Grave Matters: A Night Owls Novel by Lauren M. Roy Page B

password-protected the machine. Once Chaz was in, everything on the drive was Edgewood-related. Any hopes the old man had gone digital—spreadsheets, Internet library sites—were quickly dashed. Which meant more work for Chaz, trying to get the gist of the books and figuring out where the hell this shit would go, according to the Dewey Decimal System.
    “Have to see if we can convince Justin to take some library science courses next semester,” he muttered.
    A prolonged thud came from downstairs, accompanied by the susurrus of pages that could only be a book avalanche.
    “Speak of the devil,” Chaz said. He hadn’t heard Justin come back inside. The first-floor library didn’t hold much of interest—what they hadn’t already gone through could go straight to Night Owls when they ran out of time in the house—but maybe it was better for Justin to work down there tonight. Far as Chaz knew, no fighting had gone on in there. The smell of death shouldn’t be so bad.
    Another series of thuds, these ones almost rhythmic, as though Justin were taking a book down and tossing it over his shoulder. Chaz stood frozen for a moment, making sure he was hearing right.
    The whispery sound of a book sliding from the shelf.
    A shirring of pages being flipped.
    The thud of the book hitting the wall.
    The slap as it landed on the floor.
    Shuffle-step.
    Repeat.
    “The fuck?” He set down the book he’d been assessing and crept to the top of the stairs. If Justin was down there Hulking out, sneaking up on him was probably a colossally stupid idea. But . . . abusing books wasn’t Justin’s MO. Especially not when the volumes in question belonged to the Clearwaters. He would just as soon dig Henry and Helen up and piss on their corpses.
    The noises came again. Chaz was halfway down the stairs when he realized he hadn’t thought to grab a weapon.
Shit.
Both libraries had fireplaces. If Chaz could get to the hearth before whoever was down there, he could grab the poker off the rack and use that. Other than that he’d have to rely on yelling and waving his arms about, and hope it was some neighborhood punk he could put a good scare into. It wasn’t like he could grab any knives from the kitchen; Helen’s relatives had made off with every bit of silverware and cutlery.
    At first peek, his neighborhood-punk theory seemed solid. From the back, he caught sight of shoulder-length hair, a little on the greasy side. Then he saw what the guy had on, and it didn’t compute.
Who wears a suit to do their breaking and entering?
    A dirty suit.
    The guy was filthy, streaks of mud not only ruining the suit but caking his patent-leather shoes as well. Now that he glanced down, Chaz saw the footprints the guy had tracked along the floor.
    He was halfway to the poker before the idea that
dude doing B&Es in a suit
might equal
mobster
, but by then he was committed. “Hey. Hey, asshole! What the fuck do you think you’re—”
    The guy turned around, startled, and all thoughts of grabbing the poker flew out of Chaz’ head. His skin was grey and mottled, his eyes sunken deep into their sockets. Stringy flaps of skin were all that was left of his nose, and his lips had peeled back to reveal a row of yellowed teeth.
    “What . . .” said Chaz. “Who . . .”
    The thing dove at him. Thought kicked back in, and Chaz fumbled his way toward the fireplace set.
    Too slow.
    It bellowed as it came on, the wordless shout turning into a grunt as they collided. Chaz hit the wall hard enough to hear the plaster crack. Then it was battering him, the loose grey skin of its fists coming into frightening focus with each hit. Its fingernails—the ones still attached, that was—were blue-tinged. And sharp. Chaz’ cheek opened up and oozed warm blood down into his collar.
    He got his arms up, somehow, into the defensive guard he saw when he watched boxing matches at four in the morning. It seemed much easier on TV, like you could hold out for hours while