Grave Robber for Hire (28 page)

I’m reasonably sure
he
isn’t a monster. He didn’t appear to want to harm me, or I’d be dead. Problem is; I’d also felt a pull toward him as if we were made of a similar template. I’d imagined it sexual. But the pull could be far more complex. He’d said he knew when horrible things had occurred.

“Tell me more about yourself. Any
err
, extraordinary talents.”

Surprise and confusion flitted over his face. “Like what?”

“The night we found Sasha’s note, you said you could tell when something terrible had happened. That’s a psychic talent and your aunt’s a clairvoyant. Can you do more or have other … gifts?”

“No, nothing. I just feel a connection to you—and only you.”

Well that didn’t answer squat.

#

After the police left Clyde’s old house, I drove the hour and a half to Baiden’s house, dropped Tyreal off, smoked the tires speeding away from what I didn’t understand, and drove home.

Mail collected, I aimed Streak up my drive.

My dogs bounded around their yard, wiggling butts and wagging tails to say hi. I smiled, cruised into the carport, jabbed hard on the brake, hit reverse and backed up. A thin, three by four foot plywood crate leaned against the wall of my house. I eased out of Streak, heart racing, throat tight and walked over to the crate. I wasn’t expecting a parcel this large from a client. Without touching the plywood, I looked over what surface I could see and found no postage mark, return or delivery address.

Shit
.

Dead flowers, birds, and snakes made for a not very curious Angel. Uneasy and ready to poop my pants, I raced back i
nto my car, hit central lock, and called Tyreal.

Stalker or not, I had nobody else.

Chapter 26

Forty minutes later Baiden dropped off Tyreal. I hauled the unmarked package toward him. Tyreal, leaning on my side fence, wore large welding gloves to help protect against fangs, and held a small crowbar to tear open the crate and if necessary for self-defense.

I two-handed my tampon pistol, holey end pointed at the box, primed to shoot.

“Make sure you shoot straight.” Tyreal wedged the crowbar into the crate.

I hoped I could shoot straight—well straight enough to kill the right creature or whatever brotherly symbol of detestation awaited. “Yep. Steady as can be.” Sweat trickled down my back, beaded my upper lip and my hands shook as if hit with a personal earthquake.

Tyreal looked at my hand, and then my face. “I’m a dead man.”

I didn’t want to know what was in the crate. “Sasha could have sent me a gift straight from Hell or wherever his monster part is from.” And no underworld mall would have tasteful trinkets or accessories that would go with any of my themes.

“Still want me to open it?”

“Of course. Being perverse, I
have
to know
what it is.” How else would I refresh my selection of nightmares?

Viggo flashed in, touched the top of the timber box, and ripped his hand away. His body went bridge pylon taut. His eyes widened with fear. “Leave it. No touch. Burn it.”

Too late. Cheap plywood cracked and staples popped in release. The side fell and landed on the ground. Vig shoved Tyreal. Tyreal staggered two feet sideways from the crate and only stopped himself from falling by grabbing the fence. “Jesus, ghost man.”

Vig growled at him.

No creatures leapt out.

Tyreal inched sideways and I stepped forward, arm outstretched, gun still shaking in my hand.

Viggo blocked Tyreal’s way toward the crate. “Tyreal, must not touch.”

Tyreal turned toward me. “It’s the Rembrandt.”

Ignoring Vig’s disgusted glare I jumped closer. My lungs cramped under a truckload of
OMG
. Beneath centuries of grime, surrounded by a cracked and badly chipped frame, was a painting. A painting rendered in the finest brush strokes by a skilled artist from long ago. A painting of a naked woman stepping out of a tin tub with flames highlighting her red hair.

A painting that glowed deepest purple. Purple so thick and dense it drifted into blackness. Blackness that reminded me of a dead star’s endless void.

“Don’t touch it.” I grabbed Tyreal’s hands, clamping them safely away.

“It’s okay. I can see it. See the shroud.”

“At least I could have chased off a snake. This goes beyond any cursed booby-trap, we’ve seen, touched, or witnessed, in the last insane month. I don’t know how or why, but I know this drips with the curse conjured by a powerful sorcerer.”

Knew, this sorcerer practiced his craft in the immeasurable emptiness of perdition. Knew nothing Tyreal and I know, nothing Bettina can conjure, would free the Rembrandt.

“Burn it, Hayyel,” Vig said. “Make it ash.”

Tyreal looked at it. “Ash?”

“You salt it to banish the evil then scatter the ash into the wind and render the evil too small to cause harm.”

“Right. Tell me how do you know this?”

“I don’t know, just do.”

I rocked back on my heels and bit my lip as I considered my options. I’d revel in burning the curse, salting the ash, and scattering the filth in the wind, but it was possibly a genuine Rembrandt. A Rembrandt smothered in evil, but still a Rembrandt.

I eyed the oil, the real painting under the pall of evil. I couldn’t face destroying a thing of beauty, of such a rich heritage.

“What do we do with it?”

“Can you put the side back on the crate without touching the interior?”

“Yes, but why?”

“Just do it. But whatever you do don’t touch the inside. When it’s done, we’ll hide it in my old cheese cellar. Nobody knows I have the cellar. Including Sasha.” I didn’t want it stolen back.

Ten years ago, Aunty Glynnis and I had dug out part of a hill behind the house, and bricked in the walls to make a cheese curing room. Rarely used, the door was hidden behind a wall of bamboo growing in the garden. I’d stopped making my own cheese the second Aunty Glynnis died. One person can only eat so much cheese, but today that room would make an excellent hiding place.

The plus in this ancient painting fiasco was that we at last possessed the Rembrandt. I should dance naked with joy, but the painting wasn’t ours yet—not really, not at all. Guarded and cursed, I couldn’t exactly pass it on to Claudia Reese-Jones and collect my farm buying fee.

One touch of that purple pulsating horror and she’d be dead. I’d also bet Tyreal’s whole package that her soul would be stolen and sucked straight into purgatory. Uptight and pretentious, Claudia still wasn’t for the underworld.

“We need time to find someone to break the curse.” Someone who could break such a spell would cost a freaking fortune. They’d also be hard to find, and revoltingly evil. Oh the joys of my life.

“Easier thought of than found.”

“Yeah, I know.” Inner anger ignited a spark inside my soul. A flame burst to life inside my chest, heating me, burning me with it. “Sasha had the painting delivered personally to me. I bet my dearest brother thought I couldn’t see the purple. That I was purple blind, and would fry.”

Vig sneered, “He
ass.”

Tyreal and I nodded, although I thought Sasha was more what came out of an ass.

Such underwhelming love froze those flames and created a huge glacier inside my soul. One day—Sasha would be a dead ass. I’d make sure of it.

#

After we’d calmed down over our Rembrandt action, I drove Tyreal to Baiden’s and returned home.

Sitting and enjoying a much needed strong espresso coffee, my email pinged. I pulled my laptop close and opened the email up. I’d been doing some research and contacted Bettina about what Josey, Clyde, Conan, and Sasha could be. Also about the leeches as Vig called them. She’d given me the names of several demonologists and paranormal consultants. A paranormal consultant who specialized in creatures not human had returned my queries.

‘Dear Angel,

I have assessed your description of the creatures you have come in contact with. If the descriptions are as I pictured, I think they are classified as Dybbuk, evil souls that invade people who have sinned.

Dybbuk are often believed to have been assigned Earthly tasks and some are more evil than others. They can be mercenaries on Earth to assassinate all heavenly Earth bound creatures. Other Dybbuk can harvest and hold souls. They ingratiate themselves onto their victim and await a gift from the victim. Gifts from humans adhere the person’s soul to the Dybbuk, then when ready the Dybbuk kills the person.

While the gift remains in the
Dybbuk’s possession, the dead’s soul stays Hell-bound. The more souls gathered and held, the stronger Dybbuk they become.

These stolen souls can be allowed to return to Earth to invade another sinner’s body,
i.e. form a new Dybbuk. The only way to release both the soul and the Dybbuk so it cannot return to Earth is retrieve the original held gift, kill and burn the body the Dybbuk has stolen, then salt and cast the ashes to the east wind. If this is not done and the body is buried the evil can and will stay with the remains and seek out a new body.

As these creatures have unusual powers beyond a human, killing them is best left to the expertise of a Heaven sent mercenary
.

If a Dybbuk is not killed, they live hundreds of years and use the same body or swap. In this way they can harvest thousands of souls. Each soul they collect gives them not only greater power, it lengthens their life.

The mist leech snakes as you call them I consider to be Dybbuk slaves. Souls that were harvested but not allowed to take a body and become Dybbuk. They serve the Dybbuk that created them.

Please find some copies of ancient drawings and text I have had scanned on your behalf. I have placed an interpretation of the script under each.

I have looked into your ghostly Conan apparition. There are some legends, but they often contradict each other. From what I could find, the apparition might be the Guardian part of a human sent to Earth from Heaven to protect an important one. I will look into this further so I can find a more definitive answer.

It would be advisable to stay well away from all that you suspect are Dybbuk and never give them anything of your own.

I hope this helps. Please feel free to contact me should you need further information.

Regards.

Gil Hunter.

I sat back in my chair and felt tiny vibrations all over and in my body. I was shaking. Confirmation of your nightmares is not always soothing.

Josey
had
lived all that time. Killing and harvesting souls.

Dybbuk. Josey was a Dybbuk who’d stolen a beautiful woman’s body. But what was Clyde? He looked like one of her type, but he’d gifted a forged Rembrandt and maybe a house to Josey. Did he turn Dybbuk because he was a serial killer, and was that after she received his gifts? Did I see an altered version of the psychopathic fully human bastard? Was he saying he wanted to take me to Hell when he told me he could have me before he sent me to
him
? Who the heck was
him
?

And what was Sasha? He looked similar to Josey and Clyde. Had something taken his body after he’d killed all those people?

God—I was so confused. I knew one thing though, I was never giving Sasha or Josey anything, not even gas. Second thing I knew—they needed to die.

Now to make everything right, I had to find a Dybbuk killing mercenary. Well that should be easy. I’d just check the Yellow Pages. They’d have really big advertisements.

Back to square one.

And the Tyreal Conan ghost might be a guardian. Guarding me? No I already had Viggo. So that was another bust. Still I had some answers, that’s good, right?

I rubbed my temples. God, my head hurt.

Chapter 27

By the next afternoon, the white noise of Rembrandts, Dybbuk body snatchers, and Tyreal’s stalking tendencies, screaming in my head, had mostly diffused. De-cursing the Rembrandt would take time, research, and a cargo-ship sized chunk of luck. Sasha I’d actively seek out to have him re-incarcerated and left to rot in prison. Josey, I’d seek to re-claim our Rubens.

On the upside, I’d never have to touch Clyde’s writing again. So no more Clyde.
Yay
.

With Tyreal’s gun and the changed locks on the house, I felt relatively safe. Especially since the CCTV units were quietly feeding to Baiden and Tyreal’s computer systems and alarms.

Stiff and sore, I took two days solace and reveled in the normalcy of feeding my animals and one handedly weeding my numerous vegetable and flower gardens, all while I carried my little tampon pistol. The everyday activities helped me fight off what I think might have been an impending, my-life’s-too-crazy, breakdown.

Last night I’d taken on two more cases. With cases pending, and a houseful of animal dependents, I didn’t have the time or the financial resources to lose my mind.

Last weed tossed onto the compost bin, I took a quick shower, rubbed my bruised body with relaxation oils, and changed into a pair of 1970’s style high cut shorts with lace side inserts, and a butterfly sleeved top that matched the purple of my cast. Even home alone I like to dress in themes and feel pretty.

I took a phone call regarding another new case and another person contacted me via email. Dybbuk brothers and Rembrandts aside, with business thriving I wouldn’t starve. I might go insane, but not starve.

I sat on the outside couch. Asha, snoring and legs sticking in the air, lay on my feet. Misca snuggled into my lap. I was reading a sci-fi thriller when I heard a large vehicle struggling up my steep gravel drive. I drew my feet from under Asha’s snoring largesse, put Misca on the seat beside me and watched bemused as a small truck towing a horse-trailer, came to a stop in my parking area. Tyreal’s SUV followed.

I opened the gate and walked toward the cars. Tyreal got out, held onto the roof while he retrieved his crutches and came over to me. “Farrah Fawcett retro. Hot.”

“My hair is better.” Longer, thicker, more fake blond.

“True.”

Gidget, devoted lover of a pat, softened her brown eyes and nudged his hand. Tyreal patted her as best he could while balancing on crutches. “I’m here for two reasons. One I need to apologize and grovel for forgiveness for not approaching you years ago, and two—well come and have a look.”

I followed his slow hop to the back of the h
orse-trailer. A whip thin man in his late fifties, sort of a blue eyed Sam Elliott with a large soft mustache, walked around and put out his hand.

“Maxum Van Der Waal, Tyreal’s uncle. Tyreal suggested you might take on this here horse. Poor bugger’s in a bad way. I bought him off the owner and arranged a vet to check him out. Vet says he’s only about three, but … anyway you’ll see.”

I looked at Tyreal. He was watching me carefully, keeping a slight distance which wasn’t his usual stance. Man had some common sense underneath all that destined crap. Being the soft hearted sort, I hadn’t been stingy in my assessment of the situation, him, and his stalking routine the other day. We’d ignored the problem while dealing with the packaged Rembrandt from Sasha, but the truth was it was a snorting rhino in the room or as it stood at that moment, yard.

I pursed my lips and squinted slightly. “Using a horse to grovel, that’s cheating.”

“It is. But this one needs help, Princess. Bad.” He ran his gaze down my body, stopped at my ass. Since the seventies had liked jeans shorts high cut, a good part of my butt peaked out.

I hardened my squint before putting my hands on my hips. “Stop ogling my ass.”

His eyes having turned opaque never moved. “What?”

“You’re staring at my ass. Stop.”

He blinked, lifted his gaze to mine. “If you want, I could put my hand there instead.”

My butt cheeks tightened in anticipation. Traitorous butt.

Maxum lowered the trailer’s ramp, stepped inside and made soft noises as he eased out one of the sorriest horses I’d seen in years.

“Sweet Jesus, he’s barely able to stand.” Tears overflowed and ran down my cheeks. Dull furred, matted tail and mane, and bones almost piercing his skin, the horse shook and swayed in weakness. He backed out until he stood before me, covered in sores and sunken eyed, my heart broke. I’d seen a thirty-five year old horse look spryer. I scrutinized his lines, noted his pure black coloring—and gaped.

“He’s a Friesian?” I looked underneath, full stallion. Jesus this was one hell of a near skeleton.

Maxum pulled out some papers from his pocket. “So the bastard who sold him to me said. These papers confirm his breeding. All I saw was a dying animal. Should have called animal welfare, but I couldn’t leave him there. They could have taken days, and I doubt he’d have made it. Will you give him a home? I can help pay toward all the medications and special food he’ll need. Vet reckons it’ll take a year to see him in good condition.”

Tina had come to me in a similar state. It took nearly a full year of special diets and love before she looked healthy, but she’d been older by about twenty years.

The horse turned and looked at me as if he knew he now had hope. Tina and Bones whinnied over the fence. He dropped his head and murmured a half-hearted hello back. Soft horsey lips mouthed my arm and nudged my neck. I used my sleeve to wipe my face. He was saying hi.

Starved and gentle and lonely and desperate.

“Yes, Yes I’ll take him, of course I will. What’s his name?”

“Didn’t have one. Was bought for the last owner’s granddaughter. She died in a car accident coming to see the horse, so nobody bothered to look after him. He’s got a fancy name on this paper, but he doesn’t answer to it. I tried.”

I felt sorry for the family, but the girl’s death wasn’t the horse’s fault and this was criminal neglect. “When he’s well, his coat will gleam like black glass. I’ll call him Obsidian. Volcanic glass.” I put my head near his.

“Hey, Obsidian, we’re going to be best friends.” Obsidian snuffled in my breath, leaned on me, and rumbled low in his chest.

“I like your lass, Tyreal. She has heart.”

The men helped me slowly walk Obsidian to a small yard with an elderly but sturdy shelter. I checked the ball-and-cock on the valve to the water trough and Maxum brought down some of the drier hay I had so we didn’t upset Obsidian’s digestive system. Back at the truck Maxum unloaded two dozen large and expensive bags of horse feed the vet had recommended, and a pile of medications, minerals, and supplements.

“Thank you for taking the boy. I don’t have enough land to keep him long term. I couldn’t leave him there to die, just figured I’d find someone to take him once I had him safe. I’ll pay the vet bills, more feed money’s not an issue, you hear. I’d like to check on him now and again if I could as well.”

“You did the right thing, and of course you can come back and visit us. Even if I can’t take an animal for long, I can until we can find a long term home for them. I have contacts.”

I looked down the paddock at Obsidian. As if he felt my compassion, he lifted his head and whinnied his happiness. “But he’s staying.” I’d felt a connection to this horse, beyond any I’d ever felt before, even crazy old Tina.

Maxum left, and Tyreal turned to me. “I know you’re pissed with me, but can we talk?”

I nodded, turned from Obsidian. “We are still working together and I have an email to show you.” We needed to sort this out, or there’d be no partners with my business or the house and antiques. Besides a man who brought me a horse in need, even via his uncle, jumped up a few notches in my estimate. He might be insane, but we all have our faults.

Tyreal made his way up onto the veranda. He gazed at me intently, a mix of emotions shifting over his face.

I pointed to the chairs and table. “Want coffee?” Tyreal stayed standing, peered down my top. “No. But I could kill a cold beer.”

I hitched up my top. Man must be as sex starved as I felt. I went inside and found two beers, and brought them out. I cracked the twist tops off, passed one to Tyreal and sipped my own. “Thanks for Obsidian. He’ll be magnificent once he’s savored a few months of love.” I stared at Tyreal’s chest. He wore one of his too tight t-shirts. My favorite clothing on him. Other than nothing.

Looking at Tyreal I said, “When he fills out
, he’ll be huge. Friesians are a big solid
horse
, majestic, and expensive. What did your Uncle have to pay to get him off the bastard who starved him?”

“Maxum didn’t say. He liked you. A high honor. He’s not much good around women, they make him nervous. So, Princess, am I forgiven?”

“Not for stalking. That shit creeps me out.” He sipped his beer, his throat moving with his swallow. God, a girl could feast on that neck. Nip and lick it, work her way south.

“I wasn’t a stalker who used binoculars or followed you around in your personal life. I never actively stalked you. I didn’t seek you out, peer through windows. Just lived near and watched for when the opportunity arose.”

“So you’re saying you’re a benign stalker. Harmless.”

“Yes.”

My mouth popped open in disbelief. “Still feel you need to help me?”

“More than ever now that I
’ve seen how you make a living. But that’s not cosmic, that’s common sense. Men like to keep the woman they care for safe.”

Care for? Care for? Did the idiot say care for?

“Forgive me?”

“No, but I’m not
as pissed
as I was—or should be. I guess you’ve proved you’re safe after what we’ve been through this month. Sort of forged our relationship in the fires of Hell. Maybe literally.”

Wasn’t that a happy thought? Something he could go home and tell his mother about so she’d feel her son was safe. Mom, I’ve met this girl, and we’re being hunted by
Dybbuks.

Never looking away, Tyreal sipped his beer. “Sure has been different, but I’ve loved every minute. A bit of adventure makes me feel alive.”

My eyebrows must have hit my hairline. “Feel alive? We’re lucky to
be
frigging alive.”

“
You
make me feel alive, Princess.”

I heard a click as the house yard gate released. Tina raced into the yard and skidded to a grass tearing stop, using her teeth she grabbed Tyreal’s beer. Head thrown back, she chugged the amber liquid down fast. Bottle emptied, she flicked her head sideways and dropped the bottle onto the grass.

Tyreal choked and sprayed out his mouthful of beer. Eyes watering, he pointed to Tina. “What the fuck?”

Tina snickered, the eye I could see, rolled toward me and down at my beer. Her lips quivered.

I took a sip. “Piss off old girl, this is mine.”

I looked at Tyreal’s shocked face and laughed. “What, you never met a horse hard up for a beer before? Where have you lived?”

“Shit.” His eyes still protruded. On a lesser man, it might have appeared unattractive, unfortunately, Tyreal never looks unattractive.

Tyreal leaned on the wall, snatched my beer, and drained it. He put his arm around my shoulder, pulled me to him and nuzzled my neck, sending
ooh
and
ahh
tingles down my body. “You live an odd life. I have told you that haven’t I?”

“You stole my beer.”

“I needed it more.” His chest started to shake, then his whole body as he laughed. “God, you do it for me. You are hotter and far stranger than any woman I’ve ever met.” He bent his head. I went to glance away, but his fingers wrapped around my chin, then he ran his thumb over my bottom lip. “See me, Angel,
see me
.” And he lowered his mouth.

Tasting of beer, our tongues met and danced. My body melted into his and felt as if it had come home.

Hunger for the feel and taste of him lit my inner fuse. Tyreal was scarily correct. We just might be destined. Destined to fall into bed and have hot sweaty sex.

I slipped my hand over his hard back muscles. Oh yeah. Here’s to destiny.

With the sudden acceleration of the super strange in my life, I supposed life could and probably would get more bizarre. But I’d continue with normal cases and slowly hunt for my Rubens and a witch strong enough to break the curse on the Rembrandt and play dodge the Dybbuk.

I wanted that rescue farm as much as I needed to take my next breath and to stick my hand down the front of Tyreal’s pants.

Tyreal cupped my ass, dragged me closer so I could feel his erection, rubbing himself against my crotch.
Ohhh
—that was good. He feasted on my lips, gorged, and teased my tongue. Tyreal took kissing to the limits of extra-sensory pleasure.

His hard cock rubbing me, teasing me, an added delight.

Tyreal spun and pressed me against the wall, we both moaned, and I was pretty sure I’d soon be having that orgasm I’d spent a month dreaming about. Oh happy lusty, feel the size of him, thought.