Darynda Jones - First Grave on the Right

I semi-expected to hear trumpets blaring, or angels singing, or even the sound of my mother’s voice welcoming me to the other side. I mean, I was a fairly good person. All things considered. Surely I would head in the general direction of up.

Instead, I heard water dripping, slow and steady like the beat of a heart that barely had the endurance to continue. I smelled dirt under my face, cement, and chemicals. And I tasted blood.

It took only seconds for me to realize Reyes was near. I could feel him. His strength. His biting anger.

I blinked my eyes open and glanced around without moving, just in case Benny Price was nearby. I didn’t want him to see that I was awake and have him try to finish what he’d started. We were in a small storage room. Shelves with equipment and cleaning supplies lined the cinder block walls. Reyes was perched on one of them, balancing himself on the balls of his feet like a bird of prey, not so much gazing out the open door as refusing to look down at me.

Yep, he was angry. Still enshrouded in the dark mass of his cloak, he had laid the hood back, his face and hair now visible. The cloak had settled around him. It was calm, waiting, as was his blade. The lethal weapon was drawn, and he held the shaft in his powerful grip as the tip rested on the cement floor. It was the first time I’d really seen it. It had a straight blade like other swords, only much longer, and its edges were curved, with vicious-looking spikes. It reminded me of two things: a medieval torture device and his tattoo.

“I’m alive,” I croaked when I realized Price wasn’t in the room with us.

“Barely,” he said, still refusing to look at me.

But how? I brought up a hand and rubbed it over my throat. “He broke my neck.”

“He tried to break your neck.”

“He felt pretty successful to me.”

Reyes finally turned toward me. The force of his gaze took my breath away. “You’re not like other humans, Dutch. It’s not that simple.”

And you’re not like anything I’ve ever met. Our eyes stayed locked a long moment as I tried unsuccessfully to fill my lungs with air. Then we were interrupted by a male voice.

“Who’s there?”

I struggled to a partially sitting, partially wobbling position and turned to see a bound man with a cloth tied over his eyes huddled in a corner of the room. He had a graying beard and thick dark hair. He also had the Roman collar of a Catholic priest.

“Father Federico?” I asked.

He stilled, then nodded his head.

Score!

He was alive. I was alive. This day was just getting better and better. Till I felt the gun at my temple.

Before I could even turn toward Price, I heard the swing of a blade slice through the air. The gun fell harmlessly to the ground, and Price doubled over with a sharp cry of pain.

Well, crap. Dad was going to kill me.

I scrambled out of Price’s reach, dived back for the gun, then rescrambled out of his reach again. But he was writhing in pain, holding his wrist, and rocking on his knees. Most men with severed spinal cords couldn’t rock on their knees. I glanced up, but Reyes went all dark and smoky and disappeared before I could say a thing. And I could have sworn he was wearing a grin when he did it.

“What … what did you do to me?”

That was a good question. What had Reyes done? As usual, there wasn’t a drop of blood.

Sussman popped in, assessed Price’s condition, nodded toward me in approval, then popped back out again.

“I can’t move my fingers.” Price was crying and slobbering. It was fairly grotesque. Reyes must have severed the tendons in his wrist or something. Cool.

I kept the gun aimed at his head as I scooted back toward Father Federico. Just as I started to untie him, Angel rushed into the room, followed by a disheveled Uncle Bob, and I had to wonder how Angel managed to lead him here.

After two other uniforms stormed in and took Price down, Uncle Bob knelt beside me. “Charley,” he said, worry lining his face. He brushed at my mouth with his thumb. It probably had blood where Price’s grip had been. “Are you okay?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked, struggling with Father Federico’s blindfold. “I totally had this.”

Then there was this odd moment. Like a reality check or something. Uncle Bob took the gun from me, then helped me with the Father’s blindfold, lifting it off him — and the look on the man’s face, the gratitude and relief, overwhelmed me. Uncle Bob looked back at me, his expression so soft, so concerned, that I jumped into his arms and held on as long as I dared. He wrapped me in a hug that was like heaven, only less glitzy.

It must have been the relief. Of being alive. Of finding Father Federico. Of bringing Price down. While I let myself wallow in the warmth of Ubie’s hug, I fought the tears that threatened to surface with every ounce of my being. This was no time for tears. I could be such a girl.

Then I felt a hand on my shoulder, and I knew it was Garrett’s.

“So, can I go watch the strippers now?”

I peeked over Ubie’s shoulder at a grinning, wingless Angel. I would have hugged him, too, but it looked odd when I hugged the dead in public.

“He pulled my tie,” Uncle Bob said when I asked him how he found us.

“Angel pulled your tie?”

“Led me right to you.”

We sat in the conference room at the station, watching the tape of Benny Price’s confession. It was ridiculously late, and we’d replayed the video about seven thousand times already. I think Garrett was watching it for the shots of the girls. They seemed to get along well.

“I gotta tell you, Davidson, I’m impressed,” he said, his eyes glued to the screen. “That took balls.”

“Please,” I said with a snort, “that took ovaries. Of which I have two.”

He turned to me, a new appreciation lighting his face. “Have I mentioned that I’m a licensed gynecologist? If your ovaries ever need anything…”

With a roll of my eyes, I rose from the table and hobbled barefoot to the door. While I was hiding the fact that I’d pretty much had my neck broken during Price’s attempted getaway, I couldn’t hide the fact that I’d twisted my ankle walking back to the van. Damned stilettos. So now my neck and my ankle were killing me.

In the meantime, Barber and Elizabeth popped in to say they’d found Father Federico. He was at the hospital. They were only a little disappointed when I told them he was there because we took him there. He wasn’t in the best condition, but he’d live.

All in all, it had been a very good day. We had the flash drive, the video, and Father Federico’s testimony. Benny Price would likely spend the rest of his life in prison. Or at least a healthy chunk of it. Of course, he’d have to learn to use his left hand, I thought with a chuckle.

And Uncle Bob would take all the credit, but that was simply how it had to be. Still, my becoming a private investigator really helped in the cover department. We no longer had to make up excuses to explain why I was at a crime scene or what kind of consultant I was, exactly. I was a PI. People pretty much stopped asking questions after that.

“You never told me their names,” Garrett called to me.

I turned back and raised my brows in question.

An evil grin spread across Garrett’s face. “You introduced me to Danger and Will Robinson, but you neglected to acquaint me with the other two.” His gaze strayed down to my abdomen.

“Fine,” I said with an impatient sigh. “But you can’t make fun of their names. They’re very sensitive.”

He showed his palms. “I would never.”

After I subjected him to a warning scowl, I pointed in the general vicinity of my left ovary, “This is Beam Me Up.” Then to my right. “And this is Scotty.”