Demon Hunting with a Dixie Deb (4 page)

The lights were gone.

A breeze moaned through the trees, cooling her heated face and body. Her euphoria faded, and some of the fog lifted from her brain. There was something she was supposed to remember . . . something important.

Her stupor eased. The trail—she wasn't supposed to leave the trail. Stick to the path and she'd come to a house. That's what Junior had said.

Instead, she'd crashed headlong through the woods like a lunatic. It was a miracle she hadn't broken something or stepped on a snake.

She sat on the ground a long time, thinking, registering her various aches and pains. At last, she reached a difficult, uncomfortable conclusion. This was not a dream, bad or otherwise, crazy as it seemed.

This was real.

The weirdness—enough to fill the ballroom at the Grand Hotel—she'd sort out later. Right now, she had a bigger problem. She was lost.

A slow and righteous anger kindled within her. Sassy had been irritated plenty of times. Being an upbeat person didn't make you a pushover. Why, she'd even been miffed once or twice, usually at something Brandi Chambliss had said or done. But she'd never been truly angry. It took her a moment to recognize the emotion.

This was
his
fault. He'd left her. None of this would have happened if he hadn't left her on the bridge. Boy, if she ever saw that no-name hunk again, she'd give him what for.

If
she ever saw him again? Oh, no,
when
she saw him again. She'd find him. You could bet on it. She was strong. She was invincible. She was a Sassy Survivor.

Nobody left Sassy Peterson in the woods for the possums to eat.

Nobody.

S
assy got to her feet and adjusted her bunched underwear, glancing around to make sure no one had seen her do such an unladylike thing.

As if. It was pitch dark. There wasn't another soul on two legs anywhere around.

Where was she, anyway? Her stag-happy dash through the woods had left her disoriented. She was still trying to decide which way to go when an animal shot out of the bushes and ran across her feet. Sassy shrieked and took a flying leap, landing, wild-eyed, in a crouch more than twenty feet away, a move that would have done an Olympic jumper proud.

Sassy was a firm believer that a positive attitude was empowering, but what was up with that?

A white tail disappeared into the shrubbery ahead. A rabbit; it was a rabbit.

Confused and feeling foolish, Sassy rose. A flickering light caught her eye. The bright, pulsing radiance flared pink, then purple, then yellow and blue. Marshmallows, that precious little bunny had shown her the light.

Spirits lifted, she set off, heading for the glow. She walked a long time. How long—thirty minutes, an hour?—she could not say. Time seemed to stand still in the forest.

She smelled the river before she saw it, the musky perfume of earth and water mingled, and walked faster. Junior had mentioned a house on the river. She'd call a taxi and check into the hotel. How bad could it be? A hotel was a hotel. She'd take a nice long soak in the tub and order a chicken salad plate from room service. Then she'd climb into bed and watch a sappy movie on television, something light and frothy with a happy ending. No scary movies. No Syfy Channel. She'd had enough freaky to last her a lifetime.

Scratch the chicken salad plate. She wanted doughnuts, a dozen chocolate glazed with sprinkles. Her mouth watered at the thought.

She
never
ate doughnuts.
A slip of the lips, forever on the hips
, Mama said.

Mama ate like a bird to maintain her slender figure, but Mama had never been lost in the woods with a cast of characters out of a Stephen King novel. As far as Sassy was concerned, this was a carbohydrate emergency. She wanted sugar, fried sugar, and lots of it.

She wanted to find that dirty shoe snatcher and kick him right in his world-class tuchus.

She kept walking and followed her nose, the mushy ground squelching beneath her boots. She climbed down a slope, pushed through a stand of bamboo, and came out on a high bluff that overlooked the river. Moonlight glinted on the rolling water. On the opposite bank, trees crowded close to the shore, a dark line of hunched sentinels. The Devil River this body of water was called, named by locals for its unexpected twists and turns, treacherous rocks, and fierce rapids. Sassy had read about it in
Ghosts of Behr County
, a slim volume of scary yarns she'd found on a library shelf in the fifth grade. She'd checked the book out and sneaked it into her house, careful not to let Mama see it. Anything that smacked of Behr County made Mama sad.

The worn hardback contained a variety of spooky tales, including the story of Lorraine, the grieving widow of a steamboat captain who kept a ghostly vigil for her dead husband on the aging balcony of their river home. It was sad and romantic, but Sassy's favorite was the one about Hazel, the ghost of Sardine Bridge. Park on the bridge at midnight, or so the legend went, and call Hazel's name three times to summon her.

But don't cuss
, the author sternly warned. Hazel ectoplasmed anyone who cussed on her bridge, especially potty-mouthed teenagers.

Curled up in the window seat overlooking her mother's prized rose garden, Sassy had pored over
Ghosts of Behr County
for hours, imagining her big brother confronting the straitlaced shade. Would Trey summon Hazel according to the rules or risk her icy wrath with a stream of profanity? Reading about Hannah and Behr County had made Sassy feel connected to Trey in some small way. Sassy had checked out the book so many times the librarian had given it to her when she graduated from middle school.

The book was one of her most cherished possessions; she hid it on her bedroom bookshelf so Mama wouldn't find it, safely tucked behind her copy of
Beauty and the Beast
, the 1963 edition illustrated by Hilary Knight, a Christmas gift from Daddy Joel.

Sassy looked upriver and down. No light. Panic skittered through her. She'd lost sight of the light when she'd waded into the fronds of bamboo. What if she couldn't find it again?

Couldn't? Negativity was
so
unbecoming. She'd find the light. The same instinct that led her unerringly to the newest and hottest designer items in her favorite shops would guide her to the house with a phone.

She struck out downstream. Picked her way along the rutted embankment. Scrambled over rocks and tree roots, around saplings, and through undergrowth. The ground gradually sloped downward, ending in a small clearing at the water's edge. She was contemplating whether to backtrack when she spied a set of steps cut in the side of the mossy bank. At the foot of the stone steps was a wooden dock. Tied off to a post, a small boat rocked in the current. A light on a pole near the water struggled feebly against the thick darkness. This couldn't be the luminous glimmer Sassy had seen from the woods. The light was too low in elevation and too dull.

She looked around, taking in the neat, well-maintained landing and surrounding grounds. Someone lived here, someone who took good care of the place. Sassy felt a thrill of elation. She'd made it. She was out of the woods.

A worn path ran from the riverbank up a steep, grassy hill. Sassy trudged up the slope, her leg muscles trembling from the long hike. At the top, she found a high, thorny hedge. The impenetrable bramble wall disappeared into the darkness.

A prickle of unease slithered down her spine. What was the purpose of that barbed barrier? Was the owner trying to keep someone in . . . or out?

For heaven's sake, it was a
hedge
. The Randolphs lived next door to Mama and Daddy Joel. They had some perfectly
huge
leylandii bushes bordering their estate, and she'd never given them a second thought. It was about privacy and nothing more.

She hurried down the narrow lane that ran beside the spiny enclosure and came to a greenery arch. A twig gate artfully fashioned in the shape of a spider's web provided entry to the property. The wrought-iron lamppost beside the gate was unlit. Sassy peered through the opening and saw a lush flower garden. Someone had a green thumb and a passion for growing things. Roses, wisteria, and honeysuckle scented the air. A white gravel walkway wound between blooming shrubs to the cottage beyond, a fairy-tale structure with ivy shrouded walls, deep-set windows, and a roof like a fallen cake.

The windows of the cottage were dark. No one was home. Disappointing, but she'd made it this far on her own. With any luck, the house would be unlocked. She would wait inside. The owner wouldn't mind. Anyone who lived in such a darling little house had to be a sweetie pie.

Sassy unlatched the gate and slipped into the garden. Bushes lined the footpath, cleverly pruned to resemble animals. Here a sleek hound posed, legs outstretched, in pursuit of a startled hare. There a turtle swam through an airy sea. On the other side of the placid reptile, a large tabby lifted a greenery paw to wash its smiling face. Beyond the cat, a dragon spread an enormous pair of leafy wings. The effect was charming and altogether whimsical.

Or it might have been in the daylight. At night, the topiary animals appeared sinister and watchful. Sassy eyed the dwelling with misgiving, her disquiet returning. Up close, the gingerbread house didn't seem quite as delightful. The empty windows stared at her like lidless eyes.

A metallic ping startled her, the sound loud in the hushed garden.

“It's a wind chime, silly,” Sassy muttered. “You're letting your imagination run away with you.”

She shook off her apprehension, marched past the frozen animal tableau and up to the front door.

She lifted the brass knocker and banged it against the painted wood. The sound echoed in the darkness.

“Hello? Is anyone home?” Sassy turned the handle and pushed. The door was locked. “Hello?”

She held her breath, listening, and thought she heard something.

“Hal-loo?”

She climbed down from the stoop and repeated her hello. A faint response came from somewhere in the back. Sassy grew alarmed. What if an elderly person lived here? Sassy volunteered twice a week at the senior rehab center in Fairhope, and she knew from experience how fragile old bones could be. One of her favorite patients, Miss Tessie Lou Hilton, had broken her foot stepping off a curb.

What if the owner of the little house had ventured out to feed the cat or water the flowers and turned an ankle? He or she could have been lying back there, helpless and in pain, for hours or days
.

Sassy hurried to the back of the house and found a cobblestone patio partially shaded by dogwood trees and redbuds, but no sign of the owner. Drifts of lantana nestled against the foundation. Flower boxes hung from window sills, blooms leeched of color in the moonlight. At the back door, a copper turret provided shelter from wind and rain. Bird feeders hung from tree branches. The wind chime that had startled her moments before jangled in the slight breeze. She inhaled the light scent of Confederate jasmine and located the source, a mass of white blossoms tumbling over a low, broken stone wall. On the other side of the rock fence was a single towering tree with pale bark. An elaborately carved staircase with a vine railing wound around the massive trunk and disappeared into the high, spreading branches.

Sassy half expected a troop of elves to plop out of the tree like overripe apples, singing
tra-la-la-lolly.

The back lot was large, several acres surrounded by the bristling hedge. Industrial lights, one in each corner and another in the middle, cast a milky glow over the property. Two commercial-grade greenhouses made of galvanized steel and glass sat beside a large vegetable garden. Sassy readjusted her earlier opinion of the owner. Not a casual gardener and, more than likely,
not
a senior citizen. Gardening was more than a passion for whoever lived here. It was a business, a flourishing business, judging from the size and quality of the garden centers.

A slight sound drew her attention to a large storage building underneath the tree. The windowless hut was quaint, fashioned in the same style as the house, and equipped with a sturdy door and crowned by a thatched roof. The wooden bar on the door was latched. Could the owner have accidentally gotten locked in the shed?

Sassy scurried across the damp lawn. “Hello? Is someone in there? Hello?”

The breeze shifted and she caught the sickly odor of decay. “Pee-yew, what is that
smell
?”

She neared the hut and recoiled. Someone had piled a rotting heap of animal carcasses around the perimeter of the outbuilding. At her feet, a dead raccoon grinned up at her from the jumble of bones, hollow eyes unseeing. The bodies were stacked on top of one another in a moldering ring, as though pushing against some unseen boundary. Ugh.

Holding her breath, Sassy tried to step over the grisly barricade and slammed, nose first, into an invisible barrier. Sparks shot up with a loud, crackling sound, and Sassy flew through the air. She landed on her back. Stunned, she blinked up at the starry sky. She must have walked into a hidden power line. It was a miracle she hadn't been killed. Righteous indignation surged through her. Those poor little animals hadn't been so lucky. They'd wandered into the same trap and been electrocuted. She'd report this to Alabama Power. It was her civic duty.

High up in the tree, a Chinese lantern swayed in the breeze, glowing with a soft, misty light. The lantern flared pink and faded again.

Sassy sat up, her shocked gaze on the flickering lamp. Not a lantern; a metal cage. Beneath the hutch, a length of coiled copper pipe emptied into a curved glass container. Inside the pen, a dozen shining moths fluttered in alarm.

Sassy's brain processed what it was seeing, and rebelled. Moths didn't glow and sparkle like they'd been dipped in diamond dust and moonlight. Why, from a distance, they almost looked like . . .

Her heart thudded unevenly. No.

No. Way.

Inside the cage, a tiny winged creature wilted with a sharp trill and dropped to the floor. With a metallic grinding of gears, the metal container sprang to life. The copper piping shook, and a blob of colored liquid dropped from the tip of the tubing into the waiting receptacle with a musical
ching
.

The glass jar beneath the cage blazed blue and went dark. It was a trap, like the invisible fence. Someone, someone sick and twisted, was distilling—

The mechanism jerked to life again, and the prisoners wailed in despair. Exhaustion forgotten, Sassy jumped to her feet and pounded up the narrow, winding staircase that circled the tree. At the top of the steps was a small wooden platform.

The birdcage hanging from the tree limb was wrought iron, the kind available from any home or craft store. A hole had been cut in the top of the cage and covered with delicate wire mesh that had been sliced down the middle. Directly above the opening was a saucer that contained some kind of a syrupy liquid. Something tempting to fairies, Sassy suspected in growing outrage and horror. Bluebell nectar, honey cakes, or wine; the perfect offering to attract the tiny creatures. Lured by the promise of the sugary treat, they'd flutter up to the device to take a sip, like hummingbirds at a feeder, never suspecting the fluid was laced with something wicked. Drugged and lethargic, the fairies would tumble through the wire slit into the cage below.