Meep-mreep-ma-mreep-meep. “Bury me. You get my things, no curse.”
Ed was not a superstitious man. He didn’t put much stock in curses ordinarily, but this creature was hardly ordinary. Still, he was sure it couldn’t curse him after it died. Before, maybe, but not after. Dead was dead.
Not that it mattered. If Ed Minsky made a deal, he kept it. Maybe he was getting the short end of this one—far as he could see, the dying not-a-fox didn’t have any things to trade other than that little knife. It had already given him the charm thing. Though maybe there was something hidden under that bright pink body . . . oh, well. It wouldn’t hurt him to bury it. “All right—no, wait a minute. Does it matter where you’re buried? I don’t have anything with me to dig.”
“No. Bury deep. So . . . nothing eats me.” The shudder that went through the small body might have been horror. Might have just been pain.
“Okay, then. We’ve got a deal.”
“. . . deal . . .” The big eyes closed.
That was the last word the not-a-fox said. Ed waited. He wasn’t comfortable, stretched out like this. There wasn’t room to sit up. But he was a patient man. He spent the wait figuring out what to do with the body. Carry it out wrapped up in his jacket, he figured. If anyone saw him, he’d tell them it was his wife’s little poodle that got out and got torn up by coyotes. He’d seen poodles whose idiot owners dyed them funny colors, so if any of the pink fur showed, it wouldn’t matter. Take it home so he could get his shovel. Trish would not want him burying the not-a-fox in their backyard, though, so where . . . just come back here, he decided, after dark. His place wasn’t far. That’s why he’d come here for a stupid run in the first place.
About the time he got that settled in his mind, the small hand holding the knife went limp. The blade tumbled to the ground. He reached out and held his hand in front of the smushed-in muzzle. Still breathing.
After a moment the eyelids lifted, leaving a half-moon of white showing. The not-a-fox continued to breathe for a couple more minutes. Then it stopped.
Ed waited another minute out of respect and to be sure. Then he stuffed the silver charm in his pants pocket and squirmed out of his jacket—not easy in the close confines—and started to roll the limp body onto it. He saw two things that surprised him. First, the not-a-fox was wearing a belt, half-hidden in the fur. It had a couple pouches and a sheath for the knife. Second, when he moved it, the tail fell away, revealing a huge, gaping wound. How had the little son of a bitch lived long enough to make a deal? He shook his head . . . and wondered what had made that wound.
Best if he didn’t linger here.
He finished getting the limp body onto his jacket, stuck the creature’s knife in its sheath, and backed out of the bushes, dragging the jacket and its burden with him. As soon as he was out, he sat up and stretched. Damn. He’d gotten blood on his pants. Some on his hands, too.
Couldn’t be helped now. Should he check his take here, or wait till he got home?
A quick look wouldn’t hurt, he decided. Only those two pouches to check out, and they . . . no, wait. Was that a necklace?
It was. Simple thing, he saw when he tugged it off over the dead thing’s head. Silver chain with a disk like the not-a-fox had given him. Another of those charm things. He stuck the necklace in his pocket with the first disk and tried to unfasten the belt. The catch wasn’t like anything he’d ever seen, though. Might have to cut it off later. For now, he dug a couple fingers into one of the little pouches and pulled out . . . how about that. Five big, round pearls. Looks like he’d been wrong. The not-a-fox had had some pretty good shit, after all. Five pearls was no treasure trove, but these looked like good ones.
He stuffed them back in their pouch and nodded his thanks at the not-a-fox. “I’ll bury you nice and deep, don’t worry.” Then he dug his fingers into the other pouch and pulled out a small silk bag. It took a moment to unknot the tie so he could spill the contents out onto his palm.
He whistled. Could that be what it looked like? He’d never seen a ruby that big. The color was right, though. Cabochon cut, which might mean there was a flaw, something that made a faceted cut unwise . . . he reached for it with his other hand so he could hold it up to the light.
As soon as his fingers, still damp with blood, touched the gem, it flashed.
Startled, he almost dropped it. Then, thoughtfully, he did drop it—back in its little silk bag, which he knotted again. Better be careful. If this was some kind of magical shit . . . well, he knew who to talk to about that. Didn’t want to sell this to any of his regulars if it had magical shit on it. Might be dangerous.
Might also be worth a whole boatload of money to the right person. Jasper knew who some of those people were. He’d want a cut, but if this was worth what Ed suspected . . . grinning, he shoved the silk bag into his pocket.
Looked like this was his lucky day, after all. Who knew nature could be so profitable?
? ? ?
A deserted cove fifteen hundred miles south of San Francisco near the tip of Mexico’s Baja Peninsula
As yachts went, this one was a baby at a little over forty feet long. That was a decent size for a trawler, though, and this boat was more trawler than yacht, though it was made for living aboard—bedroom and head in the aft, lounge in the middle, galley tucked up near the bow. On the rear sundeck, a curvy redhead in a tiny bikini sat on a cushion in the shade provided by a canvas awning.
She was cute in the way some women are, no matter what their age. She had the body of a thirties pinup girl and the skin of a true redhead, generously sprinkled with freckles. Her tip-tilted nose was peeling, as were the tops of her shoulders. Her hair was a short froth of curls and her attention was fixed on the screen of the laptop on the low table in front of her.
The man who came out of the aft cabin wore less than she did. Nothing, in fact. If she was cute, he was a young Adonis—tanned, fit, a perfect blend of sleek and muscled. His hair was that shade of dark brown that looks black in some lighting; it was as curly as hers and about the same length. His eyes were pale blue and smiling. “Ready for our swim?”
“Almost,” she said without looking up. “Michael, there was another incident involving violence against one of the Gifted. This one was in Arizona. It seems like a trend, but I can’t find any common thread among the victims, the perpetrators, or—well, anything, except that Gifted people are being hurt.”
“You need a break,” Michael said, bending to run his hands along Molly’s arms and kiss her neck.
She made a pleased sound. “Well . . . maybe. Do that again.”
He did, but this kiss was a noisy smack. “If I do much more, I’ll be diving into you instead of the ocean.”