Demon Hunting In Dixie (19 page)

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Authors: Lexi George

BOOK: Demon Hunting In Dixie
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Dooley snuffled in disgust. “
DOOLEY
LIKE
CHICKEN
.”
“A subtle but distinct difference,” Brand said. “Let her have it, Adara. The other creature does not want it.”
Addy gave the dog a nod, and the chicken disappeared in two bites. Dooley sniffed around for more.
“Out, greedy gut.” She shooed Dooley out the door and shut the kitten in the laundry room. “Do you think Mr. Fluffy will be lonely by himself?”
“Adara, the creature will be fine.”
He picked her up in his arms and headed for the bedroom.
“Brand, put me down.”
“No.”
“But, what about Mr. Fluffy? I'm worried about him. He needs to eat.”
“Adara, my patience with the subject of Mr. Fluffy is at an end. I do not want to hear another word about that ridiculous creature or his even more ridiculous name.”
“Oh, yeah? What
do
you want to talk about then?”
He pushed the bathroom door open with his foot and set her down inside the large walk-in shower.
“This,” he said, pulling her into his arms and kissing her.
“I like seeing you in my shirt.” He unfastened the top three buttons and pushed the shirt off her shoulders, exposing the tops of her breasts. Tracing the curve of her bosom with his fingertips, he slowly undid the rest of the buttons. “Better yet, I like seeing you out of it.”
The shirt sailed over the shower door, followed by his trousers. He stared at the chrome shower valve in obvious puzzlement for a moment and waved his hand. Warm water poured out of the double shower heads mounted at both ends of the stall. Addy hardly noticed. She was too busy gawking at the six- foot six-inches of naked, glorious male standing in her shower. The water coursed over his taut, gleaming skin and down the firm ridges of his muscles in fascinating rivulets.
“Adara.” Brand's tone held a note of warning. “I told you not to look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you are a she wolf, and I am a-a—”
She stepped closer. “Baby deer? Fuzzy wuzzy bunny rabbit?”
“That is hardly the image I was searching for. I was thinking of something more—”
“Manly? Macho? Mister-ish?”
As she spoke, she followed the winding streamlets of water with her tongue, licking a path down his unyielding chest, over the fascinating bumps and ridges of his six-pack abs and lower to his . . .
“Adara.”
He yanked her to her feet, his chest heaving. “I only have so much self-control, and you push it to the limit.”
“So lose control.”
“No, you have been injured. You must rest. I would not treat you as I would a thrall . . . slake my unseemly lust upon you again and again without a care for your well-being—”
She traced a circle around one flat nipple with the tip of her finger. To her delight, he shivered in response. “That's sweet, big guy. But there are a couple of things I think you might not have considered. First, as you pointed out, I'm Dalvahni now, thanks to you, and that means I heal quickly.” She waggled her brows at him. “Everywhere. Get it?”
“I think I grasp your meaning. Your head wound seems to have healed satisfactorily.”
She dragged her lips across his chest in a lingering openmouthed kiss. “Uh huh, all better.”
Beneath her fingers, she felt his heart give an uneven thud. She hid her smile against his chest and flicked her tongue across his nipple.
He grasped her bottom and lifted her, pressing her back against the shower wall. “And the other thing I might have not considered?” he said through his teeth.
She wrapped her legs around his waist and smiled. “That I might have a little unseemly lust of my own. And since you're the fellow responsible, I think it's your duty to do something about it.”
She felt the head of his shaft nudge her entrance. Her heartbeat quickened in anticipation.
“You've come to the right place then, milady,” he said. “A Dalvahni warrior always does his duty.”
He entered her and withdrew. Clasping her hips, he drove into her again, setting a steady, rocking rhythm that careened her once more into the white-hot heart of the storm where they merged and she forgot where he began and she ended, and they were one.
Chapter Twenty
W
ith a grateful sigh, Shep ushered the last of the Farris family out of Corwin's Serenity Chapel and closed the door behind them. Not that there'd been much “serene” about the place in the last few hours. Not with bodies missing, and Shirley Farris and Bessie Mae Brown rolling around on the floor of the Camellia Room like it was Mud Tussle night down at the Do Drop In. Poor Daddy was probably spinning in his grave. Wouldn't surprise him a bit if Daddy up and haunted his ass. Lord knows if anything could bring William Shepton Corwin from the Great Beyond it was the ruination of the business that had been in the Corwin family since the Great Depression.
Maybe “ruination” was a bit strong. Still, Shep felt sure things would have gone differently if Daddy were alive. Daddy was the consummate professional, smooth and faultless, as unemotional as the corpses he worked on, devoted to the dead and their grieving families. Nothing like this would have happened with Daddy at the helm.
Nope, he was not the man his daddy had been, a fact immediately confirmed by Mama.
“Lord have mercy, I'm glad your daddy didn't live to see this.” She tottered down the hall supported on Carl Davis's arm. “A body gone missing at Corwin's! And those horrible women. What on earth are we going to do, Shep? Something like this could ruin us.”
“We're the only funeral parlor for thirty miles, Mama. What they going to do, bury 'em in the backyard?”
“Shepton, this is serious!”
Chief Davis patted her on the arm. “Let him alone, Hibiscus. We'll sort this thing out.” He gave Shep his best chief of police stare. “Where'd your sister and that tall fellow go in such an all-fired hurry? I didn't get a statement from them.”
“You can mark her off your list of suspects, Carl,” Shep said. “Addy wouldn't touch a corpse with a ten-foot pole. As for that Brand fellow, he ain't from around here, but I don't think he's responsible.”
“Don't say ‘ain't,' Shep,” Bitsy said. “People will think you're a hick.”
“I
am
a hick, Mama. And, what's wrong with being a hick, anyhow?” Anger and resentment stirred to his surprise. “How you going to be anything else in Hannah?”
The chief gave him an uneasy sideways glance. “It's been a stressful day, Little Bit. Let's get a bite to eat and let Shep regroup.”
Mama sighed and leaned against him. “That sounds wonderful.” Her hand stole to her mangled hair. “But first, I need to run by the house and do something with my hair. I must look a mess.”
“You look beautiful, Hibiscus. I don't recall seeing you look anything less.”
Mama sighed like a young girl. “Oh, Carl, you say the sweetest things. Let me get my purse and I'll be with you in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”
She bustled off, leaving Shep and Carl Davis standing in the elegantly appointed foyer of the funeral home.
The chief cleared his throat. “Reckon where I might catch up with that sister of yours?”
Shep glanced at his watch. “It's past noon, so the flower shop's closed. You'd best try her at home.”
“I'll do that. Before your mother comes back, Shep, there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about.”
The back of Shep's neck prickled. He eyed the older man warily. What now? Lord, hadn't he had enough awkward scenes to deal with for one day? His instincts told him to run like hell. Good manners, however, made him say, “What's that, Carl?”
“It's your mother. We have a sort of an understanding. Hell, if it was up to me, I'd marry her tomorrow. Been in love with the woman since high school, but she's still kind of skittish, so I'm trying to take things slow. Thought you ought to know, you being the head of the family and all. Wanted to assure you my intentions are honorable.”
“I appreciate that, Carl, but Mama has a mind of her own. If she decides to marry you, nothing I say will make any difference.”
“You're wrong, Shep. Your mama loves you and Addy better 'n snuff. She wouldn't do anything to hurt either of you, especially you. You're her right-hand man.” He shifted and looked away. “I know she's a woman who likes nice things. I may not be rich, but I got a little set aside. I want you to know I'll be able to provide for your mama, if she'll have me.”
Lord Jesus, where did Mama leave her purse anyway, Alaska? He did
not
want to have this conversation. “I appreciate that, Carl. Tell you what. Why don't we talk about this again, if you and Mama decide to get married?”
Shep squelched a snort. Carl E. Davis was a fine man. Hells bells, Shep
liked
Carl, but Mama . . . Mama was all about the social scene, always had been. Somehow Shep didn't see Mama marrying the chief of police of podunk Hannah. Carl was hardly a member of the country club set, a life that suited Mama down to her pedicured toenails. And Carl was nothing like Daddy. Not necessarily a bad thing, mind you, but there it was.
“Here I am.” Mama hurried back down the hall. “I'm ready to go, Car-lee.”
Shep's head was pounding by the time he saw Mama and the chief out the door. He retreated to his office and sank into the leather executive chair behind his desk. He dropped his head in his hands. It was a terrible thing for a man to be staring forty in the face and realize the life he'd carefully constructed for himself, the life he thought he wanted, the life he'd been raised to think he
ought
to want, was nothing but shit. A big old pile of—
A loud pop drew Shep's attention from his dark thoughts. He lifted his head. A huge, blond-haired man stood on the other side of his desk. In his arms he held—
The Goliath dropped the dismembered corpse onto the floor with a loud thunk. The severed head rolled under Shep's desk.
Shep scrambled to his feet. “Who the hell are you, and how'd you get in here?”
He glared up at the stranger. He played football in high school, measured six-foot-one in his stocking feet and worked out, but this guy towered over him. What was it, circus freak day in Hannah or something? First, that black-haired fellow his sister had been with, and now this guy. They made him feel like a shrimp. And plug ugly. Not that Shep normally noticed the way other guys looked. No damn way. But, crap on a Christmas tree, these two guys were frigging perfect. It was enough to give a fellow a complex.
“I am Ansgar.” The blond guy's cultured, musical voice crawled all over Shep. Jesus, with a voice like that broads probably ate this guy up with a spoon. “I bring greetings from your sister Adara and my brother, Brand, and return to you the corpse of the human called Farris.”
“Holy mother of God, don't tell me that thing is Dwight Farris?”
Shep rushed around the desk and stared at the headless corpse. His startled gaze shifted to the head under his desk. Dwight Farris stared back at him. Dwight looked bad, real bad. Not that the dick-whittling son-of-a-bitch had been much to look at to begin with, but jeez, he looked terrible. For one thing, his head had been ripped off and the skin on his neck looked like somebody had taken a blowtorch to it. As for the blue suit, it was history.
He pointed a shaking finger at the corpse. “What the hell do you expect me to do with that?”
The blond guy shrugged. “Your sister assured me you were up to the task. I have delivered the corpse as promised. The rest I leave to you. I bid you farewell.”
The blond guy vanished. Poof, pop, gone, like he'd been beamed up or something.
Only this was real life, and things like this did not happen in real life, especially in Hannah. Hell, the most exciting thing to happen around here had been last week, when the mayor—the dumbass—left a case of Co-Cola in his car and the cans exploded from the heat. Sounded like guns going off,
pop, pop, pop!
Mayor Tunstall screamed like a girl and crawled under his desk, hollering for his secretary to call the police because somebody was trying to assassinate him. As if anyone would waste a bullet on such a cheese dick monkey turd. The police had showed up, and the fire department and the sheriff. They searched city hall and the surrounding block for the evil mayor-killing terrorists before somebody noticed the brown foam covering the interior of the mayor's car. Warm, sticky Coke dripped down the windows and the windshield, and covered the mayor's fancy leather seats in brown goo. It even coated the inside of the air-conditioning vents. The story made the front page of the paper.
COKE BOMB TARGETS MAYOR
, the headline read.
No, nothing exciting happened in Hannah, and people did not get beamed up.
Shep staggered to the edge of the desk and sat down, his mind reeling. It was the shock. He'd had a lot to deal with lately, and it had caught up with him. There hadn't been a blond guy, or a beheaded corpse. No, he was—
He looked down. Dwight's severed head stared back at him. Oh, God, it was real. Old Man Farris was back, but he looked like something the dogs drug up. And he was supposed to make this right? No damn way. Even Daddy couldn't fix this one.
He raked his hands through his hair. What to do first? The suit, replace the suit. Worry about the damage to the body later.
He picked up the phone and dialed the number to Tompkin's. “Tweedy? Shep. Do you have Dwight Farris's size on file?” Tweedy answered in the affirmative, and Shep's choke hold on the receiver loosened. “Good. Listen, I need you to bring me a new suit in Mr. Farris's size, new shirt and tie, too. Bring 'em to the funeral home right away. Put it on my bill. What? No, don't worry about the cost, make it something nice. Yeah, he's turned up. No, still don't know who took him.” He ran his hand through his hair again, not caring about the damage to his carefully combed locks. “Look, I haven't told the chief yet, so I'd appreciate it if you kept this to yourself. Thanks, Tweedy. I owe you.”
Five and a half hours later, wringing wet with sweat and exhausted from wrestling with the ossified corpse, he was putting the final touches on Mr. Farris in the casket. He'd used a combination of staples, stitches, and superglue to reattach the head to the body, no easy feat when the flesh on Mr. Farris's neck had been toasted to a crisp. Fortunately, the high collar of the dress shirt Tweedy brought covered most of the damage. Shep had to admit the new wool suit was an improvement on the original polyester blend. Too bad he had to cut it up the back to get it on the stiff. He restuffed the corpse's cheeks with cotton balls and repaired Mr. Farris's mangled mouth the best he could with more superglue and a thick layer of makeup—how the hell did that happen, anyway?—and retouched the corpse's frazzled hair. He was no Jeannine, but he didn't dare trust anyone else with the task. Half a dozen tree-shaped car air fresheners tucked discreetly beneath the body and he was done. Old Man Farris smelled like a combination of new car scent and a giant pine fart, but the air fresheners disguised the odor of burned flesh and formaldehyde.
He stepped back, surveying the body dispassionately. Not bad. Not bad at all, if he did say so himself. He doubted Shep Senior could have done any better.
A high-pitched humming noise disrupted his all-too-brief moment of self-satisfaction. He turned, his eyes widening in shock as a woman materialized before him. Woman, hell, more like a freaking
goddess.
She was mostly naked—thank you, Lord Jesus!—and perfectly formed, with high, generous breasts, a tiny waist, and flaring hips. Her lush body was draped in ribbons of filmy cloth that clung and flowed across her satin flesh, blown by some invisible breeze. The same unseen current lifted her long, black hair and whirled the silken strands about her shoulders and breasts.
Black brows lifted above eyes that were icy blue. “You are not Dalvahni.”
Christ, she had a sexy voice, throaty, alluring . . . The slightly stilted accent, like English was a second language, sounded vaguely familiar, but it was hard to think with all the blood draining out of his big head and into his little one.
“Uh, no.” He swallowed heavily. Her words slowly percolated through the haze of lust. “I met a Brand Dalvahni this morning, but he's not here. Who are you?”
“I am Lenora. Conall sent me to service the Dalvahni. They linger overlong at their task. I must find them.”
Shep's brain whirled. It was hard to think when he was as horny as a three-peckered goat. “S-service them? What exactly does that mean?”
“I am thrall. I empty them so they may better perform their task.”
“Task?” He found it harder and harder to think. “What task?”
“The Dalvahni hunt the djegrali. Demons, I think you humans would call them.” She tilted her head, considering him. “You are human?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“I thought so. I have not met a member of your species before, but I have heard stories . . .” She stepped closer. Her delicate nostrils quivered. “Do all humans reek so deliciously of emotion, or are you special?”
“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm not—”

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