Eighth Grave After Dark
“—T-SHIRT Garrett, Osh, and I sat around the reassembled kitchen table and gazed down at little Miss Beep. She was trying to decide if she wanted to fuss or catch some Z’s. It was a hard decision for most of us. She made baby sounds. Nothing on earth made sounds like that. They were a ruse. A ploy. A way to get adults to fall in love.
They worked really well.
But the reason our little moppet was lying on the table—on a blanket, of course—was so that we could see the birthmark. Or, more accurately, so that I could show them the birthmark. Barely visible, she had the lines, the map to the gates of hell, marked on her body just like her father.
“How?” I asked no one in particular. “I mean, those were put on Reyes when he was forged in hell. How did they transfer to Beep?”
Nobody answered. It was a fairly rhetorical question anyway.
And Reyes wasn’t there to give his opinion. He’d been pacing outside, but I lost sight of him a while earlier. He was probably off dragging hellhounds around.
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