by J. D. Brown
Sam narrowed his gaze. “If only you meant it.”
Lyn smiled. “Believe it or not, I don’t actually have a death wish. I’ll be your Whitney, but without the atrocious soundtrack.”
“I don’t know what that means.”
Lyn rolled her eyes. “It means I won’t take a single step in any direction without your approval.”
“So, you won’t try to run off or drive away without me?”
“Scouts honor. I’ll stick to your side like a Siamese twin.”
Sam scanned her. “All right, so long as you keep your word.”
“Great. I’m going to get dressed. Oh wait, is it okay if I step on this tile? The Duke might be hiding under that tile. Do you want to examine it first?”
“Lyn …”
“What about the hallway? Is the coast clear in the hallway?”
“Lyn …”
“Did you check my room? I bet he’s hiding in my closet.”
Sam snorted. “If anything, he spawned from the mold under your bed.”
“Well you better go check, otherwise how am I supposed to trust you with my life?”
“You’re going to make this as ridiculous as possible, aren’t you?”
Lyn smiled. “Yep.”
“I despise you.”
“Aww, I despise you too. Hey, maybe that can be our soundtrack spoof.”
Sam grumbled under his breath and then stalked off in the direction of the living room.
Lyn grinned to herself. She still didn’t trust him. At least not with anything other than her life, and even then she wasn’t so sure. But for now, she would cooperate. At least until one of them found a way to get rid of the Duke. Then she’d find a way to deal with Sam.
13
Voluntary Lobotomy
“S orry I slept in.” It wasn’t the most original excuse she had given her BFF for not answering the phone earlier, but it was the most believable. Lyn held her cell phone between her chin and shoulder while shrugging into her favorite pair of skinny jeans.
“It’s fine,” said Angie. “Any luck solving your little demon issue?”
Lyn chortled. “Little? Try epic. And sadly, no luck at all.”
“You haven’t touched Lolly’s journal since I found it in the storage unit yesterday, have you?”
If she only had a third hand, Lyn would facepalm herself. She completely forgot she had meant to skim through it for ways to kill Dantalion before Sam tied her to the bed. But no way in heck was she telling Angie about the bed thing. Her BFF would totally take it the wrong way.
“I was a little busy.”
“Yeah, doing what?”
“Uh, memorizing the exorcism ritual. Duh.” She meant to do that too before Sam lost his marbles. “You ready to be the Salem to my Sabrina?”
“You’re making me the cat? Why can’t I be Zelda?”
“Dude, everyone knows Salem was the best part of that show.”
“Switching to a serious conversation now.”
“You’re no fun.” Lyn lay across the bed and sucked in her stomach so she could button her jeans.
“I’ve been thinking. Since it’s your birthday and all, maybe Lolly could wait one more day before we do this? I mean, you said it’s not that bad, right? Plus, I have a calculous test to study for.”
“Weaseling your way out of helping the elderly, huh? I have to tell you, Garcia, I’m disappointed.”
“No you’re not,” Angie murmured, calling Lyn’s bluff.
In truth, Lyn was beginning to chicken out. If the ritual didn’t go well, she certainly didn’t want to spend her birthday making funeral arrangements. But she also felt incredibly selfish leaving Gran to suffer alone while she was out having fun.
“Lyn?” said Angie when she had gone silent. “She’ll be okay, right?”
“Of course.”
“Okay. I’ll pick you up at nine?”
“I have a few things to do after work. How ‘bout I meet you at Tryst?”
“Those things don’t involve hunting a Duke of Hell by yourself, do they?”
“Nope.”
“Lyn?”
“What? I swear.” I swear I won’t be by myself. Angie really needed to pay more attention to her choice of words.
“Fine. See you there.”
“See you.” Lyn hung up, pulled a black T-shirt over her bra, and then dialed Mr. Emerson’s number. She brushed her blonde tresses with her fingers while the line trilled.
“Hello?”
“Mr. Emerson, hi. This is Lyn Conway, the paranormal investigator.” God that sounded ridiculous. No wonder clients were few and far between.
“Yes, I remember.”
“Any chance you have some time today to go over the information I found regarding the sigil?”
“You found something?” He sounded so hopeful.
“It’s not much, but I’d rather give it to you in person. Can we meet somewhere?”
“I can take a lunch break in one hour. Is that good?”
“Perfect. Just give me an address.” Lyn scanned her room for a pen. Yeah, her laundry probably ate all her pens.
“It’s the insurance firm off Plum Grove Road; Pete’s Liberty Insurance.”
Lyn dashed into the living room where Sam was listening to the news. She snapped her fingers to get his attention then made an erratic scribbling motion with her hand.
Sam arched his brow.
Ah, what am I doing? He’s blind.
Mr. Emersion kept talking. “The number is one-two-two—”
“Slow down there, Speed Racer, I’m still looking for a pen.”
Sam snorted. “The drawer under the microwave.”
“Who keeps pens under a microwave? What if they melt or mutate?”
“I beg your pardon?” asked Mr. Emerson.
“Uh, nothing, sorry. How ’bout that address now.” Lyn darted into the kitchen and grabbed the first pen in the drawer. “One-two-two—” She tried writing the numbers on her hand, but the ink was dry. She shook the pen and tried again to no avail.
“—Three-five Plum Grove. We’re on the South side.”
Lyn grabbed a second pen, but that one didn’t work either. “Are you kidding me?”
“No … I’ve worked here fifteen years. That’s the address.”
Lyn tossed the pen in the drawer and put her hand on her hip. “Pete’s Liberty you said?”
“That’s right.”
“Okay, see you in an hour.” Thank God for GPS.
Lyn hung up.
“So.” Sam leaned against the kitchen wall and crossed his arms. He’d changed into faded blue jeans and a short-sleeve plaid shirt. “Where are we going?”
Lyn pocketed her phone then drew a breath. “Dave’s Mocha, Mr. Emerson’s job, the bank, my job, the store, then Tryst.”
“Tryst?”
“It’s a bar.”
Sam’s gaze lowered. “About that; I researched twenty-first birthdays and the traditional festivities.”
Oh boy, here we go …
“I understand binge drinking is a rite of passage, but I was hoping for the sake of your liver and both our lives that you would reconsider.”
“Sam—”
“Before you argue, keep in mind that you are being hunted by a creature that can make you kill yourself with a single thought. It wouldn’t take him any effort at all, but imagine if you were already intoxicated for him.”
“Jesus, you’re a real buzz kill. All right, in the interest of living to see my twenty-second birthday, I promise not to drink tonight.” Angie is going to be so disappointed. “But only for tonight. Tomorrow I’m having tequila with my breakfast.”
“Alcohol will kill you faster than caffeine,” said Sam.
“So will air pollution. You want me to stop breathing?”
Sam’s mouth tightened into a thin line.
“That’s what I thought.” She went to the closet to grab her gym bag and Kyuki-Do uniform and slung them both over her should
er. “Keep up, demon, I got places to be.”
Lyn shoved the last bite of a breakfast sandwich from Dave’s Mocha into her mouth while bobbing her head to Pearl Jam. She drove past Pete’s Liberty Insurance and then circled around the block for the third time.
“You’re missing it on purpose,” said Sam.
“Duh. I wasn’t done eating.”
“You couldn’t have swallowed that last piece while parking?”
“Nope.”
Sam sighed. “I give up.”
“Now you’re learning.” Lyn washed down the sandwich with a sip of Flat White and wished it were a strawberry smoothie. Even with Notre Dame’s windows rolled down, she was sweaty. And Dame’s fuel gage hovered just above empty, so air-conditioning was not an option.
“What do you plan on telling Mr. Emerson?”
“Not the truth.”
“I certainly hope not.”
Lyn took a right turn. They passed a beautiful Victorian house painted an appalling shade of bubblegum pink. “I still can’t believe that house is pink. I mean pink? Of all the colors of the rainbow, what on earth possessed the owner to choose bubblegum pink? I’ll never get over it. I could go home and bleach my eyeballs until they melted out of my skull and I still wouldn’t get over that color. Hey, I bet the Duke lives there.”
“You have no idea what you’re going to say to Mr. Emerson do you?”
“Not a clue.”
“Want me to handle it?”
“No thanks.”
“Are you going to circle around the block until his lunch break is over?”
“Can I?”
Sam shrugged. “Doesn’t make a difference to me.”
Lyn grumbled. I’m being ridiculous. Just give Mr. Emerson the folder with the information Angie had printed.
She just wished she could do more, like pop a cap in the Duke’s ass or something. It wasn’t right, all these blasted demons toying with human lives. Lyn’s chest tightened. She knew the Emersons’ grief too well. She shared it. Worse—she knew the truth about their daughter’s killer and she had to shoulder that truth while lying to Mr. Emerson’s face.
Sighing, Lyn pulled into the parking lot of Pete’s Liberty Insurance and killed the engine. “Wait here.”
“No way. Bodyguard, remember?” Sam got out and shut the door.
“Fine,” said Lyn as she joined him on the asphalt. “Just don’t say ‘bodyguard’ out loud to anyone, please.”
Sam snorted. “I’m blind, not stupid.”
“You should’ve gotten some coffee while we were at Dave’s. Coffee makes people happy and nice to be around.”
“The only way I’ll be happy in your company is with a lobotomy.”
“Are you volunteering?”
His gaze found hers and the edge of his mouth curved. “Just get the Hell inside.”
He didn’t have to tell her twice. Lyn was melting into a puddle, and Pete’s looked like it had air-conditioning. They entered the lobby and paused to sigh under the big industrial grade vents in the ceiling.
“Oh baby, I just wish these were pointed the other way so I could do a Marilyn Monroe.”
“You’re not wearing a skirt.”
“It’d still be nice.”
“Lyn?” Mr. Emerson’s voice came from the side. She spun to face him.
“Mr. Emerson. Sorry I’m late. You remember Sam?”
Sam stood with his face pointed to the ceiling, eyes closed as his silver-tipped locks rippled in the artificial breeze. “Come back when I’m a popsicle.”
Mr. Emerson chuckled. “Why don’t we talk in my office.”
“Is your office under a vent?” asked Lyn.
“No, but I promise the entire building is kept at a comfortable sixty-two degrees.”
Lyn grudgingly followed Mr. Emerson to a cubical near the back of the building. He pulled out a chair and she sat. Photographs of Violet lined his desk. A knot welled in her throat as she opened her gym bag. “I won’t take up much of your time, Mr. Emerson.”
“Please, call me Ed.”
Lyn placed a blue folder on the desk while Mr. Emerson lowered into an armchair across from her. She couldn’t call him Ed. He was too nice a person, and she was about to feed him some bullshit he didn’t deserve.
“The sigil is a common one. You can find it just about anywhere.” There weren’t many customers in the firm at that moment, but Lyn kept her voice down anyway as she tried to break the news to him gently. “It symbolizes a class of demons known as the Dukes of Hell.”
Mr. Emerson opened the folder and scanned the first page. “When you say anywhere …?”
“Literature. Film. Video games. Cartoon characters. You name it. The Dukes of Hell are a theological trope as common as Santa Claus. You’re welcome to do your own research, but I’m afraid you’re going to have a heck of a time trying to narrow it down to anything substantial.”
“Dukes of Hell …” Mr. Emerson murmured to himself.
“My guess is the cops kept it out of the media to prevent rumors. This sort of thing spreads conspiracy theories like wildfire. Wackos come out of the woodwork with asinine stories claiming to know who the perp is just to get their fifteen minutes of fame. If you ask me, Detective Jackson did the right thing ignoring the sigil in favor of more concrete evidence.”
“So that’s your professional advice? Ignore it?”
“No, Mr. Emerson. My advice is to let the police do their job.”
Mr. Emerson turned to the side and wiped his eyes. “Excuse me.”
Crap. Lyn’s heart crumbled and she found herself wiping tears of her own.
Mr. Emerson handed her a tissue.
She dabbed at her eyes and then blew her nose. “I’m so sorry. I’m usually more professional than this, I swear.”
Mr. Emerson chuckled. “I appreciate it.” He stood and reached into his back pocket, producing a wallet. “Three-hundred, right?”
“Don’t you dare.” Lyn waved her hands. “I can’t accept that.”
“Please. You warned me there might be nothing to find. I have to compensate you for trying.”
“I didn’t even do anything. It took my associate five minutes on the internet. In fact, I’d refund your down payment if I hadn’t already spent it.”
Mr. Emerson laughed. “Word of advice from a businessman; don’t tell your clients how much time you did or didn’t spend on them.”
“Duly noted.”
Violet’s father scanned her and smiled. “I think my daughter would’ve liked you.”
“I’m sure I would’ve liked her.”
“Tell you what.” Mr. Emerson tucked his wallet away. “I’ll keep my money if you promise to have dinner with my wife and me next week. She makes amazing lasagna.”
Lyn smiled and shrugged. “How can I say no to lasagna?”
“You can’t. Oh, and you can bring that young man out there with you too.”
“I’m sure he’d like that,” said Lyn.
“Well … shall we?”
Lyn stood. Mr. Emerson walked her back to the lobby were Sam waited near the exit. She said her goodbyes to Violet’s father—officially the coolest dad Lyn had ever met—and then followed Sam outside. The sweltering heat had her walking like a zombie by the time they reached her car.
Ah, why didn’t I take the money? It’s going to be a long day of sitting in a sauna known as Notre Dame. She unlocked the doors, slid into the driver’s seat, and buckled her seatbelt. As she turned over the engine, she noticed Sam’s sour expression. His shoulders were tense and his eyes did that double-vision thing again; all soul-sucking-ly dark and vortex-y despite the milky blue cataracts.
“What’s the matter, demon? I would’ve thought you’d be right at home in this heat.”
“Hell is dry.”
Lyn blinked. He knocked her right off her guard with that one. “Dude, really? Like a desert?”
“Yes really, like a desert.”
“With cacti?”
&
nbsp; “No.”
“With pitchforks?”
“Can we go to the bank now?”
Lyn bit the inside of her cheek and winced. “Sorry, but we’re skipping the bank. And the gas station. I’m afraid we’re stuck with no A/C. I know it sucks, but I couldn’t lie to Mr. Emerson and take his money. I’m not a thief.”
Sam glanced at her then looked away. “I know.”
14
Hooker-Heels
S am gazed at the nondescript building through the windshield of Lyn’s car as she threw the gear into park and shut off the engine.
“We’re here,” she announced before sliding out of the vehicle.
Sam followed. “That’s it? No ‘stay in the car’? No ‘wait here’? No ‘you might scare the children’?”
“Don’t be silly. I’d love for you to see what I really do for a living.”
Sam rolled his eyes. “Sarcasm does not become you.”
“Eh, just don’t let the kids touch your hair.”
“Not a problem.” He trailed after her as she opened the door and entered a small lobby.
“Remove your shoes and socks please.”
He arched his brow.
“No really. Shoes and socks are not allowed beyond this point.” As though to prove it, she removed her sandals and placed them on a shelf.
Sam sighed then bent down to untie his sneakers. He pulled off both shoes and socks and then sat them next to hers.
With a curve of lips, and a flutter of satisfaction, Lyn continued past a room—Sam assumed it was an office of some sort—to a wide-open space full of brightly colored objects. The material beneath his feet bounced a bit, as though he’d stepped onto a thickly padded mat.
“Sit here and enjoy the show,” she instructed. “I’ll be right back.”
“Where are you going?”
