Unearthed, p.34
Unearthed, page 34
part #4 of Southern Watch Series
“Mm, well,” Reeve said, sipping his coffee to prevent a hasty reply, “they’re all pretty united in their desire to not die.”
“That is a nearly-universal human trait,” Pike agreed. “But I think we can do more than that.”
“I’m all for volunteerism,” Reeve said, taking his feet off his desk, “but I’m not sure what you’re looking for here. Donations? Charity?”
Pike paused, looking a little reticent. “Raising the mill rate.”
Reeve had just taken another sip and felt an urge to spit it like a comedy character. “You want to raise peoples’ property taxes now? While we’re in the middle of a cri—”
“Opportunity,” Pike said. “Think about it. Your ticket revenue, which helps keeps this county afloat? It’s in the tank.”
“Because I’m low on deputies and it’s hard to issue a citation for murder,” Reeve said, thumping his mug down on the surface of the desk. “Assuming we could even find the perpetrator.”
“No one’s blaming you for that,” Pike said smoothly. “Yet.”
“I can’t imagine their spirits are going to improve if you get this done,” Reeve said. “Come live in Calhoun County, where the taxes and the murder rate are sky-high compared to our neighboring communities!” He leveled his gaze on Pike. “You know this will drive people away. Like they need another compelling reason.”
“People are already leaving,” Pike said. “People have been leaving for a hundred years. The death of the rural community is not exactly a recent trend. Industrialization and urban growth, the flight of manufacturing overseas—I mean, if the paper mill shut down, Midian’s a ghost town in a year. The only thing keeping us going outside of that are the new warehouses out by the freeway. I know this is tough for you to understand—”
“It’s almost impossible,” Reeve said, shaking his head, “and not really my purview, either. Don’t you have to pass this to the voters?”
“We’d need a special election, yes,” Pike said, “for either this or a bond issuance, which is the other route we could go.”
“Hmm,” Reeve said. “It’s not the only ways you could go.”
Pike gave him a canny look. “I said I’d support you. These are the options—”
“Except for cutting the budget,” Reeve said.
“We’ve been cutting your budget for years, Nick,” Pike said. “This never-ending recession is producing lean times. If you think there’s still some fat to remove, go for it.”
“There’s not much, if any,” Reeve said, putting his head back on his seat rest. “Though I do suddenly have two deputies’ salaries that no longer need to be paid, at least in the short term.”
“But you’re going to staff those up again, aren’t you?” Pike asked. “Or do you really want to try and handle this shorthanded?”
“I don’t know if there are enough hands for—hell, isn’t there a mythological creature with multiple arms?”
“Goro?” Pike asked.
“Never heard of him, but—okay, I don’t even know if this Goro fella would have enough hands to make do with what we’re dealing with,” Reeve said. “It’s … a lot. I’m starting to get to the level of hopeless where I’m hesitant to hire more people in fear they’re gonna get killed. Because whatever happened to our citizens … the people of Tennessee aren’t no wilting violets. They fight. I mean, we’re right there with Texas when it comes to ‘most likely to defend our homes with a hail of bullets.’ But maybe that’s just my pessimism talking. I did just lose a deputy, after all.”
“I can tell it’s weighing on you,” Pike said, running a hand to smooth his pants leg between knee and ankle. “And this is part of what I’m talking about in turning a crisis into an opportunity and uniting people. That feeling of hopelessness? It’s not unique to you. And if a person sitting in your seat—a leadership position—is feeling overwhelmed and desperate, that trickles down and becomes an even bigger problem.”
“Well, I’ll try to keep it from being diarrhea and trickling down,” Reeve said.
“Maybe you should consider some counseling,” Pike said.
“Yeah,” Reeve said, “I’m sure I could take time off to expose my tender underbelly and nagging doubts to some soft-ass city slicker who wants to talk about feelings all day.” He stared back at Pike. “Or I could just keep bottling it up inside, as men do. Or should. I suppose they don’t as much anymore.”
“Denial is a powerful instrument,” Pike said, “try not to lose yourself in it, though. By my reckoning, no one else has quite been through what you’re going through now.”
Reeve started to answer that and paused when he realized it had a ring of truth to it. “Huh. Hadn’t thought about that.”
“Think about it some more,” Pike said, drawing to his feet. “And think about what we talked about. I know it’s not technically your job to worry about our budget gaps, but this is going to affect you if we can’t bring in more revenue somehow. And I don’t expect you have the manpower to go write ten thousand tickets to make up the difference, but maybe you could lend a little support when the time comes?” He started for the door. “Make things easier on us at the county level?”
“Yeah,” Reeve said and could practically feel the boom lowering in front of him. He figured he should have known that Pike’s declaration of support was sure to be wrapped in a few strings. And every one of them was bound to that giant puppetmaster called budgetary politics, which had been the bane of his existence before now. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
“That’s all I ask,” Pike said, forcing a smile. “We’ll talk again, soon.” He rapped on the wooden frame and then he was gone, disappearing through the bullpen toward the front desk. Reeve’s eyes settled down to the desk, where Pike had left his coffee mug. It was still full, and still steaming.
*
Kitty rounded the house to find Detmar Lawrence standing on a front porch that was classic Southern Gothic: peeling and old, uncared for and shitty. He was speaking in a quiet voice to someone standing in a doorway, and she didn’t get a look at the person—demon—until she came up onto the porch and looked straight into the crack provided by the slightly open door.
It was a meth’a’guros.
She bottled up the disgusted noise she wanted to make, exiling it to the farthest corner of her essence that she could. Meth’a’guros were not high on her list—nor anyone’s list, really. In their native form, their shells oozed and lengthened until they looked almost like slugs with some human features. A less flattering combination of features she could scarcely imagine, and her desire to pour salt on one just to see what happened to it had proven unfortunately fruitless the one time she’d tried it.
“If money is what you seek,” Lawrence was saying as she reached the porch, “we can accommodate.”
“It’s not just about money,” the meth’a’guros said, the lying slug.
“Of course it is,” Kitty said, stepping up behind Lawrence. “You put it up for sale on an auction site; what could you possibly get from that but money? Esteem? You’re anonymous. The warm, comforting thought that the box is going to a good home? It’s a demon head.” She looked flatly at him. “I’m assuming you’ve opened it.”
The meth’a’guros had large, rosy red cheeks and a flat head with greasy hair. His paunch overflowed his belt, but she knew if he reverted to form, all that excess mass would flatten him into a nine-foot long extension. “I’ve opened it,” the meth’a’guros admitted shyly. “And that’s part of the problem.”
Kitty blinked at him. How best to say what was on her mind without simply ripping his flesh in a quick, slicing motion? Lawrence was right here, and he’d provide an excellent witness of her transgressions. Sure, she could probably kill him as well, but all it would take would be him running off into the woods, forcing her to give chase … that would be an unpleasant waste. Kitty did not enjoy running and did not understand why anyone could or would enjoy such a graceless practice.
So she stifled her urge to go in the most immediately expedient direction in hopes that a few minutes of listening would produce a better result with fewer complications. “Why don’t you tell me all about it?” she asked, wishing she were saying almost anything else.
“Well,” the meth’a’guros said, “don’t get me wrong, when I first found the box, I really was just interested in the money. But when I opened it—” You shouldn’t have done that, you slime-oozing creature, Kitty thought, “it …” the meth’a’guros hesitated. “Well … it …” The demon’s already red cheeks deepened.
“It attacked you?” Kitty asked. “Assaulted you?”
“Verbally,” the meth’a’guros said, visibly flustered. “It called me names. Said hurtful things. That I smell.” The meth’a’guros sniffed. “Can you believe that?”
Kitty stared straight ahead and counted to five in her head, then ten, before taking a light sniff of the air. It was like tacos thrown in a dumpster for a week and then dusted with cumin. “No. No, it’s … unbelievable.”
“I know,” the meth’a’guros said, nodding. “So insulting. And it talks … all night long. It won’t shut up, even when you close the box—”
“I feel for your pain,” Kitty said, almost biting her own lip. “I truly do. And I want to make it right for you. I will buy that hateful thing right now, take it far, far away from you, and you can sleep in peace knowing that you’ll never again have to listen to it berate you in the night.” She pressed her lips together and forced a smile. “You just need to tell me how much it’s going to take to make you feel truly comfortable—to have your anguish … assuaged.” She dug into the bullshit with a front-end loader and just shoveled it on. “So that you can put this trauma behind you.”
The meth’a’guros gave that a moment’s thought. “I think … ten million would make me sleep better at night.”
Kitty nodded. “Mmmhmm.” Then she drew her knife and plunged it right into the meth’a’guros, watching him dissolve into black fire.
“You seemed to be exhibiting actual mercy there for a moment,” Lawrence said from her side. The man had not stepped back when she moved, and now he was staring at the empty space where the meth’a’guros had been standing only a moment earlier. “I was … impressed.”
She turned her head to look at him, and the dagger felt heavy in her hand. “Is that so?”
“It is,” Lawrence said. “In fact—”
She whipped the knife up and stabbed him, cutting hard into the Plasticine shell of Lawrence’s face, causing his eyes to widen in surprise. “How many fucks do you think I give, Lawrence?” She stabbed him again as he staggered back, planting the blade in his leg this time, ripping into his shell and exposing a gleam of essence. He was a greater, of course, and killing him would take some time and effort.
She had neither in abundance. “I don’t understand why you people keep fighting me for control. If you would all just do—just do as I say!” She stabbed him again, landing the blade in his shoulder as he fell to one knee, unbalanced by his damaged leg. “If you would do what I say, none of this would have to happen!” She brought the knife down again and Lawrence tumbled to his back, Kitty inches away from him. She stabbed him again and again, each motion an expression of her fury, her impatience, her disgust at being caught up in this place, out of her routine, at the resistance encountered, at being put into her place by—by—
She let out a scream of primal fury and stabbed Lawrence squarely in the middle of the forehead, ripping aside his shell and letting more essence leak out. “Do you have any idea who I am? Who I am? I should be the fucking queen of this world and the next! I should have been! I was supposed to be! And you should all—all—all of you! You should do what I say!” She drove the knife down at Lawrence’s flailing arms, hacking off the flesh of his shell with each violent thrust. The sun bore down on her, the heat of the moment was heavy.
“But I’m not,” she said as Lawrence grunted in pain, “and this fucking world suffers all the more for it. You should all have a queen, terrible and awe-ful, what you deserve, but you don’t, because it’s so fucking unjust.” A hard jab ripped a hand free from Lawrence’s body, and his mewling cries increased in volume as it fell away and blackened, turning to dust. “And I have to sit back and deal with this incompetence—” she stabbed him in the gut, “—this fucking ridiculousness—” she thrust the knife into the side of his head, tearing loose an ear, “—your stupidity, your timidity, your change of loyalties—” She drove the point into the middle of Lawrence and he gasped one last time, as the black velvet of hell spurted forth to encompass him and drag it back into its loving embrace, “—This is the shit I have to deal with being the also-ran. Duchess.” She said her title mockingly, felt her face twist with it. “Queen of Earth, Queen of Hell. That’s what I should have been. What I would have been, if not for—” She caught herself. “But I could make a hell on earth, or a hell of heaven if I was in charge of it, you fucking insipid, clueless idiots.”
“Madam?” Rousseau asked, drawing her attention to the corner of the attached garage behind her. Rousseau was waiting a step behind Bardsley, both staring at her in a rather neutral fashion.
“May we be of assistance?” Bardsley asked, solicitous as always. Of course he was kissing up. He’d just watched her rage-kill a greater. He was probably quaking in his shell.
Kitty felt a big drop of sweat roll down her forehead. It wasn’t supposed to be this hot. She wasn’t supposed to be this—this thwarted. The OOC’s presence should have been comfort, but he’d gotten up in her business once and was causing her headaches. And the cowboy …
She wished now she’d kept the cowboy. Just a little longer, just a little bloodier, just a little more fun.
“The box is inside,” she said to Bardsley, getting up off the front porch. “It’s supposedly chatty. Find it for me, and I’ll bind it to my will. Let’s finish this and gain some damned status.” She stood, dusting herself off. Rolling around in a fury wasn’t like her. She preferred cooler kills, but her meeting earlier had clearly set her … on edge.
“Yes, madam,” Bardsley said, answering just like Rousseau would. Rousseau acknowledged this with a raise of his eyebrow before following Feegan Bardsley into the useless slug’s house, looking for her prize.
“One to go,” Kitty breathed, kicking at the imaginary dust that Lawrence had left behind when he’d vaped. Hopefully he’d carry the message back to hell that she was not to be fucked around with. As if that message hadn’t already been heard there, loud and clear.
*
Lauren Darlington did not stir from the cowboy’s side until her phone rang, jarring her out of the sleep-deprived trance that had claimed her. Not that she wasn’t at least a little used to being pushed to the limit in terms of tiredness, but this time there was an adrenaline factor that even life in the ER hadn’t quite delivered.
She glanced at Hendricks, who twitched upon the mattress as her phone trilled, making her wonder how he was hearing it in his unconsciousness. She had yet to speak with the man, really, and if she’d felt even slightly in control of events—like if she were his doctor, at the hospital—this would have been driving her mad. As it was, it was almost like Let Go and Let God, or however Arch would have said it. It felt out of her hands and somehow less frustrating for it. Or maybe that was the lack of sleep talking.
She pulled the phone up to her ear and hesitated before answering it. Talking on a cell phone in front of people still felt rude to her, but she acquiesced to the need to talk when she saw it was Molly calling. “Hello?” she answered.
“Did you get lucky?” Molly asked, as chipper as if she’d gotten a full night of sleep.
“Really inappropriate question,” Lauren said.
“With the demons,” Molly said, a little frustration seeping through.
“Still not a great choice of words,” Lauren said. “There actually weren’t any hookers at the party.”
“Augh, I give up,” Molly said. “What happened? Where are you?”
“With the …” she looked at the sheet, as if she expected it to be pulled back to expose the entire group, looking at her. Which couldn’t happen, because Arch and his wife had left, and so had Bill Longholt and his son, both groups on separate missions. “I don’t know. With the people who are fighting this fight.”
“You’ve joined the resistance,” Molly said with far too much enthusiasm for the hour. “It’s like you’re in France in World War Two!”
“I feel like there should be more croissants,” Lauren said. “Or any breakfast food at all, actually.” Her stomach rumbled at the reminder.
“What are you doing?” Molly asked. “Like, right now.”
“Doctor stuff,” Lauren said. “I’m taking care of a …” She glanced down at the man called Hendricks, his face slack. He grimaced in his sleep and shifted, moaning out. “I’m taking care of the guy in the cowboy hat that—”
“Like I wouldn’t remember him,” Molly cut her off, voice deep with concern. “Is he okay?”
“Not so much,” Lauren said. “He’s had a rough night.”
“How rough?”
Lauren felt a lump in her throat. “About as rough as yours would have been at the Summer Lights Festival if he hadn’t been there to distract your date.”
“Oh, damn,” Molly whispered. “How …?”
“I don’t … want to get into details,” Lauren said. “It’s … crass and nasty, and not something I want to think about, let alone inflict on my sixteen-year-old.”
“Okay,” Molly said. “When are you coming home?”
“When I can,” Lauren said, reaching up to brush stray hairs out of her face. She felt like her raven mane might have gained a few more greys tonight. “I don’t know. There are things going on here that I don’t fully understand. There was some kind of confab earlier that I didn’t fully catch, but it sounded … dire.”
“Well, let me know if there’s anything I can do to help,” Molly said.
