Demon Hunting In a Dive Bar (27 page)

“What can I do? Nothing, I reckon but sit around and fall to pieces.” He held up his left thumb. The nail had split and the bone poked through the skin. “It’s already started.”

“You could ask that demon hunter to cut off your head with his sword. Problem solved.”

“And give my poor mama a heart attack? What you think she going do when I show up in New Orleans without a head?”

“She wouldn’t have to see you. You could be buried right here, or be cremated and have your ashes sprinkled on the river.”

Tommy thumped the can down on the step. “Sprinkle me? What am I, fish food? Now, you listen here. I am
not
spending eternity in this backwater shithole. I’m a city boy. I want to go home to New Orleans and be buried in the Greenwood Cemetery with the rest of the Hendersons.”

“You could kill the Maker. That’s bound to break the curse.”

“Can’t get near him,” Tommy said glumly. “On account of the spell.”

“Who is this guy?”

Tommy opened his mouth, but nothing came out. Great; just freaking great. The Maker had abandoned him like so much garbage, but he still couldn’t say his name. Silently, he held out Beck’s note for the ghost to read.

Junior’s pale eyes widened. “Evan? Beck’s brother is the zombie maker?”

“You know him?”

“I overheard him talking to Beck outside the church Saturday night.”

“He’s a bad one,” Tommy said. “I make one wrong move and he’ll stake me out in the sun for the buzzards to eat without a second thought.”

“What you need is an intermediary, a neutral third party—someone to act on your behalf.”

“Right,” Tommy said. “I’ll just trot my ass on down to the intermediary store and get me one of them. If that don’t work, I guess I could put an ad in the paper.” He waved a decomposing hand in the air.
“Zombie seeks murder for hire. Pays an arm and a leg.”

“I’ll be your agent.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I don’t see what you can do.”

“I’ll haunt him, that’s what,” Junior said. He straightened his slim frame. “I’ll make him sorry he was ever born. If there’s one thing I cannot abide, it’s a bully.”

T
uesday morning, Beck and Verbena rode into town in the Tundra. Beck’s Dalvahni watchdog went with them.

“You should stay here. We’re going shopping,” Beck told Conall as she and Verbena started to leave the bar.

“I go with you,” he said in his unyielding I-am-captain-of-the-Dalvahni voice.

“Okay, but you’ll be bored.”

“I survived the siege of Ilthanric, which lasted fourteen years. I think I can withstand a morning’s excursion to the market.”

“I’ll ride in the back, seeing as how you’re so tall,” Verbena said, scampering ahead of him across the parking lot.

Giving him a nervous glance over her shoulder, Verbena climbed in the Tundra. She wore a pair of old sweatpants, the plaid loafers she’d had on the day before, and a long-sleeve Budweiser T-shirt. A ball cap covered her mangled hair. Beck understood the girl’s alarm. Conall was in warrior mode this morning; everything about him, from the hard, challenging look in his eyes to the implacable set of his jaw, screamed menace.

Once, he would have made Beck nervous, too. But now she just wanted to jump his bones and kiss his stern mouth until she melted his cold, dangerous mood.

Lord, she was hopeless.

They left the bar and putted down the road in silence.

“River’s down,” Verbena commented as they crossed the Trammel Bridge.

Spring through late summer, Devil River Outfitters did a brisk business renting out kayaks, canoes, and inner tubes to those seeking recreation and an escape from the heat. There was no one on the rapids today. It had been a dry autumn, and the river was baring its rocky teeth.

They drove slowly into town. Hannah was snuggled between the river and a clump of low, rolling hills created millions of years earlier when a meteor had crashed into the South Alabama tabletop. A tree-lined swath of asphalt named Main Street ran from the bridge at the north end of town, past a small business district and the Methodist and Baptist churches, and huffed its way up a hill and down the other side into North Florida. The brick shops along Main Street were neat and well-maintained, the sidewalks free of litter.

It was ten o’clock. The kids were out for Thanksgiving break and the streets were bustling for a weekday. Beck turned off Main Street onto Third Avenue and parallel-parked in front of a shop. The words
JEANNINE’S KUT ’N KURL
were painted on the storefront window in loopy turquoise and bright pink letters that floated between the blades of a giant pair of scissors.

“First stop,” Beck said, turning off the truck.

“It’s a beauty parlor.” There was apprehension in Verbena’s voice. “What are we doing here?”

Beck glanced in the rearview mirror. Verbena’s shoulders were hunched and her mouth was pinched tight. The poor girl looked terrified.

“I thought we’d get your hair done to celebrate your new job as a waitress,” Beck said. “My treat.”

“Don’t want to. I hate getting my hair did.”

“Oh.” Beck wasn’t sure what to say to that. Verbena’s hair was a pile of over-processed crap, at least eight different colors with the remnants of a perm gone tragically wrong. She cleared her throat. “Been to a lot of salons, have you?”

“Never been to no beauty parlor in my life.”

No shit.

“So, you do your own hair?”

“Naw, it’s m’ cousins,” Verbena said. “They’re always dragging something or another home from the Dollar General and trying it out on me.”

“And you’re okay with that?”

Verbena tugged her hat down. “Never had no say-so in the matter. Charlie said.”

Charlie said. Charlie had been a colossal dick. That explained the rainbow hair dye. They’d used the poor girl like a mannequin.

“This won’t be like that,” Beck said. “Jeannine knows what she’s doing.”

“Cousin Leaberta said she knowed what she was doing, and she burnt my hair slap up with perm solution.”

“Don’t worry,” Beck said. “Jeannine can fix that with a good haircut.”

“Oh, that was a long time ago,” Verbena said. “My hair was a mess back then.”

Good Lord.

“This will be completely different,” Beck said. “I promise.”

Verbena looked doubtful, but allowed Conall to help her out of the backseat of the truck.

Later, Beck would regret not videoing their entrance into the Kut ’N Kurl with her cell phone. The sign on the front said
WALK—INS WELCOME,
but it was two days before Thanksgiving and the shop was crowded. Jeannine and the other stylists were hard at work at their stations. The dryer bank along one wall was filled with customers, some in rollers; others with highlights wrapped in layers of foil. The two manicurists were chatting to their clients as they did their nails, and the shampoo girl was rinsing a matron’s hair in one of the sinks. A woman waited with two restless children in chairs near the reception desk.

The salon was filled with a pleasant hum of conversation and the scents of assorted hair products, nail polish, and remover. The room fell silent when they walked in. Everybody gawked, and Verbena hadn’t even taken off her hat. Not that anyone was looking at Beck or Verbena. They might as well have been invisible. Everyone was staring at Conall, the Dalvahni god of Yowza, in slack-jawed surprise. Even the children stopped whining and pulling on their poor mother to gape at him.

And no wonder. It wasn’t every day walking sex strode into the Kut ’N Kurl. Conall looked big and bad and sinfully delicious; a dark knight in a black shirt and blue jeans.

Jeannine Mitchell, the owner, left her client sitting open mouthed in the chair and hurried up to him.

“I’m Jeannine,” she said, breathless as a four-hundred-pound man in a relay race. “Can I help you?”

Jeannine was on the shady side of fifty with wispy, shoulder-length brunette hair she religiously colored to squelch any hint of gray, a pleasant round face, and hazel eyes. Her husband Ted worked at the paper mill in Cantonment thirty miles away.

They had two grown sons and three grandchildren, but Jeannine was looking at Conall with the flushed, jittery excitement of a ninth grader chatting up the high school quarterback in the hallway between classes. The pulse fluttered in her throat. Goodness, Conall had sent the poor woman into atrial fib.

“Yes, thank you,” Conall said in his whiskey and sex voice. “Our friend requires your services.”

“Oh.” Jeannine’s girlish glow faded. “You sure you don’t need a haircut? I’d be glad to work you in.”

I’ll just bet you would, Beck thought, amused and irritated. Conall Dalvahni was a big juicy steak in a room full of hungry lionesses.

“Perhaps some other time,” Conall said. He motioned to Verbena. “My friend needs your services. If you could help her, I would be in your debt.”

“Gee, I don’t know,” Jeannine said, still gazing at Conall in shock and awe. “We’re sort of busy.”

“What happened to working him in?” Beck demanded.

“Easy, my sweet.” Conall gave his dark head a rueful shake. “ ’Tis just as well. I fear this task is beyond her skills.”

“Beyond my skills?” Jeannine bristled. “I’ll have you know I took third place in the Gulf Coast hair show two years
in a row
. Take your hat off, girl.”

Verbena removed the ball cap and a collective gasp of horror rippled through the room. The shampoo girl dropped the bottle of conditioner in her hand and screamed.

“Mommy, what’s wrong with that lady’s hair?” one of the children asked. “It looks like dog throw-up.”

“Hush, Stevie,” the boy’s mother said.

An old woman in curlers pushed up the hood of her dryer. “God a’ mighty, Jeannine. You can’t do nothing with that.”

Jeannine pulled herself up to her full height of five feet, two inches. “Maybe not, but I’ve got to try. I took an oath when I graduated cosmetology school.” She turned to the woman sitting at her station. “Outta the way, Shirley. This here’s an emergency.”

“What about me? My hair’s still damp. It’ll frizz.”

“One of the other girls can finish you up,” Jeannine said. She flapped her hands impatiently at the woman. “Get on. It’s my Christian duty to help this poor child.”

Shirley grumbled and moved to another station.

Jeannine dragged a reluctant Verbena across the room and pushed her into the stylist’s chair.

“That lady looks mad,” Verbena said, clutching the padded armrests. “I don’t want to be no trouble.”

“She can just get glad in the same pants she got mad in,” Jeannine said. “It’s no skin off my teeth.”

“What if she don’t come back?” Verbena said. “I don’t want you losing b’ness on account of me.”

Jeannine snorted. “She’s my sister-in-law. I cut her hair for free. Couldn’t chase her away with a stick.” She examined a tuft of Verbena’s Brillo pad hair. “The ends are fried. You need a haircut. You okay with that?”

“Do what you have to do, Jeannine,” Beck said.

“No, ma’am, that’s not the way it works at the Kut ’N Kurl. Her head—her decision.” Jeannine met Verbena’s gaze in the mirror. “You trust me, gal?”

Verbena nodded.

“Good.” Jeannine squared her jaw. “Let’s get to it then. First thing, we shampoo and condition your hair. I’ve got this great new product called Fiona Fix-It. It’s made right here in Hannah. Do you know Evie Douglass? She’s Evie Dalvahni now. No? Well, Fiona Fix-It is her creation. I think you’ll be surprised what it can do. And then . . .”

 

An hour and a half later, Beck waited for Verbena on a chaise lounge outside a dressing room at the Greater Fair, Hannah’s only clothing store for women. Conall stood across the room near the side exit, glowering. There were a few other customers in the store, but they weren’t shopping. They were soaking up Conall’s yumitude.

“Stop scowling,” Beck told him. “What, are you afraid you’ll get girl cooties?”

His gaze passed over the racks of clothes and undergarments, the display case of jewelry and scents, and the stacks of high heels.

“No,” he said. “But, I did not expect the process to take so long. First the barber and now this.”

“Shows how much you know about women.” Beck swung her legs off the chair and sat up. “You all right in there?” she called to Verbena, who was trying on clothes.

Verbena mumbled something from behind the curtain.

Dancy Smith bustled up to them wearing a pumpkin-colored orange tweed sheath dress and cropped jacket. Her hair was a perfectly coiffed gray helmet, and her wrinkled cheeks were powdered and rouged. As the proprietress of the Greater Fair, Dancy took her job as the town’s premier fashion consultant deadly serious.

“How are we doing?” Dancy asked, giving Beck her best plastic, professional smile. “Shall I bring her something else to try?”

“No idea,” Beck said. “She won’t come out.”

“Do they fit, dear?” Dancy hovered outside the dressing room. “Can we see?”

“No.” There was a note of panic in Verbena’s voice. “I can’t. I feel naked.”

“Perhaps if your gentleman friend left?” Dancy arched a thin, penciled brow in Conall’s direction. “Young ladies are sometimes shy with handsome men around.” She looked Conall up and down and simpered—
simpered
. “And he is so dark and dangerous, and
manly
.”

Dancy Smith was having a hot flash, and it wasn’t from menopause. So were the other women in the store. One woman with a beehive hairdo and a bosom like a ship’s prow kept peeking at him from behind a stand of belts, as though he couldn’t see her. Hah! It was like trying to hide a five hundred pound moose behind a flagpole.

Beck got to her feet. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“That would be nice, dear.” Dancy eyeballed Conall like he was a Dalvahni snack machine. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to check on something in the stockroom. I’ll be right back.”

Beck strolled over to Conall. “Dancy says you should leave. Dancy says you’re making Verbena nervous with all your hoti-tude.”

“What?”

“Verbena’s shy. She won’t come out of the dressing room if you’re here. Why don’t you go for a little walk, check out the hardware store or the Country Behr?”

“If I wished to look at a bear, I could have stayed at the bar.”

Oh, brother; Mr. Literal. “It’s not that kind of bear. This is an outdoor store. There are knives and guns, and implements of destruction. You’ll love it.”

“Knives, you say?” There was a definite gleam of interest in Conall’s eyes. “Intriguing, but some other time, perhaps. It is not safe to leave you alone. The djegrali—”

“Ah, brother, there you are,” Duncan said, appearing without warning. “The bear is much improved. I am ready to accompany you on the errand you mentioned, if it suits you.”

He was still wearing his medieval garb. Halloween was over; this ought to be fun to explain. She glanced around to see if anyone else had noticed. Oh, yeah, but they didn’t seem to mind. Females stood in tittering clumps, gaping at the two warriors. Another minute, and there’d be a vagina stampede.

“Skedaddle, both of you.” Beck pushed Conall toward the side exit. He was about as moveable as a small mountain. “Verbena and I will meet you in an hour in front of the Sweet Shop. Will that give you enough time to finish your business?”

“Of a certainty,” Conall said, “but I will not leave you unarmed.”

“Not to worry,” Beck said. “I got this.” She produced a bottle of Hot Dangpepper sauce from her pocket that had been fitted with a metal pour spout. “And I still have your ring.”

“You gave her your ring?” Duncan looked shocked. “Surely, it is unwise to entrust such a thing of power to—”

He glanced at Beck and did not finish.

“—someone like me,” Beck said, stung. “Can’t trust the demon girl, right?” She tugged at the silver band, but it would not budge. “Don’t let it pucker your ass. He can have his stupid ring back.”