Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb (28 page)

Sassy crammed her fist into her mouth to keep from screaming. Where, oh, where was Grim when she needed him? And where was Taryn?

Demon hunters
, Sassy thought in righteous indignation. She had half a mind to get in the car and let Taryn walk to the mill.

A wheezing snort made Sassy look down. The witch was beneath her. The Hag snuffled the roots of the elm, her pitted cucumber nose a-twitch. Her bones jutted through her skin. Greasy strands of lank hair clung to a scalp crusted with angry, oozing sores. A revolting smell steamed from her, a stomach-turning mixture of garbage and dead things.

Sassy shrank back and drew her knees to her chest to make herself smaller. The witch was between her and the car. No escape that way. What to do? Hard to think, with the witch a few feet away, groping for her scent like a hound after a pork sandwich.

Perhaps if she was still and quiet, the witch wouldn't see her sitting among the branches. Perhaps she should—

Mose
. Mose would know what to do . . . if she could remember the super-secret password.

His name was a mouthful that ended in moscarella. No, that wasn't right. Marshmallows, why couldn't Mose have picked an easier moniker? Sassy frowned in thought. It began with an
i
. Irilmoska-something-or-another.

Irilmoskamoseril?
Yes.
That was it.

Lips stiff with fear, she pushed the word out of her mouth with the merest exhalation of air so as not to alert the witch.

Fat chance. The Hag lifted her head with a hiss and spied Sassy in the tree.

“There you are, sweetmeat.” The witch's eyes were runny black pools of malice. “You've given old Ora quite a chase.” She crooked a yellow claw at Sassy. “Be a good girl and climb down now and I'll break your neck before I eat you.”

Sassy shook her head, too terrified to speak.

“Playing hard to get, eh?” The witch growled. “You'll be sorry. I'll catch you and take your tongue first so you can't scream. Then I'll gnaw your feet off so you can't run. Next I'll hang you by the neck to get tender. And when you're fat and oozing with rot, I'll—”

Taryn materialized at the foot of the tree, her bow drawn. “I think not. I think 'tis you who will be sorry.”

The witch sprang away with a snarl, her long arms propelling her down the road with the speed of a rabbit. Sassy heard a sharp twang as Taryn loosed an arrow, followed by a howl of pain.

Sassy scurried out of the tree and threw her arms around Taryn. “You came back.” Sobbing with relief, she clung to the tall huntress. “You came back.”

“There, there.” Taryn gave Sassy an awkward pat and pushed her away. “No need for excitement. I did not leave. I was cloaked.”

Sassy wiped her wet cheeks. “You saved my life.”

Taryn shook her head. “Any warrior would do the same, and with greater skill. I missed the shot and let the creature escape.”

“You got her. I heard her holler.”

“'Twas but a flesh wound, I fear.”

Sassy stamped her foot. “Stop it. If I say you're amazeballs, you're amazeballs.”

“Very well. I am amazeballs, whate'er that means.”

Mose materialized with a roasted chicken in one gnarly, long-fingered hand. “What's the emergency?” He wiped his greasy fingers on his tunic. “I'm busy.”

“The witch was here,” Sassy said. “She tried to eat me.”

“Is that all? Suck it up, buttercup, and don't call me again about that stupid witch. Got it?”

“I got it. I'm on my own with the witch. It's not fair. What kind of mentor are you?”

“The kind that doesn't wipe your tush.” Mose cocked a brow at Taryn. “Nice brogans.”

He disappeared in a shower of lichen powder.

Taryn sneezed and looked down at her feet. “By the vessel, what happened to my boots?”

Taryn's formerly utilitarian boots were red and sparkly, with chunky square heels.

“Ooh, they're glittery,” Sassy said, clapping her hands in delight. “Like Dorothy's ruby slippers from
The Wizard of Oz
, but kick-butt, like you. What made you decide to change them?”

“I?” Taryn gave Sassy an indignant glare. “
You
did this.”

“Me? I didn't—” Sassy paused, thinking. “W-e-l-l, now that you mention it, I
do
recall wanting to do something nice for you—for saving my life, you know. And I remember thinking how much I hate those Doc Martens.” She gave the boots a judicious once-over. “They're pretty, but a little too glitzy for daywear, in my opinion. I'd save them to go clubbing at night or maybe wear them to a concert, if I were you.”

“Save them for—” Taryn's face was a thundercloud. “Remove the spell at once.”

“I can't. I don't know how.”

Taryn said something in a language Sassy did not recognize and stomped to the car.

Sassy hurried after her. “Gracious, there's no need to get in a snit. If you don't like them, change them back.”

Taryn gave Sassy the Kirvahni equivalent of a
duh
look. “I cannot undo your magic.”

“Oh. So take them off and magic up another pair.” Sassy wiggled her fingers to demonstrate. “Grim does it.”

Taryn pressed her lips together and looked straight ahead. “I will wear them for now. In future, however, should I intervene on your behalf, a simple thank-you will suffice.”

She opened the car door and got in. Folding her arms across her breasts, the huntress stared straight ahead. Brr, someone was frosty.

Sassy slid behind the wheel, cranked the car, and pulled onto the road. The Dalmatian materialized in the backseat looking solid enough to touch. He poked his head between the front seats and barked.

Taryn stiffened.

“Ask your sister.” Taryn's voice dripped with ice. “The boots are her doing.”

Sassy glanced in the rearview mirror. She could swear the dog was laughing at her.

Man's best friend, indeed.

A
s they drove down the woodsy road, Sassy had a lot on her mind. Her close encounter of the nearly fatal kind with the witch—and Grim. Wesley and Grim. Running the mill and Grim. Her unexpected fairy cobbler abilities—so many ugly shoes in the world, so little time—and Grim.

Grim, Grim, Grim. She had a bad case of the grims. Maybe terminal.

There was no further sign of the witch, thank goodness. Sassy turned down Peterson Mill Road, a wide dirt avenue bracketed by scrub pines, various varieties of oaks, sweet gum, and maple saplings, and infested with wild privet hedge. She pulled over as a huge truck carrying telephone poles lumbered down the road. The thing bore down on them like some wheeled behemoth.

Taryn straightened from her slump. “By the vessel, what is that?”

“That's a log truck. It's carrying telephone poles, I think.”

“I should like to drive one of those. I should like that very much.”

The truck boomed past, kicking up a cloud of gravel, sand, red dust, and a strong chemical smell that made Sassy cough and sputter. When the fumes and grit had settled, they continued down the road. They heard the mill long before they saw it, a brangle of whines, bangs, rumbles, hums, and thumps. They drove through the front gates, and Sassy slammed on the brakes, the odors of raw and treated wood, sawdust, and machinery fumes assaulting her. Her temples pounded. Bunny rabbits, her headache was back and she was queasy.

Trey barked sharply.

“He says you need to move. You are blocking the entrance.” Taryn glanced at Sassy when she didn't budge. “Are you well? You look wan.”

Sassy took her foot off the brake. “I'm fine. I'm excited, I guess.”

She parked the car next to a neat brick building marked
Office.
To the right and across the dusty yard was a cluster of sheds. Some of the sheds held drying lumber. A tremendous clanging and strident whining came from within the largest structure, and conveyor belts clanked and groaned.

Beyond the sheds was more lumber, bundles and bundles of yellow wood stacked like graham crackers in the sun. Behind the planed wood was a mountain of cut timber some forty or fifty feet high, trees hewn at their prime and arranged in piles against a backdrop of verdant Alabama forest. Red dirt trails ran into the woods like bleeding veins.

Bile rose in Sassy's throat. Goodness, she was letting her imagination run away with her.

She focused her attention on the yard where forklifts scurried to and fro, mechanical ants carrying stacks of lumber in their strong mandibles. On the far side of the bustling compound, a yellow Caterpillar with a long arm and a grappling hook loaded logs onto the bed of a truck. Another Cat moved logs onto a conveyor. A man wearing a hard hat and an air of authority stood in the midst of this activity discussing something with a burly woman in coveralls. The woman saw them. She stared at the Maserati a moment and jerked her head in their direction. The man turned. He gave Sassy and Taryn a hard look and started toward them.

Sassy got out of the convertible and checked the backseat. The Dalmatian was gone. Probably off running the woods. She smoothed the seat belt creases in her dress. This was it, her first face-to-face with a mill employee. She would not throw up on her new shoes. She would not throw up on the man's shoes.

She would not throw up. Period.

Taryn exited from the passenger side and leaned one slim hip against the sports car. Arms crossed, the huntress watched the fellow in the hard hat approach, an elegant predator in form-fitting jeans and sparkalicious boots. The man didn't know it, but he was a gazelle and Taryn was a lioness.

Sassy guessed the man was somewhere in his forties. He had thick shoulders and a slight paunch, and was dressed in a pinstriped cotton shirt, jeans, and steel-toed work boots. He walked elbows out with one shoulder in the lead, John Wayne style. This was a man accustomed to being in charge.

“I'm Leroy Houston.” The man removed his hard hat and wiped his dark brow. His tightly curled hair was cut close to his head. The horseshoe mustache around his mouth was immaculate. “You ladies lost?”

“No.” Taryn moved not a muscle. “Are you?”

Houston's mouth thinned. “I'm the plant manager. What do you want?”

Sassy smiled and stepped into the breach. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Houston.” She held out her hand. “I'm Sassy Peterson and this is Taryn . . . er . . . Kirvahni. We've come to tour the mill.”

Houston's gaze flicked to Sassy's outstretched hand. He didn't take it.

His shoulders hunched in aggression. “This your buyer?”

“What?” Sassy was taken by surprise. “No. I'm not—”

“Don't blow smoke up my ass, Miss Got Rocks,” Houston said. “Word's out. You're selling the mill. Some outsider's going to new-fangle everything. Damn computers.” He spat into the dirt. “Put a lot of decent, hardworking folks out of jobs.”

He swung around to leave, but Taryn's cool voice stopped him.

“You have the wrong of it, sir,” she said. “Sassy has done nothing to earn your rancor. To the contrary, she—”

“I'm not selling the mill, Mr. Houston.” Shooting Taryn a repressive glance, Sassy forced her charm to the surface, though her head pounded and there was a sour taste in her mouth. “I'm staying in Hannah to run things myself.”

Houston's jaw sagged. If Sassy had suddenly sprouted nine heads like a hydra, the man couldn't have looked more shocked.

“What the—But you don't—”

“Know anything about running a timber mill?” Sassy opened her charm valve and dimpled at him. “That's why I need your help. I can tell you know
everything
about the business.”

Houston was a tough sell, and it took a moment for Sassy's allure to take effect. But at last his scowl faded. Sassy sent a prayer of thanks heavenward. For a moment, she'd feared her winsome widget was malfunctioning.

“I reckon I oughta,” Houston said. “Been at it since I was a tadpole. But I don't need no woman underfoot.”

“What about her?” Taryn indicated the husky woman in the coveralls. “Is she not a female?”

Houston snorted. “That's Tommie Lou Johnston. She don't count. She's a log scaler and a damn good one. Tommie Lou ain't got a prissy bone in her body.”

“You mean like me,” Sassy said. “Don't judge a book by its cover, Mr. Houston.”

“Your cover's the problem.” Houston shoved his hard hat back. “You can't traipse around a mill in a hanky and high heels. It ain't safe and it'll distract my men. Somebody'll lose a finger.”

Sassy tapped her foot. “My dress is not a hanky, Mr. Houston. It's perfectly respectable. Conservative, even.”

“You look like a Barbie doll.”

“Well, then, I guess you'll have to find this Barbie doll something else to wear, because I
am
going to tour this mill today, Mr. Houston. With or without you.”

Houston growled in frustration. Rounding on his heel, he disappeared into the brick building.

Sassy and Taryn hurried after him. They entered the office and closed the door behind them, muffling the din from the yard. Away from the noise, Sassy's headache eased and her stomach stopped roiling. Houston was down the hall talking to someone in an office. Probably on a quest to find her millish clothes, Sassy decided, or complaining about the la-di-da rich girl who was the new boss.

Maybe both.

She looked around with interest. This was it, the business heart of the place where the Peterson family fortune had started. The lobby was paneled and floored in heart pine the color of butterscotch. A deer head looked down at them from a wall with accusatory eyes.

Old black-and-white photos were grouped over a large leather couch in the waiting area. Sassy strolled over to examine the pictures. A small brass plate mounted on the largest photo identified it as the old Peterson Mill, a ramshackle wood and metal shed marooned in a sea of cut logs and mud. The faded photo to the left was of a mule-drawn wagon loaded with heavy logs.

Poor mules, Sassy thought.

In the photo on the other side of the center frame, two men stood in front of a half-hewn tree. A long, two-handed saw rested against the thick trunk. The gaping wound in the once mighty oak was obscene and disturbing.

With a shudder, Sassy moved on to the last frame, a recent photograph of Trey and her grandfather taken in the mill yard. Her brother was as she remembered him. Tall, handsome, and athletic. He stood slightly apart from their grandfather, unease in his stance and wary tension. Sassy studied Blake. Like Trey, he was handsome and exuded physical vitality, but there was something cold and reptilian about him. Uncle Gaudy, with his bayou wisdom, would say there was no soul behind those alligator eyes.

What had Mama been thinking, to leave Trey with such a man? A trickle of unease slid down Sassy's spine. So verboten was their family divide that Sassy had never questioned Mama closely on the subject.

For shame. Sassy chided herself for being disloyal. Trey had kicked up a dust to stay with their grandparents. Mama had not, could not have known what Blake was. Her world was too small and insulated, her elegantly shod feet too firmly planted in norm reality for her to conceive of things like fairies and demons, and demonoids.

Norm reality. A window opened in Sassy's mind and the truth she'd been avoiding flooded in. Her legs gave out and she sank onto the couch. For twenty-five years, she'd known—or thought she'd known with absolute certainty—her world and her place in it.

She'd lived a lie. She didn't belong in Mama's world any more than Blake Peterson. She'd never belonged. She was an orphan. No matter what happened with the mill, she could not go back to the life she had lived before.

The realization was like stepping into nothingness and falling, falling.

A woman's voice yanked her out of her tailspin.

“Miss Peterson?”

An older woman swished down the hall in a broomstick skirt and a lightweight knit sweater. Houston clomped behind her.

“I'm Lucy Barnett.”

“Trey's secretary—yes. We've spoken on the phone.” Sassy rose and shook the woman's hand. “Thank you for staying after Trey's death. I hope you will continue to work here. I've got a lot to learn.”

The worry lines around Lucy Barnett's eyes eased. “Thank you. I'd like to stay. The men will be relieved to hear you aren't selling. Rumors are flying. They've been worried.”

“Ms. Barnett—”

“Call me Lucy, please.”

“Lucy,” Sassy amended. “I'd like you to meet my friend, Taryn.”

Lucy saw the huntress and jumped. “Goodness me, I didn't see you standing there. How do you do?”

“How do I do what?” Taryn raised her brows.

“Foreigners. Pay her no mind, Lucy. She ain't from around here.” Houston stomped to the door. “Lucy's found you something to wear. I'll be back in ten minutes. See that you're ready. I got work to do.”

He slammed the door behind him as he left.

Lucy motioned toward the hall. “My office is this way, Miss Peterson, if you'll follow me.”

“Please, call me Sassy. My mother calls me Sarah Elizabeth when I'm in trouble.”

Lucy's eyes twinkled. “Sassy, then.” She looked at Sassy's high heels. “Goodness, you'll ruin your beautiful shoes. I found a pair of boots in a closet the other day. I think they may fit.”

The secretary turned to Taryn with a smile. “I see you're already wearing boots, and such pretty ones, too. My youngest granddaughter would love those.”

“A granddaughter? How lovely,” Sassy said. “How old is she?”

“Thirteen.”

Taryn muttered something under her breath.

Ten minutes later, Sassy and Taryn were outfitted in twill coveralls with front and back pockets and concealed snaps at the waist. The garments were stiff and musty from disuse. Taryn's was olive green. The coverall was a trifle large on her. It didn't matter. With her fiery coloring and leggy beauty, the huntress was a model on a catwalk, especially in the sparkly boots.

Sassy's garment was a yucky safety orange, and the boots were ready for the garbage can, not the runway. They were cracked and stiff with age. She turned them upside down and shook them. Bits of dried insole, dirt, and leaves hit the floor. A spider was knocked loose and scurried away.

“Where did you say you found these boots?” Sassy asked.

“In the store room under some boxes,” Lucy said. “I think they may have belonged to your brother when he was a kid.”

Sending up a prayer that she would be spared some deadly, pernicious form of foot funk, Sassy shoved her feet into the boots. She rolled up the sleeves and pants legs of the coverall. It was miles too big, a hopeless bag. Her fashion sense shrieked at such an affront, but what could she do?

A bouquet of fresh wildflowers on Lucy's desk caught her eye.

“Lucy, may I have one of your flowers?” Sassy asked.

“Help yourself.”

Sassy plucked a daisy from the vase and stuck the flower through the buttonhole of her front pocket. There. That was better. Spirits lifted, she thumped into the lobby with Taryn gliding along beside her. Leroy Houston was waiting for them . . . and so was the Dalmatian. Trey was curled up on a sofa cushion like he owned the joint. Which, Sassy supposed, he did, in a manner of speaking. The dog lifted his head when they entered the room.

Sassy waited for Houston's reaction to the animal on the couch, but the manager didn't seem to notice the dog.