Grave Dance (Alex Craft, #2)(2)

“Do you want me to stick around? Wait and see if your guys find more of the body?”

“Actual y”—John rubbed a hand over his head, wiping away the sweat glistening on his spreading bald spot—“I was hoping you’d join the search.”

I hesitated. I probably even blanched. Wandering around with my shields down sensing every dead creature most definitely was not my idea of a good— or safe—time.

John didn’t miss my pause. “You’ve located DBs before,”

he said. DBs as in dead bodies. “And the paperwork you signed covered the possibility of searching the swamp, so you’l be paid for your time.”

I opened my mouth to respond—while I might have qualms about opening my psyche to whatever might be in the floodplain, we both knew I’d risk it—but I was interrupted before I could answer.

“What’s wrong, Craft?” Detective Jenson, John’s partner,

“What’s wrong, Craft?” Detective Jenson, John’s partner, asked as he stepped around the side of a black SUV.

“Don’t want to get those tight pants dirty tramping through the swamp? Got another TV appearance to run off to? Or maybe your magic eye license doesn’t al ow you to do any good old-fashioned legwork.”

I glared at him, and I had to unclench my gritted teeth to answer. “Way to be hypocritical, Jenson, insulting me and in the same breath asking me to use magic to help.” The term “magic eye” was derogatory slang for a witch PI.

“I’m not asking you for anything.” He leaned back on his heels and crossed his arms over his chest. “And I think this city has seen enough of your magic lately, what with the way they keep rebroadcasting that interview with you getting al touchy-feely with a ghost.”

“What’s wrong? Jealous?” I asked, cocking a hip and tossing curls out of my face. Okay, so I was goading him, but he was being an ass. A few days ago I’d participated in the first studio interview of a ghost, and to keep said ghost visible I’d had to remain in contact with him, but I’d most certainly not gotten “touchy-feely” or any such crap.

John cleared his throat. “That’s enough.” He glanced between us, then turned to his partner. “Get Alex some hip waders and let the wardens know we’l be joining them.”

Jenson sneered at me—an expression I returned—and said, “Sure. Boots for the two-legged corpse hound. I’l get right on that.” He disappeared around the side of the SUV.

I stared at the spot where he’d been standing. “What a jerk.” Things hadn’t always been so antagonistic between us. In fact, we’d almost been friends. Then a month ago his attitude had gone to shit. The change coincided perfectly with John’s taking a spel ed bul et aimed at me.

Coincidence? Doubtful.

“I don’t know what’s going on between you two,” John said, turning back toward me, “but let’s not forget we’ve got three severed feet and no leads. Now, before we go in there, I suggest turning your shirt inside out.”

there, I suggest turning your shirt inside out.”

“You what?”

John waved a tech over to take custody of the bagged foot; then he scooped my purse off the ground, where I’d set it earlier. He handed the red bag to me and nodded toward his car.

“The park rangers warned us when we started searching that the local fae delight in leading hikers astray. The unwary can end up wandering through the same patch of land for days. Pixie-led, they cal it. Turning your shirt inside out is supposed to confuse their magic.”

I glanced down at my tank top, the shirt clinging to me in the afternoon heat. “Are you thinking fae are involved in the murders?”

John’s mustache twitched. “That’s another thing you shouldn’t say too loud.”

“Right.” I ducked inside John’s car to shimmy out of the top. Not that I thought reversing it would real y protect me against fae magic. The fae relied mostly on glamour—a belief magic so strong, it could reshape reality, at least temporarily.

By the time I’d re-dressed, Jenson had dropped off a pair of hip waders for me. They were a thick, waterproof one-piece with suspenders and attached boots. I stepped into them, pul ing the brown material up over my clothes. They nearly reached my col arbone.

“We aren’t seriously planning to wade chest-deep, are we?” I asked as I adjusted the suspender straps.

John, who’d also suited up in a pair of waders, handed me a plastic bottle of water. “Nah. With the speed the water is retreating, we’d be in danger of getting swept away. If you sense the bodies in the deep water, we’l have to send a team out. Ready?”

I nodded and fol owed him toward the closest path into the floodplain. John col ected a couple of officers as we trekked into the forest, and I wasn’t the least bit disappointed when Jenson didn’t join us. The forest canopy disappointed when Jenson didn’t join us. The forest canopy filtered the sun, but the humidity under the trees hung heavy, making the air thick. Sweat coated my skin, and my blond curls clung to my cheeks and neck. I cracked the seal of my water bottle, but took only one long swig—no tel ing how long we’d be hiking.

“That is where the first foot was found,” John said after we’d been walking for half an hour. He nodded ahead of him to where yel ow crime tape ringed the path. “The second was found about a quarter mile farther up the path; the third a mile or more to the south. We’re not sure yet if the recent flooding unearthed shal ow graves or if the bodies were dumped farther upstream and floated into the floodplain, but with the speed the water is retreating, every passing minute increases the chance of our evidence washing away. We need to find those bodies.”