by Lexi George
The temperature was in the low forties, but in spite of the chill Earl’s face was slick with sweat and his complexion held a greenish tinge. Whatever Earl had been on the night before had worn off, and he felt like hell. As for that thing he called a beard, it looked like somebody had glued pubic hair on his face.
An older man she did not recognize stood beside him. He was roughly the same height as Earl, but there the resemblance ended. Earl was a wormy thing, and the older man had obviously never missed a trip to the trough. He was jowly, and his belly jutted over the waistband of his jeans. His thick silver hair was poofed in the “higher the hair, the closer to God” hairstyle favored by Jimbo Swafford, a televangelist out of Mobile. Silver sideburns bracketed his ruddy face.
He was dressed nicer than Earl, too. For starters, he was clean and the plaid button snap shirt he wore looked new. His small feet were stuffed into a pair of bright red and yellow boots with swirling black inlay.
An old rhyme about coral snakes went through her head. Red on yellow, kill a fellow. Red on black, friend of Jack. Instinct told her this guy wasn’t a friend.
“What now?” she muttered, sliding out of her truck.
Fancy Boots swaggered up to her. His eyes were more blue than purple and he was showing his age, which told Beck the demon in him was pretty watered down. Halfsies like her didn’t age. Cassie Fergusson had once confided to Beck that she was over a hundred years old, and Cassie didn’t look a day over twenty.
“Beck Damian?” Fancy Boots said.
“Yeah?”
“Name’s Charlie Skinner.” He pulled a small envelope out of his shirt pocket and handed it to her. “Trey Peterson asked me to give this to you.”
The initials WBP were embossed in raised script on the front of the cream-colored stationery.
“What’s this about?” Beck asked, turning the envelope over in her hand.
“There’s a gathering this afternoon at Peterson’s hunting cabin. All of the kith have been invited. You and Littleton ought to be there. You ain’t gonna want to miss this.”
“Kind of short notice, isn’t it?”
“Yeah, that’s why I’m hand-delivering the invite.”
“I had no idea you and Peterson knew one another.”
Charlie hooked his thumbs in his front pockets and leaned back on the heels of his boots. “We’re closer than you might think. When he couldn’t reach you by phone, he asked if I minded running an invite out here. I said, ‘Sure, why not?’ Anything for my good buddy Trey.”
“Uh-huh.” Beck eyed him warily, her Oh Crap-o-meter on full alert. Trey Peterson was heir to the richest fortune in Behr County. Since when did he get chummy with the Skinners? “I’ll think about it.”
She turned to go and Charlie grabbed her by the arm. “Hold on. Earl says he started a fight here last night. We’ve come to make amends.”
“That so?” Since it was common knowledge the Skinners didn’t have a pot to pee in, just how did he plan to make amends? “I appreciate it.” She pulled free and stepped away. “Keep him away from here and we’ll call it even.”
“Got me a better idea.” Charlie stepped in front of her. “I want you to put him to work. Time the boy learned responsibility.”
The “boy” had to be forty years old, if he was a day, and had been raising hell in Behr County as long as Beck could remember.
“Way I figure it, you could use a man around here,” Charlie said with a toothy smile.
“Men I got.”
She was drowning in testosterone. There was Toby, of course, and Hank. And, as of yesterday, Tommy and a certain sexy beast of a demon hunter. Conall was male with a capital M. Heck, she even had a male ghost hanging around the place.
“You talking about that partner of yours? He don’t count.” Charlie sniffed and tugged at the waist of his jeans, revealing a large silver buckle buried beneath his belly fat. “I done some checking. Littleton pert near raised you, but you two ain’t a couple.” His gaze roved over Beck in a way that made her skin crawl. “Good-looking woman like you needs a man in your bed. Might as well be Earl. Like to like, I always say. Us Skinners are always on the lookout for good stock, and you look like a healthy breeder.”
“Wow,” Beck said. “I’m speechless.”
Charlie grunted and looked around, a calculating gleam in his eyes. Sarcasm, it seemed, was wasted on Mr. Skinner.
“Nice place you got here,” he said. “Be a good thing if you hooked up with my boy.” He shoved Earl at her. “Don’t fret about him being littler’n you. He may be a runt, but he’s carrying where it counts, if you know what I mean.”
Spots danced in front of Beck’s eyes. She knew exactly what he meant, and it made her want to gag.
“Well, don’t stand there like a knot on a log, boy.” Charlie shoved Earl on the shoulder. “Talk to the gal.”
“Uh,” Earl said. His throat worked and he looked like he wanted to hurl. Beck put some space between them, just in case. “Got me a new bird dog. Brittany spaniel name of Huckleberry. Good nose and the prettiest pointer you ever seen.”
Charlie slapped Earl upside the head. “Idjut. She don’t care about your stupid dawg. Tell her something about yourself, something that’ll get her interested in you.”
“I got tricks in my jeans,” Earl said, reaching for his zipper. “I got a shape-shifting penis. Wanna see?”
That did it. Beck grabbed Earl by the shirt and lifted him in the air. It was easy. Earl was a string bean and her demon blood was up.
“I don’t care if you got a whale penis eight feet long,” she said, giving him a shake. “I don’t want to hear about it. Ever. Again. Is that clear?”
“Here now, no need to get riled,” Charlie said in alarm. “We come here peaceable like to make you a respectable offer. If you don’t cotton to Earl, there’s plenty more Skinners to choose from.”
“I’m not interested,” Beck said.
Conall materialized without warning. He was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt and he looked lean, mean, and dangerous. And hot, majorly hot. Lord, how had she ever missed that fact? Her eyeballs and her brain must have been on vacation.
Conall’s flat, black gaze moved from Earl to Charlie. “Is there a problem?”
Beck dropped Earl to the ground. “Nothing I can’t handle.”
“Who are you?” Charlie demanded.
“I am Dalvahni.”
Charlie sucked on his bottom lip. “Dalvahni, huh? I don’t remember nobody around here with that name. You from Hannah?”
“No.”
“Didn’t think so.” Charlie gave Conall the once-over. “You talk funny. You a Yankee?”
“No,” Conall said.
Good grief, this fun little conversation could go on forever.
“He works for me,” Beck said.
Charlie swelled. “You hired a foreigner, but my boy ain’t good enough for you? Folks hear about this, might be bad for business.”
“Is that a threat?” Beck said. “ ’Cause I don’t take kindly to threats.”
“It’s a fact.” Charlie spat on the ground. “The kith are funny about strangers.”
“If the kith don’t like it, they can kiss my go to hell,” she said. “Nobody tells me what to do in my place.”
Something rustled in the underbrush and Hank stepped out of the woods. He was back in human form, and he was naked. He lumbered across the gravel lot on bare feet shaped like cinderblocks. He had toes like a mountain troll and more body hair than a gorilla on Rogaine.
“Morning,” he said to Beck.
Stalking past the Skinners without a sideways glance, he trudged through the employees’ entrance.
Charlie edged away from Conall. Probably had something to do with the “I will remove your entrails through your nose and strangle you with them” vibe Conall was projecting loud and clear.
“Well, I done what I come here to do, so I guess me and Earl will be moseying along,” Charlie said. “Think about my offer. The S
kinners are on their way up. You play your cards right, and you could move up, too.”
Oh, she’d think about it, all right. The thought of “hooking” up with Earl Skinner would give her nightmares for weeks.
Toby stuck his head out the back door. “You better get in here. Hank and Tommy are going at it.”
“Oh, crap.”
She’d forgotten about the zombie in the fridge.
The kitchen was empty. The walk-in refrigerator stood open. Empty tofu boxes lay scattered on the floor. Somebody had been eating their curds and whey. Not that she was complaining, considering what Tommy could have been noshing on. What was she going to do about him anyway? Even if he never ate anybody’s brains, sooner or later he’d start to fall apart. Zombies have a finite shelf life.
“—can’t have a dead guy in with the food,” Hank bellowed in the next room. “It’s unsanitary and plain old gross.”
“I’ll tell you what’s gross, Chewbacca,” she heard Tommy answer in his crème brulée voice. “You walking around with your johnson hanging out, that’s what. Who you think wanna see that? I sure as hell don’t. Take a lawnmower to that ass of yours. You could stuff a mattress with that shit.”
“Uh-oh,” Beck said, hurrying from the kitchen.
She halted, staring about in shock. The bar was clean. It was better than clean. It was good as new. No sticky floors, broken furniture, or shattered glass. No broken, boarded-up window. No skunky odor clinging to everything. It was like the bar fight had never happened.
“What the . . . ?” She shook her head, her sleep-deprived, caffeine-deficient brain unable to take it in. Who could have done this? There was only one person left at the bar last night.
Her gaze moved to Tommy. He clutched a bottle of Fabreeze in one hand. A wad of gauzy white rectangles protruded from his shirt pocket, and a half dozen more fluttered from his belt loops. Dryer sheets, Beck realized, catching a whiff of Tropical Breeze. Tommy smelled like the laundry detergent aisle at the Piggly Wiggly.
“Did you clean up the bar?” she asked him.
Tommy shook his head.
“You know anything about this?” she said, turning to Hank.
“Nope.” Hank looked around at the immaculate room and scratched his belly in thought. “Weren’t me.”
Conall materialized without warning, which was his MO. “Clothe thyself,” he told Hank in a voice as cold as the heart of winter. “There is a lady present.”
Hank stopped in mid-scratch. “Where?”
Conall’s jaw tightened. “Rebekah.”
“Beck don’t mind,” Hank said. “She’s used to shifters. It ain’t no big thing.”
Tommy snorted. “You can say that again.”
“Why you—” Hank began.
“I mind,” Conall said, silencing Hank. “Cover your manhood or lose it.”
Hank drew himself up. “Beck?”
Beck searched for a way to be diplomatic. “Naked happens when you run a demonoid bar, but most people look better with their clothes on.”
That included Hank, although she didn’t say so.
Hank turned on his heel and stomped off without a word.
“Damn,” Beck said. “I think he’s mad.”
Conall shrugged. “His mood is oft more foul than fair.”
This from Mr. Sweetness and Light? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.
“He may be cranky, but he’s a darn good cook. What am I supposed to do if he up and quits?”
“If the cook does not return, I will take his place,” Conall said. “I can roast a capon or a haunch of venison as well as the next fellow.”
“Yeah, but do you know how to operate a grill and a deep fat fryer?”
“No.”
Beck sighed. “I didn’t think so.”
The screen door swung open and Ora Mae Luker trotted into the room. She wore a baggy mauve sweater, a long flowered skirt, and brown orthopedic shoes.
“A-ha,” she said, leveling an accusatory finger at Tommy. Her short gray hair was frowzy from the humidity off the river. “You ate my cauliflower, you plant mo-lester. I saw you.”
“Tommy, is this true?” Beck said. “Did you raid Ora Mae’s garden?”
“I was hungry. “Tommy turned his hands up in a helpless gesture. “Them cauliflower looked like brains. I got cravings, you know. It was eat them cauliflower or something else. Something worse.”
“Brains?” Ora Mae’s expression sharpened. “What’s he talking about?”
“Vitamin deficiency,” Beck said, improvising. She did not want to explain Tommy’s “delicate” condition to Ora Mae. “It makes him crave meat. Very upsetting—Tommy’s a vegetarian.”
“That right? My cousin Mert’s a vegetarian. ’Cepting she eats scrimp. Reckon she figures scrimp don’t count, somehow.” Ora Mae gave Tommy a stern look. “But that don’t mean you get to gobble up my produce, young man. You’re worse than a plague of rabbits. I’ll expect you to pay for the damage.”
“Can’t,” Tommy said with a cauliflower-scented burp. “Ain’t got no money.”
“I’ll pay for the damage,” Beck said. “Tommy works for me. I’ll run you a tab.”
“That right?” Ora Mae’s eyes gleamed behind her glasses. “You fronting him?”
“Yes. What say, fifty dollars?”
“Fifty dollars?” Ora Mae blew out a raspberry. “That won’t even pay for the fertilizer. I had three rows of cauliflower in that garden. A hundred and fifty bucks would be more like it. Or I could turn him over to the sheriff for trespassing.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Beck said quickly. “I’ll run you a tab.”
“Top shelf at the bar-brand price?”
Beck winced. Crafty old lady. But she couldn’t let Tommy go to jail. He might eat his cellmate.
“Done,” she said.
“How nice.” Ora Mae gave them a sunny smile. “Guess I’ll scooterpoot back home. Y’all have a nice day.”
Beck watched her bustle out of the bar. “Now I know how Georgia felt after Sherman marched through.”
“I’m going to look for Annie,” Tommy announced. “You got any more of that tuna? She likes tuna.”
“In the store room,” Beck said.
Tommy shuffled off without another word.
“The zombie is making a valiant effort to stay true to his ideals, but he suffers for it,” Conall said when Tommy had left. “He hungers for flesh. You must send him away before it is too late.”
“Send him away where? He’ll eat somebody and I’ll be responsible.”
“You will not be responsible. His maker bears that burden.”
“Yeah, and when I find that son of a bitch, whoever he is, I’m gonna kick his ass. In the meantime, Tommy stays here, where I can keep an eye on him.”
“And when he succumbs to his terrible need for flesh, as he surely will do?”
“Then I’ll take care of it,” she said, though the thought made her cringe.
“No, you will not,” Conall said. “When the time comes, I will do the deed.”
Toby sauntered in from the kitchen dressed in his usual uniform of jeans and a T-shirt. His long, gray hair was damp and neatly braided.
“That dang zombie’s crawling around in the kudzu looking for the Wampus Kitty,” he said. “Hope he finds her.”
Beck stared at him in surprise. “I thought you didn’t like Annie.”
“Don’t like her,” Toby said. “She scares the hell out of me. Been thinking, though. Maybe we ought to keep her around. Kinda like a secret weapon, you know?”
Beck bit her bottom lip to keep from smiling. Toby Littleton’s bark was definitely worse than his bite. It was one of the things she loved best about the old coot.
“She knows how to clear a room,” she said. “Thanks for cleaning up the place, Tobes. What’d you do, call in a favor?”
“Negatory. I didn’t clean squat. Went home, like you said.”
“Then who did?” Beck said.
Junior Peterson materialized. “Where’s my piano?”
“What piano?” Toby said. “And who the hell are you?”
Junior drew himself up. “I’m Junior Peterson, of the Petersons. I’m the new piano player.” The ghost gave Beck an accusatory glare. “Or I would be if someone had done what they said they’d do.”
“I’ve been busy,” Beck said.
“That’s no excuse,” Junior said. “I can’t haunt the Episcopal church forever, you know. Sooner or later, Father Ben’s going to figure out I’m a ghost. He pulls out the holy water and the Book of Common Prayer, and I’m a goner.”
Chapter Fourteen
Junior was dressed in a pair of tan trousers and a navy-and-white–checked button-down shirt. He looked elegant, urbane, and totally pissed.
“So you’ll cross over,” Beck said. “Is that such a bad thing?”
“Maybe I’m not ready to leave,” Junior said. “Maybe I still have things to do. Besides, we made a deal.”
“Hold the phone.” Toby looked at Beck in disbelief. “You hired a ghost and didn’t tell me? And not just any ghost, one of them uppity Petersons?”
“I forgot.”
“You forgot?” Toby waved his hand at her. “Remember me, your partner?”
“Things broke out in crazy and it just sort of happened.”
“Huh.” Toby folded his arms across his narrow chest. “How do you even know the guy can play?”
Junior stiffened. “I beg your pardon. I’m classically trained.”
“Hear that?” Toby said. “He’s classically trained. He plays Old Dead Guy music. Like anybody in a bar wants to listen to that.”
“I can play anything,” Junior said. “Put me in front of a piano and I’ll prove it to you.” He did a head smack. “Oh, wait. You haven’t got a piano.”
“Hannah’s a small town and pianos are expensive,” Beck protested. “Besides, I’m still trying to figure out who cleaned up the place.”
Junior rolled his eyes. “Buy a clue, honey, and ask your boyfriend.”
