Sixth Grave on the Edge by Darynda Jones Page A

a helpless hand. “I’ve been on this plane in human form for more than two centuries,” he said, surprising me to my core. “If I had to guess, I’d say more than a few. Surely you won’t hold my past indiscretions against me.”
    I stepped closer and his chin went up. He watched Zeus carefully, like one would watch a venomous snake poised to strike. “No more,” I said, my tone low and even. “Never again. And I want Mr. Joyce’s soul returned to him. I don’t care what kind of bargain he made, I want it canceled.”
    “As you wish, but I want something in return.”
    “Do not bargain with him,” Reyes said.
    Of course, I ignored him. “What?”
    He gestured toward Zeus with a congenial nod of his top hat. “The dagger.”
    I snorted. “You’ve got to be kidding. The only way you’re getting this knife is when its blade slides into your chest.”
    He shrugged. “It was worth a shot. Then how about you let me help you with this little Twelve problem, and it’s all his.”
    “You can do that?”
    “Dutch,” Reyes said, but I shushed him with an index finger. A very powerful index finger, it would seem, because he let me continue.
    “You can return it to him?” I asked. “Good as new?”
    The Dealer winced. “ New is a strong word, but once it’s back in place, how it fares is up to him.”
    I raised the knife again, but he stood his ground, albeit warily. “And no more, right?”
    “No more, right. Only bad people.”
    “No snack-counter line-cutters, either. They have to genuinely be bad, as in harmful to the human race.”
    “Not a problem. I know a rapist down the street. I can live off him for weeks.”
    “And I want Joyce’s soul returned immediately.”
    He snorted. “Do you think me a fool?”
    “I think you’re all kinds of a fool. There’s no telling when, or even if, these twelve jokers will show up.”
    “Clearly, you have trust issues. I’ll give him back his soul when the favor is returned.”
    “I’m returning it now by not burying this blade in your chest.”
    He paused in thought, but only for a split second before saying, “You think that a favor?”
    I wasn’t sure what he meant, so I deflected. “I think I’m bored. Leave Mr. Joyce’s soul alone.”
    With that, I turned and walked out, completely unsure if I’d accomplished anything at all.

 
    7
    I lost my virginity,
    but I still have the box it came in.
    —T-SHIRT
     
    Though I couldn’t be 100 percent certain, I got the distinct feeling Reyes was angry. He sat in Misery, his back rigid, his gaze averted, his jaw set to the consistency of marble. And he was still incorporeal. He could have vanished but didn’t. Did he want me to know how angry he was, or was he worried about this Twelve-pack? When he cast me a glare from underneath his lashes as we headed home, I glared right back.
    “What?” I asked, my adrenaline level still high. My disbelief even higher. He wasn’t worried about the Twelve. He was angry with me. Me! What had I done now?
    He shook his head and returned his attention starboard. When he spoke, his voice was low, calculated. “You did exactly what I said you would.”
    “What? I have my soul. And my dignity. He didn’t get either one.”
    “That’s debatable. You made a deal with him.”
    “For the survival of humankind,” I said defensively. “Or something like that. Who are the Twelve?”
    It took him a while to answer. Brooding did that. Took its time. Meandered. Wandered around, oblivious of the needs and impatience of others. It was kind of like a small child that way. Just when I was about to fill the uncomfortable void of silence with the theme song from Gilligan’s Island, he answered. Disappointment washed over me.
    “The Twelve are most commonly referred to on my plane as the Twelve Beasts of Hell. But here on earth, they are most often referred to as hellhounds.”
    “Hellhounds?” I asked, astonished. “For real? They’re hellhounds?”
    “Yes. They were