The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(60)

I fought the urge to let go of the steering wheel and do exactly that. “I can’t,” I said, shaking my head. “I have a funeral to go to. And you said it yourself. You’re not my husband.” I’d said it as a challenge, daring my husband to fight.

Rey’azikeen’s next line of attack was his fire. He sent it out to caress my skin. I felt flames lick along the most fragile parts of me. The most delicate and sensitive and tender.

“Rey’aziel doesn’t have to know.”

I resisted the gravity of his presence and bit the inside of my cheek to clear my head. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll sup on your soul?”

He locked his gaze again, and moments passed until I blinked and broke the spell.

“I am,” he said. “Afraid. I have been for hundreds of thousands of years.”

“And yet there you sit. I must not be that scary.”

“You’re a fool.”

I ignored the rankle his statement caused. “Why is that?”

He turned to stare out the window. “You should have devoured me eons ago when you had the chance.”

I glanced over my shoulder. “If I had, I wouldn’t have you now. I wouldn’t have Reyes.”

“You have neither of us. All you have is doubt and suspicion and animosity.”

“You’re wrong.”

“You’re na?ve.” When I failed to rise to the occasion and hurl insults back, he lowered his voice again. “Crawl back here with me.”

“Give me the name of the priest.”

“I don’t know it.”

I gasped. “You lied?” Disappointment swallowed me.

“Malevolent god,” he said by way of explanation.

“No,” I said, almost yelling. I finally pulled over, threw Misery into park, and faced him. “No. Not malevolent. Unruly, perhaps. Rebellious. But not malevolent.”

Surprise registered on his perfect face, but he recovered quickly. And he grinned, as though the heavens had opened up and shone just for him. “Is that what you told my Brother when you begged Him not to send me into the god glass? The hell dimension He tricked me into making?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

“I’m so close,” he said. He leaned forward, took my hand, and laid it over his heart. “You could take me now. You’d be wise to do so. To devour me before I find the object of embers and ashes.”

“When you find it, what will you do with it?” I asked, trying to eke out information, anything to clue me in to what he was searching for.

He shook his head. “That is not your concern. Your concern is only now. Only this.” He leaned back and dropped his hands to his sides, laying himself completely open, daring me to devour him. Or fuck him. It was hard to say.

And, God help me, I wanted to do both.

“Time’s up,” he said. Then he was gone. I’d only blinked, and from one microsecond to the next, he disappeared.

I shuddered, his powerful allure so enticing, I could hardly form a coherent thought. But the tiny voice coming from my passenger’s seat took care of all the yearnings, all the pangs of desire, in two seconds flat.

“Who was that?” Strawberry asked.

I gaped at her, absorbing her presence before throwing my arms around her.

Strawberry Shortcake, so named because of her pajamas, was a nine-going-on-thirty-year-old departed girl, half-sweetheart, half-demon child, who’d lived with Rocket at the asylum before Rey’azikeen tore it down.

She let me hug her for, like, an hour before getting enough and pushing me away.

“Where have you been, sweet pea? Were you there when the asylum was destroyed?” Maybe she knew something more about what Reyes was searching for.

“No. I was looking for my brother. I still can’t find him. You promised you’d find him for me.”

Her brother, Officer David Taft, had gone on sabbatical from the police force and hadn’t been seen since. Uncle Bob didn’t seem particularity worried when I questioned him about it. No one had reported him missing, but his only family was sitting in my passenger’s seat, and she couldn’t exactly call the cops. Still, he had friends. Or I’d assumed he’d had friends. None of them had reported him missing.

I’d planned on looking into his whereabouts when all hell broke loose. Literally.

“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ll find him. Promise. But have you seen Rocket? Is he okay?”

“You’ll find David? Pinkie swear?”

I held up my pinkie, wrapped it around hers, and swore on its life, apparently. I never quite got the pinkie-swearing tradition.

“Okay, where’s Rocket, love?”

“He’s playing.”

“At the asylum?”

“No. With the other kids.”

“The other kids?”

“The ones at Chuck E. Cheese.”

I blinked, trying to picture Rocket playing with a roomful of children anywhere, much less Chuck E. Cheese.

“His favorite game is Whac-A-Mole. He thinks it’s funny.”

“Well, he’s right.”

“I guess. I have to get back. I’ve looked and looked for David. Your turn.”

Before I could question her further, she was gone. And I was wasting time on the side of the interstate when I had a funeral to crash.