Eternal (8 page)

Burnett's eyes increased in brightness. But Della could tell he held himself back. No doubt, he was prepared to verbally spar to avoid a physical confrontation. “I'm not here to do anything unethical.”

The were's brows creased in disbelief. “But that would depend on who you ask. It's obvious you're here to exhume a body for some form of evidence. Probably to try to pin a murder on a were, being that you're vampire.”

Della couldn't stop herself from speaking up. “And you make the mistake of assuming. No one is fairer than that man standing in front of you.”

The were shot Della a quick look, then refocused on Burnett as if she didn't merit his attention. But damn, hadn't Girl Toy already proven herself? She let go of a warning growl. The desire to move in, demand respect, bit hard.

Burnett's gaze shifted to her ever so slightly. In that brief scrutiny, she could almost read his mind.
Back down.

The pack leader adjusted his posture a little more defensively. “Do you know how much trouble this could bring down on my employer? Humans find desecration of the dead a big deal. It could cause a scandal.”

Burnett stood, feet slightly apart, arms resting at ease at his sides, and took the man's verbal jabs without appearing insulted. He almost looked too confident—like a poker player who knew he held the ace.

“True,” Burnett said. “However, that would cause less of a scandal than, say, a graveyard accepting payoffs from a funeral home to entomb empty caskets. The whole mystery of where the bodies have gone would not only make local news, but could go national. I can almost read the headlines:
Families of the deceased desperate to find the remains of their dearly departed
.” He let his gaze shift around the graveyard. “How many empty caskets have you accepted from Craig Anthony and his stepfather?”

The were's posture lost some confidence, as did the were standing at his side. Burnett obviously had the upper hand.

Though, the lead were didn't want to admit it right off. “Seeing you're vampire, you should know this practice is overlooked by FRU regulations.”

Burnett crossed his arms over his wide chest. “Not when the fresh turns were being turned into slaves.”

“We were not aware of that man's actions. Our contract was with his stepfather.”

“Let's hope that's the way this shakes out once our investigation is complete. Yet, this brings me back to the reason I'm here,” Burnett said, relaxing his posture, as if letting the were know compromise wasn't off the table. “I have the body of someone for whom you have the empty casket. I simply want to put the deceased to rest in his proper grave.”

The were must not have been big on compromising. “That's not protocol. If we start that, we'll be burying and exhuming graves constantly. Besides, if the fresh turn died, his family will never know. They already think he's in the box. What they don't know can't hurt them. They're just humans.”

Just humans!
“I will know,” Della said, her tone one shade lighter than black, and her eyes two shades brighter.

The were actually took a step back. “Fine. Dig up whoever you want. I'll even supply you with a backhoe. If the boss wants to murder someone over this, I'll tell him to go to the FRU.”

*   *   *

Thirty minutes later, the grave dug, Della sat on green winter grass, running her hands over the manicured blades and watching the backhoe pull Chan's casket from the ground. Before the two security guards left, the other agents had shown up. The zipped tarp they brought with them now waited to the right of the gravestone carrying Chan's full name.

She knew Chan's body lay inside that plastic. Closing her eyes, she tried to decide if she wanted to see him. Should she hold on to the last memory she had of his face? The last time she'd seen him was when she was being Reborn and had fallen into the coma. They'd been in the clouds and he'd been happy, smiling his silly grin and teasing her about something. But about what?

She searched her mind, and the memory that had seemed so far away filled her head.

He'd been teasing her about her inability to bowl and one particularly memorable accident. She'd shifted her hand back to throw the ball, and it flew off her fingers, flying behind her in the opposite direction of the bowling lane. All five people waiting their turn had gone down trying to avoid being hit. Chan had insisted they count it as a strike because no one had been left standing.

A tear slipped out of her closed lids, remembering that moment in the clouds and how his smile had seemed so much like the old Chan. She wiped a few wayward tears away. Yup, that was how she wanted to remember him—not dead in a tarp.

She heard someone say something in a low voice, as if to purposely keep it from her. She opened her eyes. The agents, Burnett included, stood at the side of the grave, looking down at the opened casket as if something was inside.

Della's breath caught. Had someone taken up residence in Chan's casket?

“What is it?” She shot up. If it was a corpse, they'd better crawl their dead ass out of there, because they were about to get evicted. That was Chan's casket, and by God, he was going to be laid to rest there.

 

Chapter Nine

Della's heart did a double tumble before fixing her eyes on the open casket and possibly a decomposed body that she might have to remove.

Air, sounding a lot like relief, escaped her lungs and lips. Not a body. Just a box. A large shoe box.

She could admit it was strange, but the look of befuddlement on the faces of the three agents and Burnett seemed like overkill.

Then she saw it. The box vibrated. Like it held a heart.

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Right then, the moon's silver cast of light was blocked out by a large gray cloud slithering across the sky. The air she'd released in relief reversed and filled her lungs.

Just a rat, she told herself. But then, the oh-so-familiar sound of a heartbeat spilled out of the box.

“Someone needs to see what's in it,” said the youngest agent, a warlock, but from his tone it was clear he wasn't volunteering.

“Who says we have to open it?” said another of the agents, a vampire.

As if the dang box heard him, it started moving faster, and then the top flew off. Della wanted to tell herself it was the wind, but the night air stood so still that even the leaves didn't stir.

With the moon's desertion, the contents of the box were unidentifiable. Della leaned down. Something metal lay on top, but she couldn't identify it. Then she spotted what looked like photographs.

Were these Chan's things? Della's heart yanked again. Was his ghost making the box tremble? Did he want her to look inside? Della looked over at the tarp where Chan's body lay extra cold. Extra dead. Right then, a coldness overtook her.

Is it you, Chan?

Giving in, she exhaled the stale air held in her lungs. “Raise the casket a little higher and I'll get it,” Della finally said.

“No, I'll do it.” Burnett sounded embarrassed she'd volunteered before him. He glanced over at the fae agent who'd been driving the backhoe and now stood with them. “Go pull it up higher.”

The agent went back to the backhoe, almost eager to get away. Della watched and listened as the chains pulled the mud-caked open casket up another foot.

When Burnett started to reach in, Della stopped him. “It was Chan's. I think I should do it.”

He nodded. She picked up the box and saw the wide-eyed stares from all the agents, as if fearing the thing would bite her.

It didn't. At least not physically. Emotionally, she was bitten as soon as she glanced down and identified the metal object on top. One of Chan's many bowling trophies. He'd told her once that he didn't care that being a bowling champion made him look like a dork. It was the only sport he was good at. Yet, he'd never really been a dork, just a skinny Asian kid, a bit of a nonconformist, but with a good heart.

Feeling her eyes sting, she walked away to a private spot. The cloud moved away from the moon, and silver light whispered down on her. As crazy as it sounded, the moon's glow almost warmed her skin like the sun.

She sat down between the rows of tombstones and put the open box and its lid in front of her. After seeing the box pulsate, fear should have been present, but oddly she didn't feel it. This was about Chan. And Chan would never hurt her.

In a matter of seconds—noting only the items on the top—she understood the meaning of the box. Chan had been burying his old life. All the boxed items stood for things that had meant something to him. All the things he'd lost the day he'd been turned. And damn it, she knew how that felt.

No, she hadn't faked her death, but she'd still lost so much.

She ran her finger over the bowling trophy sporting Chan's name. She spotted the pictures of his family and friends, and a letter from his one and only girlfriend. Sensing it might be personal, she didn't read it.

Instead, she picked up and studied a few of the photos: Chan with his little sister on their bikes; a family portrait of his mom, dad, and sister all together on a picnic blanket. Pictures of him at his eleventh-grade prom—his skinny frame decked out in a tux and his girlfriend, a slightly chubby Asian girl, dressed in a poufy pink dress. An unexpected smile pulled at Della's lips seeing her lanky cousin wearing a bow tie.

When she put the pictures back in the box, Della spotted the necklace. Her breath hitched. She'd given it to him on his last birthday—at the bowling party. It was a peace sign, and when she'd seen it shopping the week before his birthday, she'd thought of Chan, who had always been a bit of a hippie.

She grasped the necklace in her palm, half debating keeping it, but then she realized it didn't belong to her. It belonged to Chan. And now he'd be buried with all the things that had mattered to him. That felt right.

Della looked up and saw the agents had placed Chan's body in the casket and were waiting on her to make a decision to view him or not. Instantly, she knew the vision in the clouds was the memory she wanted to keep. She glanced at Burnett and shook her head. He started over.

“Do you want to keep the box?” he asked, obviously understanding that she'd decided not to look at Chan.

“No,” Della said, and the one word sounded so heavy, like the weight in her heart. “It belongs with Chan.” She reached for the lid and placed it on top. When she stood to pass it to him, the lid flew off.

Burnett and Della both let out a surprised gasp. “Just the wind,” Della said, even when she didn't believe it.

“I wish.” Burnett glanced around.

“Is he here?” Della asked, feeling the cold, but not sure if it was Chan.

“Someone is,” Burnett said. “Do you think maybe he wants you to keep the box?”

She internalized the question, and found the answer quickly. “No, they're
his
things.” She handed Burnett the box. Then realizing the agents waited on her, she reached down for the lid. Before she could fit the lid on top, a photo fluttered out, spiraled in the air for a second, and then landed on her shoe.

She picked it up and glanced at the photo. It was Chan, his mom, and … and another girl. She looked older than Chan by a year or so. Della looked closer at the image. The girl kind of looked like Della and her sister. A mix of Asian and American.

Again telling herself it was just the wind, she set the photo on top. But it flew out to land at her feet again.

Burnett's eyes rounded. “I think someone wants you to keep that.”

Della nodded, swallowing a tickle of unease down her throat. She picked up the photo and slowly put the lid on the box. Both she and Burnett stood there under the silver moonlight waiting to see if the lid popped off. It didn't.

Burnett's gaze, filled with empathy, met hers and then he turned and walked back to the gravesite. With the picture in her hand, she watched him kneel down and put the box in the casket. Then he stood up and closed the lid.

The sound of the heavy top closing echoed in the night. Part of her wanted to scream for them to stop. Should she have forced herself to look at him, to say good-bye to his face?

But if she saw him, she'd have wanted to touch him, and she didn't want to feel him dead.

Holding back her tears, she watched as they lowered the casket. The motor of the backhoe and squeak of the chains sounded loud and sad.

She knew Chan wasn't really in that box. His spirit was in the clouds, in the happy place.

But it was still wrong. He should have lived.

A cold chill came again. Maybe Chan wasn't in the clouds; was he back here? Had he been the one who wanted her to keep the picture?

She looked at it again, but through her watery vision, all she could see was Chan. “I'm gonna miss you,” Della whispered and dropped back to the ground, fighting the need to sob. As she watched the heavy piece of machinery shovel dirt over Chan's casket, she hugged her knees and swallowed back the tears.

Her chest felt hollow, yet heavy at the same time. The agents and Burnett stood only fifty feet away, yet loneliness crept in. Then the chill surrounded her like an invisible cloud, and she knew she wasn't alone. Someone was here with her. But who?

“Chan?” Della whispered, shifting her gaze left and then right. She saw nothing, but felt plenty.

But it didn't feel like Chan. She recalled Holiday saying there was probably a connection between her and the ghost who wanted her to find Natasha.

“Who are you?” she whispered.

Then the realization hit. She was in a freaking graveyard. She looked out at the hundreds of tombstones. If she really could feel ghosts as Holiday suspected, this cold could be anybody, or a bunch of somebodies.

There could be hundreds of souls standing beside her. The thought made even her bones shiver. If she didn't owe this to Chan, she'd be hightailing it out of here so fast, even the wind would be envious.