Grave Mistakes (Hellgate Guardians #1)(14)

I spin around in confusion, but aside from the closed stone coffin on the left and a pillowed bench on the right with an empty flower holder, there’s no one in here.

Confused, I walk back outside and then circle the whole mausoleum. My gaze sweeps everything around me, but there’s nothing there other than headstones and grass. Not a damn person in sight.

I check the inside of the massive tomb one more time, but it’s just as empty as the first time I checked, and the voices are silent. There isn’t a peep sounding throughout the entire graveyard other than the crickets that are chirping all at once.

I run a hand down my face and blow out a breath. “Get your shit together, Delta,” I chastise myself. It was probably my radio picking up a signal. Or the voices just carried from the event at the estate. Or my lack of sleep lately is fucking me up. That’s one of the downfalls of sleeping during the day—it messes with your natural cycle. Even my dreams are whack.

I don’t believe in ghosts, so that option goes right out the window. If they were real, my dead parents would’ve visited me at least once over the past nine years. It’s possible that there could’ve been some people behind the mausoleum before I checked it out, or my ears just picked up noise in the wrong direction entirely.

I spin slowly in place, my grip still tight on the cumbersome walking stick. Maybe I scared whoever it was away. My terrifying entrance could’ve had trespassers tucking tail and fleeing with all the noise I just made. I put my hand on my hip in thought, and my palm skims the short antenna of the radio.

Wait a minute…

“Iceman,” I grit out with irritation.

Is that fucker pranking me? I ponder that question for a moment, and the more I swish it around my mouth, the more I taste the possibility in the words. That’s gotta be it.

I yank off my radio and click it on. “Aren’t you a little old for practical jokes?” I snap into the speaker.

“What?”

“Instead of trying to scare me, why don’t you go...do whatever it is you’re supposed to be doing other than sitting on your ass and inhaling chips,” I hiss.

“What?” he says again.

I roll my eyes. “I need this job, so I’m not leaving. Over,” I say crisply before shoving the radio back into my holster and turning it to channel six instead of five, like a boss. That was the radio equivalent of blocking him and flipping him the bird, and I feel good about it.

Gripping my walking stick, I get back to work, vigilantly watching the graveyard as I pull out my flashlight to illuminate my way as the shadows creep closer. The air turns cool and quiet, and for the next few hours, I meander around, making this eighty-dollar-an-hour gig my bitch.

That is, until I hear voices in the mausoleum again.

Motherfucker.





4





I’m definitely not hearing things, because my ears are on point, so this must be Iceman or someone else still trying to fuck with me. I am not happy.

The voices get louder as I once again creep my way forward from the back of the mausoleum to the front. I have no idea how these pricks keep sneaking into this place without me seeing them, but I’m going to hand them their balls.

I still can’t tell exactly how many people are in there, but the voices are definitely still male, and this time, judging by their volume, they don’t care if they’re going to get caught. I bet Iceman and his buddies get off on this shit. All I know is, if they’re dressed in some Michael Myers masks, I’m going to junk punch them until they have no doubt about what their ball batter tastes like.

Pissed, I shove my flashlight into my holster and then tightly grip my walking stick in both hands like I’m about to swing at a baseball. I take a deep breath and charge to the door, letting out a piercing warrior cry as I run. On the outside, my don’t fuck with me face is in full effect, but on the inside, I’m cringing because, not only do I look like skirtless Xena, but now I fucking sound like her as I lalalala-scream my way inside.

I bust the door open like a total badass—anticipating the boom this time—and revel in the she-yell that now bounces off the walls of the enclosed space.

I lurch to a stop, staring at the three figures inside the mausoleum. They freeze and whirl around at my entry, and I squint in the dim moonlight as I take in the three men who are very obviously not the prankers or possible punk teenagers I was expecting. These three are all man. Even in the dim lighting, I can see they’re ripped and beefy as hell. They also don’t seem the least bit concerned about little old weapon-wielding me.

“Seriously, why are these Quīnque always so damn dramatic? Wonder how long this one will last?” one of them casually asks, looking me up and down. He has buzzed ghost-white hair and really pale skin, while his tanned blond friend looks like the kind of guy who spends a lot of time at the beach and says dude a lot.

I force myself to blink a couple of times, because I swear, the tattoos on the tall white-haired man’s arms just moved. When I focus on them though, they’re immobile, just like they should be. The lighting in here is messing with my eyes.

“We’re lucky we got anyone,” the surfer guy replies, totally nonplussed by my menacing presence. “Hmm. A female this time? That’s different.”

“Both of you sit still and shut up,” the third man says. He’s beefy with black skin and bright orange hair. And when I say black skin, I mean as dark as onyx and just as smooth. “Is she...does she see us?” he hisses out of the side of his mouth.