The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson, #12)

by Darynda Jones

Few things in life were more entertaining than haunted houses. The people living in said haunted houses, perhaps. Or the time-honored tradition of watching paint dry because, sadly, most haunted houses were not actually haunted.

He was adorable, all dark hair and skinny limbs. Mrs. Blomme didn’t agree. She clawed at my arm and shrank in to my side, peering over my shoulder to look at the boy while using my body as a shield. Clearly, if the fecal matter hit the fan, I would be sacrificed.

I had much to do, including solve a couple of murders and hunt down a recalcitrant deity. But first, I had a skip tracer to harass.

I don’t want to look pretty. I want to look otherworldly and vaguely threatening.

“So I accidently-on-purpose sent Reyes into a hell dimension and then couldn’t get him back out again but around an hour later he exploded out of the god glass that has a difference of anywhere from several years if not several hundreds of years to a single hour here on Earth but when he came back he wasn’t so much Reyes anymore as an angry deity with the power to destroy the world with a single thought.” He sank into the chair across from me again and just kind of stared. I did a quick analysis of my nails. Nibbled on a couple. Conducted a visual assessment of Garrett’s kitchen. Contemplated raiding his cabinets for Oreos. Took another sip of coffee. Wondered if Marvel and DC could ever live in harmony. Shifted in my chair to adjust my underwire. Tapped out White Stripes’ “Seven Nation Army” on the table with my fingertips. Checked my phone for messages.

“Hey,” I said before he actually carried out his diabolical plot to clobber me, “it was his idea. I didn’t want to send him into that hell dimension. I was going to go in myself. Check shit out. Come back no worse for the wear. But noooo. The man with the balls had to go in because he’s manly with manly balls and a penis to guide him. And now he’s all savage and wild, but he still has his balls. That’s all that’s important, by God. His man parts.”

“First things first. We need to kidnap and torture Osh.” “I’m good with that.” “Do you have torture supplies?” I asked, hopeful. “Not on me, but there’s a twenty-four-hour Walmart nearby. Any particular reason we have to torture him?” “Not especially. Torture just pairs really well with kidnapping. As you know, I don’t like to do things halfway. Also, I’m worried he’ll be a little too happy to oblige.” “Meaning?” “Meaning, we need to come up with a plan before we invite a slave demon, and a former enemy of my husband’s, into our secret club. I’m worried that once he realizes Reyes has gone to the dark side, he’ll go off half-cocked. We need him standing with us. At full-cock. Proud and strong.” “You’re such a freak.” “You’d be amazed at how often I hear that.”

I gave up, mostly because my brain hurt, and got out of bed. I needed coffee. And a shower. Or a coffee shower. Hey … Since I’d had enough coffee over the last twenty-four hours to see noise, I chose the shower first.

I once made a pot of coffee so strong, it opened a jar for me.

“Did you know Penn Jillette and his wife named their daughter Moxie CrimeFighter?” She poured herself what was left of the coffee, then joined me. “I read that somewhere. How cute is that?” “Cute? Cook, it’s horrible. I mean, what if, when the poor girl grows up, she wants to be the villain?”

“Hey, Pari, what’s up?” “Hey, Chuck. I’ve been meaning to call. See how you were. See if you’ve managed to destroy any small countries.” “Hey, I’ve only destroyed parts of small countries. Never a whole one.” “Yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night, babe.”

With each move carefully calculated, I eased off the pile of rubble, slipping once and almost falling to my death—or to the rest of my horribly maimed life.

“Charley, damn it.” “I keep telling people, Damn It is not my last name. It’s not even my middle name.” “No, your middle name is Cookie Is Going to Kick My Ass Next Time She Sees Me.” “That’s it, I’m legally changing my middle name.”

God is love, but Satan does that thing you like with his tongue.

Speaking of which, while Cookie was in the throes of amazement, I asked her if I could call her Walter. As in Walter White. As in the Cook. She didn’t answer. I took that as a yes. As we got closer to our destination, Walter sat stewing again, only this time she stewed in a stock made of sautéed astonishment, pureed bewilderment, and raw, undiluted desire. After all we’d been through, I loved that I could still dazzle her. I was worried she’d grow tired of my tales and my life would become mundane in her eyes. But so far, so good.

If I were a Jedi, there’s a 100% chance I’d use the Force inappropriately.

That which doesn’t kill me, makes me weirder and harder to relate to.

We hung up, and I set up the sting, otherwise known as Operation Spy on Kit and Get Her to Reveal the Whereabouts of a Certain Witness to a Crime Perpetrated by the Newly Departed Hector Felix. I was so bad at naming operations.

I Ubered it to Juarez, which is apparently much easier than Ubering it out of Juarez. It took me a while to explain to the driver, who’d picked me up in the middle of nowhere wearing a little black dress, ankle-high boots, and a lot of dirt why I needed to hide in his trunk, but my passport and other paraphernalia were in my purse in the very Jeep I was headed toward. At least it was if they didn’t take it, but since the whole point was to prove I’d gone to Mexico and gotten myself dragged off and killed, never to be seen again, it would’ve been stupid for them not to leave it. I promised him a huge tip, as in four figures, if he’d let me rest in his trunk. He was worried we’d get caught, but I assured him we wouldn’t. If they did happen to open the trunk, which was unlikely, I’d just shift onto the celestial plane. I’d vanish. He totally didn’t believe me, though. Not the part where it was unlikely they would open the trunk but the part where I could shift onto the celestial plane and become Invisigirl. Strange how nobody believed that shit.

“Reyes,” I said, “is there anything you want to say to Garrett?” Reyes lifted a shoulder. “Sorry I killed you. Repeatedly.” “Garrett,” I said, turning my admonishing attention to the most understanding guy on planet Earth, “is there anything you want to say to Reyes?” Before I could stop him, Garrett dropped the gun into his left hand and swung, his large fist making contact with Reyes’s jaw. The sound was awful, a hard, crunchy sound, and I didn’t know what was hurt worse, Reyes’s jaw or Garrett’s fist. But, being manly men, neither of them gave up the game. Neither showed weakness. They stood for an hour, give or take fifty-five minutes, glaring at each other nose to nose, before Garrett asked, “Beer?” Reyes gave a single, solitary nod, then all was right with the world. In an instant, the plane had righted itself.