Sixth Grave on the Edge

4

My boyfriend called me a stalker.

Well, he’s not actually my boyfriend …

—STATUS UPDATE

I led Mr. Joyce to the door and promised I’d do whatever I could. I still had no idea if he was crazy or not, but I planned to find out.

“What have we got?” Cookie asked, her voice soft.

“We have a client who sold his soul to the devil.”

“Another one?”

She knew just what to say. A little embarrassed, I graced her with the best smile I could conjure under the circumstances. “Exactly. When will these guys ever learn?” I looked over at Reyes, who’d stood watch the whole time. I was more than a little embarrassed that he’d witnessed my breakdown. “Is that even possible?”

“It’s possible,” he said. I felt genuine regret emanating off him.

“Then I have a card game to go to.”

He pushed off the wall and followed me as I grabbed my bag and headed out the door. “You’re not serious.”

I stopped and leveled a determined gaze on him. “I’m as serious as neuroblastoma.”

He bit back a reply, knowing it would do him no good. He was learning.

I paused at Cookie’s desk. “You’re not wearing that tonight, are you?”

“What’s wrong with this?”

“Nothing. If you’re running away to join the circus.”

She gasped, then narrowed her lids threateningly. “I should have locked you in your office with your stepmother instead of using these ridiculous intercoms you insisted on buying at that horrid estate sale and coming to your rescue.”

It was my turn to gasp. I also jutted out my index finger accusingly for dramatic flair. “That estate sale rocked. Who doesn’t love a good taxidermist’s collection?”

She shivered at the reminder.

“And those intercoms aren’t half as ridiculous as that outfit.”

Her expression hardened and I felt the weight of sorrow lift. God bless her. I winked knowingly then strode out of the office to prepare for tonight.

But first, Uncle Bob.

I accepted a card that read LIVE FREE OR DIE from a homeless man with leathery skin and several missing teeth. In return, I gave him what little change I had in my pocket as I walked across the parking lot to my apartment building. And it was literally my apartment building. Reyes had bought it for me. I had no idea what to do with it, but I loved that it was mine.

“You aren’t going to that game,” Reyes said as he stalked behind me.

“Sure am.”

Heat from his anger rose around me. A lot of heat.

I whirled around to face him. “What is the problem?”

He kept coming until he was only inches away from me. “You. It’s like you search out the worst, most dangerous situations to go into, then rush to get there without a second thought.”

“I have second thoughts,” I said, and turned to continue my journey to the building. “And sometimes I even have third and fourth thoughts, too.”

He grabbed my arm before I’d taken two steps. “This isn’t funny.”

I made a pointed effort to look down at his hand, the one holding my arm, before refocusing on his face again. “No, it isn’t.”

He let go of my arm. “You can’t save every desperate soul out there, Dutch.” When I started toward the building again, he stepped in my path. “You’re going to get yourself killed if you try, and I’ll be stuck here alone, all because I’m in love with a bleeding heart who’d rather risk her life for strangers than listen to anything I have to say.”

I shifted my weight to one leg, jutting out a hip. “You’re in love with me?”

He stepped close again and rested a hand on my jutting hip. “You know I am.”

“I know. But the heat of your anger is going to burn you alive.”

He ran his tongue along his lower lip as he studied me. “Maybe I have a fever.”

Suddenly worried, I reached up and felt his forehead. Blisteringly hot, but when wasn’t he?

He tested his forehead himself. “See? I probably need a sponge bath,” he said, turning playful.

As sexy as that lopsided grin of his was, I was starting to get worried. I felt his forehead again. “Do you really have a fever?”

“Ever since the first time I saw you.”

I couldn’t help but giggle at that. “Seriously, Reyes. Are you feeling bad?”

“Only when you’re not near me.”

“Do you get sick?”

“Every time we’re apart.”

This was getting me exactly nowhere. He was deflecting on purpose. “Fine. But I’m going to that card game. I totally have a plan,” I said, sidestepping past him.

“Because your plans always work so well.” He followed me inside and up the stairs.

“That’s not fair.”

“Dutch, I’m not kidding. Dealers are not what you think.”

“Dealers?” I stopped on the stairs and gaped at him. “You knew about him? You knew he was here?”

“No, not exactly, but I do know they exist. And if he really is a Dealer, he’s very, very clever. He could convince a mother to sell her children into slavery for a dime.”

“I can’t believe a being like that actually exists. So it really is possible to sell your soul to the devil?”

He nodded. “And you don’t even have to go to the crossroads to do it.”

“Holy cow. How do I not know these things?” I continued up the stairs while foraging in my bag for my keys.

“It’s not really what you think,” Reyes added. “There’s a lot you don’t know, and there’s a lot you don’t need to know, like how to handle a Dealer.”

“So, what are they, exactly?”

“They are demons. The Fallen.”

“Like Hedeshi?”

“Very much like Hedeshi, only they’ve gone rogue.”

“Rogue?” I stopped on the landing. “What does that mean?”

“It means they’re demons who’ve escaped from hell and are living on earth as humans. They owe no allegiance to my father. They simply live here, feeding off the souls of others.”

“Please tell me you’re kidding.”

“Wish I could, but they have to eat just like you and I do.”

“You mean to tell me souls are their sustenance?”

“Exactly, but they can only get a soul if the donor willingly gives it up.”

“Why would someone willingly give up their soul?”

He shrugged. “Power. Money. Health.”

“I just— I’m so floored by this.” I slid my key into the lock, but stopped again, trying to absorb this new turn of events. “Is there a contract? Like in the movies?”

“No. No contract. That’s Hollywood’s version of a Dealer. In real life, they are much cleverer than that.”

“Then how is the bargain sealed?”

“Upon the human’s word, the Dealer marks the soul. Then, when he’s hungry, he calls it forth. Believe it or not, a person can live without their soul. Not very long, but it can be done.”

“What about Mr. Joyce? Did he still have his soul?”

“No. He was right. His soul was gone and probably has been for at least a couple of months. He won’t last much longer. He’s been so absorbed in his daughter that he didn’t realize what he was feeling was the illness that happens when the soul is gone. The body withers away.”

Damn. I hated to hear that. “Okay, answer me this: Is it possible to get one back after the demon has fed off it?”

“It depends on how long he’s had it, if it still has any energy left. They can live off one soul for months if they have to.” He stepped closer to emphasize his next point. “And yours,” he said, his tone warning, “he could live off for hundreds of years. A millennium, even. Getting your soul would be like winning the lottery of feasts, which is why you aren’t going anywhere near him. He has to trick you out of it, and trust me, a Dealer can do exactly that. They are often called Tricksters in your mythology for good reason.”

“Thanks for your faith in me.”

“Dutch, it’s not my lack of faith in you. It’s my certainty that you would do anything to get this man’s soul back. I’ve seen it a hundred times. You risk everything, every part of yourself, for complete strangers. It’s … disturbing.”

He had a point.

I opened my door and stepped in. “Again, I ask, how do I not know these things?”

Reyes crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against my doorframe as I tossed my bag onto my kitchen table and headed for Mr. Coffee. “Because you’re you,” he said, teasing me.

“Don’t you have to get back to work?” I asked, nodding in the general direction of the bar.

“Son of a bitch.” He gritted his teeth. “I do, actually, but I won’t be long. Don’t do anything without me.”

“Okay,” I said, hiding my crossed fingers behind my back.

He stepped to me. “Dutch, I mean it. Don’t you dare go try to find this guy.”

“I won’t. Pinkie swear.” I held up my pinkie. He didn’t hold his up so we could entwine them and swear our allegiance. Left hanging for the second time that day. “But,” I added, pointing said pinkie at him as menacingly as I could, “I am going to that game tonight.”

He bit down, the muscles in his jaw contracting with the movement. “Then we need more of a plan than your usual fare.”

“What’s my usual fare?”

“Rush headlong into any situation that could get you killed, consequences be damned.”

“That plan has worked beautifully for me in the past,” I reminded him, frowning in reprimand.

“I apologize,” he said, but the insincerity cut to my core. He totally didn’t mean it. “I tend to forget how beautifully your plans work when each and every one goes awry, including the one that left you stranded on a deserted bridge with a man who had every intention of burning you alive.”

He did not just bring that up. “You’re still mad at me about that?” When he only glared at me, his eyes shimmering in the low light, I crossed my arms over my chest defensively. “That wasn’t a plan. That was a surprise attack. And I told you, I tried to summon you. I couldn’t. I was concussed.” I pointed to my head to demonstrate. Not with my pinkie, though.

He was in front of me at once, the animal inside him rearing reflexively, and kept going until I’d backed into the cabinets and could go no farther. Bracing his hands on the countertop on either side of me, he moved even closer, his heat spiraling in blistering waves around me. “You can summon me whenever you desire,” he said, his warm breath at my ear, brushing down my neck. “I am but a thought away.”

“Are you saying I didn’t summon you on purpose?”

He leaned back to look at me. “You tell me.”

“I thought you had to go to work.”

He bit down again before checking his watch. “I mean it. Nothing until we can come up with a better plan. Promise me.”

“I promise. Geez.” He was so untrusting.

First things first. I hunted down my phone and dialed Uncle Bob.

“Hey, pumpkin,” he said, clearly in a good mood.

I was about to change that. “I need you to come over tonight.”

“Sure thing. What’s up?”

“Dad.”

“He’s there?” he asked, seeming surprised.

“No, but Denise came to see me. She is under the impression Dad isn’t going on a trip into the wild blue yonder. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?”

“Not really.” He paused a long moment, then added, “But I’ve suspected.”

“You’ve suspected what?” I asked in alarm. “What’s going on?”

“I have a meeting in two. We’ll talk about it when I get there. What time do you want me over?”

While I wanted him over right then and there—this was my dad we were talking about—I had to consider the plan Cookie and I—mostly I—had dreamed up to get Ubie to ask her out. Honestly, it was like pulling teeth with this guy. “Around six?” That should give Cookie enough time to get ready and her date enough time to get over from the West Side. He had to work until five, so … “Yeah, six will work.”

“That’ll work for me, too. Do you want dinner? I can pick something up.”

Though I should have felt at least a twinge of guilt—I was setting him up, after all—I couldn’t quite manage it. The setup, or as I liked to call it, the Get Cookie Laid Plan, was a necessary evil. Uncle Bob was usually so confident, so straightforward, but throw Cookie into the mix, and he became a spineless wiener. Not that wieners had spines to begin with, but really. It was Cookie. Our Cookie! What was she going to do? Bite him?

Okay, that was a strong possibility, but that’d come after the fruits of our endeavor had been delivered. Cookie could be sassy like that.

“Sweet,” I said, astounded at my acting skills. I should’ve gone to Hollywood when I had the chance, but when that old man offered to take me that one time at an abandoned gas station in the middle of nowhere, I wasn’t sure I could trust him. Mostly because he had rope, duct tape, and lots of condoms in his backseat. Still, I’ll never know what could have come of it. How far I could have risen. C’est la vie. “I love it when you buy dinner. How about Italian from that really expensive place that I never go to because it’s too expensive?”

He chuckled. “Can do. Would you just like me to order the most expensive thing on the menu?”

“Duh. See ya then.” Right before I hung up, I said, “And don’t be late!”

“Please. It’s Robert Davidson you’re talking to.”

Who was Robert again? Oh, right. That always threw me. “Fine, Robert, just don’t be late.”

“I’ll try.”

I hung up and realized Mr. Coffee was ready for me. A sharp thrill ran up my spine with that knowledge. It was weird. I hurried over to him, gave him a saucy wink, then poured a cup of joe, dumping all kinds of artificial thises and thats in with him, wondering why he was called Joe in the first place.

Then I turned and stared at my walls, realizing I suddenly had nothing to do. Actually, I did. I could mull over ad nauseum the fact that there was a demon out there feeding on the souls of the living. Or I could ponder the fact that cancer was a stone-cold bitch who needed to die a slow and painful death, over and over for all eternity. Or I could think about the fact that Reyes had a human brother. A biological one. But none of those options appealed to me. Since Reyes had thwarted my plans to scope out the Dealer Mr. Joyce had described to me, I was at a standstill. In my apartment. With absolutely nothing to do! It was weird.

I supposed I could stare at Mr. Wong, my apartment mate. He’d actually lived there first, hovering with his nose in one corner of my living room when I’d first scoped out the place, but I’d loved the apartment. No, I’d loved the building. It seemed to lure me inside. To woo me with its old-world architecture and cultured lines. Either that or I’d had one too many margaritas that day.

And while I talked to Mr. Wong all the time, I’d never really tried to communicate with him. To get the lowdown on his story, his life. Maybe I didn’t want to. I often did my best to avoid the more painful aspects of life, even though it didn’t always help; witness my physical and emotional breakdown with Mr. Joyce in my office only an hour earlier.

But maybe Mr. Wong was like Mr. Andrulis in my passenger seat. Maybe he was just lost, wanting to cross, to get to heaven, but he didn’t know how. I’d never really examined Mr. Wong for markings or tattoos of any kind. Perhaps if I found out who he was, what his story entailed, I could lure him out of his stupor and help him to the other side. Wasn’t that my job, after all?

I pulled a chair over to Mr. Wong and sat down.

“I’m here for you,” I said, taking the slow and easy approach. His back was rigid, his shoulders straight, his short gray hair a bit mussed and in need of a trim. “If you want to cross, you can, you know.”

Wait, what if he did? What would I do without him? I’d grown so used to having him around to talk to, to commiserate with, I wasn’t sure how I’d handle the place without him.

“Can you at least tell me your name? I’m fairly certain it’s not Mr. Wong.” I’d only called him that because … well, because he kind of looked like a Mr. Wong. It was the first thing that popped into my head.

When he still didn’t answer, I put my cup down and stood by him. His head, even though he was hovering about a foot off the ground, still did not pass mine. He couldn’t have been more than five feet tall. His gray uniform reminded me so much of the pictures I’d seen of Chinese internment camps. The people starving, made to work until they dropped. Literally.

Maybe that was why I’d never really tried to communicate with him. Maybe I didn’t want to know his story, what he’d gone through. As surprising as this might seem to the average observer, I did not handle that stuff well. My heart broke all too often. Even when people passed through me who’d gotten past their hardships, their heart-wrenching pain, and had lived long, full lives, seeing that part of them still cut me to pieces. So, maybe all this time I’d been hanging with Mr. Wong, I was really putting off the inevitable, the truth, not for his benefit, but for my own.

I was so amazingly selfish, sometimes I astonished even me.

I reached over and took his hand into mine. It was the first real contact I’d ever had with him. I was always afraid he’d up and vanish on me. Dead people tended to do that. But he didn’t move. He let me fondle his extremities as I searched for any kind of tattoo. Any mark that might lead me to his identity. It was probably too much to hope that he’d have a tat with his name on it like Mr. Andrulis.

I carefully lifted a sleeve. Nothing, though he did have a lot of scars, mostly thin wisps across his fragile skin. The same with the other arm. I bent and lifted a ragged pant leg. Again, scars, though not so many, but no other markings of any kind.

I heard Cookie open the door as I was looking at his right leg.

“What are you doing?” she asked, heading straight for Mr. Coffee. I’d suspected those two for some time now. Cookie seemed suddenly very concerned as to his whereabouts, his everyday activities, how long it took him to brew. She was eyeing him, sizing him up; I could tell. It could have something to do with the fact that her own coffeepot died after a long bout with congestion. I think its fuel pump went out. But she needed to keep her eyes off my man if she knew what was good for her.

“I’m fondling Mr. Wong,” I said, dropping his pant leg and rising. “Did you find anything out about our Mr. Andrulis?”

“Sure did.”

I peeked around Mr. Wong. “Seriously? And?”

She stirred her cup, rinsed the spoon off, then walked over to me and handed me a paper. “Is this him?”

I looked at the clipping. It was a photograph of several veterans from a local VFW event. She’d circled one of them, and underneath was a list of their names, including a Charles Andrulis. I squinted, trying to bring the picture into focus. “You know, that might be him. It’s hard to tell. He’s so naked now.”

“According to the obituaries,” Cookie said, taking the chair I’d pulled up to Mr. Wong, “he died about a month ago and is survived by his wife of fifty-seven years. But she’s not doing well.”

“Maybe that’s why he’s still here,” I said, pulling up another chair and retrieving my coffee cup. “Maybe, I don’t know, maybe he’s waiting for her.”

Cookie sighed in romantic bliss.

“But wait. Why is he freaking naked?”

“Oh.” She scoured her bag until she produced a stack of papers. “Okay, I called the home where he and his wife were living, and according to a Nurse Jacob—who sounded quite yummy, I might add—they were giving Mr. Andrulis a shower when he collapsed. He died instantly of a heart attack.”

“Oh, man. Poor guy.”

“I know. It’s really sad. Nurse Jacob said his wife doesn’t know he’s gone. Even if they told her, it would sink in for only a few minutes before she was asking for him again, so they haven’t told her. They just keep telling her he’s coming right back.”

“You know what?” I said, rising and pacing the floor space. All two feet of it. “I’ve had it. I don’t want to be around death anymore.” I was holding my cup with one hand, but my other flew all over the place in indignation. “I’m done with sad stories that leave me whimpering and fetal.”

Cookie straightened. “But aren’t you the grim reaper? I mean, isn’t death your job?”

“Yes.” I strode to my desk and took out a piece of paper. “Yes, it is, and I quit.”

She relaxed and sipped on her coffee a bit before asking, “So, what are you doing?”

“Writing my resignation letter. How do you spell disestablishmentarianism?”

“First of all, I’m not sure you know what that word means if you are using it in a resignation letter.”

I paused and examined my letter. “Really?”

“Second, I’m not sure you can quit.”

“Oh, yeah?” I went back to writing my letter, throwing in a few curse words to get my point across. “Watch me.”

I signed it with all the flair I could muster, then folded it into thirds, tried to stuff it in an envelope, pulled it back out and refolded to make the thirds more even, tried again, pulled it back out. “Oh, my god, how do you get a letter into a freaking—?”

“Would you like to hear my third point?”

I blew a lock of hair off my face and turned to her. “Sure.”

“Third, just who are you going to send that letter to, exactly?”

Damn. She had a point. But I was busy looking at Mr. Wong’s back. I saw something I’d never noticed before through the threadbare material of his shirt. Dropping the letter, I strolled over to him, stood on my tiptoes, and peeked down the collar of his gray shirt.

“Holy cow,” I said. His entire back was covered in tattoos. “I think Mr. Wong may have been triad.”

“Triad?” she asked, standing slowly. “Aren’t they kind of dangerous?”

“From what I hear, they are.” I reached around him and unbuttoned the top couple of buttons of his shirt. “I am so sorry, Mr. Wong. So, so, so, so sorry.”

After I’d unfastened enough to pull the shoulders down, I carefully peeled back the shirt and examined the artwork. It was stunning, but not what I’d seen in the movies that would link him to any underground organized crime syndicate, Chinese or otherwise. It was Chinese characters, beginning with a straight line across, then more characters falling from there and forming vertical lines of text. Only, I couldn’t read them.

I’d been born knowing every language ever spoken on Earth. Part of the gig, I guessed. Even though that didn’t include the ability to read and write said languages, I knew just enough Mandarin to be dangerous.

Cookie was standing back, watching me with nervous anxiety. “Well? Is he triad?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I’m not sure what he is. It’s just words. Chinese characters. But I don’t recognize them. I can’t read it.” A thought hit me, and I turned to her. “Aren’t you supposed to be getting ready for your fake date?”

She pulled her bottom lip between her teeth. “I’m not sure, Charley.”

“Cook,” I said, righting Mr. Wong’s shirt just in case he was triad and could put out a hit for my head to be brought to him in a plain, brown package, and stepped to her. “You have to snap out of this.” I took her shoulders and gave her a little shake. I didn’t slap her, though. That might be taking it a bit far. “You want this, remember? For reasons known only to you and God above, you have the hots for my uncle.”

She drew in a deep breath and nodded. “You’re right. It’s for his own good.”

“Damn straight, it is. And it’ll be funny to watch him squirm. I can’t wait to see the look on his face—”

“Charley!”

“But that’s not the only reason I’m doing this! I swear.”

“You are such a bad liar.”

I chuckled and led her to the door. “Go get ready for your fake date. Ubie should be here around six. Ish. You never know with him.”

She nodded again, handed me her cup, then headed across the hall to her own apartment. I said a quick prayer, asking for divine intervention in her fashion choice, then went back to Mr. Wong. Some of the lines of text went all the way down his back and disappeared into the top of his pants, but no way was I going there. I had to leave him at least an ounce of dignity.

I could try to draw the tats, as I had with Mr. A, but that would take me forever, and I just wasn’t that good. Time to kill two bad guys with one bullet. I summoned Angel, a thirteen-year-old departed gangbanger who’d wanted to see me naked before he’d agree to become my investigator. I was happy to report he had yet to see me naked and he was indeed my investigator. I’d blackmailed him. It was how I rolled.

“Hey, Charley,” he said, popping in behind me. Very close behind me.

I stepped away from him and gave him a good once-over. “You’re being very nice today,” I said, letting the suspicion I felt show. “What gives?”

“What?” he asked. He stepped to Sophie, my sofa, and fell back to land softly on her soft cushions. “I can’t say hey to my favorite grim reaper?”

Oh, wow. Something was definitely up. I strolled over to him, turned around, and plopped down on his stomach to incapacitate him. Then I proceeded to tickle him until he begged for mercy.

“Okay, okay,” he said, laughing like a schoolkid. It was nice. “I give up.”

“What’s up with the nice act?” When he hesitated, I went back in for the ribs.

“No! Okay, I’ll tell you. I’m just happy. My mom’s doing really well.”

“Yeah, thanks to the raise I gave you. So, she fell for the ‘dead uncle left her money’ thing?”

He wiped his eyes as I let him up. “Seems like it. She’s just happier now. Something has changed.”

“Angel, maybe she’s happy because she’s figured out you’re still around.”

His disposition went from light to dark in a flash. “No, she’s not. I told you, I don’t want her to know.”

“I know. Geez. I didn’t tell her anything. But she suspects. You know that, right?”

He sat back down and rubbed the peach fuzz on his chin. “I know. As long as she doesn’t know for certain, she’ll be fine.”

“Well, either way,” I said, going to warm up my coffee, “I’m glad she’s doing well.”

“Yeah, me, too.”

“I have two jobs for you.”

“Okay, but I’ve decided I need weekends and holidays off.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. It just sounds good. And I need benefits.”

I gave him my best deadpan expression. “Isn’t it a little late for medical?”

“No, I need other benefits. Like seeing you naked. But only sometimes. I’m not greedy.”

“You are not seeing me naked. Now, do you want to know the jobs or not?”

“Sure. Why not? I’m only dead. It’s not like I can argue.”

I curled up beside him, and he put an arm around my shoulders. “Can we make out?”

“No. Can you draw?”

He shrugged. “I used to be pretty good. Haven’t tried it in about thirty years.”

“But you can manipulate objects sometimes. I’ve seen you.”

“Yeah. Do you need a nude portrait done?”

“Yes, actually, I do.”

He rose slightly. “Really?”

“Yes. Of Mr. Wong’s back.”

Disappointment lined his handsome face. “That old guy? I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know. He’s … escalofriante.”

“Angel Garza,” I said, leaning away from him. “Mr. Wong is not creepy. Why would he give you the chills?”

“He just does.”

“That’s not nice.”

“Whatever you say, ’jita.”

“And you can’t call me ’jita. It’s wrong. I’m older than you are.”

He still had his arm on my shoulders when his full mouth tilted playfully. “You are not older than me. If you’ll let me see you naked, I’ll prove it to you.”

The way Angel talked, the departed could have sex. But really? Could they? I wasn’t about to find out with a thirteen-year-old. “You are not seeing me naked. I need you to draw the tattoos on his back.”

“I can try, but I don’t think he’ll like it. What if he’s ticklish?”

I pursed my lips in reprimand. “I don’t know what else to do, unless you can talk to him and find out who he is.”

“I’ve already told you: I’m not a ghost whisperer. And if you could see what I see, you wouldn’t even want to know who he is.”

I bolted upright. “Why? What do you see?” Then I remembered something. When I was hurt and almost burned alive, I’d seen Reyes’s darkness, the flames that forever engulfed him, the scars from his past. Reyes said I was looking at him from another plane. Now I just had to remember how I did that.

I looked back at Mr. Wong and concentrated. Then I squinted. Then I squinted harder until he became a blurry patch of gray.

“Is it working?” Angel asked, a soft laugh escaping him.

I gave up with a hopeless sigh. “No.”

“You’re the grim freaking reaper. You can do anything. You just haven’t figured that out yet.”

“Dude, how do you know more than I do? Are my abilities, like, common departed knowledge?”

“No,” he said with a shrug. “You kind of learn things as you go. It’s like on-the-job training.”

“That’s exactly how I feel. So, like what? What can I do that I don’t know about?”

“I just told you. Pretty much anything.”

“That’s so helpful. Thanks,” I said, giving up. Again. “What do you see?”

He looked at him, studied him a long while, then said, “Power.”

My eyes rounded. “Power? What do you mean? What kind of power?”

“That’s it. Just power. You’d have to see it to understand. Me da mala espina.”

Well, that was a huge help. “Something ominous is coming, huh? When isn’t it? I want you to try to draw the tattoos on his back onto this paper when you can.” I pointed to my sketchpad.

“Okay. Most likely the pencil will slip through my fingers, but I can try right now if you want.”

“Nope—right now, you have another job.”

“Okay. I get paid time and a half for overtime, right?”

“No. I need you to go check out a demon posing as a man.”

“I don’t like demons.”

“I don’t either.”

“That’s funny, since you’re sleeping with one.”

“Reyes is not a demon.”

“Keep telling yourself that, mijita. He is the most notorious demon of them all.”

“Are you going to go check this guy out or what?”

“Sure, but when the prince of hell turns on you and decides to engulf the world in a blazing inferno, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

“Deal,” I said, plastering a smile on my face.