Sheath that tongue of yours, woman, lest it cut your own throat.”
Meredith gasped. “Are you going to let him talk to me like that, Trey?”
“For God's sake, shut up, Meredith,” Trey said. He turned and stomped off.
Meredith watched him leave, anger, hurt, and humiliation flickering across her face. For a moment, Addy felt sorry for her. It didn't last, though. Quick as a flash, Meredith pounced on Evie.
“You think you can take Trey away from me? But you're wrong. He won't divorce me. I know too many Peterson secrets, secrets they don't want to get out. Do you hear me?”
“I'm pretty sure people in the next county heard you, my dear.” Blake Peterson, Trey's grandfather, appeared at Meredith's side. Distinguished and handsome, with gray hair at his temples and a physique kept trim by daily walks and golf, rain or shine, Mr. Peterson had always amazed Addy. He had to be in his midseventies, but looked and acted decades younger. “I think it's time I took you home.”
“No!” Meredith shrank back. “I mean, I . . . I'd rather wait for Trey.”
“Trey has gone.” Taking Meredith by the elbow, he gave them an apologetic smile. A smile that did not quite reach his dark blue eyes, eyes so very like Trey's. “If you'll excuse us, Meredith is a little overwrought.”
Meredith seemed to wilt. “I didn't mean—I won't tell, I promise,” she babbled as Mr. Peterson led her away.
His voice drifted back to them, smooth and cultured with a hint of underlying steel. “Of course you won't, my dear. You're a Peterson now, and Petersons take care of their own.”
Addy watched them leave. “Whew, that was uncomfortable. Wonder what she meant by secrets?”
“That man . . .” Brand's gaze followed Blake Peterson as he steered Meredith toward the lobby. “There was something about him . . .”
Mr. Collier rushed up to Brand. “Did you see him? Blake Peterson, I mean.”
“Yes,” Brand said.
“He's one of them, the demonoids.”
Brand frowned. “What is this demonoid?”
Amasa made an impatient gesture. “Half human, half demon. Blake's daddy had him a demon. Cole Peterson was his name. I defended him against a murder charge when I first started practicing law. Got him off, too. Whole case was circumstantial, and half the men on the jury owed Cole money. I was right full of myself. Thought I was some kind of lawyer. Then I had that car wreck and started seeing demons. Ran into Cole a few weeks afterward and realized what he was. Got to worrying maybe he'd killed that woman after all. Couldn't get it out of my mind. Confronted him about it, and he admitted the whole thing. I think he enjoyed telling me about it. Wasn't a damn thing I could do, and he knew it. Double jeopardy had attached. He cut that poor woman into a million pieces, and I helped get him off. That's when I started drinking.”
Addy stared at him. “You mean to say Trey's great-granddaddy was possessed by a demon?”
“Hell yeah,” Amasa said. “ 'Scuse my French. Town's full of demonoids.”
“Wow.” Addy tried to wrap her mind around this new revelation. Was
nothing
in Hannah what it seemed? “That would make Trey an eighth demon.”
“Yep, more if he's got demonoid on his mama's side.”
“I don't believe it.”
People she'd known all her life, gone to school and church with, done business with, and greeted at the grocery store and pharmacy and on the street were part demon. She did a quick mental tally and counted half a dozen people of her acquaintance who had violet eyes, including Cassy Ferguson, the town “witch.” Another dozen, including Trey and his father and grandfather had eyes so blue they looked deep purple.
Good God, Hannah was demon central.
There was a commotion on the far side of the room. Shep and Lenora had arrived. The thrall wore a slinky, blood-red gown. Shep looked dashing in his formal attire. The room buzzed with whispers and conjecture regarding the identity of the mysterious raven-haired seductress clinging to Shep's arm.
Apparently, the Dalvahni weren't the only ones who could bend space and time, because Bitsy appeared out of nowhere at Addy's side.
“Addy, who is that woman with your brother? Where is Marilee, and what's Shep done to his hair? He's a little old to be sporting Bama Bangs, don't you think? I swear, what is it with my children and their hair lately?”
“Mama, Shep does not have Bama Bangs. He doesn't have it lacquered to his head like he normally does, that's all. I think he looks handsome and younger.”
“I guess I'm not used to it hanging on his forehead like that,” Bitsy said, frowning. “It looks messy, like he just rolled out of bed.”
Uh huh, or just rolled
off
somebody, say, for instance, a sex pot emotion-sucking vampire from another dimension.
“Here they come.” Bitsy dug her nails into Addy's arm. “Who
is
that woman, Adara Jean? You know something, I can tell.”
Addy pulled away. “No freaking way, Mama. This is Shep's mess.”
Bitsy bowed up. “That's another way of saying the ‘F' word. You know I cannot abide vulgarity, young lady.”
The “F” word? Good Lord, Hibiscus Corwin had acknowledged the existence of the “F” bomb.
“Adara is right, Mrs. Corwin. A man should handle his own affairs,” Brand said. “It is Shep's place to tell you.”
Addy gave him a grateful smile.
“Tell her what?” Shep asked, coming up to them with Lenora.
The wrinkle between Bitsy's eyes smoothed as if by magic. At once, she became the picture of Southern feminine gentility.
“I was asking Addy about your new friend, Shepton.” Her voice was sweeter than cane syrup. She gave Lenora a sugary smile. “I don't believe I know this young lady.”
“This is Lenora, Mama,” Shep said. “She's my muse. I love her, and I want to marry her.”
“Whoo.” Bitsy gave a brittle little laugh and fanned herself with one hand. “I imagine Marilee might have something to say about that.”
“Marilee can't say a damn thing to anybody. She's run off with that tennis coach from the club and filed for divorce.”
“Oh, Shepton, that's so unlike her! What did you do to make her so unhappy?”
“I didn't do anything, except go to work and come home,” Shep said indignantly. “What about me, Mama? Don't you want to know whether I'm happy?”
“Well, of course you're happy. Why wouldn't you be? You've got a home and a family and a business that you love.”
“That's just it, Mama. I don't love Corwin's. I want to sell it.”
“Sell Corwin's? Have you lost your mind, Shepton? And do what, pray tell?”
“I want to paint, Mama.”
“Oh, fudge,” Bitsy said.
Except that Mama didn't say
fudge.
Fudge was the word Addy's battered psyche supplied because it could not accept the truth. Her mother said
fuh
—
Addy's brain screeched to a halt. She took a mental breath and tried again. Bitsy Corwin said
fuh . . . fuh . . . fff . . .
Nope, no way. It simply did not compute.
Chapter Thirty-two
T
he next morning as Addy waited in the parade line with Pootie and Brand, she still could not believe her mother had said the
T. rex
of swear words. And at the Grand Goober Ball, of all places, shattering at once two rules of Lady-tude; namely, that a lady doesn't swear and always behaves herself in public.
So what if she was no longer entirely human and her brother, the Rock of Gibraltar, was having a flaming affair with the hussy from hell and wanted to quit the family funeral business to paint nekked pictures of his new girlfriend? She could adjust.
So what if she had a talking dog and a flying cat, and a great-aunt with a psychic connection to her freezer and her front door bell? A little weird, but she could handle it.
Her best friend saw fairies, and her boring little hometown was populated by violet-eyed demonoids. No problem. Piece of cake. Chunk it in with the rest of the weirdness.
A crazed demon with a hard-on for her had threatened to kill her this very day. Death by demon? Puh-leeze.
But this . . .
Hibiscus Hamilton Corwin saying the mother of all cusswords? It boggled Addy's mind.
She had still been wrestling with the shock of it that morning when she and Brand went by City Hall to settle with the mayor. The silent auction raised twenty-five thousand dollars and Brand made good on his promise to match it. At the mayor's office, he produced a leather pouch and counted out 250 one-hundred-dollar bills, plus fifteen more to pay for the peanut head Pootie lost in the river.
Funny thing about that pouch. It sure didn't seem big enough to hold all that money, but Brand kept pulling hundred-dollar bills out of it anyway. Addy had a notion he could have kept it up forever. That pouch was the money equivalent of the wishing mill that turned the sea to salt, grinding out an endless stream of Benjamins. Good thing Florence was too busy planting her double-D's on her desk and making goo-goo eyes at Brand to notice.
The mayor toddled in as they were winding things up.
“This is fine, mighty fine.” He shook Brand's hand. “All the big contributors will get their names on a brass plaque in the lobby of the new building. You sure you don't want this donation in your name?”
Brand pulled his hand free. “My brother and I prefer our privacy. We want Pootie's name on the plaque.”
“Sure, sure,” the Mayor said. Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall, Addy thought, watching him rock back on his heels. “You two joining the parade today?” he asked.
Addy glanced at Brand. A muscle in his jaw twitched. The big guy was not happy she was riding in the parade.
Last night, he had made love to her with an almost desperate urgency, his fevered caresses and husky murmurings urging her to new heights and daring. Several times during the night as they lay entwined in the aftermath of lovemaking, their heated skin damp and flushed, she sensed him struggling with something. Something she wasn't ready for. Something she knew deep in her bones would make the hurt that much worse when he went away. The “L” word; her heart would crack wide open if he said it and left. And he
would
leave. He had no choice. So she shied away from it each time, distracting him with her body and her mouth.
As dawn approached, bringing with it the possibility of death by demon, panic set in. So little time . . . there was so little time. What if she died without telling him how she felt? She opened her mouth to tell him . . . and that's when he announced she would not be going to the parade.
This I cannot allow,
he had said. He wanted her to stay home where it was safe, and she was determined not to be controlled by a demonic bully with B.O. Besides, she told him, he would be there to protect her. She won the argument, but there had been no time to make things right.
“We're riding in the Goober Mobile with Pootie,” she told the mayor.
“Splendid, splendid.” He raised a plump hand in farewell as Brand dragged her toward the door. “See you there.”
They had a few minutes to spare before they were supposed to meet Pootie, so she and Brand walked up and down the parade line. Addy loved the Peanut Parade. Anything on wheels was allowed as long as it had a leguminous or patriotic theme. People on go-carts, golf carts, and riding lawn mowers, as well as bicycles, tricycles, scooters, roller skates, and skate boards thronged the streets, their rides all decked out in goober regalia. Bubbas from as far away as Namath Springs were in the parade, their vehicles proudly adorned with peanut paraphernalia or red, white, and blue trappings. In addition to a bevy of newer model trucks, Addy counted fourteen antique pickups, three tractors, an Edsel, and two Model T Fords in the parade line. Hooting and hollering, the Hannah High cheerleaders hung from the open windows of a Camaro jacked up on monster truck tires, their toned cheerleader legs waving in the air like the feelers of a giant insect. Jeannine from the Kut 'N' Kurl had covered her Volkswagen Bug fender to fender in peanut shells, adding a red, grinning mouth across the front of the car and long eyelashes to the headlights. It was the Rose Parade on acid.
Addy directed Brand's attention to the Mobile Bay City Rollers and the Paulsberg Biker Babes, new to the event this year. She couldn't decide which was her favorite, Mamie Hall's power chair with the peanut-shaped toilet mounted as the seat or the lowrider pickup truck encased in an enormous yellow, blue, and green Styrofoam likeness of a can of Roddenberry Peanut Patch green-boiled peanuts. The Purple Hoo-Hahs, Muddy's coterie of eccentric friends, rode at the back of the parade in three convertibles festooned with banners and flags and balloons. The Hoo-Hahs had donned their signature purple hats for the occasion and a variety of purple shoes ranging in style from running shoes to slut pumps and designer flip-flops. Feather boas fluttered around their necks like plumage on a flock of exotic birds. Singing and cheering and blowing noisemakers, they draped themselves over the side of their vehicles, an older, better dressed, and more disturbing version of the Hannah cheerleaders.
Muddy was in the middle car, a purple plastic glass filled with some unidentified frosty liquid clutched in one ring-laden hand and a purple megaphone in the other. “Attention Kmart shoppers,” she shouted into the megaphone. “Attention.”
Oh, brother, the Hoo-Hahs were pickled. The Hoo-Hahs got snockered at the Peanut Festival every year, one reason they were placed at the back of the parade line. Thank goodness the chief had the good sense to assign three officers from Hannah's meager police force to drive the bunch of rowdy old ladies. Dan Curtis drove Muddy's car, a ten-year-old red Mercedes-Benz. Some Hoo-Hah had taken his police cap, replacing it with a downturn silk Fedora that sported a big, poofy bow. Purple ribbons fluttered from the back. Dan looked resigned. Addy thought he looked fetching.
A Hoo-Hah wearing a black and white polka dot silk hat trimmed with a purple taffeta sash leered at Brand. “Hey, baby, you know what I like,” she said.
Muddy bonked the woman on the head with her megaphone, knocking her hat askew. “That's my niece's boyfriend, you old cougar,” she said. “Stop drooling at him and reel that twat back in the car.”
“Hey, Miss Hixie,” Addy said to the woman Muddy had assaulted. “How you doing?”
Miss Hixie adjusted her hat. “Not near as well as you, shugah. Who's the cheesecake?”
“This is Brand Dalvahni, Miss Hixie.”
“Hang on to that one, baby doll.” The old lady winked. “Somebody might steal him.”
“Yes, ma'am.” Addy waved at her aunt, but Muddy couldn't see her for her hat, a flat brimmed platter-sized confection with a chiffon ruffle. “Muddy.
Muddy.
”
Muddy turned from conversation with the Hoo-Hah next to her. “Yes, dear?”
“Where's Mr. C?”
Muddy waved her glass. “Down at the river with the rest of the artists. He's got a booth this year. Already sold three Bear Bryants, two Elvises, and a Nativity scene.” She gave Brand a beetle-eyed stare from beneath the brim of her big hat. “Amasa's an artist, you know. Wire sculpture.” She paused, as though trying to remember something. “Oh, yes, he asked me to deliver a message to you. He said trouble's a-coming. His contrabulator's been humming all morning.”
“Contrabulator?” Miss Hixie waggled her gray brows. “What's that, his willy?”
Muddy whopped Miss Hixie on the head again. “Never you mind Amasa's willy, Hixie Belle Lovelace.”
Good grief, shades of Shirley and Bessie Mae.
Addy and Brand made a tactical retreat and joined Pootie in the Goober Mobile, a 1963 Lincoln Continental convertible with suicide doors, brown leather interior, and a gleaming faux peanut shell finish. Pootie sat behind the wheel. The front seat was covered with goody bags, so Addy and Brand climbed in the back. The Goober Mobile occupied a place of honor smack dab in the middle of the parade line. People stopped by to shake Pootie's hand and congratulate him. Pootie was one happy Grand Goober, resplendent in a brown western shirt and leather bolo tie with a big, silver “G” medallion, jeans, and snakeskin shitkickers. His mama had whipped out her glue gun, transforming his plain straw cowboy hat into a glittering masterpiece. The letters “GG” were emblazoned across the front in rhinestones. A fey miniature dancing goober adorned the back. Privately, Addy thought the dancing goober looked more like one of Mr. C's cat turds than a peanut, but she kept it to herself. He'd topped off his outfit with a brown homemade cape trimmed in black braid that bore two big “G”s on the back.
Pootie gripped the wood-grained Lucite steering wheel. “You think folks will know I'm the Grand Goober without the peanut head?”
“Pootie, you're driving a car that's been painted to look like an eighteen-foot-long peanut on wheels,” Addy said. “And then there's the hat and the cape, and the big banner on the side of the car that says ‘Goober Mobile.' Everyone will know who you are.”
“We should be starting soon. Don't you think we should be starting soon? Addy, see if you can tell what's going on up ahead,” Pootie begged.
Addy scooted to the top of the backseat for a better view. She bounced a little with excitement. “The bands have cranked up, and I see movement up ahead. I think we're fixing to start.”
The cars ahead of them moved a fraction.
Pootie gripped the wheel tighter. “Here we go.”
Gunning his engine and tooting his horn, Pootie eased the big Lincoln forward. Addy suppressed a smile. He was a cowboy-esque Toad from
Wind in the Willows,
deep in the grip of motor car fever.
The parade crept across the railroad tracks and turned onto Oak Street in a merry cacophony of horn blowing, catcalls, and band music. People lined both sides of the parade route, some standing and others sitting in folding chairs and on top of coolers. Still others perched on the back of cars and pickup trucks. The crowd cheered and waved madly when they came into view.
“Quick, grab the goody bags,” Pootie said.
Addy plucked two large-size paper bags off the front seat and handed one to Brand. “You throw to the left, and I'll throw to the right.”
“I do not understand,” Brand said. “Why do you wish me to hurl objects at these humans?” Reaching inside the bag on his lap, he removed a cellophane package. He sniffed the object in his hand, his nostrils flaring. “What do you call these little tarts?”
“It's a MoonPie.” Addy threw another handful of goodies. “Graham cracker cookies filled with marshmallow and dipped in chocolate.”
He flapped a silver package in her direction. “And this?”
“That's a Goo Goo Cluster. Chocolate, peanuts, caramel, and marshmallow.”
“I like chocolate.” Brand sounded wistful. “But I will abstain. I must be at my best in case the djegrali attacks.”
A finger of dread crept down her spine. The demon, she'd forgotten about the demon. Shoved it to the back of her mind, because she didn't want to think about it. Today could be the day that she . . .
She pushed the thought aside. Deal with it, Addy, she told herself. Compartmentalize, or you'll go bonkers.
“I appreciate the sacrifice,” she said. “You can have all the MoonPies and Goo Goo Clusters you want when we get back home, I promise. But, unless you want people coming all up in this car with you, you'd best be throwing some candy. Folks around here take their parade goodies seriously.”
They wound onto Main Street. The parade watchers lined the sidewalks four and five deep and dangled like overripe fruit from the branches of the live oak trees that shaded the store fronts. Addy recognized Ansgar's tall, broad-shouldered form among the people milling about on the sidewalks. He towered head and shoulders above the rest of the crowd, his long, pale hair gleaming in the sun. He arms were crossed on his broad chest, his gray eyes watchful as he scanned the press of humanity milling around him. Addy waved at Evie. Girlfriend wore shorts—
shorts!
—and a cotton top that emphasized her curves. Girlfriend was a babe.
BOOK: Demon Hunting In Dixie
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