Page 10 of Graveyards & Greed

I wanted to kill Drakos Creed. Silently fuming, I splinted the severed arm back to the corpse lying on the gurney in front of me. That assholeknewI wouldn’t want Luna anywhere near his businesses or his law firm, but I couldn’t exactly tell Luna that I’d met Drakos at Titties one night, or that we’d then killed and buried two MC gang members together.

Luna recently found out that her legal internship had been switched at the last minute to Drakos’s law partner, Roman Fowler. And Roman, being the arrogant asshole he was, wouldn’t release her. Luna was angry and annoyed, but the whole situation worried me. Men like Drakos and Roman didn’t act without a motive, and I couldn’t figure out what Roman Fowler’s agenda was, which left me anxious and unsettled.

The corpse I worked on was a middle-aged man who’d died in a single-vehicle, drunk-driving accident. The coroner mentioned his alcohol level had been well over twice the legal limit, but at least he hadn’t killed anyone else. Unfortunately, his wife insisted on having a viewing.

Why these people thought I was some magician or miracle worker who could piece these bodies back together like a damn jigsaw puzzle was beyond me. Sometimes, death was violent and messy, and cremation or a closed-casket funeral were better choices.

After splinting and stitching the man’s arm back on, I worked on his skull next. Sticking my trocar up his nasal cavity, I sucked out his brain matter, blood, and general gore, then carefully sliced back a portion of his scalp and filled in the obvious dent there with dermal filler. After gluing his scalp back on, I embalmed the rest of his body.

Luna knocked on the door as I stepped back to survey my work. “Is he the one who died in the car wreck?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen worse. I’m done embalming and washing him, but come look at his head and tell me if you see any obvious signs of trauma.”

She leaned over the body, scanning the face and head. “It looks good, Dr. Frankenstein.”

“You’re hilarious. Will you open the fridge?” I stowed the body in the large walk-in refrigerator, and we cleaned up and headed to the mortuary kitchen to make coffee.

As we entered the public area, I stopped short when I saw two men in biker vests walk in. Adrenaline hit my system, and I worried about Trina coming in early and seeing them here. She wouldn’t come in to clean for a couple of hours, but I wanted them gone before then.

“I need to talk with these gentlemen. Will you make coffee?” I didn’t want Luna anywhere near them.

She studied the men. “Who are they, and why are they here?” Luna’s inquisitive nature drove her to ask countless questions, and she wouldn’t rest until I could convince her I was safe.

“We’re expecting them,” I lied. “They’re here to plan a funeral.” I recognized their OutKast cuts, and my heart thudded heavily in my chest. Did they find out about Samuel?

Luna glanced at them again. “You have your phone on you?”

“Yes.”

She nodded and took off to make coffee, and I walked down the hall to greet the two bikers. “Good morning. What can I do for you?”

The younger one with ugly neck tattoos—including a swastika—grinned and scanned me up and down. “Hello, sugar. Where’s the boss man?”

I kept my face neutral. “Do you have an appointment? We only meet clients through scheduled appointments.”

The younger man’s ugly smile dimmed, and his eyes narrowed. “We don’t need an appointment. Where the fuck’s your boss?”

My eyes slid from him to the large, older man. He had a shaved head and a scar running through his lip. His eyes were cold and flat. I glanced at his vest and recognized his patch, identifying him as one of the vice presidents of OutKast—and the father of the man I’d killed and buried in the desert. Samuel’s father, Terrance LeBaron, was here at the mortuary.

I kept my face neutral, but fear shot through me. “You’ll need to call back and make an appointment.”

Terrance studied me, but not with the same open disdain as the younger biker. “What’s your name?”

“Sylvie Spade. And yours?”

“I think you know.”

I inclined my head. The man’s son was missing, and I wasn’t surprised he’d come here to ask questions. “Terrance LeBaron. Father to the animal who raped and brutalized a young girl not yet old enough to drive. Why are you here?”

His swastika friend stepped forward and pointed his finger in my face. “Listen, bitch. You don’t talk to—”

“Carver, son. Step back. ‘Whoever is slow to anger is better than the mighty,’” Terrance murmured absently, his cold stare still fixed on me. “You’re not afraid of us, are you?”

Declan, one of my cousins, mentioned once that Terrance LeBaron liked to spout Bible verses. “Of course I’m afraid of you, I’m not stupid. But I’m more enraged and heartsick that you’d condone something like that happening to a child.” My anger slipped its leash. “Aren’t there a few Bible quotes about raping and hurting children?”

He didn’t blink. “Where’s your grandpappy, or Fennick?”

I folded my arms and raised an eyebrow. “Neither of them are available. You have to deal with me.”

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