Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (14 page)

They rounded a curve and came into a huge clearing.

Toby slammed on the brakes. “Cheezy Pete, that ain’t no hunting cabin. It’s a freaking hotel.”

A sprawling two-story lodge built out of logs hunkered on a stone foundation. Smoke curled out of a towering chimney at one end of the building. The dirt road gave way to a white gravel drive that curved past the house and beyond to a multicar garage.

A bonfire blazed in a stone pit in front of the palatial home, and wood smoke and the scent of roasting meat wafted from an industrial-size grill on wheels. Plank tables loaded with food banked the wide porch steps, and burly servants with trays wandered among the guests offering festive drinks in plastic cocktail glasses.

Hundreds of people milled around the lawn, a lush oasis of winter rye grass in the middle of the vast hunting preserve. Beck recognized some of the faces from the bar or from around town, but there were quite a few folks she didn’t know. Everybody was laughing and drinking and talking. It was a par-tay, and the kith were out in force.

The crowd hummed with restless expectancy, like a large animal stretching its muscles in anticipation. But in anticipation of what? The atmosphere was reminiscent of the primal tug of the shifter moon the night before, and yet different.

Darker and more dangerous.

Beck was gripped by a sudden, unreasoning urge to turn and run, and keep on running.

She glanced over at Toby. His expression was tense and alert, his long nose aquiver. He sensed it, too, the Big Ugly lying in wait.

He gripped the steering wheel. “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“Me, too.” She swallowed the nervous lump in her throat. “I don’t think this is our kind of party after all. Let’s get out of here.”

“Roger that.”

Toby slung the truck into reverse, backed up a few feet, and stopped.

“Shit,” he said. “Road’s gone.”

“What?” Beck wheeled around to take a look.

Behind the Ford, rye grass undulated in the breeze; beyond that, nothing but thick woods. The road was gone, swallowed up by the trees.

A
no-neck goon yanked the passenger door open and pulled Beck out of the truck. The smell of cheap cologne climbed up her nose and coated the back of her throat, making her sneeze. Jeez, somebody needed to ease up on the aftershave.

Squatty and heavy with muscle, the goon had closely cropped muddy brown hair and small, unblinking dark eyes. His conservative dress—crisply starched khakis and a pink shirt embossed with an oversized pony on the front—was at odds with his brutish appearance. The result was jarring and just plain
wrong,
like a rhino in a tutu.

“Hey, what’s the big idea?” Beck said, trying to wrest her arm from his iron grip. “Let go of me.”

It was a waste of time. The guy had hands like meat hooks.

“Boss say bring you,” the tank said, tugging her toward the house.

His speech was guttural and thick, like talking was a newly acquired skill. Sharp as a spoon, this one, Beck thought.

And loaded with personality; Tommy was more animated than this guy, and Tommy was dead.

“Toby,” Beck yelled over her shoulder.

“Right behind you, baby girl.”

Toby came around the other side of the truck accompanied by a baldheaded slab of beef in khakis and a royal blue shirt with cheery lemon yellow embroidery. The two thugs marched Beck and Toby up to the house and onto the spacious front porch.

“Stay here,” Meat Hooks and Baldy growled in unison.

Lurching back down the steps, they took side-by-side positions and froze in place like a couple of grotesque Polo-clad refugees from the Island of Naboombu.

“What the hell?” Toby said. “Something wrong with them two. They smell funny.”

“No kidding. I think the one in pink took a bath in
Axe
.”

Toby grunted. “Trying to cover up something with all that stinkum.”

Beck’s stomach did a queasy flip-flop. “Demons?”

“Don’t think so. Demons smell rotten.” Toby rubbed the end of his long nose. “These guys smell more like dirt. Like when you’re digging in the leaves after a vole and you get to the mulch underneath where the worms and blind things live. Know what I mean?”

No, she didn’t. But, then, she’d never been a dog. “What are they?”

“Dunno,” Toby said. “Not human. More’n that—couldn’t say.”

Charlie Skinner staggered around the side of the house, an open Mason jar in one hand. He stomped up the steps in the red and yellow boots.

“Lookee here what the cat done drug up,” he twanged. “If it ain’t Miss High and Mighty and her fav-o-rite hound. Figured you’s too good for the rest of us.” He took a swig from the jar and gave Beck a knowing leer. “Wuzza matter, you smell money and come a-running?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Beck said.

“Big changes in the wind. You throw in with the right folks, and you could make a pile.”

Charlie
was
a pile. The kind treated with Preparation H.

“Which folks?” She kept her tone pleasant. “You mean the Petersons?”

“Hell no. Trey Peterson ain’t no big thang, not compared to
them.
”

“Them?”

Charlie waved his arm, sloshing the contents of the jar. “The big kahunas, the guys in charge. If you’s smart, you’ll go along with the plan.”

“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?!”