To the Devil a Daughter

by K. H. Koehler

  “Me, too,” he says with a crooked grin. “We put the fun in dysfunction.”

  I laugh as I drive away.

  38

  I GET back to the Seaside Motel all foggy-eyed and grumpy from lack of sleep. I step into our room, hoping to find Sebastian passed out in bed—or even the bathtub in the bathroom; I’ve found him in there a time or two—but the room is empty and his bed looks like a war zone.

  Sighing, I pull my phone out and ping his cell. Both of us got the app in case one of us was ever stuck on the side of the road—a bad winter storm or an accident. Pennsylvania roads are hell on Earth, especially in the winter. Well, that’s what I told Sebastian, anyway. But this is the real reason. The man needs a fucking animal tracker.

  After I get an address, I check us out and go back out to the jeep. Along the way, I get a bottle of water and a Snickers bar from a vending machine before I pass out where I’m standing. I’m running on virtually no sleep and no food. A big part of my brain is telling me to sit down on a curb and cry it out, but I don’t have time for that shit. Instead, I drive to the dive bar in downtown Philly. It’s a smoky little Irish pub with peeling yellow wallpaper, an ancient jukebox, and a broken Budweiser lamp over the single pool table in the back.

  The barkeep—a large man with tattoos down both arms and those earlobe-stretching rings that always give me the heebie-jeebies, looks up from wiping down the bar. He takes one look at my face and easily reads my expression. “You here for Willard?”

  “Willard?”

  He raises his hand to Sebastian height. “A hundred pounds dripping wet? Thinks he’s a goddamn rat?”

  I open my mouth, but I don’t know what to say to that. “That…sounds like Sebastian,” I say as I follow him into the back room. There are shelves full of boxes of booze, as well as huge kegs stacked in one corner. Sebastian is curled up in the corner, his head twisted into what looks like a pretty uncomfortable position. Bruises dot his face and he smells like cheap, bottom-shelf gin and vomit.

  “Kept telling folks he was a rat and was crawling along the floor. Then he started a fight, so someone dropped his stupid ass.”

  I put my hands on my face and say through my fingers, “You didn’t throw him out?”

  The barkeep turns his head and looks at me, appalled. “I’m not a monster. I’ve got kids, lady.”

  “Sorry.”

  “He yours?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Get ’im the hell outta here. He’s stinking up my joint.”

  That turns out to be harder than I expect. Sebastian might “weight a hundred pound dripping wet,” but that’s still a lot of dead weight for a gal like me to haul up. Plus, I keep sliding around in Sebastian’s vomit. Oh, yuck!

  The barkeep finally takes pity on me, grabs my partner like he’s a damned rag doll, and throws him over one burly shoulder. We take him out to the jeep and the barkeep dumps him into the backseat. Sebastian moans but doesn’t stir.

  I get into the driver’s seat and pull the collar of my hoodie up over my nose to cut the stink filling my car.

  “For god’s sake, lady. Get ’im some help,” the barkeep says before returning inside. Before he slams the door closed, he adds, “He’s going to get himself killed one of these days.”

  39

  AFTER DUMPING Sebastian into bed—by now, he’s at least stumbling even if he can’t walk a straight line, which helps in getting him up the stairs—and kicking a wastepaper basket close to his inflatable bed (just in case), I trudge back downstairs to start cleaning up the shop. I’m wasted from driving and punch drunk from lack of sleep or real food. I go to the prep room to put the little coffee machine on and get the cleaning supplies assembled since it looks like this is all on me—not that I’m better. Much.

  I go out into the ruins of our shop, take one look around at all the debris, sink to the floor, and cry my eyes out for about five minutes. I’m still sobbing like a baby when I see a tall shadow approach the shop. The glass in the door is gone, but someone—Sheri, maybe—has thoughtfully pounded up a piece of cardboard. I can’t see who it is.

  My hackles go up. Naturally, I wonder if it’s the Toltecs coming back for round two, I’ve had about enough of those bastards. I reach into my pocket and pull the Devil’s Tarot loose, spreading the cards in my hand. They feel warm and seem to vibrate with anticipation.

  “Go away!” I shout at the shadow behind the door.

  And so it does. Suddenly—like smoke.

  I’m about to sigh with relief when a tall figure manifests in the shop by the broken glass display shelves. I throw the cards at it impulsively. And, let me tell you, they cut through the air as if they’re a circular saw. A second later—a second too late—I register that it’s my dad standing there. I see the cards go right for his throat, and I immediately think, Oh shit…!

  He raises his hand and the cards stop on a dime, inches from his larynx. With a flourish, he snatches them easily out of the air.

  “Da—” I remember what he told me. I don’t use that name. “John.”

  He doesn’t look upset. “You’ve mastered them, I see,” he says, a smile in his voice.

  I swallow hard and quickly rub at my hot, tearful face before climbing to my feet. “Uh…sorry…I thought…”

  He waves it away. No harm, no foul. “It’s excellent form.” He crunches over the broken glass to hand me back the cards. He doesn’t seem at all upset, and I start to question all my earlier assumptions about him.

  He even smirks as he turns to glance over the mess. “You made someone very angry.”

  “I’m good at that.”

  “As am I.” With a nod, he turns to look back at me. His face, as always, is expressionless, but I can see something new in his eyes. I wonder if he can tell I’ve been crying. I half-expect some sage but ultimately useless wisdom to come out of his mouth. Instead, he says, “Have a broom? I’ll help you clean up.”

  My mouth drops open and I have to close it. “O…kay.”

  I hurry back to the prep room, gather my cleaning supplies, and step back into the shop.

  To my surprise, he hasn’t run off. I hand him the broom and dustpan and we spend the next two hours cleaning the floor. I have to drag a large trashcan into the shop for all the broken glass. It’s heavy by the time we’re done, but John carries it out to the dumpster and turns it over with no trouble at all. We then proceed to swab and disinfect the whole room. That takes another hour and a half.

  We’re both exhausted by the end of it. We haven’t spoken much. Once, I asked him why he stopped by and he said he was hoping for that daddy/daughter date he talked about. I laughed.

  “Not much of a ‘date,’” I say as we finish up. We’ve cleared the debris. And I’ve dumped all the candy in the shop since I have no idea if any of it is safe.

  “This was interesting,” John says as he sprays Windex on the display window and wipes it away. The Toltecs broke the door, but they thankfully overlooked the display window—which would have cost a lot more to replace.

  “Not what you saw yourself doing today,” I say as I stand there, staring at the jagged remains of the glass display shelves. They were custom-made. I don’t know how I will replace them without going bankrupt. Maybe after we’re through here, I’ll get drunk like Sebastian and pass out in some dive somewhere.

  John comes up behind me. “I know a guy who can take care of that and the other damages. I’ll send him over tomorrow if that works for you.”

  Although his offer is kind, I turn around and eye him suspiciously. “I can’t pay for it.”

  “Did I ask you for money?” He makes a face. “Humans and money. I don’t understand the appeal, myself.”

  “Why are you being so nice to me?”

  He frowns as if my question is ridiculous. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  I gesture wildly. “I don’t know…because you told me you don’t love me!”

  His raises his eyebrows at my statement. “But I never said I did
n’t like you, darling.” He smiles at me gregariously. “I’m starved. Do you want to blow this pop stand and get some food?”

  So, that’s how I wind up going with the Devil in his convertible to this uptown sushi bar where they make the food right in front of you. It’s while I’m seated at the counter, struggling to use my chopsticks, that he says, “Have you decided on how you will kill Tupoc?”

  A sushi roll slips through my chopsticks and winds up on the bar top. I ignore it. “No. I mean, how am I supposed to do that?”

  “I suggest payback.” He pauses and picks up a sushi roll with expert precision before popping it into his mouth. “You strike first. When dealing with a brujo verde, it’s important to exert your dominance. It’s the only way your enemy will respect you.”

  “You’re suggesting I start a turf war with a Mexican drug cartel?” I glance around the sushi shop to make certain no one is listening in on this madness, but everyone is preoccupied with the sizzling hibachi grill where their food is being prepared. “I’m not sure I can handle that.”

  “You can if your well is deep enough.”

  The magic well stuff again. “Yeah, well, mine’s kind of shallow at the moment,” I admit with a nervous laugh. “More of a child’s wading pool.”

  “It’s deeper than you think,” John says, expertly popping another sushi roll into his mouth. “It’s there. You just have to fill it with the energy of your brides.”

  I laugh because he’s instructing me with his mouth full, and I never expect that from someone of his ilk. “Is this how real witchery works?”

  “No. This is how we work,” he explains.

  I think our “daddy/daughter date” is over. But, after we finish dinner, we head downtown to an old used bookstore. The proprietor, an older gent with a beard and ward tattoos peeking out of his open shirt, waves to us as we enter.

  The shop is tiny and filled with a maze of shelves. It smells like old books and magic. It’s instantly homey to me and reminds me of the old public library I used to hide out in back in Whitehall, where I grew up. I never liked playing with other kids, so I usually hid behind the shelves and read science fiction novels about other worlds.

  John escorts me past a curtain and into the back.

  The proprietor follows. “What can I get you today, my lord?” he asks.

  John glances around at the unsorted books in boxes and in towers. “I would like a few beginner books for my young friend here.” He rattles off a number of titles, but I’m not really paying attention because I’ve spotted something interesting in an open box sitting on the desk in one corner of the room. I step over to it and eye the twin towers of comic books inside, slipping the first one off the top.

  My heart lurches when I see it’s an old Supergirl comic from sometime late in the 1980s. I figured my mom must have read them when she was a teenager. I’d forgotten all about them, but the sight brings back a plethora of pleasant memories. One of the few I have of my adoptive parents.

  John moves up alongside me. He indicates the box as he turns toward his proprietor friend. “I want this box, as well.”

  “No. This is too much. I can never pay you back for any of this,” I tell him as I set the comic back inside the box. I don’t want to be in his debt. I mean, there is a whole subgenre of stories about people who accept favors from the Devil. It never ends well for them.

  John makes a flourish with his hand. “They’re comic books, darling. I’m not giving you gold.”

  I watch helplessly as he has his friend load some books on magic and the box of comics into the backseat of his convertible. There is no monetary transaction, but the man who owns the shop doesn’t seem to care. He just looks happy to see my father.

  “I really can’t,” I tell John as I get back into the passenger seat.

  “Nonsense. It’s a small thing,” he says while we head back to the shop.

  He walks me upstairs. By that time, Sebastian is up and hanging his head on the sofa while an old movie plays on the TV. But he’s not listening to what Humphrey Bogart has to say. He has burrito-wrapped himself in a blanket and looks like he would rather be dead than hungover.

  “Right then,” John says after he sets the box of comics down near my bed. “I should be on my way.”

  Sebastian looks over but doesn’t say anything about me hanging out with the tall, blond guy. He simply draws his legs up on the sofa and moans through his hangover.

  I walk John back down to his car, parked in the alley behind the shop.

  “There is no way I can pay you back for all this,” I tell him. “The repairs…the books…none of it. I’m broke. Totally broke.” I try hard not to cry in front of him. I know he doesn’t like to see tears.

  “You’ll have new customers soon,” he assures me with total confidence.

  Before he jumps back into his car, he hovers there a long moment, and I have this gut feeling he wants something from me. I think about hugging him, but then decide against it and shake his hand instead. He’s sweet, but we’re not that kind of family.

  40

  AS PISSED off as I am, there’s no point in taking Sebastian to task. A tiger isn’t going to change its stripes. And an alcoholic isn’t going to wake up one day and turn over a new leaf unless he wants to.

  I finally crash out for a while, waking groggy and disoriented sometime later. I think I’ve only been down a few hours, but when I look at my phone, I see I’ve slept round the clock. I think about going downstairs to start a new batch of hard candy, but then realize it’s futile since I don’t have a store to sell it in. I’m stuck waiting to see if my dad comes through with the guy he knows.

  In the end, I wind up lying in bed, paging through the comic books my dad bought for me, following Linda Danvers’s struggle to create a separate identity for herself.

  It’s probably near midnight when I start getting the idea. It starts as a brief flash of inspiration in the deepest whorl of my brain. I laugh over it. But as I move through the comic book issues, it starts to take hold, branching out in my head until it’s filled it like a tanglewoods—albeit one with perhaps more than a few thorns.

  I get up and pick through my clothes. I still don’t have a closet, just a big Tupperware tote on the floor with all my clothes heaped into it—someone of it unwashed. I find the leather jacket I wore when I went to see the Toltecs, but nothing else I own comes even close to what I need.

  By morning, I’m still feeling tired, but I’m also hyped for my idea, so I jump into my jeep and drive uptown, keeping my eyes peeled for a particular kind of store. When I spot it—a small, exclusive shop specializing in motorcycle fashion—I park on the street and go inside. I’m not super big on browsing in these places, and, anyway, I’m on a mission. I go straight for what I need and wind up buying a pair of leather biker jeans and boots with low, comfortable heels even though the clerk insists I’d look so much better in the expensive stilettos she tries to sell me.

  I have one more stop to make. It’s a long shot, and it takes a bit of googling, but it’s worth it, though I have to drive to the other edge of Philly to find a costume shop. Inside, I look around at all the costumes hanging on racks and the masks and various headdresses hanging from hooks on the walls.

  A middle-aged woman walks up to me and asks if I need any help.

  I turn and say, “Would you have any Maleficent costumes?”

  She looks surprised. “I’m not sure. That went out of style last year.”

  “Could you check?”

  She retreats to the back room, returning a few minutes later with one old, ratty costume that looks like it’s seen better years, not days. But I don’t care about that.

  “I just want the atora,” I tell her.

  “I’m not sure we can sell just…what?”

  I point to the horned headdress in her hand.

  She looks confused. “I’d have to speak to the manager…”

  “Forget it,” I tell her grumpily. “I’ll buy the whole cost
ume. But maybe you can give me a discount?”

  Getting the costume eats up the rest of my petty cash. I quickly dump the ratty black gown in the dumpster behind the shop, then get back in the jeep. I wind up sitting there, looking at Maleficent’s headdress, wondering if this is the best idea I’ve ever had—or the dumbest.

  In the next few hours, I’ll either be a hero or a dead woman.

  Either way, I’m about to find out.

  41

  THE SCREECHY sound of an electric drill wakes me from a deep but troubling sleep about things burning. The minute my eyes are open, I start to forget about the dream, but there are snatches. A house was on fire, and I think I was running through the rooms, trying to ferret out all the pets before they burned up in the fire. It doesn’t take a genius to figure out the psychology behind the dream.

  I feel awful—headachy and nauseated—as I head downstairs to my useless shop, the last of the dream thankfully disappearing from my head.

  Sebastian suddenly dances into view. He’s dressed and groomed and doesn’t look hungover. He has two coffees from the Starbucks across the street and hands me one. “Isn’t it bloody terrific?” he says as he escorts me into the shop.

  A handsome young guy in blue jeans and a chambray work shirt tailored to his muscular build is down on one knee, replacing the L-brackets for the metal shelves that were destroyed in the vandalism. Sitting on the floor are several large, but very narrow, cardboard boxes. I realize they contain replacement glass panes.

  The young man looks around and smiles up at me. “Princess.”

  I immediately know who he is. He’s my dad’s guy. The one who’s supposed to do the repairs on our store.

  “We won like a community lottery or something and this handsome lad is doing the repairs for free,” Sebastian beams.

  “That’s great,” I say after I sip my coffee. I opt not to explain about my dad or what we discussed. I’m just not ready for it. But Sebastian is so awestruck by the young man, he’s not even looking at me, so I go back upstairs and lock myself in the bathroom so I can take a long, hot shower and try to wash away the sleep and fatigue.