by Lexi George
“Oh, yeah? What happens if we don’t go along with the . . . uh . . . ‘plan’?”
“You can kiss it good-bye, bay-bay, that’s what. These guys don’t mess around. But I ain’t saying no more.” He gave her a lopsided grin. “You be nice to Old Charlie and he might put in a good word for you.”
“Nice, huh?” Beck’s stomach lurched. “What did you have in mind?”
Like she didn’t know. Yuck. Play along, she thought. Be smart. You can do this.
Charlie leaned closer. Good God, Charlie’s breath would peel paint.
“For starters, you can have a drink with me.” He waggled the jar at her. “And then you and me can go upstairs and play horsey. I’ll be the horse and you can ride.” He winked. “Earl ain’t the only-est Skinner with talent down there, if you catch my drift.”
Sweet baby Jesus, Charlie Skinner was talking about his parts. Vomitous maximus.
Toby took the jar from Charlie. “The gal ain’t much of a drinker, but I’ll have a swig.”
Charlie grunted, watching closely as Toby took a swallow.
Toby’s eyes widened. “Man, that’s good.”
“Smooth, ain’t it?” Charlie said. “M’ own special blend. I call it ‘kith-a-poo joy juice.’ ‘Kith-a-poo,’ get it?”
“I get it. For the demon in you,” Toby said.
“Hey, I like that.” Charlie slapped Toby on the shoulder. “That ’ud make a damn good slogan. You’re all right, Littleton.”
“So is this here ’shine,” Toby said, taking another gulp.
“Take it easy,” Beck said in alarm. “That’s strong stuff.”
“Quit pecking at him,” Charlie said. “A man don’t need no nagging woman. He can drink all he wants. Plenty more where that come from.” Charlie waved his arm at the crowd.
“Trey asked Old Charlie to provide the booze for this here event. Whadda you think’s in them fancy little glasses? Skinner moonshine, that’s what.”
“Hot damn,” Toby said, draining the jar.
The front door opened, and Evan stepped out of the house. His dark hair was glossy and straight today. Swept in a dramatic fashion across his white brow and over one eye, it gave him the appearance of a brooding, bad boy. The torn jeans and white T-shirt were gone, replaced by dark blue slacks and a purple shirt topped off with a black leather jacket. He’d removed the loop from his bottom lip, but the long earring and numerous silver studs were still in place. His long nails were painted a sleek navy blue.
Trey Peterson was with him; Beck recognized him from the paper.
Through the years, Beck had followed Trey Peterson and his golden crowd in the paper with avid interest and more than a twinge of jealousy. Rich, handsome, and from a socially prominent family, Trey had always seemed to have it all. She’d often wondered what it would be like to be him. Living a privileged life, a big fish in Hannah’s little pond, part of the in-crowd. Belonging, not looking in on things from the outside like her.
But that was before she’d met Junior and learned what kind of monster Blake Peterson had been. A murderer who’d killed Trey’s father in front of him in the most brutal fashion to teach him a lesson.
She examined Peterson carefully, taking in the expensive cut of his dress slacks and his cashmere sweater. The sweater alone probably cost more than most people made in a week, but Trey wore it with the casual assurance of someone used to good things. The fancy clothes didn’t disguise the fact that he looked tense and unhappy. Lines of strain were etched around his mouth and eyes.
Evan strolled up to them with Peterson at his heels.
Working at the bar, Beck had learned to read people, but she couldn’t get a bead on Evan. He was a still pond, with things moving beneath the quiet surface. What kind of things, though, she could not tell.
“Hello, Cookie,” Evan said. “Peterson, introduce yourself.”
“How do you do, Miss Damian? I’m Trey Peterson. Evan mentioned you were coming.” Trey held out a trembling hand to Toby. “And you must be her partner, Toby Littleton.”
Toby swayed, staring at Trey’s hand without shaking it. Toby was pounded.
“Thanks for the invite, but we can’t stay,” Beck said. “Toby doesn’t feel well.”
Evan chuckled. “You seem out of sorts. What’s the matter, Cookie, that big stud not hitting it the way you want?”
“You shut your filthy mouth,” Toby said. His wiry body quivered with hostility. “You don’t talk to her like that.”
Beck laid a quieting hand on Toby’s arm and looked at Trey. “Toby and I need to get back to the bar. Tell your men to let us through.”
Peterson’s eyes widened. “What? Uh, I mean, I don’t know if that’s—”
“No one leaves until after the meeting,” Evan said, cutting him off.
“Y-yes, that’s what I meant to say.” Trey nodded. “No one leaves until after the meeting.”
O-k-a-a-y. Trey’s name might be on the invitation, but he wasn’t in charge.
She turned to Evan. “You can’t keep us prisoners here.”
“Why not?” Evan said. “We’re all prisoners of something. Right, Peterson?”
Trey jumped. “What’s that? I-I’m afraid I wasn’t listening.”
Peterson wasn’t nervous. He was flat out scared. The queasy feeling in Beck’s stomach returned. She glanced around, looking for a way out. The forest had crept farther in; the trees crouched a few feet behind Toby’s truck. As she watched, the trees crept closer. No getting out that way.
If Toby were sober, they could shift and make a run for it, maybe get past Meat Hooks and Baldy and hide in the woods. Not a pleasant thought, going into those moving trees.
She took a deep breath. She was letting her imagination run away with her. It was a party. Folks were laughing and dancing, and getting sloshed on moonshine. The thing with the trees was unnerving, but weird was normal around the kith, especially when alcohol was involved. She could handle this. She’d find out what was going on and prove to Captain Joy Suck she could be trusted. That just because she was kith didn’t mean she was evil.
Why, exactly, it was so important to prove herself to him, she did not know.
“I don’t feel so good,” Toby announced and promptly turned into a dog.
“Toby?” Beck reached out for him, snatching her hand back as he snapped at her. “What’s gotten into you?”
Toby snarled and went after his tail, circling in a maddened frenzy.
“This is your fault,” Beck said, turning on Charlie. “You got him drunk.”
Charlie drew himself up. “It ain’t my fault the man can’t handle his liquor. He ain’t the only one, neither.” He spat in disgust. “Look at ’em. Bunch of pussies.”
Beck took a closer look at the crowd. Toby wasn’t the only one having a bad reaction to Charlie’s home cooking. As she watched, several people ran screaming for the woods, only to be turned aside by the trees. One man flung himself blindly at the unyielding trees until a flailing limb struck him in the head. He fell at the edge of the clearing and lay still, blood trickling from his mouth and ears.
Still others reverted to their animal forms; foxes, dogs, cats, and sundry other animals darted between the legs of the drunken kith, adding to the confusion. A man and woman at the edge of the crowd shifted helplessly, going from human form to animal and back again, until they collapsed, naked and quivering, on the ground.
Evan gestured, and a crew of big guys carried the injured man and the unconscious couple off the field and started rounding up the crazed animals.
Beck watched them carry the bleeding man into the house. “You’ve poisoned your own kind,” she said to Charlie. “So help me, if you’ve hurt Toby I’ll—”
“Aw, hell, don’t get your dander up. The mutt will be fine,” Charlie said. “Might have a little head on him in the morning, but that’s all.”
Toby leaped off the porch. Dodging the lumbering guards, he streaked toward the woods, letting out a startled yelp
when the trees lashed at him with their branches.
“Let him go, Skinner,” Evan said.
Charlie shook his head. “They said don’t let nobody through.”
“They don’t give a shit about a part blood mutt. Do as I say.”
“All right, but I ain’t taking the heat if they don’t like it.”
Charlie waved a fleshy hand and the trees stilled. Toby disappeared into the woods.
Charlie noticed Beck’s shocked expression and chuckled. “You thought Old Charlie was no-count? You was wrong.” He hitched up his belt. “Us Skinners are late bloomers. Maybe we ain’t zombie makers like our boy Evan, but we got skills. How you think we’ve run moonshine all these years without being caught?”
“The trees,” Beck said, putting two and two together. “You move the trees around to hide the stills.”
“Bingo.” Charlie grinned. “Them revenuers ain’t caught us yet and they ain’t going to.”
Beck hardly heard him. Her gaze was on Evan. “You’re the zombie maker?”
Evan jerked his head at Charlie and Trey. “Give us a minute. Alone.”
“Fine by me,” Charlie said. “Peterson, you look kind of peaked. What say we get us a little drinky poo before the meeting starts?”
“Can’t,” Trey said. “Got to get back inside.”
“Suit yourself,” Charlie said. He stomped down the stairs, grabbed a drink from a waiter, and cozied up to a brunette half his age.
Trey gave Beck a weak smile. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll—”
“William Blake Peterson the Third,” a petite blonde screeched, materializing on a suffocating cloud of citrus perfume. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Beck’s spinning brain did a triple flying WTF. She recognized the chic blond bob, the blue eyes, pert nose, and carefully crayoned mouth from the society page. This woman was a big whoppeedoo deal in Hannah.
Or, more precisely, she had been. The blonde was Meredith Starr Peterson, Trey’s recently departed and very dead wife.
Meredith wore jeans that hugged her size two frame, five-inch beige suede ankle boots with leather stitching and trim, and a cashmere sweater.
She pointed a perfectly manicured pink nail at Trey. “You told me you were golfing. I can’t let you out of my sight for a minute.”
“I did play golf,” Trey stammered. “And now I’m at a business meeting.”
“Huh.” Meredith tapped an expensively shod foot and looked around. “What kind of business? I don’t see anyone from the club.” Her gaze narrowed on the drunken crowd. “Who are these people and what are they doing on our land? I don’t see anyone from the club.” She stiffened. “OMG, is that Earl Skinner? I’ve seen his picture in the paper. He steals car radios and broke into the Gas ’N Gulp. What’s that he’s waving around, his penis?” Her face melted into a ghoulish mask. “What kind of party is this, and why are you doing business with those white trash Skinners?!”
Trey looked embarrassed. “I’m not doing business with the Skinners, Merikins. Stop making a scene and come inside. I can explain.”
“I doubt it.” Meredith flounced after Trey. “Here I am, spilling my guts to a therapist, doing my best to make our marriage work, and you’re hanging around in the woods with the People of Walmart. What’s next, Neck Car? I am telling you, I absolutely despair that you will ever—”
Trey bolted into the house and slammed the door.
“Oh, no, you didn’t,” Meredith said.
She sprang after him, a pint-size velociraptor in designer high heels, and shot through the closed door, ghost fashion, leaving Beck and Evan alone on the front porch.
Beck considered Evan, trying to reconcile his sulky bad boy demeanor with what she now knew about him. He didn’t just see dead people; he played with them.
“You sent Tommy to the bar to find me?” she finally asked.
“Who’s Tommy?”
“The zombie. You don’t know his name?”
Evan shrugged. “Why bother? They’re lumps of rotting meat.”
“Tommy’s different. He knows what he is and he hates it. He’s suffering. You need to let him go.”
“He’s not suffering. He’s dead.”
“You’re wrong. He’s very much aware.”
“Forget the stupid zombie,” Evan said. “What matters is I found you.”
“You mean Tommy found me. How do you two communicate, anyway? Zombie telepathy?”
“I get flashes of what they see and hear. That’s how I knew you were going to the wedding.”
“What do you want, Evan? Why are you here now, after all these years?”
“Don’t you think I wanted to find you sooner?” To Beck’s surprise, Evan grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her. “I couldn’t. I never had a chance.”
Stunned by his outburst, Beck looked down at his hands. Tattoos writhed in sinuous loops across the pale canvass of his skin.
He looked past her at something and pushed her away. “They’re here. We’ll talk about this later. Keep your mouth shut and do what they say, Cookie, and you’ll be all right.”
“Who’s here?” Beck said, turning to look. Two shambling figures stepped out of the woods on the far side of the clearing. “Who are those people? Do you know them?”
Evan’s mouth twisted. “Oh, yeah. I know them. They’re my parents.”
Chapter Sixteen
Conall paced the length of the empty bar, nervous as a hart at the scent of a pack of hounds on the wind. Something crackled beneath his foot. He bent down and picked it up. It was a discarded bag of some kind. The lettering on the torn package said Select Brands Variety Pack and the words Nerds, Smarties, and Sweet Tarts were emblazoned across the front in bright colors. He wadded up the package and slammed it into the trash with unnecessary force. It was this damnable waiting. He was ill equipped for it.
’Twas ironic, this sudden lack of fortitude. He’d laid siege to cities until they crumbled and stalked the djegrali for centuries with the relentless persistence of water upon stone. Yet, he had no patience for an evening’s wait.
Puzzling in the extreme.
His worry was rooted in inactivity and his eagerness to uncover the djegrali’s secret. Certainly his restive mood had nothing to do with Rebekah. Granted, she was beautiful in spite of her demon blood; perhaps because of it.
Memories of the evening before made his blood race. The taste of her had been sweet, he admitted, remembering the way she’d come apart in his arms.
He wanted her. The Dalvahni were renowned for their sexual appetites and he had denied himself physical ease for too long. Rebekah was a fire in his blood. He lusted after her, plain and simple. The fact that she was forbidden fruit only added to her appeal.
He wanted her. There; he’d acknowledged it and felt better for it. Lust he knew and understood. If this be nothing more than desire, why the gnawing ache in your belly, like some great animal consumes you from within? a sly voice whispered.
Perhaps he was ill. He considered the possibility and rejected it. The Dalvahni did not know sickness or disease. They were famed for their regenerative powers. Physical hurt was but a brief sensation, quickly forgotten in a moment’s healing.
Not so humans. Images from a hundred battles rose unbidden in his mind, soldiers, broken and spent, their mangled dying bodies littering the blood-soaked fields. Mortal flesh was fragile, as easily crushed as the tender folds of a flower beneath a booted heel.
Rebekah is half human, the voice of worry whispered in his mind. You sent her unprotected into the unknown.
“The shifter is with her,” he said aloud. “He will protect her.”
And if Tobias is no match for the djegrali? Even now, she could be hurt or dying while you do nothing.
With a roar, Conall smashed the room to bits, breaking chairs and tables and blowing out the windows, taking care, even in his rage, not to shatter the glass counter and release the demons. Chest heaving, he surveyed the damage, his ire unsa
tisfied. His gaze moved to the bar and the demons floating within the confines of their translucent prison.
He could free the djegrali and engage them in battle, destroying them one by one. ’Twould be an epic battle, a song written in flame in the Great Book.
The warrior in him longed for the physical respite. He raised his hand to destroy the bar and lowered it again. Such a thing would be the act of a child indulging in a tantrum, not behavior behooving the leader of the Dalvahni.
Conall cursed, loud and long, dredging up every swear word he knew. His vocabulary was extensive and he was fluent in a multitude of languages. He had seen and heard much, and he had a very long memory.
When his anger was spent, he went about the business of setting the place to rights. He was putting the finishing touches on the job when the woman and the talking dog walked into the bar.
“Man. See man, Cassie?” the dog said, straining at the leash.
“I see him.” The woman’s hand tightened on the strap. She was beautiful, with smoky purple eyes and shining blond hair that brushed the tops of her shoulders. “Settle down.”
An aura of magic hung around her, confirming Conall’s suspicion that she was a demonoid. Clad in tan trousers, a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and sturdy, sensible shoes, the golden-haired stranger was an alluring mixture of femininity and practicality.
“Nice dog,” Conall said, giving the animal a dispassionate perusal. “It talks.”
“ ‘It’ is a she, and, yes, she does. I must say, you’re handling it well. Most folks would be freaked out.”
Freaked out: a heightened degree of emotion, particularly fright.
Conall shrugged. “A talking dog is unusual, but not unheard of.”
“Glad you’re okay with it.” She looked around. “Is Beck here?”
“No, she is at a meeting.”
Her eyes widened in dismay. “Don’t tell me she went to the gathering.”
“Yes. Tobias accompanied her.”
She sank into a chair, her expression distracted. “Oh, dear. I meant to call, but Dooley ran away and it took me hours to find her.” She patted the dog’s yellow fur. “You led me on quite a wild goose chase, didn’t you, you bad dog?”
