Eleventh Grave in Moonlight

  That time, I crossed my arms and glared at the man. Two. Two in one day who had refused to cross. Or was it three? Either way, I was losing my touch.

  In a move that was part supernatural necessity and part theatrics, Reyes slowly dematerialized, cell by cell, disintegrating into a cloud of billowing smoke. Then he was gone.

  The forlorn look on the girl’s face said it all. No way was she leaving now. Damn it. I thought about telling her about the butt thing but decided against it. She’d leave when she was ready. At least she’d stopped screaming.

  * * *

  I ended up going back to class after all, after talking to some of my classmates, then I hit an all-night diner with a couple of them. We’d bonded instantly the first day of class. Mostly because they worshiped coffee almost as much as I did. Almost.

  Reyes joined us incorporeally, as did our Scottish friend. They spent the whole time eyeing each other as though waiting for the other one to make a move. Which neither ever did.

  Our group eventually got kicked out of the all-night diner. Apparently my definition of all-night and theirs were two totally different things. We said our good-byes, which would have gone better if I could’ve remembered their names. I was so bad with names. And the one girl I thought I knew the name of kept looking at me awkwardly every time I used it, so I finally gave up the struggle. Which was real. The struggle.

  Oddly enough, they all knew my name. Probably because Mr. Hipple had used it so much in class. For better or worse, I did tend to make an impression.

  By the time I got home, however, Reyes was already asleep. Or he was faking it. Either way, boy was hot. His lean body shimmered in the low light, one arm thrown over his eyes, the other wedged behind his pillow. His wide chest took up half the bed. He had one leg out from under the covers. One hip open to the moonlight streaming in from the massive windows. He was like a Greek god. Sleek. Surreal. Temperamental.

  Did the Fosters see the darkness in Reyes? Is that what compelled them to take him when he was a baby?

  I shifted. Not all the way. Just a little. Just enough to see what they might have seen. Darkness, yes, but so much more.

  The world around me changed from the blackness of night to bright, bursting colors. Oranges and reds and yellows, swirling in a perpetual storm where lightning and tornadoes converged. And Reyes, seemingly so serene, burned brightest of all. Engulfed in flames, a true child of hell. But at the center, at his core, was the darkness. The same darkness he tried to hide. He tried to overcome.

  I shifted back to the tangible plane, changed into a nightie that fell just past my hips, and slid in bed beside him to spoon, my favorite utensil. I was only there for about five seconds, nestling against him, burying my face in his hair, when he spoke, his voice deep with sleep.

  “Did you do it?” he asked, the tenor of his voice as smooth as he.

  “Did I do what?”

  He took the hand I’d draped over him and lifted my fingers to his mouth, scalding the tips one by one as he tasted me, then said, “Drop the case.”

  I decided it was high time I broke in our new sofa: Captain Kirk.

  * * *

  Captain Kirk wasn’t as comfortable as I thought he would be. Not after snuggling with a hell-god. I was able to get in about three hours before Mr. Coffee began serenading me. Whoever invented a coffeemaker with a timer deserved a Nobel Prize. He’d probably saved more lives than Prozac.

  I slipped on a pair of bottoms and tiptoed past the angel lounging against my living room wall, the arch of his wings brushing our twelve-foot ceiling, to get to the kitchen. The same kitchen I was fairly certain used to be my neighbor’s apartment. Reyes had remodeled the entire apartment building.

  Thankfully, he bought it first.

  But he took out all the apartments on the entire top floor and reconstructed it to create only two: ours and Cookie’s. Now I lived in an apartment that resembled a Park Avenue penthouse. And it had the kitchen to back that up. Gorgeous industrial appliances. Deep Tuscan hues. And my favorite part: a butler’s pantry.

  I cracked up every time I thought about it. Still, if we ever did get a butler, he’d have his own little corner of the world. With running water and a wine rack. The lush.

  Part of me wanted to offer the celestial stalker a cup of joe, but I didn’t want him to stick around. If Reyes found one of them in our apartment, he could come unglued. And gluing that man back together was not an easy task.

  It was still dark out when I padded back to the captain and sipped on my cup o’ panacea. But even with a cure-all flooding my cells, my brain felt like one of those inflatable bounce houses. I had so many question marks jumping and colliding and twisting arms and breaking ankles, pretty much like a real bounce house at a seven-year-old’s birthday party.

  What had ADA Parker meant when he called me a god eater? I mean, Reyes was a god and I liked to nibble on him, but what an odd thing to call someone. Unless I was drunk when I hit an all-night drive-through and ordered chicken McGodlets—with fries, of course—I’d never eaten a god in my life. Still, I bet they’d be good with ketchup.

  And hell was going to freeze over? I just thought that was a saying.

  Then there was Uncle Bob. No idea what got his panties in a twist, but he’d best iron them out pronto. And Reyes. I could only take men ordering me around for so long. It was like we were in the Middle Ages. If they’d had programmable coffeemakers. And cell phones. And water bras.

  But possibly the most important question mark bouncing around my brain was that of Dawn Brooks, the little girl who was very likely abducted by the Fosters. If that were the case, however, where was she now and why would Shawn corroborate their alibi?

  I needed to bring in my FBI BFF ASAP, but I doubted Agent Carson got to the office before eight o’clock. I checked my Bugs Bunny watch. Two hours to go.

  Which meant I had two hours to get to know the newest member of our clan. When Reyes remodeled, he opened up the storage units on top of the building, leaving the metal beams exposed and turning the whole thing into a massive skylight.

  But there was something else really special Reyes had left exposed. A little blond boy. As in tiny. As in way too young to be hanging out—literally, his feet dangling over the side of whatever beam he happened to be on—in the scaffolding of a twenty-four-foot ceiling. He’d been there since we moved back in, and I had yet to coax him down. Although, admittedly, throwing bread at him was probably not the best way to win his trust, but I was afraid to throw anything harder. Huge plates of glass overhead.

  I looked up. He was climbing again. When he wasn’t dangling his feet over the side of a beam, he was climbing one, then sliding back down it. Over and over again.

  Every time he slid, however, my heart ended up in my throat. The boy couldn’t have been more than two years old. He was just a baby, climbing and sliding and dangling from beams that stood twenty-four feet high in the center of our living room.

  But this time I was prepared. I’d hauled a ladder up from the basement. The kind that elongates and props up against whatever structure one wishes to scale.

  Having finished my first cup, which was really like an appetizer, I dragged the ladder out from the butler’s pantry, where I’d stashed it. It was metal and noisy no matter how quiet I tried to be. I cringed when I knocked it against a wall, waited to make sure the man of the house wasn’t going to come check on me, then pulled the two parts until it was as long as it would go. The next part was a bit trickier. I tried to balance it against one of the beams overheard, but it was still too short.

  The angel, who’d been ignoring me completely, looked on with something akin to mild interest, while I did some cyphering in my head. Never a good idea. Still, the way I saw it, I could use Captain Kirk to give me those extra inches I needed to reach the beam and climb up to the boy.

  I put the ladder back down, almost strained a kidney moving the captain into place, then picked up the ladder again, knocking over a lamp in the proce
ss. I cringed again, but miraculously, it didn’t break. And who better to perform a miracle than a celestial stalker-like being?

  I glanced back at the angel. He was the ginger in the black leather kilt. “Did you do that?”

  The only indication that he even heard me was the fact that one imperious brow arched.

  Of course he didn’t. He was far too above saving a lamp for little old me.

  I tossed a blanket over the captain to protect his silky fabric, then leveraged the ladder onto one of his cushions. Still not quite enough. By the time I got done, I’d piled on an end table, a wingback chair, and a set of encyclopedias to hold it all in place. It worked. The ladder reached one of the bottom metal beams. I could get to the kid at last.

  Now, if my luck held, Reyes would sleep another half hour while I tried to get to know our new roomie. I ascended my creation with the vigilance of a mountain climber scaling a wall of ice, ignoring the creaks and tiny slip to one side when I was about halfway up. Another two inches and I’d have been sipping my meals through a straw for the next few weeks. And wearing one of those hideous neck braces. Those things were impossible to accessorize.

  By the time I got to the top, my arms were shaking, my feet hurt from the thin rungs of the ladder, and I had to pee. I totally should have gone before I left.

  I crested the beam and wrapped both arms around it, resting my face against its cool surface. The little boy watched me the whole time. He giggled and ran toward me. Ran. On a beam that couldn’t have been more than ten inches wide.

  I bolted upright to catch him should he fall, but he stopped short to take me in, to assess the intruder. His smile was the sun. His blue eyes the ocean. A tiny Viking so full of life, he glowed.

  He pointed to my chest, and said, “Yite,” but he was not quite within arm’s reach. I wanted to grab him and take him back down with me. He’d probably just climb the walls back to his playground, but I had to try. I had to coax him closer.

  I offered him my best Sunday smile. “What’s your name?”

  He pointed to his pajamas, blue with brightly colored fish on them. He poked a goldfish. “Ishy.”

  “Fishy?”

  He nodded and pointed to one on his chest. Then his knee. Then his elbow.

  Elated we were communicating, I laughed, peeled one hand off the beam, and pointed at another one right above his heart. “That one’s pretty. Do you like fishies?”

  He nodded again, then pointed back at me, all the while balancing on the beam as though he were walking in the park. As though one of us wasn’t in danger of plummeting to her death or, more likely, ending up in traction.

  “Yite,” he repeated, and it finally hit me. Light. He was referring to my light.

  “Yes, I’ve been told I’m quite bright.” I leaned a little closer. “Not as bright as your smile, though.”

  He giggled and took another step closer, his eyes sparkling with curiosity. Just a few more inches. Not that I had a clue how I was going to get down the ladder with him. And what I was attempting could be considered child abduction if he didn’t want to come with me, but I had to try.

  I straddled the beam, almost toppling over more than once, breathlessly out of my comfort zone, and peeled my other hand off the metal. Then I gave him the universal sign for hug. I lifted my arms, palms up, and coaxed him forward, hoping beyond hope he’d come close enough for me to grab.

  And he did. Boy did he. But he didn’t just inch closer as I’d imagined. Nope. He graced me with a nuclear smile, then sprinted forward.

  “Wait!” But he’d already run right through me. He’d already entered the other side. He’d already crossed.

  8

  Children see magic because they look for it.

  —CHRISTOPHER MOORE

  The richness of the boy’s memories stole my breath. The textures and scents and emotions. He loved flowers and lollipops and, yes, fish. And his name was Curren.

  Oftentimes when I’m gifted with the images and feelings and most precious memories of a life once lived, it starts at the end and goes backwards, and I have to flip it. To put everything in order and create my own timeline of events. But Curren showed me the most important things first. Beginning with his family.

  He showed me how his mother would snuggle and rock him every night and sing to him as he nursed. How she would tickle him before bedtime. How she would catch him trying to hide food in a pocket in his bib while she wasn’t looking so they could move on to the most important part of the meal: memm-memms. M&Ms. But she always knew. Somehow she always knew. And she smelled like the flowers he loved so much.

  He showed me how his dad took him to the hardware store once, and he was so proud, he kept waving to his mom and his siblings, all the way to the truck. Waving and smiling and blowing kisses even after his dad had strapped him into his car seat.

  Because he wanted her to know. His mother. He wanted her to know how much he loved her. He needed her to understand.

  When it happened, he wasn’t so much scared as stunned. He’d crawled out of bed early one morning and decided to climb up his dresser. When it fell on him, trapping him, suffocating him, all he thought about was her. She would be in soon. He could hear her footsteps on the stairs.

  He loved walks. He loved toy cars. He loved flowers. So much so that a neighbor planted a giant sunflower garden after he’d passed.

  His mother had found him. He remembered her screams. Her desperate cries for help as she struggled to get the dresser off him. Her pleas as she breathed into his mouth. But he wasn’t beneath her anymore. He was beside her. Trying to calm her with his hand on her shoulder.

  They took him to the hospital, and she held him for hours, unwilling to let him go. Unable to. But the warmth left him and his body started to stiffen, and she had to give him up at last. Her pain was enough to seize my lungs. I could feel it through her son, they had such a strong connection.

  And I saw them through his eyes now. Curren didn’t understand what his mother was doing, but I did. She was educating the public about the dangers of dressers and other furniture. About the countless children who had died so needlessly. About how to anchor furniture. To secure it.

  And she took heat for it. For her outreach. Idiots chastised her for not watching him closely enough. For being a bad mother. If I’d ever seen a good mother in my life, it was this woman. My heart broke for her, but she carried on. Still carries on to this day.

  I wanted her to know how exquisitely she was loved. How much her youngest son adored her. How her fight was worthy and commendable and needed.

  With an older departed, I could write a letter or an e-mail to get a message to a loved one, pretending to be them. But with a two-year-old, I didn’t know how to get a message to the parents without upsetting them unduly. They were struggling to move on with their lives. How could I undermine that?

  I would check on them. Keep an eye on them. Somehow I would let them know how loved they were. How loved they still are. Because he’ll be waiting for them in his blue ishy jammies.

  I collapsed onto the cool beam, one cheek resting against it, legs and arms dangling over the side. It was for the best. I knew that, but I’d wanted … I’d wanted to hold him. To rock him and sing to him and tickle him until he giggled. All the things I couldn’t do with Beep. But he was with his family now, those who’d gone on before him. They deserved him much more than I did.

  But I knew one thing for certain. No parent should have to go through that. No parent should have to be ripped apart like that. I had to find Dawn Brooks. I couldn’t imagine what her parents were going through, but if I knew the Fosters, and if they really took her, she was still alive. Somewhere. I had to find her.

  * * *

  I heard a male voice from somewhere below me. “Are you okay, pumpkin?”

  Prying my eyes open, I looked down at Uncle Bob. He was dressed in a dark gray suit and had a file in his hands. I nodded, hoping he couldn’t see the drool I’d left on the beam. Then I
realized the wetness was not drool but tears. I wiped my eyes and slowly, ever so slowly, sat up.

  “Want to tell me what you’re doing?” he asked.

  Glancing back at the ladder, I shook my head.

  He nodded. “Okay. I have the file you wanted. It’s everything we have on the Dawn Brooks case.” He sat it down on our coffee table, then reached up and took hold of the ladder to steady it.

  I flattened onto my stomach, swung a leg over, and began feeling for the rungs with my feet. When I found only air, I glanced back over my shoulder to guide my foot to the ladder, but it was gone. Vanished into thin air. I looked down. Uncle Bob had laid it on the ground and was messing with it.

  “I think that’s as tall as it goes. I tried to make it taller.”

  “Which would explain the homemade scaffolding.”

  “Yeah.” I looked at Captain Kirk and the gang. Probably not my best idea.

  “Well, this looks really dangerous,” he said, standing. “I’ll just leave it here.”

  He’d separated it into two pieces. Two short pieces. Now the extension ladder couldn’t extend.

  “Uncle Bob?” I asked, my voice as shaky as my scaffolding.

  He looked up and shrugged. “Guess you’ll have to stay up there until we can call in rescue. That could be a while.”

  “What?” I squirmed back into a sitting position. “Uncle Bob, you put that back right this minute.”

  “Sorry.” He glanced at his watch. “I have to get to work. I’ll make sure someone gets over here aysap.”

  “Uncle Bob!” I yelled to the back of his head.

  He opened the door and walked out of it. Just like that. He left me hanging. Literally.

  “Uncle Bob!”

  When I got no response, I looked at the angel. I smiled. I pointed to the ladder and offered him my most pathetic expression.

  He didn’t budge. The only sign of life I saw was his wings ruffling together as he repositioned himself.

  I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth. This was not happening.

  “Is there a reason you’re up here?”