Some Were In Time (26 page)

Thankfully there was no more talking. We ate our
to die for tacos
and left. What lay ahead was anyone's guess, but we would face it on full stomachs.

Full stomachs and a hell of a lot of unanswered questions.

Chapter 18

"You two going to tell me what's really going on?"

Dima asked the question from the backseat of the Hummer as we sped along I-94 towards Michigan. I figured silence would answer her question sufficiently so I kept my lip zipped—as did Hank. The sun was setting and rush hour was over. We were making great time.

"Interesting," she said as she shuffled some papers around. "I should have guessed you'd keep me in the dark, considering you've taken my ability to shift away."

"You're on a need to know basis," I replied calmly. "You need us more than we need you. Killing your Pappy is not high on my priority list."

"It should be," she said with a polite smile and a shake of the stack of papers in her hand.

"I know you want me to ask you why." I texted Dwayne that we were on our way along with an unfortunately large portion of the Werewolf paranormal government on our heels. "But I have to pee and I can't concentrate on your potential bullshit at the moment."

"After you relieve yourself I'd suggest you ask me what the hell is written on the papers I'm about to eat," Dima shot back.

"You're really gonna eat paper?" I asked with a grimace.

"Yep. It insures my life for a bit."

"Eating paper?" I asked.

"Not the paper itself. The intel on the paper is what will keep me in the land of the living for a few more hours," Dima explained as she wadded up the papers and ingested them.

For such a gorgeous girl she was kind of gross.

I realized I'd possibly made a grave error in letting her eat the paper, but she was not one to screw with. If the Hummer caught fire it would blow up pretty fast.

"Okay, fine. What was on the paper?" I asked, realizing it was crap I probably needed to know.

"Your question should be—where did I get the papers?" she corrected me.

"I'll bite. Where did you get the papers?"

"Angela's desk—in a folder labeled
confidential
."

"Is she stupid?" I shouted. "Why would she leave a folder labeled confidential on her damn desk?"

"Maybe she's not stupid at all," Hank interjected reasonably. "Do you think she left it there so we would find it—and possibly find her?"

I was silent. I took some air in through my nose and blew it out through my mouth. There was a very good reason to have partners—especially when part of the mission was to protect your own family. My conflicts of interest were starting to screw with my ability to think rationally. Shitballs.

"That's all kinds of brilliant," I muttered, pissed I hadn't thought of it. "Angela's leaving us clues because she knew we'd come back for her."

"Jesus Hesus," Dima said with appreciation. "You Wolves are smarter than the rest of the Shifter world says you are."

"What in the hell is that supposed to mean?" I snapped and moved to take a piece out of the Dragon.

Thankfully Hank took one hand off the wheel and put it on my shoulder. "You can punch her in the head, but under no circumstances can you kill her or do anything that will take more than an hour to heal."

I nodded curtly and reined in every instinct I had to remove her head. "Tell me what was written on the papers," I insisted.

"Pee, then talk," she said guardedly. "I have to pee too."

"You'll remember what you just ate?" I asked with raised brows.

"Yep." She grinned and winked. "I have a photographic memory."

"Lovely," I said with a glee. "You'll also have constipation or god knows what considering you just ate ten pages of paper recycled from cow and horse poop."

The silence was deafening. I could literally see her brain working trying to figure out if I was screwing with her.

I wasn't.

It was all kinds of awesome.

"We need to pull over now," she screeched as she gagged. "Paper is not supposed to be made out of poop."

"Correct," I said with a casual shrug. "I refuse to even write on the shit—pun intended. However, those pesky Wolves are trying to save trees and have found new, innovative and stanky ways to make paper products."

"I did wonder about the brown flecks," Dima choked out.

"Did it taste like poop?" Hank inquired as he quickly pulled into a rest stop filled with church buses.

"Since I don't eat poop," Dima snapped, "I wouldn't know."

"But you do eat people?" Hank asked.

"I do not eat people," she yelled.

"But your people eat people?" I prodded nicely.

"Occasionally," she hissed. "And your people sniff each other's asses when in animal form…"

She had a point—and a foul one at that.

"I'm not into the ass sniffing thing," I said with a shudder.

"I did it a couple times in high school, but then the actual mechanics of what I was doing kicked in and I had to stop," Hank volunteered without an ounce of shame or embarrassment.

"Have you ever eaten a person?" I asked Dima, trying to level the playing field a bit after my mate's horrific admission.

"Well… yes, but it was a long time ago," she admitted.

"How long?"

"Um, about two hundred and fifty years ago—give or take a few years," she answered as she hopped out of the car and high tailed it to the bathroom.

How in the hell old was she?

The rest stop was typical—vending machines and bathrooms up against the backdrop of a scraggly forest. The parking lot was full of busses and cars sporting large full color photos of a guy who looked vaguely familiar. I just couldn't place him…

"You think she'll make it to the bathroom before she hurls?" Hank asked as he got out and stretched his long sexy legs.

"I'm gonna say yes. She's fast and apparently really old."

"The ruling Dragon family is older than dirt. I'd put her father at approximately a thousand or so, and Dima at around five hundred."

"Really?" I asked surprised. I knew she was probably older than us, but I didn't think she was older than Dwayne and everyone else I knew combined. Dragons clearly stopped aging at about thirty.

"Yep."

"Why hasn't she killed her father before now if he's so awful?" I asked as I meandered up the sidewalk toward the bathrooms.

"Don't know," he answered. "You'll have to ask her."

We both tried to avoid the throngs of talkative and pushy church-goers who were wearing
Jesus for President
t-shirts. I shook my head in confusion. Were they just stupid or were they
stupid
? And then it hit me. There had to be hundreds of them milling about. It was perfect—or perfectly awful.

I froze and Hank almost tripped over me.

"You okay?" he asked concerned.

"Yes… but I'm fairly sure I'm going to hell," I replied.

"Why are you going to hell?" Hank asked and then started to laugh.

"Should I tell them?" I asked with a scrunched nose.

"If you wanna make it a
thing
this is probably a very fine place to start."

"You think?" I asked as I screwed up my courage to lie like a rug.

"Yep. This is not just any church group—it's the group who does the live show with the pastor who’s gone to prison a few times for tax evasion, among other things," he said with disgust.

"The one who has six wives and wants all gays and Buddhists deported to third world countries?" I asked with narrowed eyes, thinking of Dwayne—my wonderful
gay
Vampyre BFF. Now I knew why the guy plastered on the sides of the cars and busses looked familiar. He was shyster skank-hole Pastor Bob.

"Yep," Hank replied and watched me closely. "You cannot maim them. We don't have time. However, you do have enough time to screw with their heads."

"Jesus does not hate gays and Buddhists," I whispered viciously. "Jesus and God love everyone—including these imbeciles who hate everyone."

"Couldn't agree more," Hank said as he discreetly removed my weapons from me.

It was a smart move. It was not my job to erase hate with a bullet… even though it would have felt good. Two heinous wrongs would not make a right.

"Jesus Hesus Christ," I shouted and fell to my knees, much to the shock of the idiots around me.

"What did you say?" a large, red-faced, angry woman screeched.

"I just said Jesus' full name," I told her as I rose to my feet.

"His middle name is Hesus?" she demanded doubtfully.

"Um… yes. Yes, it is," I said without cracking a smile.

Hank stood stoically behind me, lending his silent support. His muffled laughter appeared to be a coughing fit to the throng around us.

"His middle name rhymes with his first name?" the woman queried still doubtful.

"Yes, it does," I told her.

"How did you learn this?" she demanded suspiciously. "Was it the gays or the Buddhists?"

"Nope, it was the IRS," I replied with barely contained ire. "And the American Civil Liberties Union."

"Well, your sources certainly sound official," she said with pursed lips and her hands on her hips.

"They are," I told her. "It was certified and proven true by the LGBT division of the Civil Liberties Union."

"Really?" she asked, impressed as a horde of idiots began to surround her. "Hey, I have learned the middle name of Jesus," she called out to the dummies.

It saddened me to realize none of them had a clue about what the Civil Liberties Union was or the fact I'd just told them the Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender division had certified that Jesus indeed had a middle name which rhymed with his first. It was all kinds of appalling.

There was no time for me to straighten these people out, but making them look more like assjackets than they already did could help others see how awful these people's beliefs were.

"Can we guess?" a tiny little dude with a mullet and skinny jeans asked.

"Of course," the woman sneered condescendingly.

The names flew fast and furious. It was all I could do not to laugh. Why did these people have so much hate in them for others who were different? They would definitely lead the front line in trying to destroy Werewolves if we were to come out of the closet. I would represent an abomination from hell. Was it lack of education? Was it simply fear and stupidity?

"Jim Bob," a man guessed.

"Skooter," another yelled.

"Homer."

"Moses."

"Kevin."

"Herman."

"Kyle."

"Billy."

"Bubba."

"Nope!" the red-faced angry gal shouted above the excited voices of the dumbass crowd. "It's Hesus. Rhymes with Jesus!"

"Jesus Hesus Christ," an older pinched-faced lady said with bravado. "I already knew this. Everyone who is a true believer knows his middle name is Hesus."

"I knew it," several shouted.

"I knew it," the large gal snapped. "I was just testing the rest of you."

I bit down on the inside of my cheek and slunk away to the bathroom. I didn't need to hear any more. If it wasn't so sad it would have been funny.

"Did you just create the shit show out front?" a pale-faced but amused Dima asked as she walked out of the bathroom as I was walking in.

"Yes. Yes, I did. Did you just puke?"

"Yes, I did." She shook her head and sighed. "I will never eat paper again."

"What about people?" I asked, wondering if she wanted to rid the world of some intolerant hatemongers.

"Too chewy. I like tacos better," she said with a grin. "However, I do know a few Dragons who like to eat bigots and homophobes."

"This is good to know," I said as I did my business. After I washed my hands I gently pushed her back out to the Hummer. "We won't be needing social media in our quest to let the world know Jesus' middle name."

"Nope," Dima agreed. "These assholes will take care of it within the hour."

"Do you think Jesus is going to be mad at me?" I asked as I contemplated what I had just done.

Dima thoughtfully pondered my question. "No. No, I don't think he would be mad at you. I firmly believe he has a great sense of humor. He'd have to if he let imbeciles like those wankers be created," she said, referring to the churchgoers. "I'd like to believe he's more unhappy with what those horrible people preach than the fact we gave him a middle name."