Sixth Grave on the Edge(42)
My heart kind of sank. I usually did my best to avoid conflicts with beings that escaped from hell for the sole purpose of ripping out my jugular and presenting my lifeless body to their master. Especially when said master defined the phrase evil incarnate.
I held up a brave hand. “Don’t sugarcoat it for me, Swopes.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
“God forbid I get a decent night’s sleep.”
“We couldn’t have that.”
“Do we win?” I asked. We got to the elevator, which looked about as safe as that guy on the street earlier handing out free samples of blue candy in little Baggies.
Garrett pressed the UP button. “What do you mean?”
“The shit storm. The Twelve.” I waved a hand to demonstrate the vastness of it all. “Do we defeat them?”
The doors slid open. We stepped inside; then he pushed the button for the fifth floor while offering me a look of mild confusion. “Why would we fight them?”
“Because they want my head on a platter.”
Keeping my hand in his—though I wasn’t completely sure why, since no one was in the elevator with us—he asked, “Why would they want your head on a platter?”
“Because,” I repeated, growing impatient, “they’re the Twelve. It’s apparently what they do.”
“Charles, you need to stop watching late-night movies. The Twelve are good. They’re sent to protect you, the daughter.”
“What? They’re hounds from hell. How can they—?”
“Hounds from hell?” When I nodded, he asked, “Literally?”
I nodded again.
“Then we’re talking about a different Twelve. The Twelve the prophecies mention say they are all spiritual beings.”
“That can’t be right,” I said as we stepped off the elevator. The dreary halls were paved with stained carpet that had the acrid scent of urine and chemicals. I covered my nose and mouth, trying to guard against the telltale aroma of illegal drug production. I wondered if Daniel was a cook or just a distributor. But the worst aspect of the entire scenario was the cries of a baby down the hall. Why was there always a crying baby down the hall?
We stepped over old fast-food bags, empty bottles of both soda and beer, and a pair of ripped jeans before we found Daniel’s door. Garrett took up position around the corner that led to the stairwell, his sidearm drawn.
When he gestured that he was ready, I stuffed a piece of gum in my mouth, raised my hand, and almost knocked.
Garrett questioned me silently with an urgent shrug.
I leaned toward him and whispered, “Why were we holding hands downstairs, playing star-crossed lovers, if I have to go in here alone?”
The grin that spread across his face was so full of mischief, I almost laughed.
“You are a dirty, rotten scoundrel,” I said, teasing him.
He winked as I straightened my shoulders, then really knocked.
“What?” a male voice yelled out, clearly annoyed at having been disrupted.
But I’d knocked too soon. I forgot that the only gum I had was the super-duper sour kind. The kind that promised a pucker with every piece.
I blinked back tears, tried to realign my eyelids to the same width, and said, “Crystal sent me,” in my best New York accent. No idea why.
He wrenched open the door before I could get my lids completely realigned. I could feel one squinting against the powerful atomic mixture squeezing my cheeks together like an overzealous aunt. The kind with too much lipstick and sharp nails. He paused a moment to take me in, during which time I forced my lids to chill, smacked the gum as annoyingly as I could manage, and winked. He nodded a greeting with his big head. It sat atop his big shoulders only to be outdone by his even bigger belly and what had to be size 14 shoes.
After he surveyed every inch of me in much the same way I’d surveyed him, he glanced up and down the hall. When he was satisfied no one had taken up position around the nearest corner—Garrett was good—he gestured me inside. “Muffy’s in here.”
“Muffy?” I asked, following him inside. I was going to have to pretend to want to have sex with a girl? A girl named Muffy? What the hell kind of name was Muffy? If I were a prostitute, I’d go for something cool and exotic like Stardust. Or Venus. Or Julia Roberts.
From my periphery I spotted Javier round the corner, at the opposite end of the hall, narrowly escaping the observant gaze of Daniel the bad guy. Garrett eased forward as our target closed the door, sealing my fate like a ziplock bag sealed in freshness. I could only pray they’d hurry. If I had to kiss a prostitute dumb enough to call herself Muffy, I was going to demand compensation. She couldn’t possibly practice good dental hygiene.