Dark Pact
The Mostly Open Paranormal Investigative Agency Book One
Lisa Manifold
Copyright © 2019 by Lisa Manifold
All rights reserved.
Dark Pact
The Mostly Open Paranormal Investigative Agency Book 1
Cover by Atlantis Book Designs
www.atlantisbookdesign.com
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.
Created with Vellum
Thank you to my lifelong love of Louis L’Amour, who brought me to the old west in the best way possible, and to my new love of the music of Big River Cree, who gave me the inspiration to finish this. I’ve come home.
Contents
The Nightingale/Holliday Family Tree
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Smokin’ Hawt Cherry Chipotle Pie
Sneak Peak of Hellborn
About the Author
Also by Lisa Manifold
Prologue
The First Deana
1924
Deadwood, South Dakota
Deana Nightingale looked at her sleeping sisters. They’d always been the four Ds. Desdemona, Deana, Deirdre, and Daniella. Her mother—known to one and all as Meema—was a Desdemona as well. Granny had been a Desdemona, too.
It was a tradition, that name.
“To hell with that,” she murmured to the night. She would never name her daughter Desdemona. Not after what Granny had told her about that particular name. About all the baggage that came with it.
Well, the ghost of Granny had told her.
If Granny had still be alive, Deana would have kicked Granny down the stairs if she could have—and Granny had been able to see it, vanishing like her one-time partner, the full-time house ghost, John Henry “Doc” Holliday, did when he was in a snit. Doc had shown up right after Granny vanished. First, he’d been looking for Granny, somehow sensing that her ghost had been around, and then he’d turned his focus onto Deana. He’d questioned her, but she hadn’t told him a thing. Deana resolved she wouldn’t tell anyone. Not ever, if she could help it.
They all deserved better. But Granny had made sure this whole name business would be a struggle. A life-or-death struggle.
Deana frowned, feeling wrinkles in her forehead. It made her look like an angry guard dog, Deirdre always told her, but given what she knew, it was an appropriate expression.
“I’m going to fix this,” Deana said aloud in the quiet room. “Not just for you, Desi. For all of us.” She’d been wrestling with telling her sisters, and decided against it. Her heart filled as she looked at her sisters again. How would she go on, being a lone Nightingale?
If she stood here much longer, she’d lose her nerve. She slid the window open, hoping the bike grease she’d rubbed on the window earlier would allow it to open easily—no such luck. The window screeched as she pushed it up.
Her sisters came out of bed like they’d been shot.
“What’s going on?”
“Deana, what are you doing?”
“Are you leaving?” That was from Desdemona.
Slowly, Deana turned and braced herself for the performance of her life. “I am,” she said, feeling their eyes on her.
“Why?” asked Daniella, her arms crossed.
“I don’t want to live a life that someone else chose for me,” Deana said, hoping her voice stayed firm. She was afraid she was going to burst into tears, tell them the truth. But her excuse made sense, as Meema had just told them about their responsibilities, and their ability to never die. None of them knew the truth, however. The truth was her burden now.
“I’m tired of all the stuff and nonsense that comes from being one of those Nightingale girls,” Deana said, rolling her eyes. “I want to go where no one has ever heard of us. And I’m tired of freezing my parts off every winter. I’m going to California, where it’s warm. I’m going to live on the beach.”
She’d just made that up on the spot, but after she said it, she knew that’s what she would do. California was where she was supposed to go.
Silence followed her words. Then Desdemona, always the leader, came forward, and wrapped Deana in her arms. “It’s not going to be the same without you, Deana. We love you. Always and forever. Let us know when you get there, and for goodness sake, if you need money, don’t be a stubborn mule and refuse to ask.” She pulled away, and Deana could see the shiny trail of tears that fell down Desi’s cheeks.
Deana started to cry. “I don’t want to leave you, but I have to.”
“You’ll die,” Deirdre said.
“We’re supposed to die. Us not dying is not normal,” Deana shot back. “I accept that.”
Daniella came forward, wrapping her arms around Deana and Desdemona, and Deirdre followed.
Deana would never forget it—the moon shining in silver and bright, lighting up the entire room. Her sisters, surrounding her with love. She wrenched away from them, and slid out the window, and down the drainpipe that ran next to their room.
“Love you,” she heard from the window. As she looked up, she could see the dark heads of her sisters, their hair falling over their shoulders as they watched her.
“Love you,” she said. Deana blew them a kiss, and hurried away, wiping her eyes. “Damn you, Granny,” she muttered.
1926
Venice, California
Deana strained, trying to contain her scream. Whoever said this was going to be overshadowed by the wonder of the baby must have been a man who had no idea what the hell he was talking about because this hurt more than anything she’d ever experienced. It was as though a giant hand grabbed her round the belly and kept squeezing.
“You’re almost there,” the midwife said. “Keep pushing, that’s a good girl.” She patted Deana’s forehead with a damp cloth.
Deana avoided her gaze, as well as the pitying expression on the assistant midwife’s face. They felt sorry for her, a woman having a baby, with no man anywhere to be found.
She didn’t need a man. She had herself, and all the skills Meema had taught her. She’d bought a house and was making herbs and tinctures for those in need of help in Venice and doing a booming business in spells to boot. Meema would have taken a switch to her, selling spells, but she needed the work, and it paid better than any secretary’s job. It was a secretary’s job that had gotten her in the mess in the first place—the boss man brought in a friend who wanted to play footsie, and she’d been too stupid to know the deal. Well, and that friend had known who she was, known her family—but she wouldn’t think about that right now. Because right now, she was having a baby.
No, she didn’t need the father. She didn’t need a man at all. Certainly not that one. She was pretty sure he wouldn’t be bothering her again. Not unless he wanted a greeting that included her foot in his nether region. Even his kind responded to such things, and she’d make sure it hurt.
“One more,” the midwife said, her face red and shining, a grin breaking her stern expression. “The baby’s alm
ost here!”
Deana bore down, and she felt the rush of the child come into the world. Tears filled her eyes. She wished she was surrounded by her mother and sisters, but that life was gone.
“What is it?” she asked, letting her head fall back against the bolster.
“A fine girl!” The midwife was gently kneading her belly, helping to finish up the birthing process.
The assistant carried the baby over to the dresser, and cleaned her, carefully wiping the tiny person. The baby wailed, strong and loud, and Deana felt a whoosh of gratitude race through her.
“It’s a girl, Meema,” she whispered. “Another Nightingale.” Even though Deana went by Holliday here in California, she was a Nightingale, and so was her daughter. For good or ill.
“What’s her name?” The midwife took the baby from her assistant, now swaddled in a neatly wrapped blanket, and handed her to Deana.
Deana gazed down at the small bundle and saw eyes like her mother’s gazing back at her. A chin like her sister’s. The baby didn’t make another sound after the first wail, just gazed at her, seemingly as fascinated as Deana was.
“Her name is Desdemona,” Deana said, hardly knowing what she said.
Then she clapped her free hand over her mouth. Oh, no.
Later that night, after the midwives had gone, promising to return the next morning, Deana leaned over in bed to see where Desdemona—the fourth of the cursed name—lay sleeping in a makeshift bassinet.
“I’m not going let it hurt you, sweet girl,” she whispered. “I will break it. You’re not going to suffer.”
She brushed her hand against the soft silk of the baby’s head, and then closed her eyes and slid down to sleep.
No one would hurt her baby. Not ever. No matter what Granny had done.
Chapter One
Present Day
Deana
(Great granddaughter of the first Deana)
It begins, as it always does, with the best, most friendly, helpful of intentions.
The road to utter Hell, that is.
Isn’t that how most people get there?
My aunts in Deadwood might have a different opinion, but they’re the exception. Most people didn’t have a grandmother making deals with demons. I did. Even though that grandmother (known as Granny) is long gone, her choices live on to plague her descendants.
That’s not the point. The point is, here I am, fresh off a tangle with a really immense ass of a demon, and I’m right back in the hot seat of a supernatural tangle.
Let me back up a little bit. That road, the one to Hell? For me, it started with a phone call. On what had already been a weird day.
I’d been back from Deadwood for about two weeks. I’d helped my aunts (who were over one hundred and twenty years old and essentially immortal, as long as they stayed in Deadwood. My great grandmother, also named Deana, had left her sisters and mother and gone to Los Angeles, never to return to Deadwood) defeat a gross demon named Ashlar and discovered just as we took a breath that my aunt Desdemona, and my grandmother, who was originally named Desdemona before she legally changed her name, were both cursed.
Did you get all that? There’s a lot of D’s in that.
Me being me, I’d insisted that I stay, and help them sort yet another mess out. But all five—all three aunts and my mom and gran—had insisted I come home to Venice.
Before we’d gone to Deadwood for the funeral of my great aunt Meema (the first time I’d ever been to Deadwood, or known much about Great Gran’s family), I’d been in the process of opening my private investigative business. I’d gotten my license and had saved enough money to rent a place and open. I even had clients waiting.
So that’s what I did. Left Mom and Gran in Deadwood with the aunts who could never die. Opened the Holliday Private Investigations as I’d planned. Everything was going well, going… normally. Until this morning.
This morning, I’d gotten up early and made a pie. I didn’t know why, but the pull to get up and bake had been so strong, I hadn’t been able to stay in bed. And not just any pie—Smokin’ Hawt Cherry Chipotle pie. I’d bought cherries just yesterday on a whim. I had no idea why I had to bake, but I did. I hadn’t baked pies since before Derek, my fiancé, had died. Before he died, I baked all the time. And they hadn’t even been for Derek. They’d been for one of the members of his band.
One of the things my aunts had emphasized was to listen to my gut. They said now that I knew my history, and had used some of my witch skills, the more I used them, the more they’d grow. Intuition—known as gut instinct—was part of that.
Following my gut, I made the pie, and brought it into work. I cut it into eighths, and waited to see what happened. I couldn’t say how I knew something would happen, but I just did. It was my second official day of business. Which is when a call—the call I mentioned earlier—the one that started the road to Hell—came in from my past.
I had no idea as I answered the phone what was coming. Honestly, I was still focused on what the hell the pie and baking urge was all about. “Hello, Holliday Private Investigations, this is Deana, how can I help you?”
A silence and then, “Deana? It’s Kel.”
I nearly dropped the phone. Kel, formally known as Kelsey Grayson Worthington, was the best friend of my late fiancé, Derek Sinnful (Yes. He really did legally change his name). Derek was the lead singer in Copernicus, and Kel was the drummer. Before Derek died, they were on their way. Since then, they’d gone in a different direction.
So had I. I’d built a lot on being the future Mrs. Sinnful, and it was hard to let go of that. But I’d had to. Derek was gone. I’d lost him.
Derek had been out on a new bike, testing it up in Franklin Canyon park, and someone had hit him, and left him for dead. He hadn’t been found until later in the evening. I’d been the one to find him. The cops wouldn’t go looking for him, not deeming six hours long enough to be concerned. But I knew something was wrong. I’d known for five of the six hours since he’d left.
I’d just ignored it, telling myself I was worrying too much.
It was because of Derek I’d ended up with my PI license. I wanted to find out who had hit him. So far, nearly three years later, I hadn’t. There were no cameras, or any way to trace who’d been in the park that day.
“Kel. It’s been a long time. What’s up?” I kept my tone level. It was hard. I’d seen Kel every day of my life while Derek and I had been together. He was like family. But after Derek died—everyone fell apart, rather than coming together. Kel and me particularly. I had a particularly large beef with him, but I’d wait to see if I needed to bring that out.
“What kind of investigations do you do?” There was something off in his voice.
“All kinds. What are you looking for?”
His voice lowered to nearly a whisper. “Can I come and see you?”
“Sure. Are you okay?”
“No,” he said and hung up.
I sat back in my chair, the thread of worry that had begun when I heard his voice sprouting to full-on worry. I wouldn’t have long to wait. He’d be here soon, if he still lived where he had when we’d been friends.
Thirty minutes later, the door swung open, the soft chime I’d installed ringing. Kel came in. He looked at me, and then smiled. “Hey, Dee, how are you?”
I got up and came from around the desk to shake his hand. I wasn’t up for a hug. “I’m good.”
“This is good to see,” he said, gesturing around at my office. “Hey, is that cherry pie?”
Well, isn’t this interesting. “It is,” I agreed. “But let’s not waste time. What’s up? You sounded horrible. Have some pie and tell me about it.”
He sighed, the smile dropping from his face. He walked to my buffet table where I kept the coffee and today, the pie, put a piece on a paper plate, and sat in the chair in front of my desk. I went back to my chair. This felt bad.
“This is going to sound crazy.” He took a bite mechanically. “But thanks f
or making my favorite pie. I wouldn’t have thought you remembered. How did you know I was going to call you today?”
I shrugged. Internally, I thought, Well, shit. Now I know why I was compelled to bake this morning. I wondered if this was going to become a habit—a pie baking frenzy just before someone rolled into my life. I didn’t remember that his favorite pie was cherry, but why would I? I’d done my best to forget all about Kel.
“This is delicious, the extra spice or whatever.” He took another bite. “But about why I’m here—my situation—this is crazy,” he said again.
He had no idea what my crazy meter looked like these days. “I’ve seen some pretty strange shit. Just spit it out.”
“I went out with a witch,” he said.
“Really? A witch? That’s unusual?” I asked. I couldn’t help grinning.
He looked up and glared. “I’m serious.”
I wiped the grin off my face. “So am I. Like, a real witch? How do you know?” Since I’m part witch myself, I wondered how one told a boyfriend. I leaned forward, eager to know. Not that there was a boyfriend on the horizon. I was just interested.
“She told me, and well, after she told me, it was pretty obvious. She dealt with some… interesting characters.”
“Really?”
He shook his head as he ran a hand through his hair. “We dated for a while, and then we broke up, and I ran into someone I’d met coming in her place. That was even weirder,” Kel said, stopping to look over my head.
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