Blind God's Bluff A Billy Fox Novel - By Richard Lee Byers Page 0,42

ghosts were real, too.

I didn’t realize we’d reached a door until she cracked it open. The strip of bright sunlight dazzled me. Squinting, I made out a beat-up old Miata with faded paint and the top down. A’marie had parked it in a sort of rectangular niche that connected to an alley.

“I don’t see anybody,” she whispered.

“Me, either,” I replied.

“Then come on!”

We scrambled to the car. A Miata’s not made for a guy with long legs, but I wedged myself into the passenger side as best I could. I was still groping under my ass to find my seat belt when A’marie threw the convertible into reverse, backed out into the alley, then headed for the street. While she waited for a break in the traffic, I spotted my T-bird sitting safe and sound, without even a ticket on the windshield. Then she turned right and sped away from the hotel.

It would be bullshit to say that all the things that had happened since I met Timon suddenly seemed like a dream. How could they? I was riding shotgun beside a goat girl and on my way to deal with a problem that other strange creatures had caused. But it did feel weird to be suddenly back in the middle of normal life. All around us, human beings were doing ordinary human things. Drivers drove. Pedestrians scurried along. A woman dressed all in black set a panting on an easel in the window of an art gallery. A fat guy in a business suit fed a credit card into an ATM.

A’marie drove fast and changed lanes often, but she was good at it. I was about as comfortable as I ever was when it wasn’t me behind the wheel. I wondered if she had any trouble working the pedals with her hooves.

“‘How did he do those terrific stunts with such little feet?’” I quoted. Or misquoted, probably.

She shot me a smile. “Blazing Saddles.”

“Right. One of my dad’s favorite movies.”

“Well, they aren’t all that little. And they aren’t numb, or clumsy, or anything like that.”

“I didn’t really think they were.” I hesitated. “Look, I’m really grateful to you for helping me in spite of… well, you know.”

“I know,” she answered, and then we were quiet for a while. Until I realized we were going the wrong direction.

There are a couple good ways to get from downtown to Ybor City. So I didn’t think anything about it until A’marie shot past the last of the turnoffs. Then I said, “Hey!”

“If you’re going to walk right into a trap one of the lords has set for you,” A’marie answered, “you’ll need help, and I know where to get it. I promise it won’t take long.”

I hadn’t necessarily planned ‘to walk right into’ anything, but still, maybe she had a point. So I let her drive on to the northwest corner of Woodlawn Cemetery. To the part called Showmen’s Rest.

It’s the part of the cemetery reserved for circus and carnival workers. A little bit famous, at least to us Tampa natives, although it didn’t look any different than the rest of the graveyard. It was just a field with a low sandstone wall around it, and the markers were just little rectangular slabs. They weren’t shaped like tilt-a-whirls or elephants or anything like that.

As we got out of the car, A’marie fluffed up her tousled black curls, maybe to make sure they hid her horns. I didn’t think she needed to. There was nobody else around.

Which wasn’t all that encouraging, really. Where was the help she’d promised? I’d relaxed a little on the way over, probably because I felt that at least I was on my way to rescue Vic, but now worry and impatience sank their teeth into me again.

“Well?” I asked.

“This way,” said A’marie. She headed toward the garden mausoleum at the south end of the graveyard. As I followed, I wondered if she was going to introduce me to another walking dead man like the Pharaoh, or if she had some useful gadget like Frodo’s ring stashed inside the crypt.

When we were most of the way across the field, somebody whistled.

I turned around. I didn’t see anybody, but the shrill sound came again. I pulled the pistol out of the back of my jeans and said, “A’marie! We’re not alone.”

And I guess she answered me. But not with words.

Soft piping started up behind me. It sounded like Zamfir. But the few snatches of his music I’d heard on late-night TV commercials