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

by Darynda Jones

What did surprise me was her reaction—or lack thereof—to the little girl named Charisma sitting cross-legged in front of us, listening as I regaled the horrors of the past week. Charisma blinked up at me, sipped the last of her juice through a cup with a twirly straw, then asked, “So, he’s not your husband anymore?”

When he spoke, his voice was thick and breathy. “Reyes has left the building,”

I still couldn’t help but wonder why Mrs. Blomme could see her granddaughter and great-grandson but not her great-granddaughter.

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.”

Since I’d had enough coffee over the last twenty-four hours to see noise, I chose the shower first.

“It’s time I got more involved. You know, step up to the plate. Go for the touchdown. Turn the dial to eleven.”

She was so special. She was so … unique. It’s like killing a mermaid or a unicorn. Why would someone do that?” I found it interesting that she used mythical creatures to describe her wife.

She’d prepared for my visit. Door to the public area closed. Shades on. Coffee brewed. Good girl.

But I meant, what has possessed you to steal blood?” “It’s for a project.” “What kind of project?” “A … bloody one.” “Charley.”

I froze in place as a rancid kind of anger washed over me. It was one thing to go after me. It was another to go after mine.

Then again, we were talking about Osh. Osh’ekiel the Daeva. The slave demon from hell, and apparently slaves weren’t treated any better in hell than they had been on Earth.

“You can hide it, but know this: I’ll find it eventually.” He pressed into me. “And when I do, I’ll not be kind.”

“Who am I?” I grabbed handfuls of his hair as well. Squeezed tight. Jerked back. Then, refusing to give in, I said, “My husband.”

I didn’t know how long that went on, but Osh finally pulled me out of my state of shock by asking, “So … threesome?”

I texted Cookie, and she met us in the parking lot, her all-black attire and black ski cap not at all suspicious considering she normally looked like a Jackson Pollock.

“Welcome to the law offices of Dick, Adcock, and Peterman. See? Cocky. They had to know what they were doing when they partnered up.”

Everyone raised a beer in salute. “No getting Pari convicted of our murders,” Osh said.

My T-shirt, which read MAJESTIC AS FUCK, wasn’t quite so angelic.

Apparently, angels didn’t like to be summoned. I could hardly blame them. I didn’t even like to be texted most of the time.

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.

But a guilty person will always, always apply what is said to what that guilty person did.

I schooled my features to stay neutral, but I’d rarely paid attention in school, so I had no idea if I was doing it right.

“Wait for it…” “I’m breathless with anticipation.” “Pico and De Gallo.” I waited, so proud of my creative mind, it was unreal. “Okay, I like it, but which is which?” “Cook,” I said, disappointed, “do you even know your breasts?” “’Parently not as well as you do.” “Pico is your left and De Gallo is your right. Wait, hold on.” I lowered my phone and tested the names out on Danger and Will. “Yes, that’s it. Left and right.” She thought about it another moment, then said, “Okay, we have an accord.”

“Rocket, does Blue always help you keep track of the names?” “No,” he said with a laugh. “I don’t know the names. Only Blue does. She whispers them to me, and I write them down. That’s my job. I write the names on the walls for her.”

The astonishing fact that I was summoning a priest from the 1400s was not lost on me. If he ended up being cool and not a raging madman murdering people, I was totally taking him for a drive in Peanut.

In an attempt to get its man, hell had crossed onto this plane. It had burned innocent people, but the other wounds were caused by the priest.

I scanned the area and found no fewer than twenty figures shrouded in tattered gray gauze. Their hands folded at their chests. Their faces not faces at all. They had no eyes. No noses. Only mouths sitting where mouths would normally be, the rest of their faces a total blank. Bone protruded from their heads, encircling them like a crown.

My life was completely and perfectly and incandescently normal. Gawd, I loved Pride and Prejudice.

“You’ve loved Reyes. Rey’aziel even. Not me.” “You’re wrong,” easing even closer. “Why do you think I begged Jehovah not to send you into that prison?” “The same prison you sent me into?” I grinned. “You did insist.”

He looked at his Brother. “I will protect her with my life. And with that, I will prove who I am. I will prove that I’m worthy of—” “Forgiveness,” Jehovah said, His expression a mixture of surprise and knowing.

“Yes. When I created the god glass and the hell within, I created hundreds of thousands of guards. Wraith demons. Depraved. Bloodthirsty.” “Because what’s a hell without a few thousand goblins?” I asked, teasing him.

“Reyes,” I said, “is there anything you want to say to Garrett?” Reyes lifted a shoulder. “Sorry I killed you. Repeatedly.”