I looked for a rock or more wood to stun him with … nothing. Maybe there’d be a tire iron in the back of the truck.
Katie came sliding out, her face determined. She had her little suitcase in hand.
She swung it low like a croquet mallet, hitting him square in the head. She used so much force that the handle broke, the case popped open, and her things scattered.
But it got quiet again. Duvert lay sprawled and still in the middle of the road. Maybe there was wood in the sides of the case. I wondered why vampires were so vulnerable to it, but no matter, so long as it worked.
Katie came and dropped next to me and had herself a good long blub. I joined her; it had been a hell of a night. When I felt better we’d clear up the mess and drive into Cheboygan, and I’d have her call her mother.
But for now we leaned on each other, not speaking, and sometime later we watched the sun come up over the lake.
Rapid aging shriveled Duvert’s features. Jack had once told me what he knew about the slow process of dying for vampires, not giving much detail. With good reason.
Duvert must have been old . He went from beautiful young man to dried-out mummy, and by full sunlight he was a shrunken husk with blackening skin and bones.
Soon not enough was left of his rib cage to hold the broomstick in place, and it swayed and fell over into the growing pile of dust.
I grinned and hoped, really hoped, that it had hurt .
NINE-TENTHS OF THE LAW
Jenna Black
Nothing good ever comes from private citizens visiting my office. Which was why I looked up from my pile of paperwork and scowled when a middle-aged couple stepped through my office door without knocking.
I guessed the man’s age at about fifty, though it was a well-preserved fifty. His neatly trimmed hair was a dark blond that camouflaged a hint of gray, and he had rounded apple cheeks that would always give him an aura of boyishness. The woman was considerably younger—late thirties, early forties—and beautiful enough to qualify for trophy-wife status. Both were impeccably dressed, and obviously tense.
“Are you Morgan Kingsley?” the woman asked tentatively, looking me up and down with a little frown tugging at the corners of her mouth. All right, I don’t dress like a corporate clone; so sue me. It was hot as hell out today, so I’d gone for a clingy camisole top and low-rise capris. Just as well Ms. Stick-up-her-ass couldn’t see the drugstore flip-flops that graced my feet.
“Yes,” I said, smiling tightly. “That’s me. What can I do for you?”
“May we sit down?” the woman asked.
My knee-jerk reaction was to tell them to call for an appointment and then ignore the phone calls. I don’t much like being sneered at.
You need the money, Lugh chided gently in my mind.
You’ve got to love the irony of an exorcist possessed by the king of the demons, don’t you? Once upon a time, ours had been a silent partnership, Lugh residing deep within the recesses of my mind, able to communicate with me only when I let my mental barriers down in sleep. Now, he was my constant companion. And, apparently, my business manager.
He was right, though. Ever since he’d possessed me, my life hadn’t been my own, and the day job had been on the back burner. In a separate house. Ten miles outside the city.
Long story short, it would be beyond stupid for me to send potential clients away, whether I liked them or not.
“Please, have a seat,” I invited with a wave of my hand.
They sat in the chairs in front of my desk. The man was fidgety, and seemed disinclined to make eye contact. I suspected that wasn’t a good sign.
“What can I do for you?” I asked again.
“I’m Patsy Sherwood, and this is my husband, Scott,” the woman said. Her husband nodded a greeting, but still didn’t make eye contact. “We have reason to believe our daughter is possessed.”