The Graveyard Shift: A Charley Davidson Novella

by Darynda Jones

  “I’m not sure what kind of influence you’ll be on our son.”

  “We tried hiding them from her.”

  “The books?”

  “Mm-hmm. She always found them.”

  A minute smile played about one corner of his mouth. She’d had access to that corner at one time. Had taken full advantage of it. Wanted to take advantage again, but she supposed that would never happen. The last time they’d tried to have a relationship—for Zaire’s sake—she’d thought it progressing splendidly. Then Garrett had cut it off with no explanation. It almost broke her. She swore she would never let a man rip her to shreds like that again. Especially Garrett Swopes.

  “Do you know what it’s like sitting in public with a five-year-old who drinks black coffee and reads Stephen King? So many glares. So, so many glares.”

  She sank onto the sofa beside him and laughed softly. “Thankfully, I do not.”

  “She only sleeps three to four hours a night.”

  “Coffee,” she reminded him.

  “You don’t understand,” he said, his words beginning to slur. “That’s after the coffee. Without it, she bounces off the walls.”

  His broad chest rose and fell, and she knew if he stopped talking, he’d pass out. But this was the most he’d said to her in years. God help her, she didn’t want it to end.

  But it had to. She had to be strong for Zaire. She couldn’t let Garrett know how she really felt about him, and she damned sure couldn’t risk another broken heart. The last one almost killed her.

  “She’s up at three in the morning,” he continued, “reading or drawing or doing experiments on Miss Peregrine.”

  She shook out of her thoughts, and asked, “Who’s Miss Peregrine?”

  “Her hamster.”

  “Oh, right. You got her a hamster for her first birthday. It can’t possibly be the same one.”

  “It is.”

  “That was over four years ago. Hamsters only live two years. Maybe three.”

  He lifted a heavy-lidded gaze to her and shrugged. “That’s what I mean. I think she keeps bringing her back to life or something. She keeps healing her.”

  “Wow. Like mother, like daughter?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, what kind of experiments does she do?”

  “She’s trying to figure out the weight of its soul,” he said, his lids drifting shut again. “She’s decided souls have mass and therefore must have weight. And don’t even get me started on the hellhounds. What she puts them through. Or so I’m told. And poor Artemis.”

  “The departed Rottweiler?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, his breaths grew deep and even, and the beer he cradled in his hands leaned precariously to the left.

  She studied them. His hands. Too rugged to be elegant, his long fingers were lean and strong, his nails clean and well-trimmed. She knew what those fingers were capable of. Had felt the metal of the rings he wore in places she recalled all too clearly when going to bed alone. Two of the rings were skulls, and he fidgeted with them when he got nervous—a habit she found oddly endearing.

  “What an incredible child,” she said, snapping out of her thoughts as she lifted the bottle slowly from his grasp. She put it on the coffee table before heading to her room. Or, more importantly, her closet.

  Once there, she fought a dizzy spell. They’d been happening more and more often, but she had bigger things to worry about at the moment. She arranged the items around the altar like her grandmother, a powerful mambo—a priestess—had taught her. It had been so long since she’d performed the ritual of sight, she didn’t know if she could pull it off. And, in all honesty, she’d only seen past the veil a couple of times. But it was in her blood. And in Zaire’s blood, even more so.

  Marika was the descendant of Sefu Zaire, a very powerful Haitian houngan—a Vodou priest. And Garrett was descended from an equally powerful Voodoo queen. Probably the most famous in history, Marie Laveau. It was why Marika had sought him out. Why she seduced him.

  When she was a child, her grandmother, her mother, and three of her aunts had performed a ritual of sight on her, one outlawed in their religion for centuries. They saw things that changed them. Her aunt Vanessa never practiced again. Her aunt Naomi took her own life a year later. And her favorite aunt, Lovely, left and never returned. All because of what they saw that night. Yet it had very little to do with Marika herself.

  They’d only performed the ritual because her grandmother, the amazing mambo Phara Dubois, had told everyone Marika was special. Gifted with sight. Destined for greater things. But who didn’t want to believe that about their children and children’s children?

  Their vision, once they invited the loa Papa Legba, the guardian of the crossroads, to inhabit them, was more about a family living in an enchanted land with a daughter who could reap the souls of the dead.

  That daughter turned out to be Charley Davidson. And Charley would have a daughter as well, a god in her own right, who would stand against Lucifer in the coming wars. Who would battle him for every soul on Earth.

  They were also shown Marika’s son and the fact that he would stand with the deity. Would be a part of the great battle.

  It was then, as a child, Marika had decided to make her son the strongest she possibly could. She believed that by combining her bloodline with that of an heir from another great priest or priestess, their son would be just as powerful as their ancestors, if not more so. Thus, he would stand a better chance of survival. Because if her grandmother’s visions were to be believed, the battle would be a bloodbath. It would rage for seven days and seven nights. And thousands upon thousands would die.

  Her grandmother had never kept anything from her—until that day. She simply told Marika there was more but that she couldn’t explain further. Not yet. And she never got around to giving her granddaughter the whole story before she passed.

  While Marika wanted to know more than anything, she didn’t dare invite the loa Papa Legba inside her just to get the rest of the story. Not after what’d happened to her aunts and, in Marika’s opinion, her mother.

  But tonight, she would have to invite him. While she could see deep into the veil, only Papa Legba could see through time. And she may need that.

  Unfortunately, she didn’t have a live chicken on hand. Zaire’s goldfish would have to do. Hopefully, he wouldn’t notice before she could replace it.

  Chapter Three

  Bacon: Duct tape for food

  —Universal Truth

  Garrett stilled. He felt someone close, and since he wasn’t currently seeing anyone, someone hovering nearby while he slept was a little disconcerting. He kept his breathing deep and even until he oriented himself to his surroundings. And figured out how much he’d had to drink the night before.

  A second later, he realized he was sitting up. Kind of. He was leaning against a chair back or a sofa. Of course. Marika’s. But why was he—?

  He shot up, his eyes wide as he scanned his surroundings. A soft pre-dawn light streaked across the pale curtains. He’d been asleep for hours, and Elwyn was still out there.

  He cursed under his breath and grabbed his phone to check for messages. Two of his team members had checked in: Donovan, the biker pack leader and a former bank robber; and Robert, better known as Uncle Bob, Charley’s uncle and, bizarrely, a former angel.

  Garrett had the strangest life.

  It grew even stranger when he sensed someone close. Right beside him, in fact.

  He turned to see his son sitting beside him, his hair, curly and dark blond, a wild mop of chaos atop his head. He wore Spider-Man pajamas and sat eating bacon and playing a game on his mother’s phone.

  Garrett relaxed and leaned closer to him. “What are you playing?”

  “Flash Code Academy,” he said without looking up.

  “Sounds cool.” Garrett glanced up to see Marika in the kitchen, and the smell of bacon hit him so hard, he worried he’d visibly drool.

  Her sk
in shone a pale gold, and her hands shook. He couldn’t help but wonder what it cost her to see into the veil.

  The phone buzzed and whistled as Zaire played, completely ignoring his father, but this was the game. Garrett leaned even closer, and Zaire stiffened. Trying not to smile, Garrett bent his head for a better look at the phone, but the kid was onto him.

  “You think you got what it takes?” Zaire asked Garrett.

  “To steal that bacon off your plate?”

  “Yep.”

  “I do, actually.”

  “Bring it, old man.”

  That was too much. Garrett growled, scooped the kid into his arms and gave him a huge bear hug.

  “You know,” he said, after pretending to eat him alive and causing a fit of giggles, “you’re awful mouthy for a five-year-old.”

  “I’m sorry!” Zaire shouted through the laughter.

  “Do you give up?”

  “Never!” He twisted in his father’s arms and tried to put Garrett in a headlock.

  It didn’t work, but he gave the kid points for effort. Right before he took him to the floor and pinned him there so he could gnaw on his ribs.

  “Do you give up?” Garrett asked again, giving Zaire yet another chance to survive his inevitable demise.

  “Yes!” he finally shouted.

  Garrett let him up a microsecond before his son turned the tables on him with a sassy, “Psych,” and attacked, though his method of combat was more of a hug than an actual form of defense. They’d have to work on that.

  In the meantime, Garrett took full advantage, pulling the boy against his chest. Zaire let him, then said, “You’re still not getting my bacon.”

  “Here,” Marika said, putting a plate of eggs and bacon with a cup of fresh coffee on an end table. “Now you have your very own and can stop torturing our child.”

  Our child. The words sobered him instantly. He gave Zaire another quick hug then set him back to look at him. Besides the blond curls that would someday be the envy of every girl he ever met, he had smooth, sand-colored skin and deep silvery-gray eyes—much like Garrett’s, only brighter. He was the most beautiful thing Garrett had ever seen. And more than he ever deserved.

  “You were supposed to be here last night,” Zaire said, going back to the bacon and the phone.

  “Sorry about that.”

  “It’s okay. Mom told me.” He glanced over at him, trying not to look worried. “You’ll find her, right? That’s what you do?”

  “That’s what I do.”

  They ate mostly in silence while Marika threw dishes in the sink and hurried to get dressed. Her movements, though graceful as ever, were harried. She was in that damned green robe again, the one short enough to double as a cheerleading outfit. She unpinned her wet hair as she rushed to her bedroom, and it fell in a sea of glistening tangles down her back. Garrett was annoyed that he even noticed.

  “I know, right?” Zaire said beside him.

  “What?”

  “Mom. She’s pretty. Everyone says so. Tommy Velasquez’s older brother is in love with her. He has pictures of her on his wall.”

  Garrett straightened. “He has what?”

  “And he’s going to ask her if she’ll wait for him. He wants to marry her but he’s still too young.”

  “How young is he?” Garrett asked, appalled.

  “Fourteen.”

  What the fuck? He gaped at his son and said aloud, “What the fuck?”

  Marika popped her head out the door. “Garrett!”

  “Sorry.” He cringed. “Forget I said that.”

  Zaire lifted a disinterested shoulder, but Garrett saw the barest hint of a grin at the corner of his mouth. A mouth so like his mother’s, it caused an ache in Garrett’s heart. He’d wanted this once upon a time. A family. A home. A reason to breathe. But that was a long time ago, and he’d learned all too well what other men—and children, apparently—thought of Marika Dubois.

  “You ready, munchkin?” she asked, trying to slide a jacket on and grab Zaire’s backpack at the same time.

  “I guess. But why can’t I go with you?”

  She chided him with a single glance. “I’ve already told you. Now get your shoes on.”

  “I need clothes.”

  “They’re in here.” She tossed his backpack to him. “You need a bath, dirty boy.”

  “Really?” He brightened then looked at Garrett. “Grandma’s bath is like a swimming pool.”

  “No splashing,” she warned.

  Zaire fought with his shoe then waited for Marika to go grab her purse before leaning into his dad with the most wicked grin Garrett had ever seen, and whispering, “Grandma lets me splash.”

  * * * *

  “What gives?” Garrett asked after she got back into his truck. The sun was hovering just above the horizon at that point. The brilliant colors cast a soft light on his face and reflected in his eyes. The effect enchanted her for a moment, but she sobered when his brows slid together, and he looked down to start his truck—a big black thing that rumbled when he brought it to life.

  She looked back at the door to her mother’s house. “Nothing. She was already up. She can keep him all day, no problem.”

  “I mean you,” he said, putting the truck into gear and heading out.

  They drove past Pueblo-style adobe houses accented with bright turquoise or dark red or sunshine yellow. Even the stores in Santa Fe were either adobe or territorial, built with indigenous materials, thick hand-plastered walls, carved wooden doors, exposed natural wood vigas, and earthy hues. It was truly the City Different.

  “What gives?” he asked again, interrupting her thoughts. “You’re pale and kind of greenish-yellow.”

  She gasped and pulled down his sunshade to look in the mirror. She was indeed greenish-yellow. “I guess the rituals take a lot out of me.”

  “Did you…how do you put it? Did you see anything?”

  “Not exactly.”

  His shoulders fell, but just barely. “Then where are we going?”

  “To the last place you saw her.”

  “So, when you say not exactly, you mean—?”

  “Not exactly,” she repeated.

  “Marika, we are talking about the life of a five-year-old girl here.”

  “No, Garrett, we aren’t.”

  He pulled to a stop at a red light. “What does that mean?”

  “It means we are talking about the life of a five-year-old god. Yes, she’s a child in her human form, but she is the daughter of two bona fide gods, Garrett. Two celestial beings. Don’t doubt for a minute she can’t do things you’ve never dreamed possible.”

  When the light turned green, he pulled into a gas station and put the truck in park. “What aren’t you saying?”

  Dread twisted her stomach into knots. What if she was wrong? What if she’d looked in the wrong place or invited the wrong spirit? “I just… I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know, or you don’t want to say?”

  She dropped her gaze. “A little of both.”

  “Marika, I’m not a patient man.”

  “Yes. I’ve noticed.” And yet, he was anything but impatient with Zaire.

  “Just tell me what you know.”

  “It’s just…if I’m wrong…”

  “Marika,” he said softly as though he understood what she was going through. Then again, he probably did. He, a mere mortal, working and fighting alongside gods and angels and demons. The thought, when one allowed oneself to really contemplate it, was mindboggling.

  And now she was involved, too. The fate of the human race depended on a five-year-old who took her coffee black and read horror in her spare time. And Garrett Fontenot Swopes had come to Marika for help.

  She clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking. “She’s gone.”

  He eyed her suspiciously then asked, “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, she’s gone. She’s not on this plane.”

  He didn’t speak for a lo
ng time as though grappling with what she’d said. He looked out the windshield, his large hands tight around the steering wheel, the knuckles on his long fingers turning white, and asked, “How is that possible?”

  “This is your world, Garrett. I just live in it.”

  He closed his eyes, his jaw working for several moments before he spoke again. “Is she…was she taken to a hell dimension?”

  “Like Charley was?” Adrenaline flooded every cell in Marika’s body with the mere thought.

  Elwyn’s mother had been sent to a hell dimension when she defied orders from on high. On Earth, her sentence had lasted ten days. But in the dimension she’d been banished to, it lasted over one hundred years. Apparently, every dimension, every plane of existence, had its own definition of time, and they rarely aligned with Earth’s.

  He nodded.

  “I don’t know. I don’t want to comment on something I have no understanding of.”

  He settled a knowing gaze on her. “Now you’re in my world. I may live in it, but I hardly understand it.”

  “I don’t envy that.”

  “How sure are you?”

  “Very. I would never envy such a thing.”

  “No, I mean—?”

  “That she’s not on this plane?”

  He pressed his mouth together and gave the briefest nod of acknowledgment.

  “Eighty-five percent? Maybe eighty-six. Her aura is impossible to miss.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her aura. Her energy. You know, that incredible mosaic of color that encapsulates her?”

  He only shook his head.

  “Wait, you can’t see it?”

  “No.” He turned away from her. “I can see the departed as a faint, gray mist sometimes, in certain light under just the right conditions, but that’s about it.”

  She tried to hide the look of astonishment on her face. When he turned back to her, she realized that she’d failed.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I just thought…you work for Charley and Reyes. You protect their daughter. Yet you can’t see the departed clearly? Or auras? Or demons, for that matter?”

  When he only blinked at her as if she’d grown another head, she busied herself with smoothing her jacket over her jeans.