Bloody Bones by Laurell K. Hamilton

with Mr. Stirling. I could have driven out of here, instead of flying. Shit.

6
    B AYARD HAD GOTTEN us a black Jeep with black-tinted windows and more bells and whistles than I could even guess at. I’d been worried they’d saddle me with a Cadillac or something equally ridiculous. Bayard had given me the keys with the comment, “Some of these roads are not even paved. I thought you might need something more substantial than just a car.”
    I resisted the urge to pat him on the head and say “Good flunkie.” Hell, he’d made a great choice. Maybe he’d make full partner someday after all.
    The trees made long, thin shadows across the road. In the valleys between mountains, the sunlight had softened to a late-afternoon haze. We might make it back to the graveyard by full dark.
    Yes, we. Larry sat beside me in his wrinkled blue suit. The cops wouldn’t mind his cheap suit. My outfit, on the other hand, might raise a few eyebrows. There aren’t many female cops out in the boonies. And fewer who wear short red skirts. I was beginning to really regret my choice of clothes. Insecure: who, me?
    Larry’s face was shiny with excitement. His eyes sparkled like a kid’s on Christmas Day. He was drumming his fingers on the armrest. Nervous tension.
    â€œHow you doing?”
    â€œI’ve never been to a murder scene before,” he said.
    â€œThere’s always a first time.”
    â€œThanks for letting me come along.”
    â€œJust remember the rules.”
    He laughed. “Don’t touch anything. Don’t walk through the blood. Don’t speak unless spoken to.” He frowned. “Why the last? I understand all the others, but why can’t I talk?”
    â€œI’m a member of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Team. You’re not. If you go around saying golly gee whiz a dead body, they may catch on.”
    â€œI won’t embarrass you.” He sounded insulted; then a thought occurred to him. “Are we impersonating police officers?”
    â€œNo. Keep repeating I’m a member of the Spook Squad, I’m a member of the Spook Squad, I’m a member of the Spook Squad.”
    â€œBut I’m not,” he said.
    â€œThat’s why I don’t want you talking.”
    â€œOh,” he said. He settled back into his seat, a little of the shine dimming around the edges. “I’ve never actually seen a freshly dead body before.”
    â€œYou raise the dead for a living, Larry. You see corpses all the time.”
    â€œIt’s not the same thing, Anita.” He sounded grumpy.
    I glanced at him. He had slumped down as far into the seat as the seat belt would allow, arms crossed over his chest. We were at the crest of a hill. A band of sunlight fell like an explosion over his orange hair. His blue eyes looked translucent for a moment as we passed from light into shadow. He looked all scrunched and sulky.
    â€œHave you ever seen a dead person outside of a funeral or a freshly raised zombie?”
    He was quiet for a minute. I concentrated on driving, letting the silence fill the Jeep. It was a comfortable silence, at least for me.
    â€œNo,” he said at last. He sounded like a little boy who had been told he couldn’t go outside and play.
    â€œI’m not always good around fresh bodies either,” I said.
    He looked at me sort of sideways. “What do you mean?”
    It was my turn to scrunch into the seat. I fought the urge and sat up straighter. “I threw up on a murder victim once.” Even saying it very fast, it was still embarrassing.
    Larry scooted up in his seat, grinning. “You’re just telling me that to make me feel better.”
    â€œWould I tell a story like that about myself if it wasn’t true?” I asked.
    â€œYou really threw up on a body at a crime scene?”
    â€œYou don’t have to sound so happy about it,” I said.
    He giggled. I swear he