The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(6)

“Ay, dios mio.” He looked back out the window, but I felt the weight on his shoulders lift, if only a little. “Are you gonna tell me what this is about?”

“Yes. Just, not yet.”

“When?”

“I’m going to talk to Garrett. He’ll know what to do. I’ll summon you the minute I know something.”

He nodded, seeming to accept my conditions. Without argument or endless negotiations involving me in a state of undress. Something was definitely off.

“Sweetheart, what’s up?”

He shrugged and looked out the window again.

I rested a hand on his cool one, and without turning his gaze toward me, he turned up his palm and threaded his fingers into mine. That act, that one, simple gesture, terrified me. I knew Reyes could be a problem, what happened could change everything, but for it to affect Angel to such a degree was unexpected.

I set my jaw, preparing to hear something I didn’t want to, and asked, “Bottom line, Angel: Could he kill? Do you believe him capable?”

He glanced down at our hands. “That’s the problem, corazón. Could Reyes kill? Hell, yes, but only to protect you. Or Beep. Could Rey’azikeen kill?” He pulled his lower lip in through his teeth, turned once again to stare out the window, then spoke so softly I had to strain to hear him. “By the millions.”

*

By the time I got to Garrett’s house, the clock had struck one. Thirty-eight. Ish.

Garrett would be asleep, which was why I didn’t go to him earlier that day when I realized I was in a tad over my head. I could ambush him. Tell him what happened with the god glass and the smoke and the angry deity, and he’d be too sleepy and disoriented to reprimand me. Win-win.

Garrett Swopes had been one of the more reluctant believers in my circle of friends, but since he’d come to terms with who I was and what I could do, he’d become an invaluable asset. He was also a top-notch researcher, which was weird. Before he began exploring old texts and ferreting out ancient prophecies in one form or another, I had no idea he could read.

I grabbed the cupcakes I’d stolen from Cookie’s apartment, the one right across the hall to which I had a key, wound up Garrett’s walk, took out another key labeled “Secret Key to Garrett’s House, Shhh,” and let myself in.

Since I’d had the key made without his knowledge or, more importantly, his consent, the last time I used the key, I told Garrett I’d picked the lock. The schmuck believed me. I could pick locks, just not in a super timely manner. Those things were harder than they looked.

I used the light on my phone to traverse the harsh landscape of Garrett’s abode. Books, papers, and manly things lay strewn about along with a couple of empty beer bottles and a half-empty bottle of wine. Since when did Garrett drink wine?

I finally made my way back to his bedroom and things just got curiouser and curiouser. Garments of all shapes and sizes peppered the floor, and since I doubted Swopes was a double D, I had to assume he was with a woman.

Yep. He lay sleeping on his back, his torso bare except for the double D draped across him.

This was awkward.

I sat on a weight lifting bench he had in a corner, trying to figure out if I should wake him or not. My sitting there in the dark, staring at a couple post-coitus, could be considered creepy by the more conservative of the population. Then again, Garrett had a great torso. At least half of said population would totally understand.

Before I had a chance to wake him, Garrett stirred.

I started to say hey, but no sooner had I drawn breath than I found myself staring down the barrel of a .45. I dropped the cupcakes and raised my hands in surrender.

“It’s me,” I said, my voice a mere squeak. “I brought cupcakes.”

“What the fuck?” He reached over, without taking his eyes or the barrel off me, and turned on a lamp. “What the fuck are you doing in my bedroom?”

“Bringing you cupcakes.” Since the gun was still trained on me, I kept my hands raised.

The girl moaned and rolled off him, exposing more of his mocha-colored skin. His hard, muscular mocha-colored skin. I stole a quick gander for posterity’s sake, then returned my attention to the matter at hand.

“Charles,” he said in warning, his voice deep and sleepy and edged to a razor-sharp sheen.

I may have ovulated, but only a little. I was a married woman, damn it.

When he continued to glare, and point a gun at me, I caved. “Fine. Holy cow. You called me, remember?”

He finally lowered the gun and rubbed his eyes. “I called you three days ago.”

“Right. Sorry about that. I’ve been busy.” I gestured toward the woman now sprawled across the other side of the bed. “Who’s the ho?”

He glanced at his bedmate, then back at me, his mouth agape. Like literally. “Are you kidding me? She’s not a ho. I thought you of all people would understand that, considering your background.”

“My what?”

“You should be the last person to judge someone for jumping into bed with a superhot bond agent with fantastic abs—”

He did have great abs.

“—who may or may not have had a shitty night so he went for a drink and met a wonderful young woman with whom he shared a mutual attraction and, since they were both consenting adults, decided to spend some quality time together. For you to call her a ho—”