Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(14)
He looked away, unwilling to give me any more. I didn’t push.
“I’ve come to a decision,” he said, looking back at me.
“Oh yeah?”
“Yeah.” He gave me a long, slow once-over. “I think you need a bodyguard.”
I laughed out loud that time. “A bodyguard?” I thought about it while poking my carrot with a fork. “Well, I already have a guardian, and she’s pretty awesome.” That guardian was a departed Rottweiler named Artemis.
“I know, but she can’t protect you against an angel. They’re powerful, Dutch. Very powerful. And just because they can’t kill you doesn’t mean they aren’t going to give it their all. I don’t think you’d be willing to do what was necessary to stop one if it came after you.”
“But they’re the good guys.”
“In most situations, yes. But in this situation, I’m not so sure.”
“I did threaten Him.”
“You had a legitimate complaint. Jehovah—that’s not His real name, by the way—knows that better than anyone, but I don’t think He’s going to give up His toy box just because you’re angry with the way He governs His action figures.”
“Yeah, I didn’t expect He would. Wait. That’s not His real name? What’s His real name?”
“I’m not going to tell you something you already know. When were you going to tell me about your conversation with Michael?”
“That is an excellent question. Are you going to tell me His name or not?”
When he looked at me that time, his irises shimmering with something deep, something dark, he asked, “Why? So you can trap Him in the god glass, too?”
I gasped, completely offended. Not that I’d had any doubt that our conversations would one day lead to the pendant I carried in my pocket 24-7. The 600-year-old pendant that contained a substance called god glass, an opalescent stone that shimmered like a thousand galaxies. Inside it was the aforementioned hell dimension, the one Jehovah created for His rebellious little brother, a.k.a. my husband. And it all sat in an intricate glass-covered pendant, barely bigger than a quarter, with delicate scrolls and ornate markings.
Because I hadn’t known how Reyes would take the news when he found out he, too, was a god, because I hadn’t known if he would change into the malevolent being I’d been led to believe he was, I kept it hidden. Until I had to use it, that is. I’d trapped one of the two truly malevolent gods who’d joined Team Satan in it. And now that god, along with a nasty demon named Kuur, was locked in a dimension with dozens of innocent souls.
Getting them out without releasing the evil entities inside had been on my to-do list for a while. But Reyes had figured out I’d kept the god glass a secret from him. And why. So, I decided to do what I did best. I changed the subject.
“About this bodyguard position, you offering?”
He sat watching my mouth for the longest time, causing my insides to tingle. Then he bit his bottom lip and wet it. The movement was so innocent, so everyday, yet it sent a jolt of pleasure straight to my core.
“I don’t know,” he said at last. “What does it pay?”
I cleared my throat. And my dirty mind. “I can’t afford much. I’m already having to switch to cheaper toothpaste just to keep Cookie on.”
He tsked, the sound both humorous and sensual. “The sacrifices we make.” He had yet to lift his gaze from my mouth, and I could’ve cut the pheromones hanging thickly in the air with a switchblade.
The way I saw it, I had two choices. I could take him to the broom closet and tear off his clothes, or I could wish that I’d taken him to the broom closet and torn off his clothes for the rest of the day.
Broom closet it was.
Just as I’d decided to jump on the idea—and him—I remembered my latest gig. The one that he was not going to be happy about. The one that I really should have discussed with him before accepting, not that my PI business was any of his, but it had been a sensitive subject in the past. Like third-degree-burn sensitive.
Best to get it out in the open. Rip off the Band-Aid, so to speak. Cut open a vein and hope he still cared enough about me afterwards to apply pressure.
I cleared my throat and straightened my shoulders. “So, yeah, I got a new case today.”
“You don’t say.”
“I just want you to know that I already accepted it.”
He finally met my gaze, his curiosity getting the better of him. “What do you mean?”
“I mean … I mean Shawn Foster. The Fosters’ son came in today.”
He stilled but gave no other clue as to his thoughts.
“He knows, Reyes. He knows he’s not the Fosters’ biological son. And the adoption agency that supposedly did the paperwork should the Fosters ever have to prove they’d gotten him through legitimate means? He knows that was bogus as well. He believes, as do I, that he was abducted as a child. Just like you were.”
I could feel rather than see the darkness slide over him like a cloak. His poker face was top notch, but he was not a happy camper shell. “He asked you to look into it?”
“He just waltzed into the office and hired me.”
“How did he know to come to you?”
“See, now here’s where it gets interesting.” I was so good at lightening the mood. Not so great with lightening my hair, though. Peroxide and I did not get along. “I’ve done a few drive-bys past the Fosters’ house since we’ve been back. You know, just to check on things. Totally, 100 percent innocent. But he noticed. I know, right? My bad.”