The Demon Hunters (3 page)

Jack and Mel were happily engrossed
with their gifts when I walked out the door, Jack in front of the
TV in the kitchen and Mel staring at the wall in her room. They
would dredge every possible scrap of pleasure they could from what
I gave them.

I got Jack a DVD of Billy French, live
at the Cincinnati Comedy Club. Billy specializes in “dead” jokes
and is Jack’s idol. For Mel, a life-size poster of Mel Gibson in
his Braveheart regalia.

***

I walked the trails behind the
apartment block where, eight months ago, I found the clue which led
to solving my biggest and oddest case. I don’t think I will ever
pass her block and not think of sad Lindy Marchant and her son
Lawrence.

With the help of his advisers, the boy
now rules Royal’s world. Weird, to think of a child not yet
seven-years-old ruling an entire world. But Lawrence is not an
ordinary boy, he’s part demon. Is he a puppet-ruler, despite being
smarter than the typical human child? Royal assures me Lawrence’s
advising council has his best interests at heart and can be trusted
to guide him.

I don’t think Royal’s world - or
sphere, or space, or whatever they call it - is anywhere as big as
mine, and I think the population is smaller. Everyone belongs to a
House, a kind of community run along medieval lines, where the Lord
or Lady of the House sets the rules and is responsible for the
welfare of their people. The Houses as a whole fall under the
jurisdiction of the High Lord or High Lady and their House, so you
could say he’s the supreme ruler.

The High Lady died more than fifty
years ago and her heir had been missing for a long time. But his
grandson was alive and well and living in Clarion, the problem
being, the High House didn’t know that. They were looking for him
all over the world, but so were his enemies, who were abducting
little part-Gelpha boys who could possibly be Lawrence. And what do
kidnappers do to victims who can identify them? They kill
them.

Sometimes, they didn’t bother to
abduct them, they killed the children right there, in their
homes.

Royal worked as a police detective in
New York City, Seattle and San Antonio as he followed the killer’s
trail. When the trail led him to the mid-west, he transferred to
Clarion PD, the single available position at the time. I was
looking for Lawrence, so Mike Warren partnered us. And my life got
even stranger.

We found the killer, except they were
killers, in the plural, led by Royal’s brother. Royal killed him to
save my life.

If not for Lindy Marchant, who broke
the rules of the afterlife by leaving her place of death to come to
me for help, chances are I’d never have met Royal, never found
Lawrence, and little boys all over the world would still be
dying.

The mountain trails above
Clarion are well-maintained, but they
are
trails, not concrete sidewalks,
so a person has to jump over large snaking roots, leap puddles and
duck under low branches. The terrain is steep, the ground rough,
pocked with holes and depressions and littered with rock fallen
down from above.

The air felt a little chill, but not
too bad. I quickly warmed up. I wove between giant lumps of rock
upthrust from the ground and through a narrow slot canyon. It was a
workout, and on a beautiful morning like this, I loved
it.

I’m not an exercise freak. I do what I
must to keep my figure. Mostly I jog on my treadmill, but between
May and mid-July, until the heat settles in, I enjoy an occasional
hike up the mountain trails. The view is amazing; a diorama of
Clarion, North Clarion and South Clarion almost fills the valley.
You can see Northfork Road way out to the west, just before it
disappears down Fork Canyon and on down to the Salt Lake Valley.
And all around, the sheer grandeur of the Wasatch Range.

I slowed a little to pace myself and
take in the scenery. Seasonal springs trickled down, sometimes
right across the trail. Wild flowers dotted the terrain: alpine
buttercup, spring lily, thimble berries, spring beauty and my
favorite, the tiny, delicate lily-like flower of the wild onion. If
you live in the mountains, you know early wild flowers tend to
emerge in the same color groups. These were yellow or white. Blues
would come next, then pinks and reds, and later in the year a
mixture of colors.

Although I couldn’t see the sun above
the ridgeline, its light streamed down Pineview Canyon to the north
of me like a river of gold.

For good exercise, hiking uphill on
rough terrain beats walking concrete any day of the week. Panting a
little, I paused on the trail.

My cell rang.

“
Morning, sweetheart,”
Royal drawled.

That word again – sweetheart- and his
tone made me go liquid. I sat on a convenient rock. “Morning to you
too.”

“
I called your house.
You’re not there.”

Funny
man
. “Um. I’m walking.”

“
When you get back, can you
come over here?”

I grinned at the phone. “Why? What do
you have in mind?”

“
All kinds of things, but
unfortunately I cannot act on any of them. We have
visitors.”

“
We
have visitors? For both of us? At your place? This early in
the morning?” I checked my wristwatch. “At seven in the
morning?”

An audible sigh. “Clients. They will
be here any minute.”

“
Clients? I didn’t know we
had clients. In particular, clients who make appointments at the
crack of dawn.”

“
Prospective clients, then.
I can explain when you get here. Or would you rather we come to
your place?”

“
Uh, no. I’ll be there in
an hour.”

“
I’ll save you a
donut.”

“
Aw,” I crooned into the
phone. “You do know how to treat a girl.”

I pocketed the phone and started down.
The sun crested behind me, hot on the nape of my neck, then
traveled down to envelop my entire body. Its golden light swathed
the mountainside, casting my shadow crookedly before me. Chickadee
flitted through the branches of scrub oak and tiny pine siskin
pecked in the long grasses for last year’s wild flax seeds. A hawk
drifted lazily above, the sun making its underside a bright, almost
dazzling metallic copper, the color of Royal’s hair.

Chapter
Three

“
What’s the big hurry?” Mel
asked.

“
Off to Royal’s for donuts
and mysterious visitors,” I sang out, charging through the kitchen,
making quotation marks in the air with my fingers. I headed up the
stairs to the bathroom with Jack and Mel trailing me.

“
Mysterious visitors? Ooh,
can I come?” Jack asked.

I walked into the bathroom. “Be my
guest.”

”
That’s our Tiff, always
the comedian.”

I slammed the door on him.

“
What’s this about
mysterious visitors?” Mel asked.

“
Don’t do that!”

“
Do what?”

“
Your disappearing from one
room and reappearing in another act.”

I stripped off my top and slung it at
her where she sat on the toilet, or seemed to sit. Mel and Jack
can’t sit on solid objects, but they like to pretend they can. I
suppose they actually kind of hover. She ducked reflexively and it
missed her to land on the lip of the sink.

She stood and walked through the tub
to the window, turned and put her back to the small square panes.
“So who are these visitors?”

“
Yeah, who?” Jack
asked.

I spun on my heel and glared at him.
“You, out of here, mister!”

He looked me up and down as I stood in
front of him in my sports bra. It’s funny, but although a dead
person’s expression doesn’t change, when I look at Jack and Mel I
imagine one I expect them to wear. I could almost see the twitch of
Jack’s eyebrows, the blatant leer.

“
I mean it,
Jack!”

He faded back through the door,
muttering, “I can hear from out here anyway.”

“
And you,” I told Mel as I
started unbraiding my hair.

She flipped her hands out. “You sure
are testy this morning.”

I struggled out of my sweatpants and
tossed them in the laundry basket next my treadmill. “No
kidding.”

She tried to sound solicitous. “What’s
wrong, honey?”

I spoke through gritted teeth. “You
are irritating me. Go away.” I checked behind me before I unsnapped
my bra and wriggled out my panties. I didn’t trust Jack one
iota.

“
But we’re bored!” he
whined through the door.

“
And it’s my fault? Go get
an afterlife!”

They were still mad at me for quitting
my consulting job with Clarion PD. They missed all the gory little
details and inside information on the police cases I worked.
Rescuing a catnapped puss just didn’t cut it.

Sharing your home with a couple of
dead people has its drawbacks. Lack of privacy is one. And when you
are their only contact with the outside world and what is happening
there, when they pester you for attention, you get to feel like a
babysitter tending a couple of needy brats.

The benefits? They don’t use all your
hot water, they don’t eat your food, they don’t leave their dirty
laundry lying about, they don’t play their music too loud and they
don’t borrow money from you.

On the other hand, they don’t help
with the rent or utilities, yard work, errands, or snow
removal.

They’re just there.

I toweled my hair damp-dry and braided
it, not easy as it reaches my tailbone when loose. It gets a little
kinked if it dries out first and I like it smooth. Modest in my
floor-length chenille robe, I went to my bedroom and slid open the
closet door. Now, what to wear?

I knew nothing about the
potential clients, so couldn’t decide what might be appropriate or
inappropriate wear. My gray
You Call Me A
Bitch Like It’s A Bad Thing
T-shirt could
send the wrong message, or maybe not. How about the black
Behind Every Successful Man Is A Woman Who Thinks
He’s An Asshole
? Nah. The worn old
black
Ghostbusters
shirt, the
Burger
King
? The white
Who’s Your Doggy
?

I settled on a plain navy-blue T-shirt
and my newest pair of boot-flare Levis, even tucked the shirt in my
waistband. Add my cleanest sneakers and I was set.

I trotted down the stairs and straight
out the front door. Mel and Jack watched from the kitchen window as
I got in my Subaru.

***

As I drove to Royal’s place, I
recalled the time I told him about my roommates. He likes to tease
me, but being teased is so far outside my experience, sometimes I’m
slow to catch on.

“
There are dead people
here?” he said, looking around the kitchen as if he thought he’d
spot them.

I pointed at the fridge. “Yeah. Jack’s
right over there.”

He swiveled in the chair and stared at
the fridge. Jack lifted one hand, wiggling his fingers.

I pointed over the kitchen table, at
the chair opposite us. “Mel’s right here.”

Royal swiveled back, and again, stared
at where I pointed. Then he stared at me.

“
Don’t look at me like I’m
crazy.”

“
Are you feeling all right,
Tiff?” he said, despite my mentioning Jack and Mel all the time.
Still, hearing about ghosts and being introduced to them is
entirely different. Although, as he couldn’t see or hear them, was
there any difference?

I rolled my eyes. “You know I see dead
people. A couple of them happen to live in my house.”

“
Tell him I think he’s
hot,” Mel said.

“
Mel thinks you’re
hot.”

He reached for my hands, held them.
“Mel thinks I’m hot? What about you?”

He was not taking me seriously. I
pulled my hands free. “I’m serious, Royal. I want you to
understand, ‘cause if you hang out here you’re gonna see me acting
kinda strange.”

He smiled. “Such as?”

I frowned. “Talking to myself. Stuff
like that.”

“
Are they traditional
ghosts?”

“
What does he mean,
traditional?” from Mel.

“
Traditional?”

Royal was on the verge of laughter.
“Walking through walls, creaking floorboards, mysterious cold
zones, feeling of being watched.”

I looked down at my clasped hands.
“Just the walking through walls thing.”

I looked up to see him lean back and
hook one arm over the back of the chair. Jack came up behind and
blew on his neck.

“
Jack, what in hell’s name
are you doing?”

Royal swiveled back around.

“
You’ll get whiplash if you
keep that up,” I observed.

“
Is he feeling anything?”
Jack asked.