We had been laboring under that assumption, given our past work on rogue cases, but it sucked to hear it confirmed that incidents were on the rise.
“That means the Amhersts have embraced the dark arts,” Asa pointed out. “That doesn’t look good for their parents.”
By far and away the most popular method for a white witch child to cement their black witch status was to kill their witch parent or parents and eat their hearts. The most brutal of dark offerings, it was almost a rite of passage. The Amhersts had, almost certainly, claimed their first victims before they dug up the Boo Brothers’ remains. With their parents MIA, I expected to locate those bodies before the case ended.
“We need to find the bosses’ bones.” I checked with Asa. “Can the daemon help with that?”
He had the best sense of smell but buried remains might prove tricky. Even for him. We weren’t talking flesh, which helped us out by rotting and making a stink, we were talking bones. Old bones. Most of their scent would have faded during their time underground.
A buzz from Asa’s phone gave me permission to cop a feel as I pulled it out of his pocket.
“Get Colby off the line.” I gave Clay a moment to comply then answered. “Hollis.”
“Agent Montenegro is with you,” Parish rasped, “I presume?”
“His hands are full.” I gave Asa a cheeky grin. “I’ll put you on speaker.”
“We have another case,” Parish informed us. “Old Man Fang was spotted in Tupelo.”
“No way,” Clay breathed. “Old Man Fang?”
Parish hadn’t given us permission to leave Clay behind in Raymond, not that we had asked, but if Parish heard Clay and thought he was here, I wasn’t going to disabuse him of the notion.
“I know this one.” I shocked everyone into silence. “Old Man Fang was a warg who—”
“The team in Natchez will remain in place under Fergal’s command.” Parish wasn’t interested in my summation. “You’re expected in Tupelo.”
“All right.” I couldn’t shake a budding sense of unease. “We’ll pack up and head out.”
After the call ended, I returned the phone to Asa. “What do you bet Ms. March is standing in the hall?”
“Trying to listen in?” He put away his current project. “Hoping for another free show?”
“Is it wrong to feel murder-y when I think about her hearing how you sound when you come?”
A bloodcurdling scream filled the room, and I almost fell off my side of the bed.
“Clay?” Pulse thumping, I groped for my phone, for the source. “Clay, are you okay?”
“I can’t hear you,” he sang. “I can’t hear you. I can’t hear you.”
“Clayton Kerr, are you all right?” I waited a beat. “Answer me. Right now. Or else.”
“Can’t hear. Nope. I can’t. Not gonna listen. Ever again.”
“He’s fine.” Asa mashed the button to end the shrill singsong. “Just traumatized.”
“He’s such a baby.” I threw my phone. “Though I do slightly regret him hearing me say that.”
Dirty talk wasn’t a strength of mine. I couldn’t make words sexy the way Asa could, and even he didn’t do it on purpose. That might have been the most direct line I had ever spoken to a man, and it figured Clay would overhear it.
“You’re jealous.” Asa let his supplies hit the floor. “You don’t want to share me with Murder Granny.”
As he climbed over me, I slid lower onto the mattress, allowing him to straddle me more comfortably.
“I don’t want to share any part of you with anyone,” I confessed. “I would stuff you in this pendant if I could.” I slapped his shoulder when he laughed. “I don’t want to hear it. You’d do the same to me in a heartbeat.” I craned my neck to kiss him. “You’re special. You know that, right?”
“To you.” He pressed the words against my lips, a brand. “Only ever to you.”