The Trouble with Twelfth Grave (Charley Davidson #12)(70)

“I’ve seen you get the names. I’ve seen you search for them in your head.”

He laughed again. “I don’t search for them in my head. I search for them in Blue’s. Only she knows the names.”

I’d been communicating with the wrong departed savant the whole time? I glanced over at her. She grinned and pointed to her temple, to her mind, letting me know exactly where all the names were stored.

“But I’ve never seen her tell you a name I’ve asked for,” I argued. “It’s always just been you.”

The look on Rocket’s face almost doubled me over. He pressed his lips together, shook his head, and tsked as though I were a pitiful creature. “Miss Charlotte, just because you can’t see someone doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”

He had a point.

“Thank you, Rocket.” I rolled onto my tiptoes and kissed his cheek, gaining a glare from the kid I bumped into. The kid Rocket was standing in.

I left the gang to their fun. Outside, I found an older kid, a blond skater with dreads, and offered him a twenty if he’d go inside and use the whole thing playing Whac-A-Mole.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug.

If I was lucky, I’d get at least ten bucks out of it. He’d use the rest on other games or pizza, but that was cool, too.





19

I try to just take one day at a time,

but lately several days have attacked me at once.





—MEME


With no time to waste, I rushed to Peanut. I needed a place away from other people, just in case anyone in the vicinity was sensitive to the supernatural realm. If someone ended up hurt because of me, because of my summoning the priest, I’d never forgive myself.

I drove to the old rail yard that housed a series of abandoned warehouses. I’d used them before. Funny how useful abandoned warehouses could be in my line of work.

If I summoned the priest here, there’d be no one else around. No risk, if it were him. I had to resign myself to the fact that it very well may not be. I’d pretty much run out of suspects unless something else came out of the hell dimension I didn’t know about, but that didn’t mean it actually was the priest. Hopefully, all would be revealed soon.

After trying for twenty minutes to pick the lock on the gate—I was sorely out of practice—I ended up breaking it with a crowbar instead. I drove inside the yard and cruised around to a familiar warehouse, one I’d recently used to help save a woman’s life. I parked Peanut, busted yet another lock to get inside the warehouse, then strode to the middle of the massive building using the flashlight on my phone.

Moonlight shone across broken shards of glass on the floor and in the high-set windows overhead. It helped me get a feeling for the expanse that lay before me. Debris and the odd remnant of machinery lay here and there. Homeless people had used the building in the past, but the city had amped up security, so that rarely happened anymore.

Without further ado, I opened the notes on my phone and summoned the priest by saying his name aloud. “Père Arneo de Piedrayta, se prèsenter. Come forward.”

When nothing happened, I shifted onto the celestial realm to get a better feel of what was hiding there. The sepia tones laid out a vast desert of harsh winds and violent storms. My hair whipped around my face as I turned in a circle, trying to find the priest.

Then I spotted something—someone—in the distance. A robed figure, stumbling blindly, trying to shield his face from the winds. I shifted back and demanded he come forward.

“Père, se prèsenter immédiatement.” Come forward, now.

He finally began to materialize in front of me. The astonishing fact that I was summoning a priest from the 1400s was not lost on me. If he ended up being cool and not a raging madman murdering people, I was totally taking him for a drive in Peanut. He would freak.

Parts of the celestial plane came through with him, the wind tossing him about until he settled onto this plane fully. He lay on the ground in a fetal position, spouting prayers in an old version of French, his accent so thick I could barely understand him.

“Père,” I said to get his attention.

Once he realized he was no longer in the storms, he raised his head. His robe, tattered and burned around his sandaled feet, lay in tangles around him. His hair, a short bowl cut, was mussed and unkempt. Judging by his features, he was no more than forty. I hadn’t expected someone so young.

His gaze, wide and wild, darted about in terror. I almost felt sorry for him, but if he truly was the malevolent priest who’d locked all those innocent souls inside the god glass, he didn’t deserve my sympathy.

I grabbed a handful of his robes so he couldn’t disappear on me, and I knelt to speak to him. Once he realized I was there and he focused on me, he winced and tried to scramble back. I kept a firm hold, but he started to panic.

“Père,” I said, trying to calm him. I told him as much in his native tongue. “Calm down. I won’t hurt you.”

I didn’t know what he saw when he looked at me, but he was scared shitless. He shook his head and kicked and clawed at me, managing to land a few punches. Then I realized he wasn’t really looking at me.

I turned around to see Reyes, or Rey’azikeen, leaning against a beamed pillar, watching the goings-on with mild interest. He glanced down to focus on his manicure, as though bored with our interaction.