Demon Hunting In the Deep South (11 page)

The Rule of Proper Coverage was high on the Bitsy List, definitely in the top ten. And Evie was in flagrant violation.

“This way,” the sheriff said, recalling her from her thoughts.

He marched her deeper into the bowels of the old building. The strong odor of Pine-Sol assaulted her nose, and beneath that she detected the smells of damp stone, sweat, vomit, and urine. Chanel Number 5 it was
not.
On the positive side, crime in Behr County must be down, because most of the holding units were empty.

“Been a slow week so far,” he said, as if reading her mind. “Burglary, car theft, public drunkenness. Nothing exciting. Until you, that is. You’ve caused quite a stir.”

“Gee, glad to liven things up for you.”

“Yep, the whole courthouse is buzzing about the Peterson case. Sex and violence always make tongues wag.”

Reading between the lines, people were saying she was a husband-stealing ’ho and a murderess. Wonderful. Another milestone for her memory book.

Several male inmates made catcalls and lewd gestures as Evie passed their cells. She slid them a nervous glance and walked faster.

A man with thinning slicked-back hair and stained teeth, compliments of Skoal, pushed his face against the bars and waggled his tongue at Evie. “Hey, sweet tits, come to Papa.”

She scurried down the hall, looking back when she heard a startled grunt. The man was lifted by unseen hands and flung across the cell. He smashed into the wall and slid to the floor in a groaning heap.

Sheriff Whitsun observed this bit of strangeness without expression. “Your invisible friend has quite the temper on him, doesn’t he?”

Evie did not respond. What could she say? Thanks to the little stunt Ansgar had pulled earlier this afternoon, the sheriff knew firsthand that demon hunters existed in Behr County. One moment she’d been standing at her front door, her shocked gaze glued to the arrest warrant in Sheriff Whitsun’s hand. The next moment she was standing in the woods beside the river with Ansgar’s arms wrapped around her.

It had been very peaceful there. The wind sighed through the leaves in gentle accompaniment to the rush and burble of a nearby waterfall. She’d been tempted to stay—oh, so tempted—or to run and never stop.

She’d convinced him to take her back, though she had a dickens of a time doing it. She had an even harder time explaining her little disappearing act to the sheriff.

Who was she kidding? She hadn’t explained it at all. Who could explain a thing like that? Sheriff Whitsun was still standing on the porch when she’d popped back into view, looking remarkably unruffled for an officer whose suspect had just vanished before his eyes.

“Let me take a wild guess,” he’d said when she reappeared. “This Ansgar fellow is the demon hunter you told me about.”

“Yes,” Evie said, taking a lesson in brevity from a certain warrior.

“Where is he now?”

“I don’t know.”

“Uh huh,” the sheriff said, disbelief evident on his face.

Whitsun was no fool. He bundled her into his patrol car without another word and drove her to the station in Paulsberg. He kept checking his rearview mirror every so often, though, like he knew he’d picked up an invisible hitchhiker.

Knowing Ansgar was in the backseat with her had kept Evie from dissolving into hysterics during the long drive from Hannah to Paulsberg, even though she couldn’t see him.

He was here with her now, in the jailhouse, walking behind her. She couldn’t see him, but she could
smell
him—the guy smelled like four kinds of wonderful—and she could feel the heat radiating from his big body.

Judging from the way the sheriff acted, he knew Ansgar was there, too. Whitsun didn’t say anything, but his nostrils flared, and several times he stared directly at the spot where Ansgar stood.

At the end of the narrow, dreary hall, the sheriff opened the door to a small cell and motioned her inside. The county must have gotten a dandy of a deal on industrial gray paint, because the whole sheriff’s department was one big ball of blah. Her cell consisted of more gray blah, a narrow bed, and a toilet without a lid.

Her cell. Oh, God, this could not be happening.

The hard line of the sheriff’s jaw softened. “With any luck, you won’t be here long.”

“The bond is seventy-five thousand dollars,” Evie said glumly. “It might as well be seventy-five million. I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Just so you know, that wasn’t my doing. All I asked for was fifteen thousand dollars.”

“Thanks, Sheriff.”

“Don’t thank me. I didn’t do it for you. I don’t consider you a flight risk, that’s all. The magistrate had a different opinion, for some strange reason. I couldn’t convince him otherwise.” His expression tightened. “There’s something mighty peculiar going on here, Ms. Douglass. I searched your car myself first thing this morning, and there was nothing in it. Then, like magic, this afternoon we find a bloody knife on the front seat.” His gray gaze was hard as flint. “I get the feeling somebody’s dicking with me, and I don’t like it. Not one little bit. And, for the record, I don’t think you killed Meredith Peterson.”

“You don’t?”

“No, I don’t,” he said. “But that won’t amount to a hill of beans in court, especially if that knife turns out to be the murder weapon. Can you think of anyone who hates you enough to frame you for murder?”

“No. Don’t you think I’d tell you if I did?”

“Yeah, I reckon you would at that. Tell your boyfriend to come talk to me when he gets a chance. Maybe we can put our heads together and figure this thing out.”

“He’s not my boyfr—”

The door clanked shut and Evie was alone. At least, she thought she was alone.

“Ansgar?” she whispered.

No answer.

She sat on the edge of the lumpy cot, her knees pressed together, her hands clasped tightly in her lap, and contemplated this unlikely turn of events.

Evie Douglass, the rule follower, the perennial good girl, had gotten her first conduct check, and it was a doozy.

She was the prime suspect in Meredith’s murder, and a bloody knife had been found in her car.

She might not be the sharpest crayon in the box, but she had enough sense to know when she was being set up. Mr. Malevolent wasn’t satisfied with killing Meredith. He was out to destroy her as well. And doing a bang-up job of it. Why he’d zeroed in on her, Evie had no clue.

The creepy whatzit wasn’t her only problem. The Petersons were probably behind the high bail the magistrate had set. They had a lot of pull in Behr County. Meredith had been a bitch walking, but she was Trey’s wife and the Petersons always presented a united front.

That left her with pure evil on one side and old money on the other. She didn’t know which was worse. The knowledge should have frightened her. She should be a lump of jelly now, trembling with terror, her brain locked in an endless cycle of
ohcrapohcrapohcrap.

But she wasn’t scared. She was pissed.

It took her a while to recognize the feeling. She couldn’t remember being pissed before. Hurt, ashamed, embarrassed, and a full spectrum of other emotions, but never pissed. Being pissed required a certain amount of self-esteem, a confidence that you deserved better, that you mattered. How could you matter if you were invisible?

She wasn’t invisible anymore, that was for sure. Talk about your coming-out parties. This one was
big.
Little Evie Douglass was going to be front-page news.

Ansgar materialized in the cell without warning. His sudden appearance startled Evie, but she was so tired she didn’t jump. Murder, binge eating, sexual bliss, exhaustion, being arrested, cuffed, and hauled to jail, all in the course of one day, would do that to a girl.

He handed her a small overnight bag. “I brought you some clothes. Adara helped me with the selection. I hope they are suitable.”

“Thanks.” Evie checked the contents of the bag: a new toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a package of premoistened face wipes, a pair of baggy sweats, clean underwear, a bra, a pair of warm socks, and her favorite ratty old tennis shoes. Score. She clutched the small case to her bosom. “Turn around, please, so I can change.”

Ansgar complied. “I have checked the building and the perimeter,” he said over his shoulder. “I do not sense the presence of the djegrali.”

“Oh, goodie.” Evie quickly undressed and scrambled into the clean clothes. There. Loins firmly girded. Miss Bitsy would be proud. She shoved her dress and sandals into the empty bag. “You can turn around now,” she said, placing the tennis shoes on the floor at the end of the bed. “I’m done.”

Ansgar turned back around. “Evangeline, let me help you.” There was concern and a touch of impatience in his voice. He was frustrated with her, and she didn’t blame him. “Say the word and I will take you from this place.”

“That’s sweet, Ansgar, but I’m not running.”

He picked her up and sat down on the narrow bed with her in his lap. “I admire your courage, sweetling, but sometimes the wisest course is to withdraw and regroup until you better know your enemy.”

“If I run, then whoever’s doing this wins. That’s not going to happen,” she said. “Besides, Mr. Collier is my lawyer now. He’ll help me.”

Addy had shown up at the jail with Mr. Collier in tow as soon as she’d heard the news that Evie had been arrested. Mr. C was a lawyer and an old friend, the fiancé of Addy’s great-aunt Muddy. He was also the town drunk, or had been until a few months ago. Turned out Mr. Collier had the Eye, which meant he could see demons and other supernatural creatures. For the past thirty years, he’d thought he was crazy, and drinking had been his way of tuning out the woo woo. Until recently, that is. The arrival of the Dalvahni in Hannah and the increase in demonic activity had finally convinced Mr. Collier of his sanity, and he quit drinking.

She leaned her head against Ansgar’s shoulder. He was so strong and calm. After being alone for so many years, it felt wonderful to have someone to rely upon, even if only for a little while. She could get addicted to this. She could get addicted to
him.
Maybe she already was.

“Sometimes, it stinks not having a family,” she said.

“Humans set great store by the familial unit, do they not?”

“Yeah. Don’t the Dalvahni?”

“The Dal do not have matriarchal or patriarchal units as humans do, though our loyalty to our brother warriors is strong.”

Evie processed this. “No mother or father?”

“No.”

“What about a home?”

“We abide in the Hall of Warriors when we are not hunting the djegrali.”

“That doesn’t sound very comfy.”

He shrugged. “It suits our purpose.”

Evie tried to imagine what it must have been like for him and failed. No mother. No father. No real home. No love or warmth, only duty and the Dalvahni creed.

“So, you’re an orphan, like me.”

“Yes, I suppose you could say that.” His arms tightened around her. “What happened to your loved ones?”

“My mom died of cancer when I was eleven, and my dad drank himself to death after—”

She stopped.

“After . . . ?” he urged gently.

Evie inhaled deeply. A gaping hole yawned before her, a subject so raw, so painful, she never spoke of it, not even to Addy—the thing that had broken her family to bits and changed her life forever. She’d buried the pain deep, and so had her dad. They never talked about it after her mother died. Not talking about it had been a relief. Most days she could ignore it, but she couldn’t forget it. It was a little black spot, a sore, aching place on her soul that never healed.

“I had an older sister,” she said. Her voice shook. “Her name was Savannah. She disappeared when she was fifteen. We never saw her again. A year after her disappearance, the Virginia police arrested a guy on kidnapping charges. When they executed a search warrant on the man’s house, they found Savannah’s picture among his things. He confessed to killing her.”

The temperature in the room lowered abruptly, and the ghostly form of a slender blond woman solidified in front of Evie.

“Well, boo hoo for the Whale,” the ghost said. “Like I give a flying monkey shit about your pathetic little life when I’ve been
murdered
.”

Chapter Eleven

“M
eredith.”
Evie jumped to her feet. “Holy smokes, you’re dead! What are you doing here?”

Meredith rocked the whole ghost thing, Evie had to admit. She looked good. Better than good. No blood or oozing stab wounds. No gore-stained clothes. The Death Starr’s stylish, gray floral sheath dress was belted at the waist and topped off with an elegant cashmere sweater. Black peep-toe stiletto pumps with fire-engine red soles encased her size-five feet. Her sleek golden bob teased her jaw line, not a hair out of place. Evie glanced down at her rumpled sweats, feeling suddenly self-conscious. Good grief, Meredith was a better dresser than she was, and Meredith was
dead
.

Meredith’s lip curled. “I’m haunting your fat ass, that’s what. You didn’t think I’d let you get away with it, did you?”

“Get away with what?”

“Killing me, you porker. What do you think?”

“I didn’t kill you,” Evie protested.

“Oh, yeah?” Meredith looked around. “Then why are you in jail, Lumpy? I may be dead, but I’m not stupid.”

Ansgar rose to his feet with a frown. “She speaks the truth, shade. She did not slay you.”

Meredith’s laser-beam gaze shifted from Evie to him. “Who’s the beefcake?”

“Oh . . . uh . . . this is Ansgar,” Evie said, remembering her manners.

“Hmm.” Meredith’s predatory gaze roamed over Ansgar’s hard-muscled frame. “You look familiar. Do I know you?”

“No,” Ansgar said.

“Meredith was Trey’s wife,” Evie said, shooting the Death Starr a nervous glance. “Before . . . uh . . . you know.”

“I’m still his wife,” Meredith snapped. “The only one he’ll ever have. You’ll remember that, Lard-o, if you know what’s good for you.”

Ansgar rumbled something in warning, but Evie barely flinched. After more than fifteen years of Meredith’s abuse, she was used to it.