Demon Hunting with a Sexy Ex by Lexi George (17)

“What the hell?” Evan said, watching the Skinners limp into the

Wwoods.

“No idea. Unless . . .” Cassie hesitated. “You don’t suppose they mean Mac? But I didn’t steal him.”

“Perhaps this one can clarify matters.” Striding over, Duncan prodded Zeb with his boot. “You. What mean you by this attack?”

The alpha was curled in a fetal knot, shivering and shaking like a man with an ague. At Duncan’s nudge, he snarled and sprang to his feet. His appearance shocked Cassie to the core. Zeb Randall wasn’t classically handsome like a certain Dalvahni whose initials began with D.U.N.C.A.N., but he’d been far from ugly when he and Cassie had dated. Not so anymore. Zeb’s rough-hewn good looks were gone, and he’d aged decades in less than a year. He looked every day of seventy-five years old when, in reality, Zeb had yet to see forty. His big body, naked and on display, was gaunt to the point of emaciation, and his eyes were sunken pools in his heavily lined face. His reddish-brown hair was matted and unwashed, and he smelled of vomit, sweat, and worse.

Zeb was either terminally ill or on drugs. Maybe both.

He barked out a command. Clutching their heads and bellies, the men and women squirming on the ground—some two dozen of them—groaned and obediently struggled to their feet to shuffle around him. The rest of the pack looked no better than the alpha, haggard scarecrows with waxen complexions, open sores on their naked bodies, swollen bellies, and molting hair.

“Zeb, you need help,” Cassie said, filled with pity. “You’re ill. So is the pack.”

Duncan moved to Cassie’s side. “Cassandra has the right of it. I am an animedens, a healer of animals. I will help you and gladly, an you allow it.”

A woman skulked out of the pack, head lowered. She was gaunt and obviously suffering from some sort of wasting sickness. The letter R was tattooed on her thin upper right arm. “Zeb? Please,” the woman said, not meeting the alpha’s eyes. “My boy’s dead, and my girl’s dying. Blaze is only eight. Maybe he can help her.”

“Shut your yap,” Zeb snarled and swung his fist at the woman, splitting her lip. “You got some nerve, coming to me after what your boy did.” He glared at the rest of the pack. “Get her out of my sight. She’s shunned.”

The pack closed in on the woman, snarling. She slunk back, her teeth bared, then broke and ran into the woods.

Zeb rounded on Cassie, a feral gleam in his dark eyes. “Give us the orb. We know you have it.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Liar. Mac stole the orb, and you have Mac. Your dog told us.”

“My dog?” Cassie felt a spasm of unease. “You mean Toby? Where is he?”

“Somewhere you won’t find him.”

“You’re making a mistake, Zeb. Toby had nothing to do with Mac’s death. That was an accident.”

Zeb threw back his head and laughed. Spittle flecked his cracked lips. “You think I give a shit about Mac? I’d have killed him myself if I could have gotten my hands on him, the traitor.”

He’s bug-shit crazy, Cassie thought.

“Tell you what,” she said, striving for a reasonable tone. “If Mac took something that belongs to you, he still has it.” She pointed to her truck. “His body’s over there. See for yourself.”

Zeb gave her a suspicious scowl, then jerked his head at a man and woman. They trotted over to the Silverado in a jiggle of naked flesh, removed the cover, and climbed into the back.

“It’s Mac, all right,” the woman yelled. “He’s dead. Somebody done cut off his head.”

“My, she’s a smart one,” Evan drawled. “Can’t slip anything past her. Be sure and mate with that one, Zeb. The pups are bound to be dandies.”

“Not helping,” Cassie said in a singsong voice.

Evan showed his white teeth. “Don’t care.”

He vibrated with raw energy. Evan was itching for a fight. Next thing you knew, he’d ogre out. That’s the last thing they needed.

If Zeb heard Evan, he gave no sign. The alpha’s attention was focused on the truck with scary intensity. “Forget that piece of shit,” he shouted. “Find the orb.”

The weres bent over the body once more. The woman straightened. “Ain’t here, Zeb. It’s gone.”

Zeb let out a stream of profanity that would peel paint and turned to Cassie. “You’ll regret this, bitch. Your dog will die screaming.” Raising an emaciated arm, he pointed at her. “And that shit’s on your head.”

“No.” Cassie lunged at Zeb, but Duncan caught her by the arm and pulled her back. She jerked free and glared at the alpha. “You listen to me, Zeb Randall, and listen good. You so much as part Toby Littleton’s hair the wrong way, and I’ll curse you into next week.”

“Your threats don’t frighten us. Give us the orb, and we’ll let the dog go.”

“Are you deaf?” Cassie’s voice rose. “How many times do I have to tell you? I don’t have the stupid thing.”

“Enough.” Duncan’s sword appeared in his hand. “You have your answer. Cassandra does not have what you seek. Take your kinsman and go.”

Evan cracked his knuckles. “Yeah, beat it, Randall. You’re starting to piss me off.”

Zeb growled and took a step closer, pausing at a shout of alarm.

“Law coming,” the man in the back of the Silverado yelled as a Jeep Cherokee came out of the woods and eased to a stop.

Zeb shot Cassie a look of pure, burning hate. “This ain’t over. Not by a long shot.” He gave a low, yodeling howl, and the pack wheeled and trotted for the woods. The man and woman in the truck jumped down and streaked after them.

“Wait,” Cassie yelled after them. “What about Mac?”

Zeb loped away, unheeding.

The driver’s side door of the Jeep opened, and the sheriff got out, the badge on his shirt twinkling in the morning sun. He was dressed in jeans and a khaki shirt, and his eyes were concealed behind a pair of sunglasses. He was a tall, broad-shouldered man with short, dark hair, a strong jaw, and a firm, unsmiling mouth. Privately, Cassie had always thought there was something distinctly Dalvahni-ish about Dev Whitsun, a certain sternness and unyielding strength that bespoke the warrior.

He wasn’t Dalvahni—Cassie had checked, and Beck had confirmed it with Conall—but Cassie didn’t think he was kith, either. Didn’t have the purple eyes, for one thing. Whatever he was, the sheriff was no norm. He screamed super, though Cassie didn’t know what kind. There was a certain wolfish quality about him, a razor-sharp intelligence, power, and athletic grace. Cassie wondered if he might be a werewolf but discarded the idea. Sheriff Whitsun was a loner, not a pack animal.

The sheriff crossed the lawn, his long legs making short work of the distance. He paused to watch the Randalls hotfoot it, bare-assed, for the woods, his face without expression, then strode up to them. “Morning,” he said in his chocolatey drawl. “Must’ve been one heck of a party. Seems to have knocked those folks nekked.”

“Costume party,” Evan said with a straight face. “They came as nudists. The tits and balls were extra.”

The sunglasses turned in Evan’s direction. “Costume party, huh?” Whitsun said, taking in Evan’s bare chest and knee breeches. “Who are you supposed to be?”

“George Washington. Had to lose the velvet jacket—too hot for September—and the wig itched.”

Cold sweat trickled down Cassie’s back. A few yards away, there was a dead man in her truck. Not a man. A dead werewolf, which was worse. Even if she was right and the sheriff was some kind of super, that didn’t mean he knew about werewolves. Regardless, he’d want to know how the werewolf lost his head. Officers of the law were persnickety like that. People got their heads cut off in their county, they wanted to know why. She tried to think of a reasonable answer and came up blank.

A wave of panic rolled over her. What if Whitsun arrested her? She didn’t have time to sit in jail. The Randalls could be torturing Toby this very minute. She needed to find him, and double-quick.

Duncan laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Be at ease.” His breath puffed against her ear, soothing her. “Evan and I will find your friend. All will be well.”

Tears welled in Cassie’s eyes, but she blinked them away. “Thanks.”

Evan was talking rapidly to the sheriff, spinning tall tales of the epic party they’d had the night before. “The outfit came with a miniature apple tree and hatchet,” he was saying. “You know, because old George never told a lie.”

“Cherry tree,” said Whitsun.

“Huh?”

“George Washington supposedly cut down his father’s favorite cherry tree, but that myth’s been debunked.”

Evan tugged on his earring. “You sure about that?”

“Yeah. Look it up. Got a thing about lies. Comes with the job, I reckon.”

Evan turned to Cassie. He still had a brittle, jittery quality about him, and his eyes were too bright. “You hear that? Damn costume shop jacked me around. Gave me the wrong frigging tree. I’d give ’em a piece of my mind, if I didn’t need it.”

“Hate it when that happens,” Cassie murmured, keeping her eyes on the sheriff.

Easier said than done. Her eyes kept rolling toward the truck of their own accord, like marbles on a slanted board. Dead guy in the truck. Dead guy in the truck, her brain screamed.

Shit. Shitohshitohshitohshit.

Whitsun was looking at her funny, like he suspected something was off. He didn’t know the half of it. This whole freaking day had been off.

“What brings you here, Sheriff?” she asked, forcing her stiff lips into a semblance of a smile. “Know it can’t be a noise complaint. My nearest neighbor’s more than a mile away.” She cleared her throat. “On account of the party, I mean.”

Whitsun studied her from behind the dark lenses. She had the distinct and disconcerting impression that he was weighing her, sifting her words for the truth of them.

For God’s sake, she was jumpy as a cricket on a hot sidewalk. Like the sheriff could read her mind. Please. She was letting his cop persona rattle her. Cool, calm, and collected, that was how she’d play this. Cool, calm, and collected. R-i-g-h-t.

Dead guy in the truck. Dead guy in the—

“Got a phone call from Chief Davis at dawn’s butt crack,” Whitsun said, breaking in on her mental hemorrhaging. “Seems somebody’s lifted Jeb Hannah’s statue from the town square. Must’ve used a forklift. Statue weighs every ounce of four tons. Told the chief as much, but he says it’s not the first time old Jeb’s gone missing.”

Jeb? Cassie breathed a sigh of relief. Was that all? There was no way he could tie her to Jeb’s disappearance. The knot of tension in her belly relaxed.

“That so?” Cassie smiled, and this time it was genuine. “What a shame. Some people will steal the nickels off a dead man’s eyes.”

“You can’t tell about folks,” Whitsun agreed. “Just when I think I can’t be surprised, something comes along, knocks me for a loop.”

Cassie seriously doubted that. She had a feeling very little got past Sheriff Whitsun, and even less surprised him. Whitsun was still water, and still water ran deep. He might seem calm as an eggplant on the surface, but underneath things were churning.

“Don’t have a forklift, Sheriff, and I didn’t steal Jeb,” she said.

Whitsun removed his sunglasses and slid them inside his shirt pocket. His eyes were the color of polished steel. Definitely not a demonoid. It annoyed Cassie that she couldn’t peg him. Toby would know. Toby could smell a super a hundred yards off.

Toby. Oh, God, Toby. A wave of fresh panic washed over her.

“Got a tip from a local fisherman,” the sheriff said. “Seems the base of the statue was spotted on your riverfront.”

Cassie’s stomach dropped. The plinth—she’d forgotten about the plinth. It was sitting in her yard for all to see.

“Ms. Ferguson?” The sheriff looked at her expectantly. “You mind if I look around?”

Yes, her brain screamed. Yes, I mind.

But her lips and tongue didn’t receive the message. Too much had happened in too short a time, and the old brain matter couldn’t cope. A hundred fleeting thoughts flitted through her mind and fluttered away like moths. He was going to find the plinth, and then he’d find the werewolf. She was going to jail, and Toby would die.

Dear God, Toby.

She gathered her scattered thoughts. She was no good to Toby if she panicked. Get rid of the sheriff and find her friend. All she had to do was come up with an explanation that Whitsun would buy. Like . . . um . . .

“Uh . . .” she said, floundering and gasping like a beached fish. “Well, you see, I . . .”

The back door banged open, and Verbena dashed down the steps. “Joby Ray and the rest of ’em done skedaddled?” she asked, running up to them, her eyes wide.

“Uh . . . yeah,” Cassie said. “Verbena, this is Sheriff Whitsun. He’s looking for a missing statue. Seems to think the plinth is on my property.”

“Plimp?” Verbena pursed her lips. “That one of them balloon thangs with the writin’ on the side?”

“No, that’s a blimp,” Sheriff Whitsun said. “A plinth is a base a statue sits on. I got a report one was spotted here.”

“Oh,” said Verbena, nodding in seeming understanding. “You looking for that peanut feller.”

“That I am.” Whitsun produced a small notepad and a pen from his pocket and started to make notes. “What can you tell me?”

“Why ask me? Ask him yourself, if’n you can get him to quit cat-erwaulin’ long enough to answer you, that is.”

The sheriff stopped scribbling. “Excuse me?”

Verbena pointed. “There he is, a-yonder.”

Jeb Hannah clomped out of the trees downriver and across Cassie’s lawn. His metal body was dinged and scorched in a dozen places, and his wide-brimmed slouch hat was askew. He carried his giant peanut tucked under one arm, and he sang in his hollow voice as he thumped along.

“Told yah,” Verbena said in a cheerful voice. “He don’t never shut up. Never seed such a feller for sangin’.”

The sheriff’s mouth opened, but no sound came out. The pen and notepad in his hand dropped, unheeded, to the ground. Keeping his gaze pinned on Jeb, Whitsun fumbled for the police radio at his hip. “Willa Dean?” he said into the box. “Call Chief Davis and the mayor and let them know I’ve got a lead on that missing statue. What? No, it’s on the move. I’ll get back with you.”

Jeb stomped past them and turned down the gravel lane that wound into the woods, away from Cassie’s house.

 

Many a heart is aching, Jeb belted merrily.

The statue disappeared into the trees.

“Excuse me,” Whitsun said, taking off at a run for his Jeep. The sheriff climbed in, cranked the engine, and roared down the driveway after Jeb.

“Whatchoo reckon he’s gon’ do when he catches him?” asked Verbena. “That peanut feller don’t mind worth a darn. Does what he pleases, and who’s to stop him?”

“That’s the sheriff’s problem. Boy, am I glad he’s gone.” Cassie heaved a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Verbena.”

“Sure thang,” said Verbena, and flitted back to the house.

Evan watched her go, his expression thoughtful. “She’s right, you know. Sooner or later, you’re going to have to do something about that statue, before some norm sees it and all hell breaks loose.”

“I know, I know, but I can’t worry about that right now,” Cassie said, her brain spinning. “I’ve got to find Toby. Listen, can you track the Randalls? Or rather, can your dog?”

“Please.” Evan sniffed. “My hound could smell an ant fart in a flower shop, and those werewolves stink.” He wrinkled his nose. “Haven’t smelled anything that god-awful since the ’rents died. My demon mammy and pappy smelled like a garbage dump.”

Cassie regarded him with sympathy. “That must have been a special kind of hell for you, with your sensitive nose.”

Evan shrugged and looked away. “Life sucks, and then you die.”

“I will accompany you,” Duncan said to Evan. “If they give us any trouble, or if Toby has been in any way harmed, the werewolves will pay. First, though, we needs must bury the dead.”

“Yes,” Cassie said. “Oh, God, yes. Whitsun will be back. Playing dumb about the plinth is one thing, but Mac’s body would be hard to explain. I can’t believe the Randalls left him for me to bury.”

“Shunned,” Evan said. “Booted out of the pack. As far as they’re concerned, you can dump this Mac fellow on the side of the road.”

“For some norm to find?” Cassie shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

“News flash. So is Zeb.”

“We are not dumping Mac on the road,” Cassie said. “And that’s final.”

“Suit yourself,” said Evan. “But you’d better hope that nosy sheriff doesn’t find the grave.”

“Nay,” Duncan said. “I will—”

A lissome female in black leathers and knee-high boots materialized, interrupting him. Her long, dark hair was twisted into intricate plaits and pulled away from her lovely face, and her large, fine eyes were dark brown. “Greetings, clod pate,” she said, looking down her proud nose at Duncan. “We meet again.”

“Illaria,” said Duncan in the tone of one acknowledging an abscessed tooth. “What do you want?”

“The pleasure of your company, what else?”

“State your purpose. There are things I would be about.”

“Fascinating, to be sure, but do you not think it wise to address the matter at hand ere you embark on fresh mischief?”

Duncan gave her a stony look. “I do not take your meaning.”

“You decapitated a werewolf and have neglected to dispose of the body—yet another violation of the Directive Against Conspicuousness. The corpse was very nearly discovered by the local shire reeve. I have been sent to remedy the situation.”

“Really?” Cassie said, much relieved. “We were trying to decide what to do with Mac’s body when you arrived.”

“’Tis a simple enough matter.” Illaria cut Duncan a scathing glance. “Unless one is an utter dolt. I will remove the body and bury it where it will not be discovered.”

“Thank you,” said Cassie. “I’d really appreciate it. Don’t suppose you could deanimate a statue while you’re at it?”

“We monitor the Kir and the Dal. You are neither.” Illaria’s tone was heavy with disdain. “Your magical blunderings are between you and your council.”

Ouch. Well, it was worth a try.

“Did Taryn send you?” Evan said. “Where is she? Did she—” He flushed. “Do you have a message for me?”

“The High Huntress sent me.” Illaria looked him up and down, her full mouth curling in contempt. “As for my sister, I bring you no tidings. A Kirvahni huntress does not consort with the likes of you.”

Evan’s flush deepened, and he started to say something.

“Taryn and Evan are friends,” Cassie said, laying a hand on his arm. “He’s worried about her. But then, you wouldn’t know anything about that.”

Illaria stiffened. “Meaning?”

“Meaning you don’t have friends.”

“That is rank untruth. I have friends. Many friends.”

“Really? Because family doesn’t count.”

Illaria pressed her lips together. “The body,” she said in a voice of barely suppressed ire. “Where lies it?”

“His name is Mac Randall, and he’s over there.” Cassie indicated her truck. “In the back. You can’t miss him.”

That was an understatement. Cassie suppressed a shudder. Poor Mac had been dead more than sixteen hours. He was bound to be ripe.

Twitching like an angry cat, the Kir spun on her heel and marched toward the Silverado.

“Not so fast,” Evan said. “I’ve got a few questions for Mr. Werewolf before you beam him up.”

Illaria halted. “You can speak to the dead?”

“The High Hoo-ha didn’t tell you? I see dead people, and they see me. And they do whatever I say.”

“Absurd,” said Illaria. “I do not believe you.”

“Believe it, sister.” Evan’s expression was bitter. “I’m the frigging Zombie Master, so booyah.”