by Jessica King
THE DARKNESS
OF IVY
----------------------------------
THE IVY HART MYSTERY SERIES
JESSICA KING
Copyright © 2020 Jessica King
All rights reserved.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
About This Book
A deadly killer with a connection to her past is back 10 years later...
Over a decade ago, Ivy Hart found the dead body of her mother along with a calling card that has haunted her for years.
Now a detective for the LAPD, Ivy is put on the case of a serial killer whose murders of young women are made even more chilling by the SAME tell-tale calling card left with the bodies—one that Ivy can never forget.
While tracking the killer, Ivy discovers a conspiracy organization known as the Kingsmen who hunt women they believe to be witches. The startling discovery leads Ivy one step closer to solving the deaths of all the women, and the secrets behind the death of her mother too.
But with the Kingsmen aware she is hot on their trail, Ivy must solve the case before her body becomes the next one on the pile.
The hunter becomes the hunted in this masterpiece of a psychological thriller. Scroll back up and one click to download your copy right now!
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER ONE
Saturday, February 11, 2017 10:13 PM
Amber Woodward was used to being followed into her dressing room after her shows. Impersonating Aline Rousseau, Hollywood’s “Top Babe of the Year,” lent itself to that sort of thing, and she had an uncanny resemblance to the star that often led her audience members to try to snag a closer look. She swiped a makeup wipe over her ruby lips.
“Look, I don’t do private shows, autographs, or—”
“Nancy Caughman.” Amber rolled her eyes and turned around.
The man who had followed her tonight was tall and burly. A bit lumberjack-ish for L.A., she thought.
“Who?”
The lumberjack lookalike scoffed, taking a step toward her. “As if you don’t know, Ethel Miller.” His fingers, calloused and cracked at the knuckles, wrapped around the beads of the vintage lamp Amber had placed in the room only a few weeks ago. He tugged, and one of the strands broke, beads scattering across the cheap rug. “Or should I call you Harriet Wilson?” His voice was a steady, dangerous sound, and Amber reached for the pepper spray on her keychain.
“Rebecca Simpers? Sarah Pepper?” His rounded shoulders rose as he took another step forward. He smelled of cigarettes and salty night air, and Amber felt a horror twisting in her stomach.
“I-I don’t know who those people are.” Her fingers shook around the pepper spray’s trigger, and the man swiped at her hands, snatching away her only chance of freedom.
She stumbled backward, a heel snapping. The backs of her legs hit her makeup table, and tiny glass bottles filled with perfume and nail polish toppled onto their sides. The lights around the mirror shook, and the man’s shadow against the wall seemed to grow three sizes.
Amber tried to scream but only let out a raspy, pathetic noise. She shifted her hand, and The Capricorn’s Guide to Personal Success fell to the ground. The glittering cover made a smacking noise as it hit.
“Liar!” The man shoved a hand into his jacket pocket, a worn leather thing with matted fleece around the collar. “Witch!”
Amber didn’t need to see the gun to know it was there, its barrel pressing against the fabric in a way that made her head swim.
“Please,” Amber whispered. “S-Sarah Simpers?” she asked, hoping that some level of agreement might defuse the danger. Amber looked out the small window across the room and begged for someone to walk by. She knew the window faced out into an ally, but this was the time for miracles.
The man reached into his other pocket, pulling out a packet. She could see a series of images in a plastic wallet picture-holder as he let it fall open accordion-style.
Amber didn’t care to see what those pictures would show. Kicking off her heels, she tried to slip past the man. But the room was too small to create space between them, and when he stomped down sideways on her heel, Amber heard something snap. A sharp, lancing pain streaked from her ankle up to her thigh as she tumbled to the ground; she was finally able to release a shriek. On the floor, the cold of the cement radiated into her palms from beneath the thin velvet carpet. She reached a fist toward the door to pound on it.
“Quiet!” Pressure increased on the broken bone, and Amber bit her tongue until she tasted metal.
The man shoved the pictures in front of her eyes. They were all…her. But, then again, they couldn’t be. She didn’t remember taking any of these pictures, except for the very first one—the picture she used on her social media profiles. The barrel of the gun pointed to each photo in turn.
“Amber Woodward.” A kick to her screaming ankle.
“Nancy Caughman.” A picture of Amber’s near twin in a collared, patterned dress stared back at her.
“Ethel Miller.”
This one, a grainy black and white photo of a woman in a corseted gown with voluminous sleeves, gave Amber chills. She shared the woman’s eyes, lips, and nose.
“I don’t know, I don’t know,” Amber said, crying as the gun moved to the next picture.
“Harriet Wilson.” A horribly dilapidated image of a woman in a dress that, in other circumstances, Amber would have laughed at. But the figure of the woman, the set of her face…she was Amber’s ancient mirror.
“Rebecca Simpers. Sarah Pepper.” Two reproductions of what must have been painted portraits sat side by side. They could have been an artist’s rendering of Amber, had she been covered in heavy layers of clothing.
Amber started to see black at the edges of her vision as her eyes skimmed the dates written in a sloppy hand at the bottom of each picture. Her picture at the top had the day’s date. It was smudged as if the writer had slid the photo back into the plastic casing before the ink had time to dry. And the years of the women after her: 1962, 1922, 1840, 1785, 1692. She dragged her eyes up to the man who stood above her, the look of a horrible, avenging warrior on his face.
“I’m not—”
The man’s spit landed in her face. “Witch.”
Amber had always wondered if a person heard the bullet before it hit.
+++
Saturday, February 11, 2017, 11:24 p.m.
Ivy stared at her phone. She’d investigated the murders of beautiful young women before. But none that had the same symbol she’d found left with her mother’s dead body over a decade ago. Her hand shook as she zoomed in again
on the killer’s calling card. A simple business card with the design that had plagued her nightmares for years.
The card was off white on purpose, with what looked like a printed burgundy fingerprint in the middle. It was embossed into the thick cardstock with a K crafted into the swirling print.
When she’d found her mother, it’d been in her still-warm hand. This time, it had been placed on the woman’s lips.
Her phone buzzed, and Ivy nearly dropped it as she answered. “Yes?”
“It’s Vince.” Her partner at the LAPD for the past three years always said his name when he answered the phone as if he wasn’t on her speed dial. As if he wasn’t the only person nowadays who preferred to call instead of text.
“I know.” Ivy pushed her feet into her boots. It was times like this when Ivy was happy that she was too lazy to change out of her work clothes when she believed she was home for the night. She walked to the bathroom, taking slow, steadying breaths. “I got the pictures,” she said.
A pause. “You coming? Lyric Hyperion.”
Her phone buzzed with what she assumed was the address. “Yes.” She hung up and pulled her dark hair back into its bun. She pushed a hair tie onto her wrist, just in case the one in her hair broke, and looked at herself in the mirror. “I can do this,” she whispered to her very pale reflection.
Ivy leaned over the toilet and threw up before grabbing a pack of mints on her way out.
Ivy clenched and unclenched her fists at her sides and walked up to where Vince was standing. He looked out of place in the woman’s over-decorated dressing room, which was clearly meant for silk robes, cheap wine, and the other trappings of starlet wannabes.
“This one’s ours!” Vince said, broadly motioning to the investigation already going on around him. Taking in the tilt of Ivy’s head, he quickly corrected his excitement. “I mean, obviously, it’s awful that—”
“Save it for the press, Van Gogh,” she said, punching him in the side.
“Wish you’d stop making fun of my doodles, detective,” Vince said, crossing his arms across his body and pointing his nose to the ceiling, the picture of feigned offense. His crew cut was short enough that the skin of his scalp caught the light.
“Not my fault you’re named Vincent and like to doodle,” Ivy said.
“I’m a great artist!”
“They’re masterpieces.”
Vince laughed, but it was empty, and both of their gazes dropped to the body on the floor, not even fifteen feet away. The velvet carpet of the room was old and wrinkled with age, no longer soft enough to absorb blood. The pool of it around the woman glinted under the lights.
“It’s him,” Ivy said, her voice suddenly quiet. “It’s the same card.”
Vince took a long look at her, understanding turning his dark eyes stormy. “You throw up?”
Ivy nodded.
“Stop stalling then,” Vince said, now all business. He handed her a pair of latex gloves, and by the time she’d knelt next to the body, a nearby officer had handed her a plastic bag with the victim’s belongings: a phone with a cracked screen and dirty pink case, a collection of keys and decorative chains held together by a carabiner, and a well-worn designer wallet.
“Collect the photos,” she said, pointing to the pictures stuffed into the still-lit frame of the mirror. It was easy to see Amber had been a social person.
The pictures featured large groups of bachelorette parties and family gatherings. In each one, Amber was laughing or planting a kiss on a nearby cheek, blond curls spiraling around her head. The only image that showed up more than Amber’s was of a boxer puppy in various sweaters.
“I want a list of who all those people are.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And make sure one of them can take care of the dog.”
The officer gave a tight-lipped smile, but she didn’t say any more. She must have been new. One of those people who hadn’t seen enough cases and still whispered around dead bodies.
The bullet wound was clean but no expert shot, and the only other signs of distress seemed to be a snapped high heel and a broken ankle. Considering she wasn’t more severely injured and that the wallet hadn’t been rifled through, the killer hadn’t been here for long. And he hadn’t wanted anything except to end the woman’s life.
Ivy had avoided looking at the young woman’s lips. At the business card perched there that made her shake. The twin calling card to the one left by her mother’s killer fifteen years ago. There had been none other like it, Ivy had made sure. She’d scoured the internet. After her mother’s passing, her web surfing was suddenly unmonitored by a father who didn’t understand the dangers a computer possessed for a twelve-year-old crime hunter. And since being in law enforcement, Ivy had checked all her resources for another occurrence.
Vince had only known her a week when he had volunteered to help. “Because that’s what partners do,” he had said.
After directing what felt like an extensive photoshoot of the scene, Ivy removed the card. She’d expected that she might cry or even throw up again. She hadn’t expected the red at the edges of her vision. For her reality to flash between where she stood and the most vivid memory in her mind’s repertoire.
“I’m going to find you,” she said, her voice a quiet snarl. She turned and stalked back to Vince, pulling the gloves off. “I’m taking this,” she said, holding up the plastic bag. “Can you wrap up here? I want to go ahead and get some files pulled up.”
“Don’t you want to start on this tomorrow morning? It’s almost midnight,” Vince said, holding up the time on his phone for emphasis. But with the bright vintage lights and the investigation and the thrumming of a clue—finally a clue—it didn’t feel like it was too late to start anything.
“Nope, I want to start now.” She waved a dismissive hand at him.
“Want me to come with?” Vince asked. He pointed at her. “You’ve got that crazed look in your eye. I don’t like it.”
“I always look like this.”
“It’s worse now,” he said, trying to poke fun, but Ivy just waved him off again. “I’ll bring you breakfast?” he said, though it sounded more like a question.
She turned around and blew him a kiss.
“Your usual post-all-nighter, then,” he grumbled before she headed out into the night.
+++
Sunday, February 12, 2017, 4:40 a.m.
Atlas Hale was used to the regular creaks and groans of Corner Coffee’s building. An old house converted into a local hipster hangout and café hotspot, the stairs seemed to be constantly begging for repair, especially in the mornings when she began the preparations for the day alone.
But as the owner, she knew the early morning hours were for her to take—not to mention the need to play chauffeur to her teenage soccer players that took her away in the afternoons, at least until next year when they’d be old enough to drive.
She told the stairs to hush, but they continued to pop and crack and moan about old pains.
She secured her apron around her waist and reached into one of its many pockets, pulling out the small tin of powder she kept there, a combination of crushed marjoram, mint, clary sage, and lemon. She whispered the ancient blessing for peace, “Pax potest esse, potest non esse quietam est anima mea,” as she sprinkled bits of the concoction all around the downstairs, where the worn armchairs and bookshelves were. She’d learned the blessing from a member of her coven, a woman named Arabella whose mother had experienced the supernatural, and in turn, taught her two daughters the ways of witchcraft.
She rubbed a bit of the powder into the ground with her boot. The floors were so worn in some places that she could no longer see the grain of the wood. She’d considered spells for rejuvenation but had decided the bits and pieces worn by time and guests were a feature she cherished and had forgotten about any type of modernization.
Before Atlas could move to the stairs that would take her to the heavily windowed dining room, a pair of glov
ed hands grabbed her shoulders. The smell of leather gloves filled her nostrils, and her head sped from a walk to a gallop to a sprint so fast she felt dizzy. She tried to throw the powder into the eyes of the person behind her, and for a moment it worked, his body retreating.
“Witch!”
“What of it?” Atlas said, adrenaline coursing through her. She picked up the fire poker at her side and held it in front of her like a sword. The man facing her was lanky but tall and was wearing a ski mask. Behind the ski mask were hateful eyes. She’d feared this moment would come. “What of it!”
But the fire poker was no match for the gun the man pulled from a holster behind his hip. “Mary Caste. Annabelle Smith. Carol Jones,” the man said, nearly chanting, as the safety clicked. “Cassandra Goldstein. Bethany Hart. Atlas Hale.”
Atlas didn’t have time to run.
+++
Sunday, February 12, 2017, 5:09 a.m.
Ivy preferred the late-night emptiness of the LAPD when she brought out her mother’s file. Of course, there were still a few officers on the night shift, but the regular bustle of the morning was a long way off, and no one was nosy enough to come to talk to her or see what was sprawled across her desk. She had never been keen on sharing the collection she’d acquired over the course of fifteen years. Whether it was too personal or embarrassing somehow, she’d never known. Never had been able to pinpoint that discomfort.
She still had the pink notebook, one of her mother’s return address stickers—Bethany Hart—on the front. For some reason, her twelve-year-old self had decided to write down every single detail of the night of her mother’s murder, alongside several “clues” she’d found. The phone was off the receiver like she’d tried to call 9-1-1. There was a bullet hole in the knife block in the kitchen; maybe her mother had reached for a knife. In the end, her clues had been useless, but overall, the account was about as detailed and clear as any witness testimony Ivy had ever read, even if the pages were still crinkled from old tears.
