To the Devil a Daughter

by K. H. Koehler

  At the top, I spy the Victorian farmhouse for the first time. It’s one of those huge, rambly structures that’s probably 150 years old—but quite obviously renovated with its white vinyl siding, green shutters, and a large array of solar panels on the new-looking metal roof. At least Nick is doing his part for the environment.

  I spot a large, unattached garage, a massive indoor greenhouse that takes up an entire wing, and a large, paved pavilion. The house is incredibly secluded, and though it doesn’t have a black iron fence around it or any obvious barriers, I don’t doubt it has some form of high-tech surveillance monitoring everything. And that guess is borne out when I park on the pavilion and I see a young man come around the side of the house. He’s sweaty and looks to have been gardening. He takes one look in my direction, peels off is gardening gloves, and disappears into the house.

  I park near the road, get out, and start across the large pavilion. That’s when I see the front door open again. I steel myself for unpleasantness. I figure Nick isn’t going to like me harassing him at his personal hacienda, but the half dozen people who emerge don’t look particularly threatening. They are all young people—college age, I’d guess—and dressed in flimsy clothing like robes, nightgowns, or just trousers, the outlines of their smooth, young, naked bodies clearly visible through the soft white material. They are barefoot and watch me for a long second as I stand there at the foot of the deck stairs, rubbing my sneakered left foot against my right calf.

  I shiver a little, recalling what Morgana said about Nick being holed up with a bunch of Satanists. They don’t look particularly threatening, but then, neither did any of the cultists in The Wicker Man until the final reel of the movie.

  Steeling myself and taking a deep breath, I start walking toward the Wicker People, watching them carefully for any signs I’m in trouble, but they don’t move at all—not until I’m within a few feet of them. Only then do they react.

  The first one in line, a young man, bare-chested and in just white, summery linen slacks, steps forward and holds out both hands as if to welcome me.

  “You are she?” he asks, sounding breathless. “Lady Lucifer?”

  This again. Now I’m sorry I ever used that name.

  “Y-yeah. That’s me. I guess.”

  He nods once, slowly, but with great gravity. “Your presence is unexpected…but not unwelcome.” He sinks to his knees and the others follow suit until all the young Wicker People are kneeling in a row in front of me. Some even begin to sing some wordless dirge.

  “Welcome home,” says the young man at my feet. “How may we serve the Princess of Perdition?”

  33

  INSIDE THE expansive foyer, the young man in the white trousers—Henry—offers to take my hoodie, but I clasp my arms around myself.

  A woman who looks a lot like him steps up to me. “Hello, Princess, I’m Amber.” She smiles brightly with something like stars in her eyes. She is wearing a diaphanous white nightgown that leaves very little to the imagination. I look over at Henry and note that I can pretty much see right through his white cotton trousers. Both are pretty and delicate, with sandy blond hair and large green eyes. Their voluptuous bodies are enhanced rather than hidden by their wardrobe choices. I try not to stare, but I can’t help myself. I keep glancing at Amber’s pert nipples tenting the material of her gown.

  Dragging my eyes away, I look around at the rest of the coven. I get the impression that, for these Satanists, at least, clothes are pretty optional.

  “Perhaps we should give the princess some breathing room,” Henry says to Amber, sensing my unease. His sister nods and both of them step back but wait as if expecting orders from me.

  I find I can breathe easier without them crowding me. They radiate such a strong sense of raw sexuality, it makes me uncomfortable. I mean, I’m hardly a prude, but I’m also not really into the whole “free love” thing, whether it comes from Satanists or just regular people. I need a certain level of trust between my partner and myself before we move to that stage.

  “You are welcomed anywhere in the house,” Henry further explains. He indicates the room and everything beyond it. “But we are here, if you need guidance or are looking for something.”

  “Yes,” I tell Henry. “I need to talk to Nick.”

  Amber’s eyebrows bounce up. “Of course, Princess.”

  I wish they would stop calling me that.

  Amber looks at Henry, who nods. They seem to pass some silent communication between themselves. Looking back at me, she says, “We can take you to him if you wish.”

  “I wish.”

  Henry and Amber escort me through the corridors of the house. It’s spotless and tastefully and simply decorated despite the rather unusual number of young people living here. There are rooms where small classes seem to be going on. Real life Hogwarts, I assume.

  Amber motions to a pair of French doors up ahead and whispers, “Nick’s in the atrium. Meditating.”

  “Meditating.” My voice is dubious, to say the least. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Nick meditate in my life. Maybe zone out on a Netflix show after too much weed. But meditate? No.

  The twins open the French doors and I’m hit with the warm, verdant air that comes gusting out of the attached greenhouse. The greenhouse itself is full of small flowering trees, large, frilly flowers, and countless herbs growing in pots. I don’t doubt most of these have medicinal and ceremonial purposes. They’re probably used in the classes I saw. But I can’t identify them. I’ve never been that kind of witch.

  After the twins close the doors behind me, I start picking my way down a path between some tall, potted plants that look suspiciously like Mary Jane. As I push some leaves out of my way, I almost trip over a man lying in one of those old-timey canvas loungers that you have ever only seen in Tom & Jerry cartoons. He’s wearing sunglasses against the glare of the sun pouring through the greenhouse and holding a phone up in front of his face. Because he’s lying so low and has the phone up to block the glare on the screen, I can see he’s talking to a pretty girl on Facebook, sending her heart emotes in a PM.

  “Nick?” I say because I know it’s him.

  Nick Englebrecht almost jumps out of his skin at the sound of my voice. He drops the phone accidentally, then scrambles to catch it before it smashes on the floor. Sitting up quickly, he pushes the sunglasses to the top of his head and looks at me. Maybe it’s because I’ve surprised him, but he doesn’t look like himself for a second. His eyes look deeper and a little bit darker than usual, and his mouth is set in a grim line that reminds me too much of our father. There is something…harder about him. Which seems an oxymoron, because Nick has always been all hard lines and sharp edges: Too tall, too thin, too coarse, too mouthy…far too dangerous for my own good. Now, all that seems more amplified.

  But seconds later, after he sees it’s me, his mouth softens and his eyes clear and he just looks like Nick. Scruffy, blond Nick who hasn’t shaved in maybe two days and needs his wardrobe updated, because in the white tank top, slightly baggy jeans, and open brown flannel shirt, he looks like some throwaway grunge artist from the 1990s. One thing is different, though. Nick used to wear his hair in a scruffy, spiky shag, but now it’s long enough for him to tie it up in a messy man-bun.

  “Viv,” he says, sitting up fully. His voice is guarded as he slips his phone into his back pocket. He can’t seem to pull his eyes away from me. “Sorry, I was…”

  “Meditating?” I arch an eyebrow at him.

  He smiles sheepishly. Wickedly.

  God, that smile. It still makes me weak in the knees, and I hate him for that. I hate that no matter what he does, or how much he fucks things up, you want to forgive him. You want to believe in him. If he weren’t such a slacker, he would have already created a death cult or become a politician and started a full-scale war or something.

  “Meditating…yeah. The kids are great.” He cocks his head toward the glass doors. “But they can be a little…overbearing at times. So
I come out here to get away.” Suddenly jumping up, he changes the subject. “What are you doing here? Not that I mind, because I don’t…”

  Standing there, surrounded by all that sunshine, I find it very hard to believe he’s the son of the Devil. That he is, in fact, the reigning Devil on Earth. The scourge of church institutions and good and decent people everywhere. He doesn’t look very…devilish, at the moment. But, then, he never really has.

  “I came to talk to you.” Suddenly, I feel shy and wrap my arms around myself despite the oppressive heat of the greenhouse. “It’s important. And not something I can discuss over a phone.”

  He nods. “Okay.”

  I notice he’s keeping some distance between us. No surprise there. I’ve warned him away from me enough times. And he, unlike most people, really knows what I can do when I get upset.

  I hate this. That he fears me. That I hate him as much as I love him. What we have is so fucked up!

  Gathering myself, I dig the cards out of my hoodie pocket and unwrap them so he can see. “Our father gave these to me to protect me.” I look up. “I’m in a lot of trouble, Nick. In way over my head, in fact.”

  I see the concern on his face as he first looks at the cards, then up at me. It squeezes my heart a little.

  “But that’s not why I’m here,” I quickly add. “These are supposed to help. Except I don’t know how to use them. Hell, they don’t seem to work for me at all!”

  My eyes fill with burning tears and the shame of my incompetence, but I dash them away. I don’t expect Nick to take much pity on me. In our last encounter, we screwed each other’s brains out, and then he left angry. We’d vowed to never cross paths again. We’d both been so damned angry at each other.

  The lust, followed by the anger. A cycle that never seems to end…

  I stare down at my feet, awaiting his judgment.

  When I feel him approach, I stiffen up. But he doesn’t strike me down or throw me out, even though I probably deserve it. Instead, he puts a long arm around me, and soon enough, I find myself collapsing against his chest, smelling the light, airy scent that’s just him, and I feel his warmth, and I try not to cry like a fool and fail horribly.

  “Oh, Viv,” he says and kisses the top of my head. “We’ll figure it out.”

  34

  WHEN WE go back inside the house, I see Nick’s little coven is racing around with dishes and silverware. “I really don’t want to put you guys out…”

  “It’s no problem. We’re happy you’re here,” Amber says, breaking away from the others. Her voice is giddy with excitement. She is carrying a lighted candle that makes her eyes, bright and adoring, look like they are full of stars.

  This is weird. I’ve never had a “fan” before, but I guess it feels like this.

  “Nick, the caterer is coming by in ten minutes with dinner,” she tells my brother before turning to me. In a conspiratorial whisper, she adds, “It’s just Domino’s, but we like to call it that.”

  I try not to laugh at that. “Seriously. You shouldn’t have gone to such trouble.”

  “It’s extremely rare to have you both here at the same time. We want to celebrate it tonight with a spontaneous esbat. I mean…” Amber’s eyes dart back over to Nick. “If that’s okay with you, Nick.”

  The deference she is showing him is astonishing. I realize these guys are deadly serious about their order.

  “Sure,” Nick says with a shrug. He looks at me. “I’m always up for a party.”

  Amber shakes her head good-naturedly before going off to finish lighting the candles.

  We eat pizza and hot wings on the large attached deck. That, at least, feels normal, though the coven watches me intently, hanging on every word I say, even though they’re mostly just single-syllable responses to Nick’s questions about what I’ve been up to lately. I don’t reveal too much. Mostly because I don’t want the young people here being caught in the wake of…whatever fucked up situation I’m presently in the middle of. They seem nice for Satanists—and Amber and Henry seem particularly friendly. I have the feeling they would do almost anything to help me.

  While the coven happily cleans up the dirty dishes, I follow Nick down a flight of stairs to the basement, which has been converted into a cozy, English-style study. The room is expansive and paneled, and the walls have bookcases full of arcane texts. One whole wall is dedicated to athames, wands, and other popular tools of the craft. More ideograms are carved into the floor—for ceremonial purposes, I assume. But it doesn’t feel scary down here. There is soft lamplight and brown leather sofas set up for relaxation. We stop at a large desk covered in books, many of them lying open.

  Nick picks one up and shows me. It’s an old text on conjuring—not the kind of book I expect Nick to have much interest in. He’s always played fast and loose with the craft, and I know he wings his spells most of the time. Sometimes that works. Other times—not.

  “I’ve been studying my ass off,” he explains, and I can tell he’s immensely proud of himself. “Conjuring, casting, necromancy…even demonology, believe it or not. It’s interesting stuff.” Nick has never been what you would call “studious.” He’s not stupid, don’t get me wrong, but he’s never had much interest in the craft until recently.

  “This is interesting,” I agree.

  “The Children of Endor have one of the most extensive collections of esoteric texts on the craft in the world.” He indicates a stack of books. “And these are just the hardcopy editions. They have a whole freakin’ Guttenberg-style database of lost or nearly-lost texts online.”

  I page through one of Nick’s books, surprised by some of the glyphs and spells I see. This ain’t amateur hour, that’s for sure.

  “As you can see, I’m trying to better control my craft…” He stops as if he’s said too much.

  I look up. “Did something happen? Something bad?”

  He opens his mouth, closes it. “Things…have been challenging lately. There was this creature, and it was being controlled by this dude, and he’s a really bad dude…” He stops. I wait for him to elaborate on this really bad dude of his. Instead, he starts cleaning up his mess, muttering, “I know what all this looks like to the outside world, but the coven is serious business, Viv. I promise it’s not all partying up here in the House on Haunted Hill.”

  I stand there, watching him stack the closed books neatly and carefully the way you do when something means a lot to you. He looks tired. Troubled.

  Old.

  I’ve never known Nick to look old before, and Morgana’s warning comes back to me.

  He’s changed, she said. Suddenly, I believe it.

  Reaching out, I lay my hand on his arm.

  He stiffens in response but then looks up. He’s pressed against the big oaken desk. Nowhere to go. So when I run both hands over his tense shoulders—I can’t help but touch him; he’s like a drug I can’t live without—he slowly relaxes and his posture changes. Opens to me. I step closer and lower my hands and run them down the front of his body, over the soft white undershirt. His muscles are hard, his nipples peaked. His entire rangy body seems to melt a little at my touch until his head is canted downward and his breath is touching my face. His eyes are closed, his lips parted.

  I turn my head to kiss those lips. They aren’t at all soft or full or giving, like in the romance novels. His mouth is hard, his teeth inhumanely sharp. It’s like kissing a predator, but I feel my entire body melt against his as I seek more. As we increase the pressure of the kiss. His hand cups the side of my face, holding it with heart-tripping strength. He has big hands; they encompass the entire side of my face, and suddenly he’s growling like an animal coming awake from hibernation.

  Grabbing me, he stands up and turns, unceremoniously dumping me on the edge of the desk and shoving my legs open so he can fit himself in between. He bends to kiss me again, but he’s fierce now. Hungry. His teeth snap at my lips and his hands dig into my sides. I wriggle in his embrace, wanting him close
…closer. Inside me.

  As we moan and bite our way into each other’s mouths, a thought comes to me: This isn’t the relationship I want.

  The thought is unexpected, and I wonder if he’s had the same one—or if it’s even possible it’s coming from him. Because he stops kissing me and just stares down at me a long, hard moment.

  “It’s not,” I tell him breathlessly.

  His thought or mine, I don’t know. But he says, “Yeah. I know.”

  I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. The lump that is so much want. “We have to stop doing this, Nick. All this wanting, followed by all this hating of each other—and ourselves. I don’t want to live like this anymore.”

  “Yeah,” he agrees.

  “We…” I gasp for breath. “We need to try something different. Something new.”

  “Yeah. We do.”

  It’s the hardest thing I have ever done. Turning him down. But we manage it. He lets go of me and puts distance between us—not a lot. I don’t want to lose him. I want my brother! So I put my hands on his shoulders to stop him moving too far away, then slide them behind his neck and pull him to me once more—but only for a long, tight, and utterly asexual hug.

  “I’m sorry. So fucking sorry, Nick…” I cry on his shoulder.

  He doesn’t answer, but that’s because he’s crying, too.

  35

  AFTER WE pull ourselves together, we spend time looking through about two dozen rare texts on divination that the Children of Endor own, hoping they will give us something to work with, or some mention of the Devil’s Tarot. I’d never even heard of it, and neither has Nick, even though he should technically own them as part of his infernal arsenal.