Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3)

by Kinsley Burke

  “Oh, now, don’t you worry about her. She’ll be fine… someday.” The Praedator gestured at the vault door. “Now leave, New Girl, so I can take a peek at all you left behind. I’m sure we’ll have a fabulous discussion about it when we next meet.”

  I’m certain we will. I walked out of the vault, scanning the room as I reentered the lobby. No Jane in sight. My three ghosts remained by the entrance, and the flickering emotions expressing themselves across Miss Prim’s face told me all I needed to know.

  I placed a hand on her arm as I passed, giving her a tug, and the four of us silently left the bank.

  Chapter 23

  Tuesday afternoon had been quiet. Miss Prim returned to her chair at Fated Match without comment. Begging for the password to log onto my computer had ceased. There had been no more mentions of the murder investigation into the woman who’d ended up inside a dumpster. The only sound passing through the ghostly lips had been the occasional soft mutterings of She’s evil.

  The silence of the day gave me time to think. I now had a map… to what? I didn’t know, nor had I the energy right then to care. The highlighted markings on it weren’t making any sense at first glance. It wasn’t a lodestone. Not that I really understood what all that was, or could do, but an old scrap of paper was not a rock. Or a mineral. Nothing magnetized. Basically, no clue had yet to be gained in discovering what Todd Ashton knew about fulfilling the prophecy.

  Determination had formalized one certainty: When I—somehow—took out Hell, Psycho Bitch and Damon Reed were going down with it. Phillip, too. Heck, the entire Thirteen Coven would enjoy eternal damnation with zero possibility of earthly sunshine once I was done. The Praedator could even try out the blade of the demon knife and test out the dimension that allegedly made Hell look like Disney World. Tristan had left the previous night to retrieve the knife from his friend. A person who he remained vague about. Total shutdown when the female had been mentioned—more so than usual for the keep-to-himself vamp. As long as Tristan returned with a blade that could send a demon, and the half-demon I referred to as Psycho Bitch, to a torturous place for the evil, his relationship with this friend was not my business.

  Those dreary thoughts led to the next of my concerns: the murdering demon on the loose killing innocent women while trying to hunt me down. The reason for Tristan’s knife-collecting quest. Back to square one with that. Facts were few. The demon had assumed, based on the victims, the Fáithsine was in her early twenties. College aged, and he had, in fact, taken over the body of a college student in order to weed out his victims. A focus placed near the university. Except now… I was on the demon’s radar. The question was, did the demon think the Fáithsine was still younger or was he branching out? How many women in town fit the criteria he searched for? How did he know to focus on this particular city? Was I an actual suspect, or was the murderer only fixated on me because I showed interest in him?

  Too many damn questions. The university was still the best location to start my next search based on the previously targeted victims.

  Then there was that pesky thing called work. The job I despised yet was desperate to maintain. Money was a strong motivator. Damn currency. Why couldn’t I pay for necessities in Skittles? One bag being a huge return on investment.

  That wish was utmost on my mind Wednesday morning while all blurry-eyed from a restless sleep the previous night. I was startled as a text message dinged from my cell phone as I sat behind my receptionist desk at Fated Match.

  When’s my date scheduled?

  Desiree. From Off Men to demanding a Friday night date after a single glance from a member of the male species—one who’d paid her no heed. A snub a woman with her looks and money was not accustomed to receiving. Possibly the main reason she was so interested in Brock Connelly. The man was handsome, I’d give her that. And tall. Height was probably a factor a model appreciated. Yet his attentive glances had settled on me while filling out the application. Mr. Connelly wasn’t the first client to show an interest in me, but being the receptionist, it wasn’t overly common for me to be the receiver of flirtatious smolders.

  “Kiara.” Maude stepped out of her office. “Desiree would like to know the details for Friday night.”

  Damn. The woman really wanted this date. “Not yet scheduled. You haven’t met with the client she wants to have dinner with.”

  Maude’s brows rose. “And why haven’t I?”

  “I’ve not had a chance to collect a report on him so you’re ready for the first interview.”

  “Today is Wednesday. Desiree wants a date Friday night. This is my reputation at stake, and you will not fail me in this.”

  “I will have a report to you by the end of the day and an interview with Mr. Connelly scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Report on my desk by three thirty. I have a dinner appointment scheduled this evening.”

  I waited for the slam of her office door—because, by this point, that was a given. Yell at the receptionist. Make threats. Stalk into office. Slam the door in wake. Rinse and repeat. The loud slap of wood hitting against wood was my starter gun, and Legs bolted.

  The 4-1-1 I’d collected on Brock Connelly was dismal but pivotal. Selling point: The man owned his own technology company that primarily created interactive devices that both assisted and collected marketing data while in use inside retail stores. Several high-end boutiques were already implementing his gadgets in order to create a unique shopping experience for their customers.

  Fashion technology. Runway model. Hello? When Desiree sets her sight on something, the woman at least appears to know what the hell she’s doing. The objective of today’s stalk was to determine Brock’s interests and match what suited him to the model, and coach Desiree on the rest. All within the next forty-eight hours, apparently. Not a typical Maude match-up, but I’d work with what I had.

  The office of Infinite Tronic, the company Mr. Connelly owned, was located in a high-rise downtown across from a Starbucks. Perfect vantage point. A peek inside my purse as I approached the awaiting barista revealed that it would be a Tall Roast today, and apple lunches for the next two weeks. Providing the apples were on sale at the grocery store, that was. Otherwise, I’d make a diet of water and call it a fast.

  Taking a sip of the hot brew, I found a stool at the bar against the front window. I sat and stared. Willing that something—other than Luck, who I despised—motivated Mr. Connelly to leave his office and walk off to some interesting location that revealed a lot of insight about the man. I needed dirt on my client, and I needed it quick.

  “What are we looking at?”

  The deep voice startled me, and I jumped. The blouse I wore was white because the ones worn when spilling coffee on yourself are always white. Rule of law or something. With the way my body lurched from the unexpected sound, followed by the splash of hot liquid against my chest, no looking down was required to recall that I had, in fact, dressed in a white blouse that morning.

  “I am so sorry,” Brock Connelly said. “Here, let me help you.”

  My intended stalkee left my side while I had an oh, shit, this is not my week moment raging inside my head. He returned with napkins.

  “Let me purchase another cup for you.”

  “No.” I dabbed at the stain darkening the white cotton blend. “My fault, and not much spilled.”

  “I insist. The Blond Roast, right?”

  “Really, I…” I paused and looked up at Brock. “How did you know? The type of roast, I mean.”

  The man grinned and held up his own cup. “My preference as well, and I could smell yours. So what other commonalities can I pry out of you today?”

  He did not just take the seat next to me. Oh, this wasn’t good… not good at all. “I’m afraid I’m a rather dull person.”

  “Utterly.”

  My head nodded. “Yes… dreadfully so.”

  “And that’s why I find you so fascinating.”

  “Really, you shouldn’t.”


  “But I should… wait.” He set down his cup of coffee. “Are you seeing someone?”

  I swallowed. Mouth opened… and then lingered in the gape.

  “You are. A beautiful woman like you would already be taken.”

  “Not exactly.” A heaviness settled in my chest as I admitted the truth. “But you are officially a client for Fated Match, and it would be a major conflict of interest to be anything more than professionally courteous toward you.”

  “I withdraw my application.”

  Eyebrows shot up so fast, I was ninety-nine percent certain they’d hit the ceiling. “You can’t! Uh… I mean, the spirits have been communicating with Maude. She may already know your perfect match. I am to call you this afternoon to schedule an interview with her for tomorrow.”

  “What if you’re my match?”

  “Well, then Maude will inform you of that, and we can see where things lead to then.”

  “You’re not like most women I meet, Kiara Blake. There’s something different about you.”

  If only you knew. “Nothing special. I work and go home.”

  “No pets?”

  “I have a… dog. Sort of. He’s a stray, actually. Stays at my place on occasion.”

  “A soft heart.”

  I took a gulp of my coffee and glanced away from the warm glean in his eyes. “I think most people would help animals in need.”

  “Not boastful, either.” Brock grinned. “Refreshing. So tell me, are you from around here?”

  Why the hell was I the person being interviewed when it was him I needed to collect information on? “I’ve talked enough. Total chatterbox here. Your turn, are you from around here?”

  “The city? No, I grew up in a town about two hours north of here, and then went to college out of state. I moved back after graduating.” Brock paused and glanced at an expensive watch on his wrist. “I apologize, but I have a meeting in fifteen minutes.”

  “Of course.” Oh, thank God. “I apologize for keeping you.”

  “Please don’t say you’re sorry when this has been the most pleasant ten minutes I’ve had in a while.” He stood. “Call my receptionist with a time to meet with Maude tomorrow. My schedule should accommodate.” He leaned forward, his warm breath caressing my ear. “I do hope the spirits are intelligent enough to recommend you as my perfect match.”

  Then he was gone. It took several seconds for my thoughts to collect. Many more to process. Oh shit, shit, shit. I was a royal screw-up. His interest wasn’t supposed to be on me. A part of me—hell, a lot of me—was flattered by the attention. Handsome? Check. Charming? Check. Good job with a rewarding future? Check, check. Why HG had reservations about Brock, I had no idea. But then, it could be that over protective vibe I’d been noticing more and more out of the ghost. He had lived during a period of time when women had to rely on men, and I had a strong suspicion the dead man considered Miss Prim, Margaret, and myself his to protect.

  Never mind HG or charming smiles from perfectly un-smarmy clients. Feet needed to move and follow that perfectly acceptable stalkee because Brock Connelly wasn’t mine. He was destined for Desiree regardless of his wants. It was her fulfillments that would keep as much peace in my life that a woman working for Satan, but destined to defeat Hell, could have.

  The sidewalk was busy as I exited the coffee shop. Brock hadn’t turned left upon leaving because that would have placed him walking past my window, and I never saw him go by. To the right, it was then. About three blocks down, I spotted the top of his golden blond head. His height in the crowd was appreciated, and it allowed me to hang farther back. Rule number one: Don’t let the suspect know you’re following him. Words of advice I’d once given Wilcox because the man utterly sucked at following me around. Wilcox. Damn the man. Blame was being put squarely on his shoulders for my lack of observation skills. I should have seen Brock Connelly the moment I’d entered the coffee shop. But I hadn’t. Wilcox and his bad habits had rubbed off on me. That was the only explanation for it.

  My distress over a certain detective kept me unfocused, and I almost missed the turn Brock made when he entered a small store located on a corner. The signage on the building announced the location as the home of The Basil Gallery. Odd place for a business meeting. Nothing about it screamed business, like a restaurant for a lunch meeting or corporate offices.

  Glancing around the area, I determined the best location for me to lie in wait was against the corner of the building, out of direct sight to the front entrance. I pulled out my cell phone and did a quick Internet search of the establishment. Brock was apparently a lover of modern art yet… Mind suffered mental hiccups over the business meeting for this planned destination. What did the Jackson Pollocks of the world have to do with a retail technology man?

  “And we meet again,” Brock’s voice said from behind. “Careful, or I’ll think this was intentional.”

  I spun around so fast to face my smiling client, there was concern about whiplash. Where the hell had he come from? It had only been a couple of minutes since his disappearance into the front of the store… and this? The direction he now approached me from? Was not the front of the store.

  A shrink—of the psychological kind—was definitely going to be required if my shit didn’t figure itself out and come together. Mouth should have been moving by this point, offering compelling reasons for why my hip had been a structural support for the building where Brock had exited. Words were scarce, however, and I no doubt resembled a flailing fish begging for another sip of cool water because… holy crap. I had never been caught stalking someone before. Ever.

  There was only one thing left to do in this situation. No, make that two… run like Hell while mouth remained zipped shut or brazen it out. The latter it was. “I was on my way back to Fated Match and stopped to check some messages. Funny seeing you here.”

  Fortune was in my favor with the fact that I was heading in the right direction to reach Maude Taggart’s place of business. But that small victorious thought fled as Brock took a step closer to me. Then another… and another.

  “It’s okay,” he said, leaning close. “She doesn’t have to know.”

  “Who—what?”

  “Maude. She doesn’t have to know about your interest in me. How about Friday?”

  “Friday? What’s Friday?”

  “Dinner.”

  My head shook. “I’m sorry, Mr. Connelly—”

  “Brock.”

  “Mr. Connelly. It was a coincidence us bumping into each other today.”

  “Twice,” Brock said. “Once was coincidence but twice was fate.”

  “Do you really believe in that?”

  “Fate?” His brows lifted. “You work for a matchmaking psychic. Do you not believe our futures are destined?”

  “I know I must return to work. I’ve taken too long running my errand for Maude.”

  “And Friday?”

  “No, I’m afraid I’m busy.”

  “You said you weren’t seeing anyone.”

  I flinched. “I’m not… exactly. It’s complicated.”

  “Whoever he is, he’s not worth it.”

  My startled gaze shot open to meet his.

  “A relationship shouldn’t be complicated.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. But you’re a client, and I’m afraid I’ll have to say no to Friday night.”

  “Kiara?” He waited until I glanced back before shooting a breath-halting grin. “I’m not giving up.”

  I watched him stride away. Feet were too stunned to move. Well, hell. I had only a few hours left to complete a write-up on one Brock Connelly so Maude could psychically read the man, and then match him. With Desiree. Not only had I not gathered much useful Intel on the client, but it was also me he now wanted to date.

  Yeah, the entire this isn’t a good thing stress? It was now worse. I was buried, and there was no way to dig myself out. A bulldozer couldn’t even help. No way could anything be worse than a client deciding I was
his fate. Maude would kill me. Quite possibly in the literal sense this time. A will would have to be prepared and notarized before returning to the office. HG would inherit Hellhound. Lacey would get Mr. Coffee so he could fritz out on her. Hopefully, blow a socket and fry her hair.

  I turned back onto the street and began my trudge toward the office. The steps dragged. Feet halted as my gaze stumbled upon a thin, frail woman seated at an outside café table. Jane, the woman from the bank… and then things went from Maude’s going to strangle my neck bad to I must already be living in Hell worse.

  Damon Reed was seated at the table next to Jane.

  Chapter 24

  Abused animal. Psycho Bitch and her insane puppy dog obsession were apparently wearing on me because at that precise moment I felt as if I were standing in the middle of a tissue-grabbing, heart-breaking SPCA commercial. The human-shaped dog by the name of Jane, had completely withdrawn into herself. Dead eyes focused only on the table. Fingers clasped, knuckles whitening from a tightened grip each time Damon shifted in his seat next to her. A damned hard thing to watch.

  I plopped my purse down onto the tabletop across from Damon as hard as I could make it smack. Unfortunately, Jane was the only person who flinched at the sound. Still, Damon should have received my message, the one saying I’m pissed.

  “Let her go now.” I sat down and leaned forward. “I don’t know what you and your psychotic girlfriend are up to, but it stops.”

  “Kiara.” Damon settled against the back of his seat. The corners of his mouth tugged upward into an arrogant smirk. “Our appointment was last Wednesday, not today. I don’t appreciate tardiness. I’m a very busy man, and you need to be where I want you, when I want you.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “When I say we meet, we meet.”

  The familiar churning in my gut began. “Stop with the bullshit. You know damned good and well that I’m immune to your charms.”

  Damon gave a relaxed shrug. “Charms, huh?”