Demon Hunting In the Deep South (28 page)

“I did. Got the file off microfiche. The victim in that case was murdered in much the same way as your granddaughter-in-law, cut to pieces with a knife.”

Peterson’s expression grew pained. “Surely you’re not suggesting my father killed Meredith? The man’s been dead more than twenty years, God rest him.”

“Of course not, but what if the person who killed June Hammond—the real killer—is still out there and killed Meredith?”

“You mean like a serial killer?”

“Exactly.”

Peterson laughed. It was not a pleasant sound. “June Hammond was murdered in 1967. Your serial killer would be riddled with arthritis by now.”

“Maybe, or maybe he was a young man when he murdered Hammond. I’ve done some research. There have been a number of unsolved murders in Behr County over the past fifty years. Six, to be exact, including June Hammond. They all involve female victims who were stabbed to death.”

“Fascinating,” Peterson said, striding toward the door. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, my wife is waiting.”

“How old were you in 1967, Mr. Peterson?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“A man in your prime,” the sheriff said. “One more thing, Mr. Peterson. Did your father’s knife collection include any Scagels?”

Peterson opened the door and looked back. “Scagels, a Frank Richtig, a Nichols blade, several by Bo Randall, and a Bob Loveless. My father loved beautiful things. Come to the house sometime and see for yourself.”

“I’ll do that. Does Trey have access to your father’s knife collection?”

“Yes. So do a number of other people, including me, my wife, and our two daughters.”

Peterson stalked out the door and into the night.

Sheriff watched the older man leave, reaching for the device on his belt when it beeped. “Yeah? All right, Willa Dean, try and calm her down. I’m on my way.”

He clipped the box back at his waist. “That was dispatch. A woman on County Road Fourteen swears a man tried to kill her Chihuahua. That’s the third call like that I’ve had today.” He sighed. “Like I need this craziness in the middle of a murder investigation.”

Ansgar looked around. The lobby was empty. To whom was he speaking?

“You might as well show yourself, Mr. Dalvahni,” Whitsun said, answering his question. “I know you’re here.”

With a muttered curse, Ansgar materialized. “How?” he demanded, in no mood to dance around the matter.

Whitsun chuckled. “No need to look so put out. I can smell the leather you’re wearing and your cologne . . . and something else. Some kind of wax, maybe?”

Ansgar grunted. “You have a good nose, Sheriff. ’Tis rosin you smell. I use it on my bow.”

“A bow hunter, huh? Is that standard demon hunter issue?”

“No, our weapons are a matter of individual taste.”

Ansgar considered the man. Most humans were frightened of anything they did not understand and resistant to the idea of the supernatural, to say the least. Yet, this man seemed calm, unnaturally so. Whitsun was an enigma.

“You know what I am?” Ansgar asked finally.

“I’m pretty sure I do. You’re in law enforcement, like me, only in your job, the bad guys you round up happen to be demons. The way I figure it, we’re in the same line of work. I think of it as damage control.”

“Damage control? That is an interesting way of putting it.” Ansgar was reluctant to admit it, but he was beginning to admire and like this man. “You are familiar with the djegrali?”

The sheriff seemed to consider the unfamiliar term. “Is that a fancy word for demons?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, yeah, then I reckon I know something about them.”

“Then be warned, Sheriff. For reasons unbeknownst to us, the djegrali have managed to propagate in Hannah, and their hellish offspring abound in this place. This may come as a surprise to you, but Blake Peterson is a demonoid.”

“I’m not surprised at all,” the sheriff said. “You see, I’m a demonoid, too.”

Ah, Ansgar thought with a surge of satisfaction. Hadn’t he always known the sheriff was something out of the ordinary? Then he thought of something else.

“I do not understand,” he said, frowning. “Your eyes are gray.”

Whitsun chuckled. “I wear contacts, Mr. Dalvahni. Purple eyes are a dead giveaway to other demonoids. Makes my job easier if I stay under the radar.”

Chapter Twenty-eight

E
vie stared at the ghoul. Meredith lounged on the sofa in the antechamber of the women’s restroom. She was wearing her old Hannah High cheerleader uniform, and her blond hair was mussed and scraggly. Black streaks of mascara ran down her face, and she was covered in blood. She looked ghastly, but in a fun, Halloweeny kind of way.

“Nice costume,” Evie said. “Glad to see you getting into the spirit of things.”

“Is that a crack?” Meredith swung her slender, blood-smeared legs off the couch and floated to her feet. “Because the living impaired have feelings, too, you know.” She looked Evie up and down. “What are you supposed to be, the plus-sized madam of a whore house?”

How many times over the years had Meredith called her some version of fat? Too many to count. Evie waited for the familiar hurt and shame to wash over her, drowning her in a sea of self-loathing. Nothing happened. The Death Starr’s power over her was broken, thanks to a certain demon hunter.

She gave Meredith a sunny smile. “Actually, I
am
supposed to be a scarlet woman. How clever of you to guess! But, then, you always were good at games.”

There was a loud
whoosh
from the other room, and Leonard Swink faded through the metal door of a stall. “Sorry, my EMF must be fluctuating. I had no idea these automatic toilets were so sensitive.” He saw Evie and wavered a little in surprise. “Gracious, you gave me a turn. I didn’t realize we had company.”

“I don’t mean to be rude, Mr. Swink,” Evie said, “but I think you’re more of a
Bark
than a
Blossom.
This is the ladies’ room.”

“My client needed my support. She saw her husband for the first time since her Dreadful Demise and became distressed.”

“Distressed?” Meredith clenched her fists. “I can’t get near Trey for the bitches hanging on him like ticks on a hound dog. I want to tear their hair out.”

“Yes, yes, I know,” Swink said. “But, as we’ve discussed, these violent mood swings of yours are detrimental to your recovery. Deathnesia is a serious condition. It can separate you permanently from the light.”

“Light, light, light,” Meredith said in a singsong voice. “I’m sick to death of hearing about the frigging light. If it’s so all-fired great,
you
go to the light, Lenny. I’m staying here with Trey.”

“Wait.” Evie stared at Meredith in dismay. “Are you saying you still can’t remember who killed you?”

“Would I be hanging around this stupid bathroom if I did? Think about it, Chubby.”

“This is more of a lounge than a bathroom.” Swink looked around the spacious room with an expression of admiration. “Much nicer than the men’s room. What is the couch for?”

“Lesbian aerobics, Swink.” Meredith rolled her eyes. “Just as you guys always suspected. It’s why we never go to the bathroom alone.”

“Oh, my.” Swink blinked rapidly behind his bifocals.

“It was a joke, dim bulb,” Meredith said. “How the hell did you graduate med school?”

Before Swink could respond, the door flew open and Addy and Nicole burst into the room.

“Brand sent us to check on you,” Addy said. She sounded breathless. “Are you al—” She saw the ghosts and stopped. “Crappydoodle, there are two of them. Why is an accountant haunting the ladies’ room?”

Swink stiffened. “I am not—” Pressing his ruddy lips together in disapproval, he pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “This session is at an end.”

Bing!
He disappeared.

“Man, am I ever glad he’s gone,” Nicole said. “I gotta pee and I can’t make water with no guy listening. Makes my uvula draw up. ’Scuse me.”

She bustled into a stall and slammed the door.

Meredith drifted back onto the couch with a petulant sigh. “This blows.”

“What blows?” Evie asked.

“Being a ghost. Most people can’t see me, and those who can aren’t scared.” She glared at Evie and Addy. “Like you two and White Trash Wanda in there.”

The toilet flushed and Nicole came out of the stall.

“My name ain’t Wanda; it’s Nicole. And if it makes you feel any better, you scare me plenty,” Nicole said, going to the sink to wash her hands. She dried her hands and plucked a necklace out of the deep cleft between her breasts. “See this?” She waved the pendant on the chain at them. “Number sixteen. That’s Greg Biffle’s number, and it’s pure silver. Silver protects you against haints. And salt. I got me a little snack-size baggie of salt tucked inside my panties and in my purse, for spectral emergencies.”

Meredith widened her eyes. “Wow, you mean they make underwear in your size? What do they use, king-size sheets?”

“Ha ha, very funny.” Nicole touched up her lipstick. “In my experience, most men like a little cushion for the pushing.” She gave Meredith a pitying glance in the mirror. “Your poor husband must’ve scraped his pecker raw against that bony backbone of yours.”

Addy chuckled. “Ooh, burn.”

Meredith gasped and turned an unpleasant shade of purple beneath the blood. “Why you . . . you . . .”

Nicole ignored the sputtering ghost. “I left Frodo with Daniel, so I gotta get back.” Opening a drawstring pouch that hung from the belt of her toga, she slipped her lipstick back inside and turned to face Evie. “You coming back to the dance, Miss Evie, or are you staying here with Bitchy Boo?”

“Screw you, Wanda,” Meredith said, regaining her powers of speech at last.

“I’ll go with you,” Evie said, making a hasty retreat for the exit.

No way was she going to stay in the ladies’ room with Meredith after such an epic smackdown.

Brand waited for them outside the restroom, looking stern and disapproving.

“Oh, brother, that is not a happy face,” Nicole said after one look at Brand. “I’ll see y’all later. Bye.”

With a wave, she scurried off.

“All is well?” Brand asked when Nicole had gone.

“Everything’s fine.” Addy patted him on the cheek and smiled up at him. “Stop frowning, big guy. You’ll give yourself wrinkles. Come on, you owe me a dance.”

Addy and Brand were so in love, so
together,
Evie reflected as she followed them down the hallway. She would never have that with Ansgar. Unlike Addy, she was human and would age. But she’d take what she could get and for however long. Something with Ansgar was better than nothing without him.

Deep in thought, Evie didn’t notice Trey until he stepped out of the shadows and jerked her into an adjoining passageway. “Evie, I need to talk to you,” he said in an urgent tone. “You’re in danger.”

Blip!
Brand the Dalvahni guard dog was there and had Trey pinned to the wall. “You are a most annoying human,” he said. “And foolhardy as well. Had my brother returned and found you with Evie, ’twould not be pretty.”

“I wasn’t
with
Trey,” Evie protested. “I was minding my own business, and he came out of nowhere.”

Brand looked down his nose at her. “For the first time in his existence, Ansgar is in love,” he said, speaking with the care usually reserved for the mentally slow. “Humans toss that word around like so much chaff. Not so the Dalvahni. Duty and the hunt are all Ansgar has known. For eons, nothing has swayed him from his course, until he met you.”

“If Ansgar loves me, he should tell me so himself. But he hasn’t.”

“Give him time, Evie. He will.”

He’s had plenty of opportunities already, Evie thought, trying to keep her feet on the ground. But it was hard to be sensible when Brand had planted a seed of hope in her heart. What if Ansgar did love her? The very thought made something warm and exciting bloom inside her. Could she and Ansgar have a future together, however brief?

Stranger things had happened. Look at Addy and Brand. Theirs had been a whirlwind courtship. Brand had been placed on permanent assignment here because this one-horse town at the backend of nowhere attracted demons and woo woo like a navy sweater attracts lint. No one knew why Hannah was a demon magnet, but there was no getting around the fact the town was off-the-charts weird.

Weird was good. Weird meant Ansgar might stay. A heavy weight lifted from her heart.

“What of you?” There was a curious, watchful expression in Brand’s green eyes. “Do you love Ansgar?”

Evie hesitated, embarrassed to bare her soul to this grim man.

“Yes, I love him,” she said at last. “I’ve never felt like this about anyone before.”

“I am glad. It is no easy thing for a Dalvahni warrior to love. Remember that, Evie, and all will be well.”

“Hey.” Trey said in a strangled voice. “Let go of me. I can’t breathe.”

Brand released him.

Glaring at Brand, Trey straightened his crumpled shirt and tie. “As I was saying, Evie, there’s something I need to tell you. It’s about Meredith’s murder. You see—”

“Trey? Can you see me, baby? Oh,
please
say you can see me.”

“Meredith?” Trey’s baritone voice went up several octaves. “Is that you?”

The bloody cheerleader rushed at Trey, arms opened wide. “Your Sweet Stuff is back, Snookems, and she’s never gonna leave you again!”

“Holy mother of God,” Trey said, and slid to the floor unconscious.

Evie dabbed Trey’s forehead with the moistened paper towel Addy had fetched from the ladies’ room. Meredith was a big help, fluttering around her fallen husband like an empty plastic bag in a windy parking lot, alternating between cries for help and fits of jealousy because Trey had his head in Evie’s lap.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Meredith, get a clue. Evie is
not
interested in Trey,” Addy said, losing patience with the ghost.

Meredith glared at Evie. “Why not? Isn’t he good enough for you, Fatty?”

“Much too good for me,” Evie said. “I’m nowhere in his league, and I know it.”

“Humph,” Meredith said, subsiding into disgruntled silence.