Eleventh Grave in Moonlight (Charley Davidson #11)(5)

I stopped, turned, and gaped at a thirteen-year-old gangbanger who’d died in the ’90s. Angel. He was one of my investigators. Not to mention the bane of my existence. And he was on the floor, laughing so hard he had to hold his stomach.

“What the fuck, Angel?” I asked, turning toward him.

I was now wearing the kid like a backpack, but at least he’d stopped biting me. The glass half-full and all.

The kid jumped down and doubled over laughing, too.

While I graced them with my best look of horror and disgust and betrayal, Angel stood, and the two urchins, who were clearly in cahoots, fist-bumped.

I rubbed my neck where the kid had bitten me. “That was wrong on so many levels.”

Angel snorted, and they doubled over again. I finally got a good look at the kid. He was closer to Angel’s age than I’d originally thought, though a lot shorter. But he really was made up to look like a vampire. His long black hair was real, and his face had been painted white with thick black liner and fake blood dripping from his mouth and down his temple.

When I folded my arms under the girls, a.k.a. Danger and Will Robinson—names I’d given my double Ds because of their propensity for inviting trouble—the kid explained. Or he tried to. His words came out muffled. Partly because of the laughter but mostly because of the fake teeth.

“Ha-oh-ween.” He held up a finger, then spit out the teeth, the kind that glowed in the dark, and wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand. “I can’t talk with those things in. Halloween. Hit and run.”

A soft Native American accent accompanied his speech. Syllables that flowed without effort from most Americans were stopped short in the smooth, rhythmic staccato distinct to native people, only he was from a newer generation. His accent had been diluted by all the Anglo-Saxons running about, mucking shit up. Still, there was just enough of one that, if I had to guess, I’d say he was from the Zuni reservation northeast of Albuquerque.

And his costume was pretty awesome. Or it was before it dawned on me that the blood dripping down his temple and off his chin wasn’t part of the gig.

“The blood’s real,” I said, astonished and sad.

“Oh yeah.” He waved a dismissive hand. “No big.”

My chest tightened, and I fought my natural instinct to pull him into my arms. It fought back, but I held strong this time. Mostly because being accused of groping a child was a real thing.

“This is Logan,” Angel said, sobering.

Logan held out his hand. I struggled to find a smile as we shook.

“Angel told me all about you. Why you’re so bright and all.” He nodded in approval. “Pretty badass, if you ask me.”

“Then I’m askin’,” I said with a grin.

He ducked his head, hiding a bashful smile, just as I gasped and turned. I’d almost forgotten about Dr. Mayfield. She was still holding down the carpet by an oak filing cabinet, a look of sheer terror lining her face.

And we’d made a mess. A costly one. No telling what that pile of glass that used to be a vase would cost me.

I could chalk this case up to another entry in the red column after I paid for the damages. I totally wasn’t pulling my weight. While my husband was earning enough in interest alone to buy a small country—daily—I was still struggling to earn enough to buy toothpaste and pay my assistant at the same time. One simply had to go. And I could hardly be expected to live without toothpaste.

But I was bound and determined to make my own way in the world. Right after I bought that yacht I’d been eyeing. And those thirty-seven pairs of boots I had in my wish list on Boot Bliss. After that, it would be all me, baby.

“Dr. Mayfield,” I said, easing closer to her, “are you okay?”

She was shaking visibly, her eyes wide and wild and more than a little panicked.

“It’s a lot to take in,” I said.

“How…? I don’t … when…?”

“Breathe.” I knelt down and scooted closer. “Just breathe, Doctor.”

She took in a deep breath before she realized the fruitlessness of her endeavor. “It doesn’t do anything.”

“I know. I’m sorry. It’s just, the act tends to calm some people down. I’ve actually seen a departed hyperventilate. No idea how, but it happened. But once he got his breathing under control … well, you get the idea.”

She continued to pant, to force air in and out of her nonexistent lungs. The boys calmed down the minute they realized Dr. Mayfield was having difficulties. They knelt beside us, and Logan took her hand.

“Dr. Mayfield?”

She let her gaze travel slowly toward him.

“It’s just makeup,” I assured her. Just in case. “He’s not really a vampire.”

“Oh. Okay.” She nodded, then recognition dawned on her pretty face. “Wait.” Her gaze traveled the length of the boy. “You’re … you’re Cynthia’s son.”

I had no idea who Cynthia was, but the doctor had apparently nailed it.

The kid nodded and flashed a nuclear smile that shot straight to my heart. “You helped her so much after the accident … after I died, I wanted to help you, too.”

Both hands flew over her mouth as she studied him. “You really are … you really were … you’re here. She said she felt you.”