For a little town, we had a large grocery store that was part of a national chain. Since it was the biggest market and served not just the locals, but most of the tourists, it carried everything from flip-flops and beach towels to one of the largest wine selections on the coast.
It also had a staffed deli counter with plenty of hot lunch and dinner options, a full-service bakery, a pharmacy, and a Starbucks kiosk. Next to that kiosk was an open dining area decorated à la high school cafeteria, with uninspired fiberglass chairs and tables and mediocre lighting. But it had free Wi-Fi and air conditioning, which made it weirdly popular.
At full capacity, the little dining area could hold about two dozen people.
Even though there were at least twice that number of people in the space right now, it didn’t feel all that crowded.
That probably had to do with the relative size of half of the people, which was small, and the average age of those same people, which was ninety.
It was an eclectic group of septuagenarians. A few white hairdos in tight curls, but the majority had died their plumage in neons and pastels, a virtual who’s who of Manic Panic on display.
The preferred clothing of the day was a mix of stretchy slacks and long skirts and sleeveless tops.
That was probably why all the tattoos caught my eye. The tattoos. So many.
Some were a little hard to distinguish through the wrinkles and sags, but the K.I.N.K.s all had some version of yarn, knitting needles and a banner of words across it on their shoulders, and the C.O.C.K.s all had similar ink on their arms, except there appeared to be a red rooster and hook theme mixed in.
The remaining members of the crowd were a mix of ages, men and women, mortal and monster. The youngest on each side was a girl about ten years old brandishing a neon yellow crochet hook and half of a crocheted turtle corpse, and a boy about twelve gripping two slick silver knitting needles that carried an almost finished Pink Floyd THE DARKSIDE OF THE MOON flag.
As a matter of fact, everyone was not only standing and yelling (except the kids, who were sitting and watching it all with wide eyes), they were also all shaking handfuls of whatever craft they were crafting at each other like two armies banging swords against shields.
The K.I.N.K.s and C.O.C.K.s were about to rumble. They’d even drawn a line in the sand, which was a ball of yarn rolled out to divide the two halves of the dining area with one fuzzy strand of blue.
The group on the left all had needles, the one on the right all had hooks, so K.I.N.K.s to the left, C.O.C.K.s on the right.
Bertie marched up on one side of me, and Bathin lingered behind, looking overly interested in a stack of fire starter logs and bags of organic coffee beans.
It was hard to tell, even as I paused on the edge of the dining area, exactly what was being argued. But it was clear that there was no backing down on either side, and the volume was steadily growing.
Mob violence. Finally. Something easy.
“I want everyone to settle down.” I pitched my voice to carry over the argument.
All heads turned, all eyes landed on me and the badge I’d stuck on my hip. They knew me, I knew them. We all lived in this little town together. Went to all the community events and fund raisers Bertie forced upon us, slogged through the four Oregon beach seasons of cold rain, freezing rain, windy rain, and raining tourists.
We even all shopped here in this big, overpriced, under-friendly supermarket.
We were a team. A town. A people. We weren’t going to let a little whatever-they-were-arguing-about push us apart.
“I need one person from each side of the yarn to step over here and tell me what’s going on.”
Two sturdy looking ninety-year-old women who were all nose and big watery eyes behind heavy plastic-rimmed glasses broke off from the front of each group and chugged over to me.
They looked like twins, because they were. The Macy sisters, Willie and Chester (their parents had planned for boys, and didn’t let a little thing like daughters divert them from going forward with their plans) wore bright tank tops, loose skirts and striped socks. All of their clothing was knit (Willie’s) or crocheted (Chester’s).
It should have looked tacky and old fashioned. Instead they wore those clothes with a sort of vintage mod style that made it look trendy.
And yes, they each brandished a shoulder full of ink with the acronym K.I.N.K. and C.O.C.K. emblazoned brazenly over the lion’s share of their crinkled real estate.
“What seems to be the problem?” I asked.
“This,” Willie jabbed a needle with the softest gray gossamer lace floating off of it at her sister, “harridan swooped in with her jolly band of hookers and took our meeting space.”
“It’s a free country!” Chester warbled. “Those tables are first come first serve. We were first.”
“You know we meet here every Thursday. This is K.I.N.K. territory and the lawman, well, woman, is here to drag you away.”
“On what charges? Making better looking scarves with luscious drape?”
“Oh, you did not just say that. My scarves have drape for miles!”
“Crocheting is faster and easier than any snooty travesty you stab to death with those needles.”
“Fast and easy. There’s two words you’ve heard a lot over the years. Some things are more enjoyable done slowly–not that you’d ever know.”
“Oh, blow it out your bonnet you two-needle hack. A real yarn thrower doesn’t need two tools to create her craft. All she needs is a hook and her own two hands.”
“Tell that to my slim, perfectly fitted socks and lightweight fitted sweaters you single-stitch derelict. Two needles are better than one.”
“Ladies. Let’s get back to the problem at hand,” I said.
“A crochet hook won’t get you kicked off an airplane. Do you remember what happened to your monogrammed Signature needles in LA?”
Willie blanched a little paler, which I wouldn’t have thought possible with our recent lack of sun. “My babies.” Her voice wobbled and her eyes actually watered. “I can’t believe you brought that up. You monster.”
Chester looked momentarily chagrined, and she stuck out her free hand to pat her sister’s shoulder. “That was a bit below the belt. I apologize.”
“Aircraft quality aluminum, Ches, aircraft.”
“I know dear.”
“Stiletto points and teardrop end caps.”
“There, there.”
“They were hand-crafted. By hand. And monogrammed!”
“Steady now, Will. You know, I think maybe it’s time you replace them with a new pair.”
Willie sniffed. “But the roof needs some patching and that back fence is on its last legs, and you always say I have too many needles already.”
“Oh to hell with the fence. We have enough to deal with the roof and get you an entire new set of Signatures with savings to spare.”
“And circulars?” Willie sniffed, but there was a glint of something in her eyes. Something wily.
“Of course we can—wait. Did you just try to hornswoggle me?”
“What?” Willie’s eyes were comically large. “What are you saying?” She tapped her ear like her hearing aid had just kicked the bucket.
“You did! You tried to play me.” Chester’s face closed in like a shriveled walnut. “Forget the needles. We’re putting in a new fence. All the way around the house! Twice!”
“You wouldn’t.”
“You bet your teardrop end caps I would.”
“Ladies,” I said sternly. “That’s enough. What you do with fencing and monogrammed needles is your business, but your groups are going to be pulled in on disturbing the peace charges if you don’t disassemble and move your gathering to a venue with appropriate capacity.”
“We’re not moving,” Willie said. “We meet here every week at ten o’clock, and we’ve been doing it for six months.”
“Well, we’re meeting here at nine o’clock,” Chester said. “You’ll just have to find somewhere else to go. Bye-bye.”
“There are other meeting options,” Bertie said. And she would know.
“With coffee and pastries?” Willie challenged.
“There’s the Perky Perch. It has a loft you can reserve for a small fee.”
“We can’t,” they chorused.
“Oh?” Bertie asked.
“We were kicked out,” Chester muttered.
“And banned,” Willie said.
“Why?” Bertie asked.
Willie mumbled.
“I’m sorry, could you say that again?” Bertie asked with extra sugar on top.
“We were throwing balls of yarn at each other and broke a display stand.”
Bathin barked out a laugh from where he stood next to the sunglasses display.
“There are other coffee shops in town,” I said.
“Banned.” Chester nodded.
“Same reason?” Bertie asked.
“Some variation of it, yes,” Willie said. “The details aren’t important.”
“Then you have two choices.” I gave them each a hard look. “You can either move your club meeting times to different days so you can both use this space and enjoy the last coffee and pastries available to you in this town, or you can both move your operations to a different space.”
“But we were here first,” Willie said. “We should get to keep our time, keep our place, and they should just get out of our mohair for once.”
“Is that a possibility, Chester?” I asked.
“We always meet at nine o’clock,” she grouched. “Some of us have things to do later in the day.”
“No one wants to hear about your genealogy research, Chester. Find somewhere else to meet. Like the library.”
“Can’t have food and drink there. Crocheters need coffee too. And we tip higher.”
“You don’t even drink coffee. You use the same tea bag and reload hot water for four hours.”
“Like you know anything. I drink the chai tea now, so get off my feathers, Wilbur.”
“Oh, shove off, Cheater.”
“I’m not going to stand here all day, ladies,” I said. “Make a choice. Either you change the day the C.O.C.K.s meet up, or you change the time the K.I.N.K.s get together.”
They glared at each other for long enough, even their gang members behind them got tired of waiting and started working on their projects again, needles and hooks and fingers and thread.
Seriously, why couldn’t they get along?
“I could move our bowling time to later in the day on Friday,” Willie offered. “You could get all the C.O.C.K. you needed in the morning and have time for a nice nap before we met up with the girls.”
Chester was still frowning, her face pinched and doughy, but the offer seemed to ease her scowl, though it would take an iron and steam to tell. “You said bowling is sacred time. You haven’t changed our alley time in the last twelve years.”
“Fourteen.”
“So Friday. I could do C.O.C.K. and balls?”
“What more could a woman ask for?” Willie said with a smile.
Chester snorted. “All right, then. Fine. You can have Thursdays. It was interfering with my hair appointments anyway.”
“Stubborn goat,” Willie muttered fondly.
“Pushy mule,” Chester replied. Then she turned to the group behind her. “All right, C.O.C.K.s, we’re going to have to move our meetings to Friday at nine.”
“Like it’s always been?” someone in the middle of her crowd asked.
“Really?” I asked. “Really?”
Bertie just sighed and tsked.
I wondered if Chester had been angling for the bowling match time change all along. “Anyone have complications with that time?” she asked.
“Classes start soon,” another voice said, this time a man.
“We’ll make sure we adjust our meeting time for the autumn when that happens. Now, let’s pack it up and roll it out. I’ll see you all here tomorrow, soon as the cock crows.”
That, apparently, was the signal for everyone to break out their best rooster-doodle-doos.
“Astounding,” Bathin, behind me, close enough I could hear his near-whisper. “Although I would have had more fun if a war had broken out.”
“This isn’t about you and this isn’t about fun.”
“Oh, that’s right. You can’t feel those kinds of emotions any more. Isn’t that sad?”
I considered throwing an elbow at his head.
“Is that a solution you can live with?” I asked Bertie instead.
“Yes, thank you, Delaney, but there is one more issue I need to address with the clubs. Have you noticed the yarn bombings around town?”
“Bombings?”
“Knitted and crocheted decorations in public areas?”
“Oh. Yeah, I’ve seen a couple.”
“I need to know if you’re going to allow those to remain.”
“It’s not like you to beat around the bush, Bertie. What are you angling for?”
“I’d like to encourage the C.O.C.K.s and K.I.N.K.s to explore their rivalry in a more public and useful way over the remaining weeks of summer.”
“A contest?” She must have noticed the fleeting horror on my face. I’d gotten roped into judging the annual rhubarb rally and had not enjoyed it.
While judging fiber craft might not make me want to wash my mouth out with sand paper, the participants were basically gang members armed with pointy and hooked weapons.
Nope. I wasn’t going to willingly incite violence among the fiber fiends.
“Yes, a contest. I’m shocked you feel that strongly about it, considering your condition.”
“Is there any other way you could have phrased that?”
“Yes. I chose not to. My proposal is that we challenge the C.O.C.K.s and K.I.N.K.s to decorate the downtown area along the main road. I’ll of course set boundaries. Anything I deem in bad taste will be removed immediately. Nothing will obstruct the flow of pedestrians, nothing will obstruct access to businesses or parking. I’ll vet it with the businesses too. Those that wish to opt out will remain untouched.”
“You’ve put some thought into this, I see.”
“It’s been on the back burner. But since they’ve already declared war on each other, I thought we could use the battle to Ordinary’s advantage.”
“I think we just ended the war.”
“Not the tussle over their meeting space, the yarn bombs. It started with the C.O.C.K.s making beautiful little bracelets for their members and allies.”
“Allies.”
“Once the K.I.N.K.s saw what was happening, they began recruiting their own allies with knitted bracelets.”
Okay, yes. I’d seen those on a couple of people in town. “They’re asking people to fly their colors?”
“Show their support.”
“Right. That’s so much different.”
“Out of bracelets came door handle wraps, bike stand cozies, and tree sweaters.”
“I saw the lamppost flower. It was cool.”
“Yes!” Three of the knitters said in unison. They high-fived each other, then went back to furiously working yarn between needles.
“Yes. It is lovely, but required an extension ladder under the cover of darkness. I’d like to establish some safety measures. Perhaps borrow a few of the city workers to help install the art?”
“I thought you called them bombs.”
She rolled her eyes. “I didn’t make up that term, Delaney. It’s an international phenomenon and it’s time Ordinary staked its claim and become a part of it.”
“It sounds like you’ve got everything in place to go ahead with this. You know the forms you need to fill out and file. I’ll tell my officers not to drag anyone in on graffiti charges if they catch them in the act of installation.”
“Good. Then at the end of the summer season, let’s say Labor Day, we’ll have a nice little ribbon ceremony for the most original, a few other categories, and maybe give a walking tour to anyone who wants to see the creations in a sort of art on the lane.”
“You sure you’re not jumping in on this a little late? This stuff usually takes months to plan.”
“In this case, I think striking while the iron is hot is more the way to go.”
Several of the crocheters were done packing their gear and were making their way toward the exits. Bertie kept an eye on Chester, following the Macy sister’s slow but steady shuffle.
“There are a details I need to sort. Delaney, don’t wait for me. I’ll catch a ride from someone here.”
“Are you sure?”
She gave me an arch look. “Why don’t you get a cup of coffee before you go patch things up with Ryder?”
I blinked. Not because she’d guessed that I was thinking I should find Ryder and make sure he wasn’t angry, but because I wasn’t. That thought hadn’t even crossed my mind. And it should have. I should have felt worried and maybe even miserable about him storming away from the station.
About me telling him to leave. That I needed time and some space and he was angry about it. Probably justly so. Was I making a huge mistake pulling away from him? It seemed like the right thing to do. I didn’t want him hurt, and there were too many things in my life that weren’t under my control that could hurt him.
This was the smart thing to do. For both of us. Because I cared about him. So it made sense to step back, make sure the choices I made didn’t negatively impact, or worse, actively harm him.
For a second I was absolutely frozen with the terrifying notion that this would be my life. I’d drift through it, nothing making me happy, or sad, or excited, or terrified. That I’d live every day with a sort of blank, steady progression from logical thought to expected action, to logical thought, over and over again.
I couldn’t just drift like that, a tourist in my own life. Not for long. It would drive me crazy. It would tear me up inside, even if I couldn’t actively feel it. And then what would happen? Would the next logical step be that my life was pointless? My life wasn’t worth living? Would I just give up my badge, walk away? Would I even have the strength to end my life if I was living it while dead?
Did I just seriously just map my remaining days out to the inevitable conclusion of suicide? And was that the only thing I had to look forward to?
I couldn’t be overreacting, since I didn’t even have the emotional energy to fuel a panic attack.
Although this felt like a panic attack, minus the panic.
“Breathe.” Bathin held out a cup of coffee. “One, two, three. Exhale.”
I stared at him. “What?”
“She told you to go after your man.”
I did not have enough brain cells available to figure out what that hot look of his really meant, much less the words he said. He pushed the coffee out again and half nodded toward Bertie. “She’s expecting you to say something.”
The coffee was in my hands now, and I looked back at Bertie. “Okay. Thanks. Keep me in the loop with the, whatever this whole thing is.” Did that make sense? I was having a hard time corralling my thoughts as they slipped through me too fast and liquid.
Her stern gaze caught my attention. Anchored me somewhat, a rope thrown out into the storm of my thoughts. “I think you have enough on your hands without dealing with the yarn crafters. Yarn walk, Yarn amble, Y’all?”
“Yarn Y’all? That’s what you’re going to call it?”
“I don’t know yet. But I’ll have it decided before the end of the day.” She waved a gold tipped hand at me. “Go. Have your coffee. I have work to do.” She paused halfway through turning away from me and gripped my wrist, her fingers strong and pointed and surprisingly tight. “Don’t jump to conclusions. I saw you go pale as a sheet just now. Ryder isn’t a lost cause. Neither are you. Just don’t lose hope in the ashes. Love is a power that does not yield as long as you return to your heart.”
There it was again. Those words. “Who told you to say that?”
“No one tells me what to say.”
“‘Love is a power that does not yield?’ That’s not something you just rattle off in farewell.”
She frowned. “I think it perfectly suits this situation.”
“Does it?”
“Doesn’t it?”
“I don’t know. I don’t even know what it means!”
Understanding clicked on behind her eyes. “Just because the demon has your soul, doesn’t mean it isn’t yours.”
That made less sense.
“Careful,” Bathin murmured. “Tell all my secrets and I’ll tell all of yours.”
“There are none I regret.” Steel in those words, an absolutely uncompromising confidence.
“Oh, I’m creative,” he said.
“I can see that. And I see so much more. All those within you.”
Bathin did that uncomfortable thing where he sort of blushed. What was it with Bertie? What dirt did she have on him? I really wanted to know.
“Couldn’t hurt to let me in on some of his secrets,” I said.
Bertie winged me a tight smile. “Let’s have lunch then. Soon.”
Bathin scowled.
I smiled, even though the feeling didn’t last long enough for my mouth to get securely in place. But still there was something so normal about this. Bertie being her typical overbearing self, my vampire-bitten, soulless, demon-bound, break-up filled life making little to no impact on her plans and her busy schedule.
Plus, she was never one to shy from the opportunity for a good gossip.
I liked it. Liked knowing that I wasn’t the center of the universe. That the people of our little town were going forward with fences and bowling leagues and yarn bombings all without any input from me.
“Good. I’ll call.” And with that, Bertie was off, taking the straightest line to intercept Chester before she made it past the cage of plastic bouncy balls near the doors.
All in all, that had gone a lot better than I’d expected.
I lifted the cup to my mouth automatically, but paused to stare at the plastic lid before it
could touch my lips. “What is this?”
“Some call it coffee.”
“From the Starbucks?”
The look he gave me.
“What kind of coffee?”
“I’m assuming the kind made out of roasted coffee beans and hot water.”
“No, seriously, what did you order for me? How do you even have money anyway? You spit in this, didn’t you?”
“I’m beginning to wish I had. It’s a vanilla latte, Delaney. I told the barista to give me what she thought Chief Reed would want and she gave me this. If you don’t like it, dump it out.”
He wasn’t angry. As a matter of fact he was grinning pretty widely, and had pushed into my space a couple more inches like he just couldn’t get enough of me right now.
I couldn’t tell if he just loved getting a rise out of me, or just loved getting a rise out of everyone.
“What did you pay her with?”
“She comped it because she appreciates the law, or maybe just wanted to thank you for getting rid of the gray-haired screaming rumblers.”
Good name for a rock band.
“They didn’t have gray hair.”
“I like your attention to the details that don’t matter.”
“I like you getting out of my space.”
“And your spunk.”
“You’re about to find out if you like my fist, my knee, and my can of mace.”
“What, no TASER?”
“Why waste the charge?”
“Ouch. Still, that’s a lot of effort you’re promising.”
“No effort at all. I feel like punching something right about now.”
“Isn’t that grand? I’m right here.” He waited, daring me.
My phone rang. “Step back. Now.”
He paused, then stepped back and slurped at his drink. The store, the sounds of shoppers, beeps of the checkouts, smell of coffee and maple glaze and rotisserie chicken all surrounded me again. I hadn’t realized it had all faded away, hadn’t realized all my attention and every sense I owned had been tuned to one thing only.
Bathin.
Why? I didn’t even like him. Was it a soul thing? A demon thing? Was he making me see only him? Or was it just because he had my soul tucked away somewhere I couldn’t feel it anymore and I wanted it back that I couldn’t look away?
My phone rang again. I glanced at the screen. Ryder.
I swiped my thumb across his image–a picture I’d snapped of him with the face paint mask he’d worn at the Cake and Skate. He didn’t look like a business owner, or a reserve officer, or a secret agent for the DoPP or a lackey for a god in that picture. He looked like a guy who had gone a little nuts and let his considerable artistic talent go wild with a fine point brush and a box of carnival paint.
He looked happy, alive.
“Ryder?”
“I’m at the hospital. You need to come down here.”
I was already walking to the door. “Ben?”
“He’s awake.”
“That’s good, isn’t it?” The tone of Ryder’s voice wasn’t giving me a lot to go by. “Is that not good?”
“He says he knows where Lavius is.”
“Holy shit. Okay. That’s great. Why don’t you sound happy?”
There was a pause, and I rolled my comment back through my head. It didn’t seem like a strange thing to ask and didn’t seem emotionally tone deaf. I was starting to be uncomfortably aware of that now. Like every time I opened my mouth, I had a chunk of parsley stuck in my emotional teeth.
“He said he doesn’t want to say anything more until you’re here.”
“I’m on my way.” I unlocked my Jeep and climbed in, Bathin following like a coffee-slurping shadow.
He was also eating a candy bar. When had he paid for that? There was no way the barista had comped him a Butterfinger.
“I don’t think you should come.”
Right. I was still talking to Ryder.
“What does that mean?”
There was a shuffling sound and I imagined he was moving out of hearing range of someone.
“He’s insisting he talk to you. It’s all he’ll say.”
Okay, that was a little weird, especially if Jame was there for him to talk to. But trauma was a trip and a half and I was more than just a cop. I was also the person who made it right for the creatures who lived in this town. The person who made it right for the gods to vacation here.
It wasn’t too much of a stretch to think he wanted to give me information and that he thought I would be the best person to receive it.
“Like I said, I’m on my way.”
“Delaney.” The pause while he gathered his thoughts and I listened to him breathe.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, then exhale on a sigh. “Let’s look at this from another angle. Ben was kidnapped. Lavius found you on the beach and bit you to send a warning to Rossi. Which you did. Then you just happened to pick up the rock with your dad’s trapped ghost or whatever in it at Jame and Ben’s house where it’s been for the last year or so.
“You don’t know who sent that stone, who planted it here,” Ryder said. “And it just so happens to contain a demon in it who just so happened to know where to find Ben.”
“He’s on our side,” I said.
“Is he?”
“I…I don’t know.”
He grunted as if I’d just proved his point.
“We know Lavius sent demons in vampire bodies to Ordinary to hurt Jean,” he reminded me like I hadn’t been there when she’d been run over.
“Maybe not Jean specifically.” I was playing devil’s advocate, trying to poke holes in the theory Ryder was unpacking.
“That was not a luck-of-the-draw hit-and-run, and you know it.”
True.
“Do you think Ben is possessed?” I asked.
“It’s possible. Isn’t it.” Not a question.
I answered him anyway. “I don’t think he’s possessed.”
His theory that Bathin might not be playing for our side was pretty strong. I could take it one step further and wonder if Bathin had also been sent by Lavius. It wasn’t inconceivable that vampires could play a long game. Immortality had to have some perks.
Dad didn’t know who sent that demon-infested rock to him.
It could have been Lavius.
It could have been Bathin.
It could have been anyone.
“Is Rossi there with you?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Have you asked him?”
“If Ben is possessed? Do you really think he would be objective about that?”
“He’s old, Ryder. When it comes to stuff like this, he is stone cold solid.” Or at least I hoped he wouldn’t let his affection for the man he considered his son make him blind to something as serious as demon possession. “You can ask him and you can trust him. I’m on my way. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”
I hung up because even if Ryder’s theories were correct, and Lavius wanted me to see Ben because it was a trap of some kind, I’d need to be there to deal with the fallout. I considered calling Myra, but she’d stayed up even later than I had last night, poring over old books for “answers” according to the curt text I’d gotten when I’d pinged her this morning.
“Trouble in paradise?” Bathin asked.
“This isn’t paradise,” I said as I merged into traffic toward the hospital.
“Every man’s paradise is another man’s hell.”
And I didn’t know if the yearning in his tone was a good thing, or a bad thing.