Fifth Grave Past the Light (4 page)

I looked down at the note. This one read:
What are you afraid of?

What was I afraid of? The fact that he may be the very person burning down buildings left and right? The fact that I might have to have him arrested and sent back to the same prison in which he’d spent ten years doing time for a crime he didn’t commit? The fact that arsonists have a unique psyche that leans toward either extreme arrogance or extreme sexual deviance? Reyes had neither as far as I knew, but did the idea of finding out otherwise scare me?

“Hey, Ch-Charley.”

I looked over my shoulder and saw my new dead friend Duff standing beside me, shifting his weight from side to side with nervous energy. “Hey, you,” I said, unlocking my door.

“I – I thought m-maybe you might need someone to talk to after wh-what happened.”

And there went my heart. Damn it. Time to see the cardiologist again.

“I’m okay, but thank you.”

“Oh, g-good. I’m glad.”

Part of my job was to help people cross over when they were ready. Sometimes that included the role of shoulder. As in to cry on. I held the door ajar and offered him my full attention. “Do you know what I am, Duff?”

He stuffed his hands in his pockets and kicked a nonexistent rock at his feet. “Y-yes.”

“You know you can cross through me when you’re ready.”

“Y-yes, I know. I just thought m-maybe I’d keep an eye on you for a while.”

I straightened. “An eye on me?”

He did it fast, but I saw it anyway. He glanced toward Reyes’s apartment. “Y-yes, you know, in case y-you need help or s-something.”

“Duff, I appreciate the offer, but —”

“I m-moved in down the hall if you n-need anything.”

I followed his gesture toward Mrs. Allen’s apartment. “Oh, okay. So, you’re living with Mrs. Allen?”

A shy smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Y-yes. She has a dog.”

I put a hand on his frigid shoulder. “That’s not a dog, Duff. That’s a demon named PP. I’m about ninety percent certain he’s possessed.”

Duff chuckled. “At least he doesn’t have any teeth.”

“Just be careful. I think he has one fang left and he knows how to use it.”

After another quick glance toward the dragon’s lair, Duff lifted a hand. “S-see you later, then.”

“Sounds like a plan,” I said with a wink. “Just remember, steer clear of that fang.”

The smile that commandeered his features was contagious and charming. He took another step back, gave me a shy wave, then disappeared.

I started inside my apartment, then rethought that decision. If anyone would know what Garrett went through, what he had to endure in the fiery pits, Reyes would. He’d grown up in hell, after all, and then suffered a whole new version of the word here on Earth at the hands of Earl Walker, who had ended up with Reyes through nefarious means when he was very young, abused him mercilessly, then framed Reyes for his murder and had him sent to prison despite the fact that Earl Walker was alive and kicking.

Well, not kicking anymore, thanks to an expertly placed blade that Reyes himself had swung, but alive anyway.

I walked to his apartment and knocked. The fact that my hand shook a bit surprised me. It wasn’t like I’d never been in his company. Lots. And in various states of undress. But I’d never been to his humble abode, to his lair. He’d never had the home court advantage, and the realization that the minute I stepped through that threshold we would be on his turf gave me butterflies. That and the fact that I owed him. Again. He had saved my life tonight. Not from Tidwell but from Cookie. That woman was a menace.

He cracked the door open just enough to give me a partial view of him, and the butterflies swarmed. Especially when he cocked a brow in question.

“I thought we could talk,” I said, keeping my exterior calm. Unassuming.

For a moment I thought he was going to brush me off, tell me he was tired or he had work to do, he hesitated so long. But he turned and busied himself while I tried to peek over his shoulders into his apartment. Then he faced me again. A wicked grin crinkled one corner of his mouth as he secured another sticky note on the door before shutting it in my face.

I blinked, then read the note.

Oh, for the love of gravy. I marched back to my apartment, grabbed the key from my bag, then went back and used the darned thing, trying to figure out what the big deal was. Though I had to admit, I liked having it. I liked having access to his place, his life. I’d been denied him so long, it was nice to have one small piece of him, one tiny token of confirmation. It slid easily into the lock. Turned like it had been recently oiled. And naturally my mind came up with all kinds of situations for which that could’ve been a metaphor. I was such a ho.

I walked through the apartment and spotted one Mr. Reyes Farrow busying himself in his kitchen. In a domestic capacity. The image was jarring and endearing at once and I had to tear my gaze away before he noticed. I couldn’t let him get too used to the idea that I adored him. Best to keep him guessing.

I had yet to see his new digs. It wasn’t at all what I’d expected. Of course, I really didn’t know what to expect. Perhaps something in cool tones with lots of grays and chrome. What I got was warmth, very much like the man himself. It was nice. Lots of textures with earthy colors and a freestanding black marble fireplace separating two rooms. In the next was a pool table with dark wood and a cream-colored top. It was stunning. His apartment had a homey feel I hadn’t expected.

I looked up as he walked back in, his swagger drawing attention to his hips, up his slim stomach to a set of wide shoulders that would make any man proud. I knew they made me proud. He wore a white button-down hanging loose over jeans. The sleeves were rolled up, allowing his tan forearms to show from underneath. That led me to his hands. He had the most incredible hands, and his arms were like steel. I should know. I’d been held captive in them before. It was a place I longed to return.

He handed me a glass of red wine. Another nicety I hadn’t expected.

“A toast?” he asked, raising his glass.

“What are we toasting?” I clinked our glasses together, then brought mine to my lips.

“The fact that a girl I know named Charley survived another day.”

He didn’t call me Charley often, and it somehow seemed more intimate than when anyone else said it. It felt nice, the syllables falling from his mouth like honey.

When I didn’t drink, he called me by the nickname he’d given me. “Dutch?” And that felt even more intimate. His voice, rich and velvety and smooth like butterscotch, thrummed a string somewhere deep inside me. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and finally took a sip. A fruity heat filled my mouth, warming my throat as I swallowed the crisp liquid. “I’m fine,” I said. “Great, actually, thanks to you. Again.”

One corner of his mouth tilted, the gesture charming.

“I love what you’ve done with the place.”

He smiled and looked at his own masterpiece.

“I’m still not sure how you convinced the owners to shell out the money,” I said.

“I can be very persuasive when I want to be, and besides, they didn’t shell out anything. I paid for the remodel.”

“Oh. I didn’t realize.”

“I hear that the owner’s a little crazy anyway. She’s always getting into sticky situations. I was glad to help her out with this remodel.”

I had never met the owner of the apartment building itself. The only contact I had was with the landlord, Mr. Zamora, and a light pang of jealousy spiked within me with his intimate use of the word
she
. It galled me. I was not a jealous person. Had never been jealous of anyone for any reason, but in walks Reyes Farrow and suddenly I’m that chick from
Fatal Attraction.
Next thing you know, I’ll be boiling rabbits.

“Why haven’t you come to see me?” he asked as he stepped to an overstuffed sofa and sank into it, stretching his legs out in front of him. Like it was something he did every day, had done his entire life. I wondered what prison had been like for him. With no sofas and no marble fireplaces and no refrigerators he could raid whenever he wanted to. And I wondered what all of that would have been like, that kind of restriction, that kind of punishment, for someone who didn’t even commit the crime for which he had been sentenced. Would the lack of freedom be all the more difficult?

I shook out of my thoughts and followed him. “I don’t know. The last time I saw you, you’d been shot with a fifty-caliber bullet because of me. I wasn’t sure you’d want to see me.”

“So all the notes on your door didn’t clue you in?”

I sat on a chair that catty-cornered his seat. “Fine, but you’d still been shot.”

“And?”

“And…” I wasn’t sure how much to tell him about how I felt. About what had happened and how I was choosing not to deal with it in classic Charley fashion. I pressed my lips together, then said, “I killed a man, Reyes. A man is dead because of me.”

“A man who was trying to kill you.”

And that was the truth of it. A man I’d turned in as a bank robber had been hell-bent on making sure I didn’t testify against him. Unfortunately, he’d been in training to be a sniper in the marines when he received a dishonorable discharge. The guy was a loon with a hair-trigger temper, so it was probably only a matter of time, but he’d learned enough to try to take me out from a rooftop a hundred yards away. His plan would have been successful had Reyes not stepped in front of me, let it rip through him before turning to catch it when it continued toward me on its path of destruction. He had literally taken a bullet for me. A huge one that should have ripped him apart.

It was probably the blood spreading across Reyes’s torso that caused the spark of rage to burst within me. In an instant, I was in front of the guy. I reached inside his chest and stopped his heart before I took the time to consider the consequences. Then I looked back at myself, still standing beside Reyes, an expression of shock still evident on my features.

I had left my body. I had killed a man and I’d done it incorporeally, a fact I still had a difficult time wrapping my head around. Accepting as truth.

“I’m just not sure how much that should make a difference,” I said. “I still feel guilty. I took his life. He could have reformed, you know? He could have been the next Van Gogh or the next Shakespeare, but now we’ll never know because I didn’t give him the chance.”

“Do you really think that a man like that would have been the next Shakespeare?”

“Probably not, but again, we’ll never know. I’m not a judge and jury. I don’t have the right to take lives.” I studied him, then asked, “You’ve killed in self-defense in the past when you were in prison. How did that make you feel? What did it do to you?”

“It didn’t do anything to me. They were coming at me. I fought back. In the end, they were dead and I was not. Don’t ever underestimate the fundamental need to survive, Dutch. It drives us all. If we are going to play at being human, then we have a basic human right to defend ourselves, and you did what was necessary.”

Play at being human? Who was playing? I was human as far as I was concerned, but it was an odd statement. The fire crackled and I looked over because, no matter how real it looked, it was electric. “It even has sound effects?”

He laughed softly. “They have everything nowadays. I had no idea.”

The fact that he’d spent ten years in prison hit me again. And there I was, contemplating sending him back. Could I do it? Even if I were to discover he was the arsonist, could I send him back?
Would
they send him back? How would that work? Would he get a reduced sentence for time served?

“You’re very serious tonight. Any particular reason?”

“What were you doing at the bar?” I asked, changing the subject.

“I told you, I was passing by.”

“Oh, right. But you weren’t following me or anything?”

He ran a fingertip along the top of his glass. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen. “Is that what you think? That I follow you around to keep your ass out of trouble?”

“If so, you’re not very good at your job.”

A huge smile spread across his face. “True enough. So what’s eating you? Because, sadly, it’s not me.”

A sharp thrill spiked inside me with the thought of him doing that very thing, but I was there for a reason. Since I couldn’t quite bring myself to ask him if he was burning the city to the ground one dump at a time, I veered toward the subject for which I’d originally sought him out. “What’s hell like?”

His fingertip stilled. “What do you mean?”

“Hell,” I said with a shrug. “You know, home sweet home. You grew up there. What’s it like?”

He sat back and stared into the fire. “It’s exactly like all the stories your mom told you when you were a kid.”

“My
step
mom didn’t tell me stories, so indulge me.”

“The summers are hot. Winters are hot. Fall and spring are hot. Not a whole lot of climate change. We did get a scorching breeze every so often, though. It was almost refreshing.”

Fine, he wasn’t going to answer. I’d move on to more pressing questions. “What would it do to a human who was sent there, then escaped?”

His gaze darted toward me. “Escape is impossible. You know, in case you’re planning a trip.” Odd thing was, he seemed serious. Like a trip to the underbelly of the supernatural world was within the realm of possible vacation spots.

“I’m not. I thought I might write an article. Or a book. I’ve always wanted a Pulitzer. Or I could get really lucky and score a Nobel Peace Prize. I’d kill for a Nobel Peace Prize.”

He’d gone back to staring into his wine, to running his finger along the rim of his glass. The movement mesmerized me. Without breaking his gaze, he said, “Come here.”

The butterflies attacked again. His arm corded and released as his finger tested the edge of the glass. His mouth, full and sensual, parted as he concentrated on the burgundy liquid.

“I should probably go.”