Only the Devout
A Death Gate Grim Reapers Thriller Book Four
Amanda M. Lee
WinchesterShaw Publications
Copyright © 2020 by Amanda M. Lee
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Contents
Prologue
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-One
22. Twenty-Two
23. Twenty-Three
24. Twenty-Four
25. Twenty-Five
26. Twenty-Six
27. Twenty-Seven
28. Twenty-Eight
29. Twenty-Nine
30. Thirty
Mailing List
About the Author
Books by Amanda M. Lee
Prologue
Sixteen years ago
The frogs weren’t happy. Of course, they were in a pillowcase, all smushed together, and my grandfather was about to use them for a variety of reasons, including potions and probably dinner. There was little my grandfather loved more than sautéed frog legs. Me? I could take or leave them. Gumbo was my preference. Still, we didn’t have much money and food was food.
“That was a good haul today,” Grandpa noted as he walked the sidewalk with me. He carried his own pillowcase. What was inside was much more dangerous than my sack of frogs. The snakes of the bayou could be deadly, especially the cottonmouth that was in the bag. I hadn’t asked why he wanted it. As a powerful brujo, my grandfather used a variety of things in his potions. The snakes always made me leery. I could catch them, was good at it, but I often had nightmares after.
“It was,” I agreed, thinking about our day in the bayou. People said I was a “taciturn” child. I no longer considered myself a child — I was twelve, for crying out loud, which meant I was practically an adult — so I had started questioning the description. I liked to think of myself as thoughtful, even cautious. I wasn’t morose, though. I enjoyed having fun as much as the next person. “I liked it when you fell in the water trying to get the cottonmouth and I had to use that stick to catch it.”
Grandfather arched an eyebrow and sent me a sidelong look. “You liked that, huh?” He had a wry sense of humor but was always quick with a laugh. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“You would’ve thought it was funny if it happened to me.”
Rather than readily agree, Grandpa hesitated. “The snakes are dangerous,” he reminded me. “While I’m grateful you wrangled this one, it’s important that you give them respect. What we do out there isn’t about killing snakes. We only take what we need. We don’t kill just to kill.”
“I know.” I scuffed my shoe against the sidewalk, annoyed that he’d brought up the subject again. I was well aware of what was and wasn’t allowed when mixing potions and practicing spells. “I was just saying.”
He was silent for a long time, so long in fact that I had to search his face for answers. I found a smile.
“It was funny,” he conceded, grinning as the snake hissed. “I would’ve been fine, but it was probably best that you intervened when you did.”
I nodded in agreement, happy. As far as my grandfather was concerned, that praise bordered on effusive. “When will we go back?”
Grandpa shrugged. “When do you want to go back?”
As much as I loved the city — and what wasn’t there to love about New Orleans? — our trips to the bayous constituted some of my favorite memories. A quiet that couldn’t be found in the French Quarter inhabited these places. As an only child, I liked the quiet — except late at night when the dreams chased me. Then I longed for something loud enough to wake me.
“We could go back next week,” I suggested. I liked to string out our visits rather than waste them all clumped together. “We need a few more snakes, and I know you don’t like putting them together in bags.”
“I don’t,” he agreed. “They fight when they’re on top of each other, like siblings. You wouldn’t know anything about that. You’re spoiled.”
I glanced over my shoulder, not surprised to find his twinkling eyes staring back. “I don’t know many girls who would spend the afternoon catching frogs in the muck while dodging alligators,” I pointed out. “I’m pretty sure I’m not spoiled.”
“Maybe.” His smile remained firmly in place as we turned the final corner that led to our house. We lived outside the French Quarter, but just barely. We were well within walking distance for a good meal (when Grandpa decided we could afford to eat out) and good music. That happened once a month or so, but it was often the highlight of my month.
That’s not to say that I didn’t like our house. Sure, it was small — especially compared to the ones my classmates got to call home — but it was comfortable and warm. Compared to the chilling memories that chased me in sleep, times when my parents were still alive but the darkness had teeth, the house was practically sweltering.
All in all, I had few complaints about my life. I was twelve, but that didn’t stop me from opening my mouth. I was just about to let loose a snarky comeback when a flurry of activity in front of the church down the road caught my attention. “What’s that?”
Grandpa followed my gaze, teasing and talk of spoiled tweens all but forgotten. “I don’t know.” He shifted the pillowcase to his opposite hand and furrowed his brow as he studied the faces of the crowd in front of the church. “Izzy, take the haul into the house.” He shoved his pillowcase toward me, his attention completely fixated on another point of interest. “Don’t open the one with the cottonmouth. Put it in the bathroom sink — keep it away from the frogs — and I’ll handle it when I get back.”
Confusion played a game of tag in my head. “I don’t understand.” I obediently took the pillowcase containing the snake. “What’s going on?”
“I’m not sure.” He flashed a smile that didn’t make it all the way to his eyes. “I’m going to find out.”
I hesitated as I gripped the pillowcase. “I want to go with you.”
“That’s not necessary. You should go inside.”
My heart gave a little lurch at the prospect. He was all I had and something didn’t feel right about what was happening. I’d lost my parents years ago and the thought of losing him was too much. “I’m going with you.” I shifted the pillowcases so I could plant them in the bushes — a decent ways apart so the snake couldn’t bite through the bag and attack the frogs — and then fixed Grandfather with a pointed look. “I’m ready.”
He looked amused more than anything else. “You have dirt on your face.” He licked his thumb and swiped it along my cheek. There was delight, and maybe a little pride, gracing his aged features — and something else. “You stick close to me,” he said finally. “Don’t go wandering off when we get over there.”
I didn’t understand why he was worried about that. I had an independent streak and was allowed to run wherever I wanted in the neighborhood. Now he seemed deadly serious. “I’ll stick close,” I promised him perfunctorily. “You don’t have to worry about that.”
“Good.” He checked the bags to make sure they were tied well — nobody would benefit if all our hard work escaped while we were investigating the disturbance on the corner — and then we set off. It took us only two minutes to reach our destination, and when we did he insisted we stay on the opposite side of the road even though the people walking and chanting in front of the church looked harmless.
“What are they doing?” I asked.
“It looks like they’re protesting.”
That wasn’t what it looked like. “It looks like they’re having a parade.”
That was enough to elicit his trademark forehead crease as he stared. “You know, they do kind of look like they’re having a parade,” he said, his eyes drifting to a young man passing us on the right. He was clearly heading toward the chanting group. “Excuse me, what’s going on here?”
The man, who couldn’t have been more than twenty-five, appeared confused by the question. “What do you mean? I’m waiting to cross the street.”
My grandfather often appeared to have infinite patience, and it was on full display today. “Over there.” He pointed with his chin. “What’s going on?”
“Oh.” The man’s face lit with delight. “You’re talking about the ritual.”
That was a word we knew well, but given what was happening thirty feet away, it didn’t seem to fit. I couldn’t wrap my head around the chanting — words I couldn’t make out — and what the man suggested made no sense. “How is that a ritual?”
Grandfather shot me a quelling look before focusing on the man. “What ritual are you trying to perform?”
“The Ritual of Summoning.”
I’d heard of summoning rituals, but I’d never heard it phrased that way.
“What are you trying to summon?” Grandfather asked. The look on his face suggested he was bracing himself for a dark entity, or perhaps a malevolent spirit.
“The Axeman.”
I jerked up my head. The Axeman of New Orleans was something of a local legend, a 1918 serial killer who supposedly said he would spare victims who played jazz. There was plenty of conjecture about him because he’d never been caught. Why anyone would want to summon him was beyond me.
“The Axeman?” Grandfather glanced between the man and me, obviously not thrilled by the revelation. “Why would you want to summon him?”
The expression on the man’s face was hard to read. “He had a message that we want to embrace.”
“Message?”
“That life is only worth living if the beautiful things are shared far and wide. If they’re not, then you might as well be dead.”
“I see.” Grandfather’s smile never wavered, but he wrapped his arm around my shoulders and tugged me to his side. “Well, it sounds like you have an interesting day planned. Just out of curiosity, what made you come to this spot for your ritual?”
“This is the place he died,” the man replied. “You must be near the dead to summon them.”
That was only true in specific circumstances, but I didn’t bother giving voice to my opinion. It was obvious something above my ability to understand was happening. I figured it was better to let my grandfather handle this one.
“I was under the impression they didn’t know who the Axeman was,” Grandfather argued. “How can you know where he died if you don’t even know his identity?”
The man’s gaze was withering. “Oh, we know. It was common knowledge back then. The police didn’t make it public because they believed in his cause and helped him.”
Grandfather’s face shifted into an expression of polite dismissal. “Well, that’s lovely. Have fun with your demonstration.”
“It’s a ritual.”
“That, too.”
I waited until we were back in front of the house to speak again. “I don’t understand what they’re doing,” I admitted as I retrieved the pillowcase full of frogs. “Why would they want to bring back a killer?”
“They’re sick.” Grandfather was matter-of-fact. “They’re not good people. They’re either bored with their lives and don’t believe in the cause or they’re bad people. Plain and simple.”
His answer wasn’t enough for me. “But why are they in a group like that? And why are they lying to themselves? I don’t understand.”
“Sometimes people convince themselves that a good lie is better than a bad truth. These people want to believe that the ugliness in the world has meaning. They don’t realize that they’re deluding themselves.”
I chewed my bottom lip as I glanced over his shoulder and stared at the chanting crowd. “They can’t really bring him back, can they?”
“Of course not. Nobody knows who the Axeman was. People like this aren’t to be feared. They’re just ... sad. It’s the other people, the true believers, who are to be feared.”
“These aren’t true believers?”
“No.”
There seemed to be much he wasn’t saying. It was a heavy topic, and I was tired after a day of catching frogs. Deep discussions could wait. “If I let this go, can we have chocolate cake for dessert? I checked yesterday and we have all the ingredients.”
He smirked at the question. “The older you get, the smarter you get. Chocolate cake is definitely better than what they’re doing.”
I believed him yet still I stood on the front steps a good five minutes watching the show. No matter what he tried to convince me of, an undercurrent of evil flowed through the crowd. It made me uneasy.
The group at the church might not have been filled with true believers, but I was willing to bet there were one or two who could fit that bill. Thankfully, they were woefully outnumbered and little to no magic bubbled through the group.
Grandfather was right. These people were not to be feared. If there were others out there like them, though, I would have to keep my eyes open.
The monsters of the gate might have shrouded my dreams, but other types of demons haunted the living. I must remain vigilant.
One
Present Day
“What are they like?”
Even though I wasn’t the nervous sort, news that my boyfriend’s grandparents were arriving had me nervous. I, Izzy Sage, was a badass bruja with courage out the wazoo, but the stories I’d been told about Mary and Emmet Grimlock were enough to make my insides shrivel faster than the notion of liver for dinner. So when my boyfriend Braden Grimlock dropped by for lunch I decided to grill him.
Braden appeared to be over the incessant questions I’d peppered him with for the better part of the week.
“They’re crabby,” Braden replied, peeling a banana as he exchanged amused looks with my assistant, Oliver Samuelson, a vampire with attitude and an intense loyalty. “You know those shows in which old people scream for kids to get off their lawn? Those are my grandparents. They’ve been that way for as long as I can remember. If you ask my dad, he’ll tell you that they were like that when they were toddlers.”
I was used to the Grimlock tendency to exaggerate. All of them — with the possible exception of middle brother Cillian, who was as calm and rational as they came — had no problem concocting stories to suit their purpose. As much as I loved Braden — and I did — I recognized he sometimes couldn’t help himself from resorting to tall tales. There were five Grimlock siblings and four of them routinely competed with one another to see who could tell the most outrageous story.
“They have to be more than crabby,” I persisted, my potato chips all but forgotten. I didn’t have much of an appetite. The reality of Grimlocks I hadn’t met was enough to turn my stomach, which was saying something, because I’d inherited my grandfather’s iron constitution and could eat almost anything. “I mean ... they’re your grandparents. You must have stories about them.”
“Oh, I have stories.” Braden leaned back in his chair and rested his feet on my desk. It was a lazy move, one that might’ve bothered me at a different time, but we were still basking in the afterglow of dropping “I love you” on one another
several weeks before. It was as if we couldn’t stop smiling, and there were times I swore I saw little hearts dancing over his head. Of course, I have magic at my disposal, so it was possible I placed the hearts there without even realizing it.
Hey, stranger things had happened — and right on this very ground.
“Cillian’s soul count for the day is coming in,” Oliver volunteered, his eyes on a computer screen as he watched the numbers tick upward. The Grimlocks were reapers — all of them, including their tempestuous baby sister — and as warden of the death gate, the place where the souls crossed over before reaching their final resting place, it was my job to make sure they were all accounted for. I was interested in pressuring Braden for information on his grandparents, but I still had a job to do.
“What’s the count?” I asked, turning to my own computer.
“Eight. He must’ve had a busy day.”
Rather than expressing his agreement that his brother had worked hard, Braden snorted. “Did I ever tell you about the day I absorbed fifteen souls in one shift? Now that was working hard.”
I lifted my chin to study his face over the top of my computer. All the Grimlock children, even the lone girl, boasted the same ridiculous good looks. They had black hair, defined cheekbones, strong chins, and distinctive purple eyes. They joked that they looked like a science experiment gone awry. It was true. It was also criminal how attractive they all were.
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