The Quick and the Dead

by D. B. Sieders

  Once she got her bearings back, she shoved him off and hit him with a small burst of spirit light for good measure. A brief moment of remorse led her to say, “Look, sorry about the zap, but you need to grow some manners. I don’t mind feeding you. Truth be told, I enjoy our exchanges. But I’m not going to stand back while you manhandle me to get it, understand?”

  He didn’t answer, apparently still lost in thought. Then a small smile graced his features. Vivian’s body responded to his roguish display and she silently cursed herself for it.

  “Okay, when you’re done sitting there and looking like the cat that ate the canary, how about filling me in?”

  The reaper turned his attention back to her, though he was obviously still distracted. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You’ve figured something out. Care to share?”

  He stood up and dusted himself off. Then he looked at her and said, “You’ve been granted a rare and wonderful gift, my dear, one not often granted to mortals by this particular spirit guide. She was a powerful seer in life.”

  “Huh?”

  “Our protector from the Hohenwald community, Maeve, has taken it upon herself to follow us. And she’s apparently granted you a vision of the future.”

  Her eyes went wide, and she looked around for a place to sit, settling on the edge of the wooden bridge. She opened her mouth and closed it, struggling to settle on which of about a thousand questions to ask first. After three or four tries, Darkmore chuckled and sat down beside her.

  “At a loss for words? That is rare indeed.” He teased, as always. She gave him a good-natured slug on the arm, followed with a grudging smile.

  “Why don’t you start by telling me what happened, what you experienced in the vision?”

  She recounted the tale, earning a few more chuckles from the reaper as she described the thrill of encountering a wolf in Mississippi and the thrill of the hunt. He became more sober, though, when she told him about her attack at the hands of the bear and his followers.

  “If Maeve offered you a vision, then she was most likely trying to accomplish one of three things, possibly all of them.”

  Tendrils of dread wrapped around her gut, but no good ever came from blind fear. Forewarned was forearmed. “Am I going to like any of them?”

  “Probably not right away, but you may find the message valuable in due time. She may have been testing you. In fact, I would wager your initial battle with her in her wolf form was a test of your power, fighting skills, and your courage. She only offers guidance to those she deems worthy.”

  Her expression must have screamed disbelief, as he added, “Guardians and reapers, as you call us, are capable of assuming many forms. The possibilities are boundless and not restricted to human, of course. All of the earliest cultures revered the natural world on which they depended for their survival. They both feared and venerated many of the mighty beasts they hunted and with whom they competed for prey. That was true of Maeve’s people, and she came from a long line of female holy women who kept the old traditions alive after St. Patrick brought Christianity to the Emerald Isle. She brought them to the New World and was ultimately burned as a witch for her trouble.”

  That made sense. Then again, she’d never seen the reaper or any other spirits take on animal forms—at least not that she realized. She’d mistaken this Maeve spirit for an actual wolf at first. She tried picturing Darkmore in animal form, but it didn’t seem right. He was a beast, of course, a cunning and seasoned predator, but she couldn’t think of him as anything less than…civilized.

  As if reading her thoughts, he said, “Naturally my kind and my esteemed colleagues on the other side of the spectrum have always been more than willing to mold ourselves to fit the beliefs of our mortal charges.”

  “And to exploit those beliefs in order to screw around with us.”

  “Tsk, tsk. Always so negative. The ancient Celts were clever enough to recognize the connection between the púka, fae, and other shape-shifters and the realm of spirits.”

  “So all of those myths about shape-shifters and werewolves aren’t just legend?”

  He laughed. “No, but it is to our advantage to maintain skepticism among you mortals.”

  “Or just scare the hell out of us,” Vivian said, grumbling.

  “Oh not at all. They bring messages from the spirit world through visions and come to carry souls to the Land of the Dead. Of course, tricksters may also use their talents as teaching tools for brash or foolish mortals.” He added a wink at the end.

  Vivian replied with an eye roll and her middle finger.

  Ignoring the obscene gesture, he continued, “As I was saying, once she deemed you worthy, she offered you a vision in order to warn you, threaten you, or guide you in your quest.”

  “So, in this vision, I became a wolf, wound up chasing a raven, and then came across a giant, blind bear and a whole herd of other forest creatures who wanted to stop me. How on earth am I supposed to figure out what that means?”

  “Perhaps her meaning will become clear once we reach your contact in Jackson. I can tell you that the raven is often known as a trickster.”

  Cryptic messages, secrets wrapped in mysteries and, more often than not, half-truths and lies, were part and parcel of the spirits. She’d yet to meet one who gave her a straight answer, even the reaper. Asking him for more information about the vision would be useless.

  So, she settled on asking another burning question. “Hey, what about Bigfoot?”

  He hesitated, wincing. “I don’t know if I should go into that.”

  Did he not know her at all? “Oh come on. Tell me, tell me, tell me!”

  Sighing, he shook his head and acquiesced. “The guardians came up with the Meh-Teh form first.” He must have registered her blank stare, since he tried to clarify. “Meh-Teh? Migoi? Yeti?”

  “Yeti? The Abominable Snowman is a guardian?”

  He winced again. It was funny. “Well, yes…”

  “You’re not giving me the whole story, are you? Don’t hold out on me, reaper.”

  Darkmore sighed, but she knew she’d won when he spoke again. “It’s a bit of an embarrassment, since a rather competitive reaper assumed the form of Sasquatch in a fit of one-upmanship. Since then, newly minted reapers and guardians sometimes break the rules and appear as such creatures as a sort of practical joke.” He shook his head again in distaste. “Very immature. Wreaks all sorts of havoc with mortals and distracts from our work.”

  Vivian burst out laughing. She laughed so hard, in fact, that she slipped off the edge of the bridge and back onto the cold ground. Darkmore kept shaking his head, which made her laugh even harder.

  Once she recovered, she asked, “So can any of your kind or the guardians appear as an animal? I’d just like to know if I need to add that little trick to my ever-growing list of pesky perils.”

  He shrugged. “Some can, some can’t.”

  “Can you?”

  “I indulged in cross-species projection a time or two, but it isn’t as much fun as one might think.”

  In response to her questioning look, Darkmore said, “Fleas are most unpleasant.”

  “Wuss.” She teased. Then she sighed in regret. Given the vision she’d suddenly been gifted, it was likely prudent to get to get to Jackson without further delay. Seemed as though their mini-vacation had come to an end just as it was beginning. “Well then, I suppose we’d better get back on track.”

  Vivian stood up and took a moment to soak up the beauty of their surroundings. She squeaked when Darkmore grabbed her from behind.

  “I thought I told you to grow some manners and ask me nicely before just helping yourself,” she began. His trail of hot kisses along her neck stopped her protests.

  “I thought you might enjoy a rut in the great outdoors before we continue our journey.”

  She couldn’t argue with that.

  Chapter Nine

  They arrived in Jackson later than they’d anticipated, mostly because
Vivian did, in fact, enjoy rutting in the great outdoors. Darkmore had remarkable stamina and enthusiasm to match, even in fully mortal form. Night skulked along the streets by the time they reached the outskirts of the city. A mixture of anticipation and raw nervous energy crept up her spine as they pulled into the gravel parking lot of the agreed upon rendezvous point. The tires squeaked as she parked, and Vivian’s body jerked as the car went dead. She stared up at the ramshackle structure.

  The place was a total dump.

  “I think we just landed at the Dew Drop Inn.”

  “I beg your pardon?” the reaper asked, apparently oblivious to the fact that the joint in front of them reeked of redneck. “If I read the sign correctly, I believe we’ve landed at the Burnin’ Bush.”

  “I take it you’re not a Charlie Daniels fan,” she muttered. Neither was she, but having grown up with “classic” country, she was familiar with the bearded, bad Santa-looking singer. With a sigh, she double-checked the address that Jeanne had given her.

  As she feared, this was, indeed, the right place.

  Putting the car back in drive, she found a space between a beat-up old Ford truck and a dingy Dodge van and parked. The latter lacked back and side windows. Can you say ‘serial killer’? She glanced at the dashboard clock. It was only 8:43 and the parking lot was already packed. Not good. She figured they must be far enough away from town for this place to rank as high nightlife among the locals. Judging from the men milling around outside for a smoke, she also figured those locals for backwoods hicks. They weren’t the type to welcome outsiders.

  She and Darkmore wouldn’t exactly blend.

  Especially Darkmore.

  “I don’t have a phone number or anything else to go on, so we’ll have to go inside and look for Waylon Briggs and his buddies,” she said.

  “And that troubles you?”

  “It does.” Vivian tried to ignore a couple of wolf whistles from the peanut gallery on the front porch. “I’ll admit to having a bit of redneck in my roots, but this is a whole other level.”

  “These mere mortals still inspire so much fear, my dear? I’m surprised.”

  “Habit,” she replied, and immediately regretted saying it out loud.

  “Do tell.”

  “I’d rather not.”

  “You know I’ll find out anyway.” It wasn’t a threat, but a promise. Darkmore enjoyed delving into her psyche far too much to let anything go, especially something that obviously bothered her.

  “Probably, but right now I’d just like to get in, get this done, and get out without anyone getting hurt.” Of course she was afraid of these men. The womenfolk didn’t look too friendly, either. All the supernatural mojo in the world wouldn’t help in a fight with the natives if it blew their cover.

  She’d have to keep calm, keep the reaper calm, and keep his fragile mortal body out of danger.

  Darkmore’s eyes widened and he stared at Vivian with a frightening intensity, and not a little incredulity. “Do you actually doubt my ability, your ability, our ability to protect one another from them?”

  Ugh, of course the reaper wasn’t going to make this easy. No matter how ancient or experienced, testosterone and pride were an inconvenient and dangerous combination. “No, dumbass, it’s them I’m worried about, not to mention our cover!” That was also true. Hopefully the spin she’d put on her anxiety would soothe his ego enough to avoid trouble. “Now get out of the car, follow me, and for fuck’s sake let me do the talking.”

  Without waiting for a reply, Vivian grabbed her keys and exited the vehicle. She slammed the door a little harder than necessary. Muttering a few choice words, she finger combed and fluffed her hair. After a moment’s hesitation, she unbuttoned her blouse and pushed the girls up until they nearly spilled out of the thin fabric, glad her mother wasn’t there to see. Tattoos would have helped, as would a bit more muscle and grit, but this was the best she could do on short notice.

  “Are you coming?” she asked with a huff. He’d taken his time exiting the vehicle. Had she been willing to look at him, she was certain Darkmore’s smug grin would have pissed her off and turned her on all at the same time.

  “You admonished me to follow you and to keep my mouth shut, so I think I’ll content myself by bringing up the rear.”

  And enjoying the show.

  With a deep breath, she plastered on her best slightly drunk Southern Belle wannabe smile and sashayed toward the entrance. By some miracle she managed to avoid stumbling on the uneven ground, and she even earned a few more wolf whistles from some of the rowdy good old boys loitering out front. She felt her smile tighten and her fingers dig into her thighs hard enough to bruise them through the layer of denim, yet she forced herself to toss her hair and swish her hips a little more as she sauntered past them and into the bar.

  Her impression of the place didn’t improve once inside. Though the statewide smoking ban appeared to be enforced, judging by the crowd outdoors, the stench of decades-old tobacco and wasted lives permeated the interior. Bare bulbs hovered over worn pool tables, casting a harsh light over inked biceps and grimy beards. Beer bottles littered the booths flanking the pool tables. A few old timers lurked within their shadowed depths while nursing a bottle or glass of liquid comfort. There weren’t many women present, aside from a few sassy barmaids and worn out truck stop whores. Figured, since the Burnin’ Bush didn’t appear to be the sort of establishment suited for wives or girlfriends.

  Vivian spied a few jarheads scattered throughout the crowd and graced each with a genuine smile and an extra shimmy. Redneck or not, those fellas had probably served at least two tours in some stinking desert or another halfway around the world, so she figured she’d give them an ogle pass in the way of gratitude.

  After a quick glance behind her to make sure the reaper remained as inconspicuous as possible, Vivian sauntered up to the bar, grinned wide and said, “How do, friend? How about a Bud for me and my feller, here?”

  “Why sure, purty legs,” he replied, grinning back. Bless his heart, he only had about three teeth in his head.

  She grabbed Darkmore’s hand and yanked him down on the barstool next to her. The barkeep plopped down two bottles in front of them. She took a long draw, downing about a third of the bottle before casting a nervous glance at the reaper, who followed suit. He grimaced, and she hoped she was the only one who noticed.

  “Y’all ain’t from around here,” the barkeep said. It wasn’t a question.

  “No sir, we’ve been on the road a spell. Came in from Nashville as a matter of fact.” She thickened her accent and leaned over the bar a bit, hoping to distract the man with a peek at the girls. It had been a while since she’d gone out honky tonkin’ in a slaughterhouse. The fewer questions, the better.

  “Hew-whee, city folk, huh?”

  “Naw, we work in the city, but we’re country folk at heart.”

  He eyed her and Darkmore, and after a moment his eyes went wide. “Y’all ain’t in the business, are you?”

  Vivian thought fast. It wouldn’t be a bad cover, and it could explain the reaper’s rather unconventional appearance. Blue jeans and flannel shirt aside, he stood out. If they’d landed in Deliverance country, he just might find himself in more danger than she would.

  Better to let the barkeep think they were minor Music City celebrities. As long as she didn’t have to actually sing, they could pull it off.

  She leaned in and gave the barkeep a conspiratorial wink, along with a better view of her cleavage, “Keep it down, friend. It’s hard to get out and about without drawing a crowd.”

  He winked and nodded, “Lookin’ for some new material, huh? Well, don’t you worry none. Your secret’s safe with me.”

  His statement didn’t inspire much confidence, but it was too late to backtrack. Besides, she needed to focus on finding Waylon Briggs. Her knowledge of the man consisted of a few chats online and Jeanne’s vague description. They hadn’t gotten around to trading photos, since Vivian needed
to skip town shortly after contacting him online. Her online searches didn’t turn up anything either, but given his status as a living soul broker, he probably kept a very low profile. Being an Afghanistan war vet and a fireman, she figured he’d be big and burly. She’d visualized him a few times under cover of darkness, picturing a tall Irishman with a tight ass and some real skill with the spirit light. This had been before her relationship with Darkmore had moved to the next level, of course, but heat crept up her cheeks as she remembered. Darkmore, who had remained silent as promised, gave her a small smirk that made them burn even hotter.

  She wondered if the bastard could still read minds while trapped in mortal form.

  Familiar notes emanating from the old jukebox in the corner jolted her back to reality.

  The old song traveled from her ears to her brain, where it set every raw nerve ending on fire and inspired a host of flashbacks involving fluffy mullets and bad karaoke. Winos and home décor were an arguably odd combination, but it fit the overused theme of hard drinking men and long-suffering women in the musical genre like rhinestones and rodeos.

  Vivian spun around on her barstool and shot daggers at the reaper with her eyes. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

  “Setting the mood.”

  “First off, did it occur to you that someone might wonder how the jukebox turned itself on? Second, stay out of my head, especially the childhood soundtrack section. Third, if you put “She Thinks My Tractor’s Sexy” into the queue, I will blow your head off and send you back to the bottom of the reaper barrel myself.”

  He smiled a predatory smile that managed to inspire hunger rather than fear. “You really are fetching when you’re angry.”

  “Fuck you,” she said through gritted teeth.

  “Perhaps not tonight, given your vexation with me, but maybe later.”

  Vivian closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then she flagged down the toothless bartender of the Burnin’ Bush. “Excuse me, but we’re lookin’ for an old friend tonight and was hopin’ you could help. You know a fella name of Briggs?”