Life Sentence (Paranormal Detectives Series Book 3)

by Lily Luchesi

  “Danny,” she said, gesturing to the holy water vial he kept in his jacket. She wanted him to use the liquid on the demon, while she cut it. Without needing to say anything but that one word, he stepped forward and started slowly, as she had, but only trickling some water on the backs of its hands. He looked a bit upset at the deed, and she could feel his emotions because his blood was still rushing through her veins. He was disgusted and apprehensive. She hated that he felt that way, but there was no other way to deal with demons: they understood only one thing, and that was violence.

  “So, Leander Price is your boss, obviously. Do you eavesdrop on your boss’ conversations? Have you heard what his little contract exemption is for Fiona Guilfoyle?” she asked.

  “The only thing my boss has told me is that they’re gonna make you suffer before you die, vamplet,” the demon said.

  “Big talk from someone who can’t hurt me,” Angelica commented. She took the knife and stuck just the tip into the top of its chest, where the shirt parted. She sliced sideways, neatly filleting a flap of skin off to reveal the pink, bloody flesh beneath.

  Not giving it a chance to recover from that pain, Danny sprinkled more holy water onto the wound. Angelica hoped that the room on the floor below them was empty, because the screams would quite literally wake the dead.

  “Now, what is Fiona’s exemption?” she asked.

  “Fuck off!” the demon cried, face still screwed into an expression of pain.

  Angelica did not like being spoken to in such a manner, and she turned her blade straight downwards, spearing the vessel’s penis like a skewer. She hoped Danny didn’t get struck deaf by its screech.

  “Watch your tone, you son of a bitch, or this will get much worse.” She kept the knife where it was, buried in the flesh. Blood was soaking through its pants, staining the carpet. “What is Fiona’s exemption?”

  It stayed silent, biting through its lip because of the pain. Angelica ripped the knife out and used her boot to step on its wounded crotch, putting pressure on the injury. In the back of her mind, she knew Danny was feeling ill over all of this, and she knew she’d have to do some damage control with him, but right then the most important thing was getting information. Time was running out.

  “Angie.” Danny’s voice was weak, and when she turned she saw how deathly pale he was. “I think…I think I have an easier way to do this. So you can stop the torture. Please.”

  “Okay,” she said quietly. “What is it?”

  “Left thigh. I can see it.”

  He didn’t need to explain further. The demonic essence was settled in the left thigh, and she could use that as the perfect leverage. Why hadn’t she thought of this sooner? For that matter, why hadn’t he?

  She squeezed his arm. “Thank you.” Turning back to the demon, she smiled at it as it looked up at her with hate and rage in its eyes.

  “So, here’s a new deal. I know your essence settled right here.” She pressed the tip of the blade at the thigh, not cutting but putting a little pressure there. “So, you can tell me what you know and I can simply send you back to Hell, or I can kill you. Your choice.”

  “You’re bluffing,” it said, pain making its voice hoarse.

  She chuckled. “Oh, no. See, killing you is so easy. So beneficial. In fact, maybe I’ll just get it over with now.” She made a show of raising the knife high, ready to bring it back down.

  “STOP!” the demon cried, fearful. “I’ll tell you, but it didn’t make much sense to me.”

  “Talk. Quickly.” Angie kept dangling the knife a centimeter away from the essence.

  The demon swallowed hard and said, “She couldn’t kill with magic. That was her exemption. On All Soul’s Day, her soul is free of the contract and that means that she can use black magic to murder people for twenty-four hours. Including you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  “So, I’ve always wondered something,” Fiona said, lying next to Leander in his bed. Not that he ever used it to sleep in, of course.

  “Oh, no. Please tell me you’re not going to play twenty questions with me,” Leander sighed.

  She looked him over; his broad chest, hazel eyes, pink pouty lips, just his everything was so delicious. She could see how he had been related to Jonathan Price. He was just as alluring, with the same sparkle of life in his eyes. If she couldn’t have Danny, then at least she got second-best…for now.

  She giggled, running her French-manicured nails down his chest. “No, I was just wondering… how did a hunter decide to become a demon? Isn’t that, like, against your code or something?” she asked.

  He looked up at the ceiling, snapping his fingers and a cigar appeared in them, along with two glasses of whiskey, one of which he handed to her. “I’m not sure I’m up to talking about it right now. It was long ago, and it worked out for the best, as you see.”

  She sipped her whiskey. Just because she didn’t need sustenance didn’t meant that she was going to abstain from simple pleasures like alcohol. “Yes, but I have really been curious. I know why I made my deal, but what was your deal? How did you get to be so high and mighty instead of a low demon?”

  Leander gave her a cold look. “We are not sharing personal pillow talk, Fiona.”

  “It’s not pillow talk,” she huffed. “It’s called you know what my story is, and I think it’s only fair that you satisfy my curiosity. I am, after all, helping you kill that bitch Cross.”

  “Fine. You’re still new at this, so can you see memories like I can?” he asked.

  She nodded.

  “Good. Take my hand.”

  ***

  London, England

  1810

  Leander stumbled back into the library with a gunshot wound to his shoulder. Immediately, Dr. Finnigan ran to assist him, saying that he needed to get to the surgery.

  “Fuck surgery!” he gasped angrily, undoing his tie. “Make me a tourniquet. Now!”

  Michael started to do as he said when Ben stepped up to face Leander. Leander could not remember the last time he had seen such cold hate in the coroner’s eyes. It was disconcerting.

  “Since you’re injured I will let this go, but mark my words: next time you speak to Michael in such a way I will wring your neck, Price,” he warned. “He’s not a servant.”

  “What happened?” Michael interjected before the two could get into a proper argument.

  “That vampire has bewitched Vincent. He believes that he is in love with her! It was he who shot me,” Leander complained, hissing as Michael cleaned the wound with fresh water and whiskey. He was usually great with pain, but he had to sit down as he got dizzy from this. It had been a long time since he had been shot. He noticed Michael and Ben glancing at each other over his head. “What?”

  Ben cleared his throat. “We know.”

  “You know what, Quinn?” Leander asked.

  “We know that Vincent is in love with Veronica Delarue. We have been wanting to bring this up with you, but we weren’t quite sure how to approach the topic,” Michael said.

  Leander stayed silent, controlling his rage and disbelief.

  “You know I can’t be glamoured, Price,” Ben said, lighting his pipe. “I went there with Michael to try to talk to Vincent and allow him to see the error of his ways before it was too late. It seems that we have all been very wrong in our views of the paranormal community. You know that I do not take well to being proven wrong on any account—”

  “That’s quite the understatement,” Michael interrupted.

  “However,” Ben continued, “I must admit to the error of my ways. And Michael, I do apologize for ever giving you such an incorrect impression. There are werewolves who are in the British Armed Forces. America as well. None of these vampires who reside in London have killed for food in centuries. In fact, we saw financial statements that proves that Lady Delarue employs humans as living blood donors.

  “Of course, I investigated further, being unable to take her word for it. As Michael and I interview
ed former employees, we found that she is indeed telling the truth. We have been going about this all wrong, my friend. While there are still creatures who kill, creatures we need to incapacitate, we have been too hasty in our persecution of that which we do not understand.”

  Leander shot up from his chair. “Are you out of your mind, Quinn? And you, Finnigan, you are both men of science! You cannot possibly believe these horrendous lies!”

  “They are not lies, Leander,” Michael said quietly. “I think it is high time we reevaluated our perception of the supernatural community to fit the truth, not the tales we have been told. I know that you came of age in an honored family of hunters, but what your ancestors knew is not the truth any longer.

  “Times have changed, and if we do not change with them, we run the risk of certain death and extinction. We are treating them all like lepers, when they are merely misunderstood and sorely misrepresented by their pasts.”

  Leander looked at Michael as if he had grown multiple heads. “You cannot be seriously considering that vampires can be…what, high class citizens?”

  Ben scoffed. “Of course not. Not all of them, in any case. Look here, Veronica has not had a body count behind her in quite some time. And you said it yourself, she is an infamous vampire. Much lore has been recorded about her. Yet, not since 1720 has she had a murder connected to her.

  “We need to treat these creatures on a case-by-case basis, just as we treat humans. We do not judge all humans by the actions of those Inspector Linwood apprehends, do we? No. So why should vampires and werewolves be any different? They have consciences, free wills, hearts, and sound minds. We have been gravely mistaken by our personal experiences, and I daresay we need to change our ways immediately, lest we hurt more than we help.”

  Leander could not believe his ears. How could they, who have witnessed the brutality of the Undead, possibly begin to trust the most ancient of them all? How could they take the sides of unnatural killers?

  “She has bewitched you both!” Leander cried, reaching for his firearm. They both needed to die, before they ruined everything and allowed monsters to have the rights of humans. Before he could take aim, it was shot from his hand, the skin getting grazed, but not too harmed. The gun flew across the room, going off as it hit the far wall. Michael was holding his pistol, and it was smoking. Even in his pain and disbelief, Leander admired his uncanny aim.

  “Do. Not. Touch. Him,” the doctor said, his face more grave than Leander had ever seen it. “Leander, we know this is a lot to take in. Sleep on it. You will come around to our way of thinking after some meditation on the subject. I’m sure that’s why you are reacting this way. But I swear to you: if you try to harm either of us, the next bullet will not hit your hand.” He did not lower his weapon.

  Leander went to make a move, but he was beginning to feel quite weak. He fell back into the chair he had risen from, his head spinning. “What did you…?”

  Ben gave a peculiar smirk. “You were overexcited. I merely took it upon myself to administer a small dose of morphine. It’s a new drug Dr. Finnigan has been experimenting with in hospital. Very effective, especially seeing as how you need surgery on your arm.”

  Leander said nothing in response. He was too weak. They took him in a carriage to the surgery, and he felt nearly nothing as Finnigan stitched his wound closed. He felt as if he were being kept prisoner, and wondered if he was being held this way as revenge from Veronica, for trying to kill her.

  He realized that that was not the case when, two days after he had been drugged, Michael and Ben came into his room at St. Bartholomew’s.

  “Have you anything to say?” Michael asked Ben, who sighed. “Come on,” the doctor prodded. “Just like we talked about.”

  “Leander, I apologize for drugging you without your permission. However, I am glad that I did, for I am afraid that you would have killed one of us that night,” the coroner said. “Here is what we propose: you can remain in London if you wish, though I am sure you are eager to go back to America. However, when hunting here, on what is essentially our grounds, you will follow our rules, that you do not execute a creature unless you have solid proof of its wrongdoings. And that is all.”

  Leander wanted to protest. Every fiber of his being knew that what Quinn and Finnigan were proposing was preposterous. Monsters were evil. They wanted one thing: to feed. However, were he to disagree, he would be forced back to America. He knew that Quinn’s elder brother had it within his power to order his deportation, and he could not leave. Not until he had successfully killed Veronica Delarue.

  He sighed, swallowing all of his pride. “I have had time to consider your perspective, and I find that I am willing to try and do things your way. With one condition: we do not, in any way, associate willingly with monsters, be they killers or not. That includes Delarue…and Vincent, were he to turn.”

  Both men glanced at each other. “Fair enough,” Ben said, extending his hand to shake with Leander.

  Leander kept his promise. Despite Ben’s opinion that most monsters were of a more genial disposition, there was no shortage of work for the three hunters. It seemed that each week Linwood would send more corpses to Quinn, killed by unnatural creatures.

  It was not until 1832 that things changed for the worse.

  It had gotten to the point that Leander had stopped being so focused on killing Delarue. If Vincent was keeping her in line, there was no need to go in and possibly get himself killed. He regretted the loss of such a wonderful hunter as Cross, and he also regretted losing such a good friend. He never questioned Vincent’s loyalty, and he admitted that he had been crushed at his friend’s betrayal. When Leander had come to London, he had only been nineteen, eight years younger than Vincent. He was now thirty-seven, and was less childish in his views on people. However, he still held Vincent in a special place. The man had been a good friend, as good a friend to him as Michael was to Ben.

  So when Vincent came to his door in complete disarray, begging for help, he did not think twice about going to help him.

  Vincent’s dark hair had not greyed with age. In fact, it looked as if age was agreeing with him quite well. He looked well-to-do, and not as if he was being regularly fed upon by a hungry vampiress.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked Vincent, trying not to be glad to see his old friend after all this time. He did not think to ask how Vincent had known his new address.

  “I need help. There is one of the good werewolves in my panic room. He’s been possessed by a demon! Please, Leander. She doesn’t want it killed outright, and I do not know any exorcisms,” he begged, his bright blue eyes wide with fear and desperation.

  “Have you your horse?” Leander asked, pulling on his coat as he locked his door behind him.

  Vincent did, and Leander road behind him as Vincent raced through the London streets. They could not speak with the speed they were going at, so Leander had time to compose himself in the presence of his old friend, as they walked into Cumberland Manor.

  “You are lucky you found me alone, Cross,” he said to Vincent. “After you defected, we never expected to have contact with you again. In fact, it was I who forbade the others to contact you.”

  “You know why I left, Leander,” Vincent snapped, his blue eyes bright in the torchlight. “And if you only came to belittle me, you can go.”

  “Don’t be brash, Cross,” Leander said. His eyes fell on Veronica, who had not aged a day in eighteen years. His eyes then fell on the beautiful young woman who stood next to Veronica. She had Veronica’s appearance and Vincent’s mein. “And who is she?” he asked, his heart pounding in his ears out of fear, recalling an ancient prophecy he had prayed would never come to fruition.

  “‘She’,” the girl began, offended, “is his daughter, Angelica. Who are you?”

  Leander was sure that he looked ashen, and he felt as if he were to faint at any time. “You never told me you sired a child with her,” he said, his deep voice trembling. He hated how hi
s fear showed!

  “I did not know I needed to keep you updated on my family tree,” Vincent said. “Now, can you help us or not?”

  Leander approached the shifter, giving Angelica a wide berth. “This shifter is possessed by a demon,” he said, repeating what Vincent had told him.

  “What can you do for him?” Angelica asked. Her voice was trembling, and her fear and pain surprised him.

  “I suppose I can exorcise him. Your…father was quite insistent that you would not want him killed outright. Of course, when he said ‘she’ I assumed he meant his wife, not a daughter I never knew existed. I must warn you, child, if I do not kill him now, you will see a sight you’ll wish to forget,” he said, hoping to draw out more emotion from the girl.

  “What do you mean?” Angelica asked. It seemed that, despite being a vampire, she knew very little about the Underworld.

  “When a demon exits a body, it leaves behind a mental carnage that no institution has ever experienced. It would be a mercy killing if I executed him now,” Leander explained.

  “You will not kill him!” Angelica ordered, making him smirk. He was a man unused to being ordered about and he found it cute that she thought she could give him orders.

  “As you wish, dhampir,” he said, wondering if that really was considered an insult. He had never met a half-vampire before. He had thought that they only existed in legend. He pulled a small book from his inside pocket and began reciting a Latin exorcism. He always kept the little book with him, as it was filled with necessary prayers and information.

  He quickly made the demon exit the shifter’s body.

  Angelica went to approach the chair and untie her victimized friend when he instinctively grabbed her shoulders to hold her back.

  “If you untie him, dhampir, you will unleash a mad werewolf on your family. You, first, shall surely die at his hand, and your family shall follow. Is that what you want?” Leander said.