by J. D. Brown
“It might not mean anything to your great-grandmother, but it means something to whoever convinced those girls to kill themselves.”
He was right. The sigil might not be demonic, but it was still a clue. Their only clue. But she wasn’t a detective. “Doesn’t matter. There’s no connection to demons, so it’s not for me to handle. I’ll call the Emersons and let them know.”
“Really?” Sam furrowed his brow. “Your granny doesn’t have an answer, so you give up?”
Lyn side-eyed him. “Dude, Gran’s a Daughter of Eve. Like a real one. If anybody can sniff out demons, it’s her.”
“So, four different women who look exactly like you drop dead in your hometown and you’re not the least bit concerned?”
“Of course I’m concerned, but it’s Paradise. Crime happens in big cities. That’s what the cops are for.”
Sam scoffed. “You are a con artist.”
A traffic light blinked from yellow to red and Lyn slammed on the brakes. A horn blared behind them as Sam braced himself against the dashboard, but it was his comment that alarmed her. Gran had teased her about being a con artist. Coincidence?
“Are you seriously talking to me about civic duty? You eat people.”
“And you are the worst Daughter I have ever heard of.”
“Excuse me?”
Sam turned in his seat to face her. “Demons have been hunting your family for centuries, and you’re the last one. I think the Emersons were right. I think it was murder and I think the killer is targeting you specifically. But you don’t seem to have a clue what being a Daughter of Eve even means.”
Lyn’s face burned as she tightened her grip on the steering wheel. When the light changed, she stomped on the gas pedal. Sam was thrown against the backrest. He muttered profanities under his breath.
Lyn wasn’t stupid. She knew what the Daughter of Eve curse entailed. The women in her family were—according to legend—direct descendants of the biblical Eve and cursed with the ability to see demons even through their human disguises. Lesser demons weren’t intelligent enough to care, but Greater demons like Sam took offense. Especially since some of her ancestors had tried to get right with God by killing them. By the time Gran was Lyn’s age, it had been an all-out feud. Daughters versus demons. The Greater demons no longer cared about corrupting Lyn’s soul. They just wanted her dead because of who she was.
They had wanted my entire family dead.
But that was seven years ago.
Since then, there had only been a few handfuls of Lesser demons who had wandered across Lyn’s path by accident, all of them easily cut down with her sword. Being bound to her must be making Sam paranoid.
“Your anxiety is seriously annoying.”
“It’s not anxiety,” Sam growled. “You know I’m right.”
“No, I don’t. Unless you have proof, we have no reason to believe a demon was involved with the suicides. You’re making wild accusations.” Lyn might not have had any formal training, but she knew better than to speculate without the facts.
“Then we get proof,” said Sam. “If the killer’s human, you can deal with it your way. But if it’s a demon, then we’re dealing with it my way.”
Lyn really hoped Sam was wrong. If a demon was behind the suicides, picking off women who matched her description—or worse; hunting her while she was bound to Sam—then what was keeping him from taking over? They shared a soul. Her soul. Sam wanted to live. Great. But that only meant he had to keep her alive. It didn’t mean he couldn’t hurt her in a million other ways. Demons weren’t nice. They could pretend to be nice if it got them what they wanted, but they didn’t have the capacity for empathy. Greater demons were the ultimate sociopaths, impersonating human emotion in a very long game of eternal corruption.
He’s just being irrational because he’s hungry. She would continue the charade to placate him. If a killer really was instigating the suicides and they found him, then Sam could eat his soul, be right as rain, and back off. At least for a while.
She wouldn’t even consider the alternative …
“Fine,” said Lyn. “We’ll get to the bottom of it.”
Sam’s gaze narrowed like he wanted to press the issue, but his shoulders softened as he leaned against his seat. “Where are we off to next?”
“Home,” said Lyn. “There’s something I need to find.”
Clothes flew across the room as Lyn emptied her final dresser drawer. Not there. She stood and planted her fists on her hips. Turning in a slow circle, she scanned the now-vacant closet, naked book shelves, and bare crannies. Hmm.
Determined, she left her room, marched down the hall, and traipsed over the fresh mess she’d left in the living room to stand squarely in the middle of the kitchen opening. Lyn eyed the cupboards. Didn’t seem likely, but …
“Perhaps if you told me what you’re looking for I could help,” said Sam.
“My copy of The Enochian Dictionary.”
He looked at her and narrowed his gaze. She expected him to say, what? Instead, he said, “Why?”
Because that was the code Gran and I used to write our secret letters. “No reason.”
Sam cocked his brow. “You think the sigil is Enochian?”
Lyn chortled. “No.”
The so-called language of the angels was way more complex than Mr. Emerson’s sigil. Lyn put her hands on her hips again and scanned her apartment. Whatever the heck was off about her home was really starting to grate on her nerves.
“What did you do to this place?”
“Me?” Sam lifted a hand to his chest. “You’re the one who trashed it looking for a dictionary.”
“No, you did something. I know it. My apartment hasn’t felt the same since you moved in.”
Sam glanced around. “Are you referring to the fact that I cleaned it?”
Aha!
“You cleaned my apartment? What’s wrong with you?”
Sam scowled. “It was a safety hazard. I kept tripping over things.”
“A woman’s home is very personal, Sam. You can’t just throw out stuff that doesn’t belong to you. What if you threw out my dictionary? What if it’s in a grave of soda cans and banana peels with poor Johnny? We need to teach you some boundaries.”
“I wouldn’t throw out a book and I do have boundaries.” Sam crossed his arms over his chest. “I left your bedroom alone even though you have mold growing under your bed.”
Lyn wrinkled her nose. “Why were you looking under my bed?”
“I wasn’t. I can smell the mold from here.”
Gosh, he is so dramatic. Her room didn’t smell. Much. “Whatever. It’s probably in storage.” Lyn plopped down on the couch and sighed.
“If you don’t think the sigil is Enochian, then why do you want the dictionary?”
“Gran asked for it.” It wasn’t a complete lie. Gran had asked her to write, and Lyn needed the dictionary to remember how. She shrugged.
Sam narrowed his gaze to slits, which Lyn thought was odd for a blind person. “Did she say why?”
“Nope. But she is old. Maybe she’s trying to make her peace with the Lord.”
“Using a dictionary?”
“An angelic dictionary,” Lyn pointed out.
Shut up, Lyn. He’s a demon, remember?
She had a bad feeling in her gut since leaving the ward, and the feeling intensified. Sam couldn’t kill Lyn without killing himself, but Gran didn’t have that protection. In fact, Gran didn’t have any way of protecting herself at all. Lolly had disposed of her potions and charms to prove to her counselor that her grip on reality wasn’t as lost as her grandson would have them believe. Lyn should not be discussing angelic dictionaries with Sam or any other details about her great-grandmother—even though she was dying to ask him if the Enochian language was real. Would Sam know if it was? According to Gran, there was a version of the exorcism ritual that worked, so why not an angelic language? Not that any of the Daughters of Eve had ever seen an angel. L
yn snorted at the thought.
Sam stared at her, and Lyn wondered again just how blind he really was?
“Just remember, demon, Gran’s off limits.” She stood and gave him her best I mean it scowl. While Lyn didn’t really believe in angels, she did wonder briefly what would happen if she hit Sam with a crucifix—or better yet, her Enochian dictionary.
If I could find the stupid thing.
“So you’ve said.” Sam went into the tiny kitchen and got a glass of water. “And as I’ve said, I have no interest in your relatives.”
Maybe he didn’t. And maybe he was a lying son of Satan.
Forget writing letters. I’m going to check on Gran daily from now on.
“Well this has been fun, but I have to go to my actual job at the dojo and set up today’s class.”
Sam growled—he was a bit like a German Shepard that way—but Lyn interrupted him before he could demand to go to work with her. Angie would flip.
“I’ll be back before dusk and I’ll be super safe. I even have mace in my purse.”
Sam gave her a quick once-over and narrowed his gaze. “You don’t own a purse.”
“Or mace. Okay bye!”
“Hold it—”
Lyn did not hold it. She was out the door and down the stairs faster than Sam could say Oh hell no, or whatever expletives a Greater demon would use. She didn’t have her uniform or class planner with her, but they always kept extras at the dojo, and preschoolers rarely complained about review days. Lyn unlocked Notre Dame, got into the car, and sighed. That demon is getting way too clingy for his own good.
Lyn opened the door to Master Chris’s Kyuki-Do Martial Arts and marched inside.
Angie emerged from beneath the reception desk as though she had been sitting on the floor. She stood and then settled into the office chair, smoothing one hand over her brown ponytail as she scanned her friend. “Whoa. You look like crap.”
“Says the woman who was sitting on the floor.” Lyn continued to the storage closet.
“I dropped a staple.”
“And didn’t have anymore?”
“We have more. I just didn’t want anyone to step on it.” Angie swiveled in the office chair and craned her neck. “So what’s up? Rough night? Where’s Johnny?”
Lyn halted with her hand on the doorknob. She drew a deep breath and then sighed. “Sam melted the blade and threw it in the trash.”
“What?” Angie gasped. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“Because he’s cruel and unusual?” Lyn opened the closet door and rummaged through the stacks of packaged uniforms, searching for one in her size.
“So, you were with Sam last night.” Angie crossed her arms over her chest and wiggled her eyebrows. “Any bow-chicka-wow-wow?”
Lyn glared at her friend then grabbed a uniform and tore into the packaging. “Focus, Ang. Johnny’s gone. Sam killed him. It just isn’t going to work out between us.” Since no one else was in the dojo, Lyn removed her jeans right there in the office instead of going to the locker room. She tugged the stiff new martial arts pants over her legs.
Angie scoffed. “I’m pretty sure you can just take Johnny out of the trashcan and wipe him down.”
“You’re forgetting the part where Sam melted the blade. It’s completely warped. Besides, he didn’t throw Johnny in a trashcan—he threw him in one of the big industrial dumpsters outside my apartment and the stupid garbage truck guys got to it before I could.” Lyn removed her top with a sigh. “Johnny’s six-feet under in the Paradise junkyard.”
Angie frowned. “Damn. You’re right. You need to break up with him pronto.”
Lyn pulled a white T-shirt over her head and then shrugged into the uniform jacket. She found a spare black belt and tied it around her waist.
“You’re an hour early for your class, by the way. Not that I’m complaining. Better early than late.”
“Yeah.” Lyn bunched her clothes into a wad then stashed them on a high shelf. “I need to punch something for a while. Mind holding some targets for me?”
Lyn went to the training mat. Angie followed. She grabbed two padded handheld targets off the equipment rack and then braced herself. Lyn punched. Angie blocked. They practiced in silence, Lyn working up a sweat. Angie always seemed to know when Lyn needed space to think. It was nice being able to focus on a menial task without interruption. It let her clear her mind.
Lyn threw a strong right hook, and Angie winced.
“You okay?” Lyn could go for a few more rounds, but Angie didn’t have the same level of stamina.
“I’m fine,” said Angie. “It’s just …” She met Lyn’s eyes, and something somber passed over her friend’s chocolate gaze. “Sorry. I didn’t realize things were serious with this Sam guy.”
Lyn dropped her arms to her sides. “Huh?”
Angie grinned as she used one of the targets to point to herself. “I see auras, remember? You’re hemorrhaging some pretty heavy energy right now and I’ve got a feeling it’s coming from your heart chakra.”
Damn, she’s good. “It’s not Sam.”
Angie cocked her eyebrows, giving Lyn one of her looks.
“It’s not,” Lyn insisted. “I got a client yesterday.”
“Oh?” Angie lifted the targets and braced for another round. “Is this one as good as that video game nerd who wanted you to conjure a sex demon?”
Lyn laughed, remembering the guy. He was scrawny, but not bad-looking. It was his attitude that lost him points. Too bad she had to decline his request for a demonic prostitute.
“It’s worse,” she said while half-heartedly punching the targets. “Have you heard of the Paradise suicides?”
“Who hasn’t? It’s all they talk about on the news these days.”
Lyn frowned. Leave it to Angie to watch something as boring as the news.
“The parents of the latest victim came to my place yesterday. Apparently, the girls have been carving a sigil into their chests right before offing themselves. Violet Emerson’s parents wanted to know if I could tell them anything about it.”
“Wow,” said Angie. “That’s like a totally legitimate case.”
“That’s the problem,” said Lyn. “I’m no private investigator, much less a detective. And chances are this sigil is just some made-up B.S.”
“Is it? Have you talked to Lolly?”
“Saw her this morning. She said the sigil’s not demonic, but that doesn’t mean whoever’s instigating these suicides didn’t lift it off some occult website or something. Hey, you’re a New Age hippy—”
“Let me stop you right there.” Angie lowered her arms. “I may have the ability to see auras, and I may have dabbled in Eastern medicine to understand this ability, but that does not mean I worship the occult.”
Lyn shrugged. “You say tomato, I say potato.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Will you look at the sigil or not?”
Angie sighed. “You have a copy?”
Lyn nodded. “Mr. Emerson drew a sketch.”
“Then I’ll do you one better; ever heard of Google image search?”
She had, but Lyn’s Google-fu was sorely lacking. She preferred doing things the old-fashioned way; a.k.a. manipulating her best friend into doing her homework for her. Lyn flashed a cheeky smile. “Angie, I love you. The sketch is in my jeans pocket. Knock yourself out.”
“Oh I’m not doing it for you, young grasshopper. You can keep the deposit check, but the rest of the Emersons’ money is mine.”
Lyn frowned. “Hey.”
“Don’t hey me, missy. You owe me three-hundred-and-thirty dollars.”
“Hold on. Where’d the extra thirty come from?”
Angie grinned. “Ten percent interest.”
“Very funny,” said Lyn. “Where’d you learn that, Ponzi Schemes 101?”
“Yep. Right between The Real World 102 and Adulting 203.”
“They let you watch The Real World in accounting class? Which seaso
n?”
Angie giggled then sobered. “Seriously though, be careful with this case. All the victims have been blonde and well …” Angie’s gaze traveled the length of Lyn’s five-foot-seven frame. “You’re the blondest person I know.”
“Awe, thanks babe. That’s sweet.”
“I mean it.” Angie hung the targets on the equipment rack and shook out her biceps.
“Relax,” said Lyn. “I’m just going to give the Emersons whatever information you find on the sigil. They can take the info to the police and go from there. Easy peasy.”
I hope.
6
Vanilla Bean Latte
A s Lyn set up stations along the training mat, her students gathered at the center, excited to start class. She threw her hands in the air, signaling the start of their first exercise, and twenty-four miniature versions followed suit.
Her heart soared for the next thirty-minutes as she watched the kids achieve new milestones. Their little faces lit up as they completed each task. Toddler-sized ninjas are the most adorable things on earth.
She caught sight of Master Chris entering the dojo as she called for the third water break of class. He waved hello from the sidelines and she waved back. A chortle bubbled in her chest as she thought of the role Master Chris played in her life. The intimidating giant with thick gray hair used to terrify her when she was a child, but he had grown a friendlier disposition over the years—with far less hair, of course. Chris and his wife never had children of their own, but Lyn liked to think all the Kyuki-Do students were their children. The dojo had been a second home for her, a second family. Shoot, Master Chris had probably saved her sanity and her life just by being there, week after week, year after year.
“Sticker time,” Lyn called out when the final three minutes of class neared. The kids cheered as they lined up in front of the shelf that held a very special treasure chest of multi-colored stickers. Lyn lowered the Caboodle kit from its perch and opened the lid. Each student chose a sticker in their favorite color and then skipped to the lobby to show their parents.
Though Lyn had another class to prep for, she decided to check in with Angie first. Her BFF’s butt was firmly planted in the office chair, her nose glued to the computer screen. Lyn pressed her palms against the reception desk and leaned forward. “How’s it going, lady-face?”
