Second Grave on the Left

She opened her door then turned back. “So, is he here?”

“Garrett?” I asked, confused.

“What?”

“Wait, who?”

“Charley,” she said, annoyed, “the little boy.”

“Oh.” I’d totally forgotten that while we were traipsing along the streets of Albuquerque at three o’clock this morning — walking in bunny slippers really wasn’t much different from walking barefoot — I’d let slip she had a departed child hanging in her humble abode. I needed to learn to keep my mouth shut. I scanned the area quickly. Her apartment was a montage of black and the bright colors of Mexico, her decor a mixture of rustic Southwest and ranch. My apartment, though identical in size and shape to hers, was more a montage of garage sale and leftover college student paraphernalia. “Nope, don’t see him.”

“Can you check the rest of the apartment?”

“Sure.”

After a five-minute search that had guilt eating away at my innards — really, I should never have told her — we were standing back at her front door, no departed kid in sight.

“Okay, I have a question for you,” I said, drawing her interest. “If you were the dying son of Satan, where would you stash your body?”

She cast a sympathetic glance my way. “Since you’re the one he’s hiding from, sweet pea, my guess would be the last place you, of all people, would be likely to look.”

“No offense,” I said, disappointed, “but that doesn’t really help.”

“I know. I suck at all of this supernatural stuff. But I fry a mean chicken.”

“Oh, good. I hate it when the nice ones get fried.”

“Can I have him for Christmas?” she asked.

“Reyes?”

With a lovesick sigh, she said, “No, the other one.”

“Ew,” I said, realizing she was talking about Garrett. Okay, he was sexy and all, but still, “Ew.”

“You’re just saying that ’cause you’re jealous of our thing.”

After an amazingly rude snort, I said, “Your thing needs a good talking to.”

“Whatever, girlfriend,” she said, showing me a palm before closing her door. I loved it when she got all dramaholic.

When I walked back into my apartment, Garrett had returned to studying Mr. Wong’s corner.

“He won’t bite,” I said, teasing him.

He furrowed his brows in doubt then turned a curious gaze on me. “What was it like growing up with dead people everywhere? Didn’t it freak you out?”

I grinned. “It’s all I’ve ever known. And, I don’t really get scared like most people. Not much frightens me.”

“Well, you are the grim reaper,” he said, teasing me with a shiver. Then his eyes traveled slowly over me, apparently taking in the sights.

“Stop gawking at what you can’t have,” I said, grabbing my cup and heading to the kitchen.

“Just checking out the package deal. You do sweats proud for a girl named Charles.”

I couldn’t help but laugh as he got up and strode to the door. He opened it then hesitated.

“Is there anything else on your mind?” I asked.

He looked back at me, a mischievous sparkle in his eyes. “Besides the fact that I could make a meal out of you?”

The air crackled with Reyes’s anger. I had to wonder if Garrett did that on purpose. Maybe he was figuring out how all this otherworldly stuff worked.

“Cannibalism is frowned upon, buddy.”

“Are you going to report me for sexual harassment?”

“No, but I will grade you,” I said, rinsing out my cup.

He winked then closed the door.

After a moment, I asked, “Are you going to stay in my apartment and sulk all night?”

In an instant, Reyes was gone. Guess that answered that.

I plopped down at my computer to get a little research in before hitting it with Bugs Bunny. I’d had my comforter-slash-security blanket since I was nine. We’d been through a lot together, including Wade Forester. I was in high school. He was in the school of hard knocks, which taught its students much more about procreation than high school did. Bugs was never the same.

Back to my demon problem. If I couldn’t see the darned things, how was I supposed to fight them? Then again, if I could see demons, how was I supposed to fight them? I hadn’t missed the references Reyes let slip about my going up against evil incarnate. I needed info, the 411 on everything demonic.

I did a search on how to detect demons and received a slew of no-help-whatsoever for my effort. Everything that loaded onto my screen was about as useful as dental floss in a plane crash, from demonic possession being the underlying cause of ADHD to video games with scary demon overlords. But a few pages in, I found a site that looked almost relevant. Ignoring the fact that the owner’s name was Mistress Marigold, I waded through legend and lore, biblical and historical references, until I came to a page titled “How to Detect Demons.” Bingo.

And Mistress Mari was really helpful. She had a list of demon-detecting tricks, from throwing salt in their eyes — which firstly required my seeing them and secondly held the faintest hint of lawsuit when I inevitably blinded some poor schmuck I thought was possessed — to keeping a careful eye on plants when a questionable individual walked into a room. Apparently, a demon’s presence would wilt the poor suckers before they knew what hit them. I glanced around my apartment. Damn my love of fake dying plants. Maybe I could get a cactus.

The one thing M&M didn’t talk about was the fact that no one could actually see demons. In the end, she was about as much help as a BB gun in armed combat.

Just as I went to exit out of the site, two words caught my attention. There, in the middle of a mundane paragraph about a demon’s supposed allergy to fabric softener, was a highlighted link that said grim reaper. Me! Well, this was exciting. I clicked on the link. The page that popped up had only one sentence just above an Under Construction warning, but it was an interesting sentence.

If you are the grim reaper, please contact me immediately.

Okay. That was new.

Chapter Eight

IS IT SEXY IN HERE OR IS IT JUST ME?

— T-SHIRT

I woke up at four thirty the next morning — also known as five minutes past ungodly — and lay in bed, wondering why in the name of Saint Francis I’d woken up at four thirty in the morning. There were no dead people hovering over me, no global catastrophes looming near or clothes being thrown at my face, yet my reaper senses told me something was wrong.

I listened for the phone. If anyone had the cojones to call me before seven, it was Uncle Bob. But no one was calling. Not even nature.

With a sigh, I turned onto my back and stared up into the darkness. With both Janelle York and Tommy Zapata dead, I got the feeling whoever was behind the murders wasn’t looking for information. In fact, if I had to take a slightly educated guess, I would say information was exactly what the killer wanted suppressed.

Something happened at Ruiz High twenty years ago, something other than underage drinking. And at least one person wanted it kept quiet. So much so, he was willing to murder to keep it that way.

Reyes was consuming a good portion of my random access memory as well. Could he really be the