The Gravedigger's Brawl by Abigail Roux Page A

Ash’s dark eyes. “I don’t do so well with the alcohol, I’ve found.”
    Ash stared at him for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then he nodded and turned away, reaching up to the shelf behind him for a beer mug and letting it roll down his arm. He used his elbow to pop it into the air and caught it with his other hand as he turned back to the taps. The entire movement seemed second nature to him. Did he even know he’d done it?
    Wyatt watched him the entire time, unable to deny the attraction or the fascination. Ash filled the mug and set it in front of him with a nod. Then he glanced up and down the bar and leaned against it, coming closer to Wyatt with a sigh.
    â€œIt’s only going to pick up,” he said as he looked down at the copy of the old newspaper clipping Wyatt had encased in protective plastic. “Go ahead.”
    Wyatt watched him almost longingly, and when Ash glanced up, their eyes met.
    Ash hummed. “I know that look.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Wyatt said, but he didn’t look away. “I was just wondering what color it is tonight.”
    Ash blinked at him, nonplussed, but then he smirked. He opened his mouth and stuck out his tongue, revealing a tiny red whistle sitting there.
    Wyatt leaned closer and peered at it. “Is that a real whistle?”
    Ash laughed, looking away. “It takes some practice to get it to actually blow. But it’s good for getting someone’s attention.”
    Wyatt gaped as Ash stuck his tongue half out of his mouth and placed the tip of the tiny whistle at his lips. The thing emitted a high-pitched shrill. Delilah jerked her head up and looked over at them, and outside, a dog tied to the iron fence began to howl.
    Ash laughed as Delilah flipped him the bird and went back to work.
    Wyatt smiled. “How many of those things do you have?”
    â€œTons.”
    â€œThey come in all kinds?”
    â€œYou have no idea,” Ash drawled, his smile growing more evil. “Some of them vibrate.”
    â€œReally.” Wyatt stared, completely lost for the moment.
    Ash grinned wider, displaying that adorable smile with the chipped canine. He was less defensive now. “Okay, show me.”
    Wyatt swallowed hard. He could sit there all night and just watch Ash work, but he tore his eyes away and turned the news article toward Ash. “This is about this address,” he said.
    Ash bent over it, scowling. He was probably trying to make out the antiquated print in the low light.
    Wyatt sipped at his root beer. The article, in all its early-twentieth-century journalistic relish, detailed the discovery of a veritable charnel house on this very lot. The structure that stood here now had been built in 1909. When the ground was being cleared for the laying of the foundation, the workers had found evidence of burnt timbers and scorched layers of dirt. Then they’d struck something solid beneath the topsoil, and when they broke through a layer of buried mortar and stone, they found an old root cellar, every nook and cranny nearly overflowing with human bones.
    Ash inhaled deeply and pushed the article away, frowning at Wyatt. “That’s a tad disturbing.”
    â€œA tad.”
    Ash pressed his lips into a thin line and examined Wyatt, obviously unsettled. “So why tell me?” he finally asked.
    â€œIt got me thinking. That story you told us, about the house fire in New Orleans?”
    Ash’s frown deepened. Finally, his lips parted and he inclined his head. “The LaLauries and DuBois legend. Yeah, it’s similar, and it really did happen in New Orleans. But the Richmond connection was just urban legend, man. There’s no real evidence that the LaLauries ever stayed here for any amount of time, or even came here at all. It was just hearsay.”
    â€œAll urban legends are based in truth. Why would the legend pick Richmond? There’s no connection to New Orleans here.