Free Fangtabulous by Lucienne Diver Page B

forward, and I almost bit Bobby’s tongue. He drew back, startled, and the dryer gave another double-thump and seemed to shuffle toward us.
    I admit it, I shrieked. Totally girly. It was a machine . But it seemed possessed.
    Ba-da-bump. Bum-bum-bum-BUMP!
    All of the sudden, the machine, which had gone airborne with the violence of its shaking, came down with a crash and opened, spewing clothes at us like someone had hit the eject button.
    It was just at that moment, of course, that a girl walked in, an empty basket in hand, probably to collect the clothes that were all over the floor.
    “Hey, what are you doing?” she yelled.
    “We didn’t—” I started, at the same time Bobby said, “The machine’s possessed.”
    “Possessed?” the girl asked, eyes about bugging out. “Bull crap. I’m calling security.”
    Bobby and I looked at each other, had a whole conversation in a glance, and dashed for the door. Past the stunned late-night launderer, up the stairs, and out the front door.
    The sillies struck me along with the night air, and I burst into uncontrolled laughter. “ It’s possessed?” I breathed, the words barely intelligible through my giggles.
    “You have a better explanation?” Bobby asked, indignant.
    “No, but the look on that girl’s face—”
    “Priceless,” Bobby finished for me.
    A few more gasps and I managed to get the laughter more or less under control.
    “Well, that was a bust,” I said.
    “Not entirely. We found out the Old Jail has a demonic dryer. Makes our haunted apartment seem positively tame. What do you think we’ll come across in the graveyard?” Bobby asked.
    “I say we go find out.”
    Bobby offered me his arm, and with one final giggle, I took it and we were off to the Howard Street Cemetery.
    “I take you to all the best places,” Bobby commented.
    I squeezed his arm. “You sure do.”
    We followed a long, tall, wrought-iron fence around and around, looking for a gate, even knowing it would be locked. It seemed better to play with the locks than try to climb the sheer vertical struts. We finally came across the gate and looked around to make totally certain the coast was clear.
    If I were on my own, I would have just misted through the bars. But I couldn’t leave Bobby behind, so I waited and played look-out while he used his mental mojo to pick the locks.
    With a small snick , the lock fell open, and the cemetery gate swung inward a touch. Bobby pushed it farther, and the gate creaked every bit as much as I’d expect it to. I think, actually, I’d have been disappointed if it hadn’t—like getting a fab dress home and discovering it was a whole different color than it had looked in the store.
    I went to step inside, but Bobby dashed a hand to my arm to hold me back. “It’s just occurred to me—what if we can’t enter because of hallowed ground?”
    “Won’t know until we try.” And I really, really wanted to try. Getting nearly strangled made this whole thing awfully personal for me.
    Before Bobby could react, I stuck a toe in. Nothing happened. He relaxed his hold on my arm and I shifted to allow my entire foot to come down inside. I looked up at the sky. No lightning streaked down to strike me dead. No angels appeared before me with flaming swords barring my way.
    “I think we’re good,” I said, surprised.
    “Weird,” Bobby answered.
    We stepped all the way in and Bobby closed the gate behind us, so that the cemetery would still looked locked up to anyone passing. As soon as it shut, the biting wind that had made Brent’s teeth chatter stopped, as if the iron bars were some kind of solid barrier against the elements. It was freaky … and this from a fanged fashionista on the run from the Feds.
    “Stay together or fan out?” Bobby asked quietly.
    “Fan out, I think, but stay close.” I didn’t know why. The breath-stealing ghost—Sheriff Corwin, as rumor had it—couldn’t hurt me, at least not that way. Yet something about this place