Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3)

by Kinsley Burke

  “Mr. Connelly.” She came toward him, heels clicking. “How happy I am to see you. Kiara has made all arrangements for your date with Ms. Hurst this evening.”

  “I’m afraid there’s been a misunderstanding.”

  Maude froze. “A what?”

  “A misunderstanding,” Brock said. “I’m here to escort Kiara to dinner tonight.”

  “Why?” Maude turned and stared at me, and then looked back at her client. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  “Kiara is who I’d like to take to dinner.”

  “She’s the receptionist.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  Two sets of eyes turned and faced me, and I wondered if by tucking myself underneath my desk I could become forgotten. Mind was scrambling about how to get everything back on track when two things happened.

  First, Brock’s gaze landed on my chest—the Praedator’s pendant, to be precise. A necklace I’d only sporadically been putting on for show during the past week. And then Miss Prim found her missing voice.

  “Kiara,” the ghost hissed. “She’ll fire you if you go out on a date with Mr. Connelly. Don’t do it. Think of Detective Wilcox.”

  Miss Prim’s words were not what caught my interest. No, it was the way Brock glanced toward her when she began speaking before catching himself. The movement had been slight, and if I hadn’t been staring at him at that exact moment, I wouldn’t have caught it.

  Well, Checking Account would certainly have my head after this, and it was a good thing I wouldn’t need money after that. Because Direct Deposit was about to get an extended vacay and I would need to search for the perfect cardboard box. Hellhound would have to move in with HG. Otherwise my soon-to-be living establishment would burn to the ground on a nightly basis.

  “I would love to have dinner with you, Mr. Connelly,” I said. “Where are you taking me this evening?”

  Maude’s jaw dropped.

  “Kiara, what are you doing?” Miss Prim asked.

  “Call me Brock, please. Have you had the pleasure of dining at Kaffee Nuevo?”

  The cheap bistro near the university that Ryan apparently had taken a lot of women to for dinner—based on the overheard conversation that morning in Cozy Cup. Not a place that required a reservation, but I put on my best aww, you shouldn’t have expression. “No, but it sounds wonderful.”

  “The food is very tasty.”

  “Give me one moment…”

  “Sure.”

  Maude turned and stormed back into her office. The door shut. Nail in the coffin. I knew her too well to know I’d stunned her into silence, and Maude was not a person who had problems voicing her opinion. Come Monday morning, I’d be packing up my coffee mug and searching for a new job. If I survived this dinner, that was.

  Bending over, I made a big to-do about pulling my purse out of the bottom desk drawer. A cover for my actual doings… which was typing out a text message to the international phone number that had texted me at some point during the previous night. Then I took off the Praedator pendant and stuffed it into the bottom of my purse.

  Praying I wasn’t in over my head, I grabbed my bag and followed the demon out the door.

  Twenty minutes later, I still wasn’t certain if I’d made the right decision. Brock had a car, and unlike with Damon, there had been no excuse for me to not climb in. Which left me a tight jittery mess for the duration of the ride. Normally, I could console myself with the fact that I had extra strength thanks to my demon blood… but so did he. A full-fledged demon resided inside that human body, and I had no idea if I could hold my own. I’d done fine up against Tristan… but that had been the full extent of my experience.

  It was with relief when the restaurant came into sight. Nerves calmed more once we were seated. While this by far wasn’t a place that was up to normal Maude-client standards, it was still a Friday night, and most of the tables were occupied.

  “Kiara,” Brock said, once we were settled. “Tell me a little about yourself.”

  “I thought we discussed me the other day?”

  “If I recall correctly, we somehow wound up talking about me. Now I want to know about you. You never answered my question.”

  “What question.”

  “Are you from around here?”

  “Yes, I grew up in a suburb outside of the city.”

  “A long family history in this area?”

  I knew the answer he searched for, and I decided to give it. “No, my family’s from Ireland. My mother’s first generation American.”

  Brock’s lips pulled back predatorily. “How interesting. Have you had the chance to visit the old country?”

  “Ireland?” I asked. “No. Truthfully, I’ve never left the United States.”

  A short, stocky man who appeared in his early twenties approached our table. A pen and notepad clutched in his hand, ready to take our order.

  “Would you care for wine this evening, Kiara?” Brock asked.

  “That would be nice.”

  Brock placed the wine menu on the table before smiling up at the waiter. “I’ve been told you have an excellent house Pinot Noir. A bottle, please.”

  The server nodded. “As you wish, sir.”

  A couple being seated at a table located a few down on my right distracted me. Emma and Andrew. The detective I wasn’t expecting, and my nervous gaze glanced around in search for Wilcox. It was doubtful he’d be far behind, but I hadn’t spotted his dark head anywhere.

  “Now, where were we?” Brock asked, gaining my attention. “I hope you’re not a vegetarian. They have excellent lamb here.”

  My eyebrows rose, and I decided it was time to actually study the menu. Lamb was normally on the expensive end of the spectrum. This restaurant screamed cheap with much more modest offerings.

  I snuck a sideways glance at Emma, wishing for a way to communicate, because regardless of how hard I tried, food was not on my mind. Her plans were. If I excused myself to the restroom, Emma would no doubt follow. Then I could ask what she intended to do. She could hardly walk up to Brock and stab him in front of a room full of people.

  “Here we are, sir,” the waiter said, returning to our table. “The wine you requested.”

  An opened bottle tilted above my glass and a generous portion was poured. Brock’s glass was filled next, and then the server quietly walked away. More time given to make dinner selections. None of them I was eager to try.

  “A toast,” Brock said.

  “A toast?”

  “Yeah.” He shrugged, cheeks red. “A bit cheesy I know, but what can I say? I’m a toasting kind of guy.”

  I held up my drink to meet his extended one.

  “To a memorable evening.” Brock tapped my glass.

  I’ll say. “Cheers.”

  A beeping sound came from the front pocket of Brock’s sports coat, and he set down his untouched wine in order to pull out a cell phone. “Sorry, you’re never off work when you own a business.”

  No one’s ever informed Maude of that. “No worries.”

  I took another large sip from my glass and cast a glance at Emma while Brock texted away. Emma appeared to be in deep conversation with Andrew. Were those two even paying attention to me because… hello? I had a murdering demon seated at my table. At least, I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain I had. Still was waiting on a flash of red-eyed confirmation—a red that was different than the ghosts with that particular eye color I chased. Yet the two people I’d notified for help—okay, I’d notified only one person, and the other was a tag along—still, neither seemed to notice my precarious situation. What the heck had gone on at Tristan’s after I’d left? Andrew decided it was time to find a girlfriend?

  The waiter returned. Brock didn’t even look up as he placed his order. Texting had switched to an actual phone call, and he hadn’t excused himself from the table when answering it. I would have been pissed had this been a real date. But it wasn’t, and as I continued sipping at a free glass o
f wine, my thoughts remained focused on Emma, dying to know her plans… like when will the entire kill a demon moment occur? Instead, Emma remained absorbed in conversation as I cast the one-hundredth glance of the past thirty minutes her way.

  “Kiara?”

  I spun back to Brock. Whoops, a little too fast. It left a little spin inside my head. “I’m sorry?”

  “No, I’m sorry. It was rude of me to conduct business while on our date.”

  “Seriously, it’s fine. I… Oh, wow.” I lifted my hand to my head.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes… no? I must need food… too much wine.” I stood up from my chair, and the earth seemed to move. “Excuse me, I need the restroom. I’ll…”

  Brock’s face was blurred. What the heck was going on? Stumbling, I moved in the direction I’d noticed the restrooms located earlier.”

  A hand grabbed my arm. “Let me help you, Miss.”

  It was our waiter. “Yes, thank you. I need to find the restroom.”

  “Right this way.”

  Except after several steps, the light grew bright—like really bright. It hurt my eyes. Restrooms weren’t usually lit at that wattage. Clanging sounds increased in volume the farther I walked. Like the scraping of pots and pans. Why would cookware be located inside the women’s bathroom? I willed my eyes to focus. Not restroom. Kitchen.

  “Where are you taking me?” I tried jerking my arm from the man’s grasp, but my limbs felt strangely liquefied. “Let me go.”

  “I’m only taking you outside for fresh air.”

  “I don’t need air. Let go.”

  “I don’t think she drank enough,” a voice said from behind me. It sounded like Brock’s. “She’s being too difficult.”

  “I’m always diff… Wait.” Things slowly pieced together inside my muddled mind. “You drugged me?”

  One of the cooks standing nearby paused upon hearing my words.

  “She’s drunk,” the waiter said. “We’re trying to help by getting her out of here without causing a scene, so Frederick doesn’t call the cops.”

  “I’m not… not…” It was becoming harder to speak. Eyes wanted to shut. The noise inside the room was loud, and that damn light was still too bright. I needed an ability that could make both noise and light go away. Poof them like a fleeing ghost.

  “Let her go.”

  Emma. Oh, thank God.

  “Miss, I’m sorry, but customers aren’t allowed in the kitchen.”

  “He’s in the kitchen,” Emma said. “She’s in the kitchen.”

  I could only assume Emma was pointing to both Brock and me, but I had to close my eyes for a moment. The world still spun, and I felt tired.

  “I think it’s time you leave.”

  The voice had sounded like Brock’s, but the tone did not. The infliction was too hard for the friendly, flirtatious one I’d grown accustomed to.

  “I think it’s time you die,” Emma responded.

  Opening my eyes, I managed to focus on my soon-to-be blond savior. “Good one. Can I… steal it?”

  No answer to my question was forthcoming, but I wasn’t exactly certain I’d gotten out all of the words. Mouth was finding it difficult to move. Hearing still seemed to work because the sound of a loud smack drifted to my ears. Brock had backhanded Emma and sent her flying… as only a demon with inhuman strength could do. Well, shit. Even in my dazed and confused state of mind, I could tell Emma was not a fighter. Those concerns Tristan had regarding Emma’s plans of action? Yeah, I was starting to get it.

  “Hey, demon boy,” I said. Possibly slurred. It was hard to tell. “Don’t you… can’t hit… a woman.”

  The female card? Hell, yeah, I was playing it. Evil man. Too bad I wasn’t coherent enough to get more oomph into my fight.

  “Get her out of here,” Brock said to the waiter, who I’d decided was nothing more than a paid henchman. “I’ll take care of this one.”

  This one still happened to be lying on the floor. Get up, Emma. Silence had descended in the kitchen, and my vision made out the human-shaped forms of the cooks. They stood off to the side, out of the way. Watching. Not one of them attempting to assist either Emma or me. And there was another object… on the floor. I stumbled forward, and Mr. Henchman jerked me upright. Vision managed to focus. The dagger. On the ground between the demon and the immortal, and Brock would reach it before Emma had a chance.

  Oh, hell no.

  I was down, but not out for the count. Yet. Mr. Henchman still maintained a strong grip on my arm—which to be honest, was the only thing holding me up—and the tugging began. Forcing me to move in the opposite direction of my choice.

  Not. Happening.

  Eyelids drifted shut. Focus. It was damned hard. Bright light shone through my closed lids, and the room still spun. Or perhaps it was me spinning, I wasn’t certain. What I did know was that I needed a moment to lie down… Focus. I inhaled a deep breath and did the only thing I knew to do. I reopened my eyes to see the future. Then I stared at my surroundings attempting to figure out where the hell I was. Or the more appropriate question, when.

  And there was my problem… Even inside the vision, the drugs I’d been slipped were playing havoc on my mind. Concentration remained difficult, but I finally determined I was only seconds forward from the present.

  Brock had almost reached the dagger. He was bending down with an outstretched arm. Ready to declare his claim. The Henchman’s hand was firmly attached to my arm, and the damned man still seemed intent on dragging me out the back door.

  Vision remained blurred, but it didn’t stop the narrowing of my eyes. I took in another deep breath… and felt sick. But then time began slowing and finally stopped. I pried away from the henchman’s tight fingers and stumbled forward. Balance… so not my friend. One step was taken… and another. Then floor became acquainted with Knees as I fell. No matter, dirty ceramic tiling was fine. Perfect, actually. Safer since Legs refused to stop wobbling. Crawling was a legit method of travel, as long as I could manage a straight line.

  Pushing forward, a lot of grunting soundtracked my maneuvers. Not my finest moment, and thankfully not something being witnessed. Ever. Brock’s fingertips were inches away from the blade as I reached for it, and then I froze.

  He can’t touch it. Laughter bubbled up from inside of me. Hysterical sounds flooded my ears, and it took a second to realize it was me making the noise. Brock didn’t know what the weapon was. He wouldn’t have reached for it otherwise and… Well, crap. I couldn’t touch it either. For the same damned reason.

  Wasted vision. Again… it was fine. Everything was fine. Emma would have time to collect the dagger and use it on the demon right after the blade burnt Brock’s hand. And I could take my nap because it was becoming dang hard remembering where I was, or what I was supposed to be doing.

  Pushing myself upward, I tried climbing to my feet. And landed back on the floor. Flat on my stomach.

  The vision needed to end. My thoughts were becoming jumbled, but one concern gave me a jolt of awareness. What if the demon had killed Emma? Could she die? I only assumed she was immortal because… well, she was inhumanly old. But what the hell did I know?

  Got to check Emma. The task screamed at me through a thickening fog in my mind. Laying my hands flat on the floor, I prepared for my next attempted push-up. Something underneath the palm of my left hand gave me pause, and that something wasn’t tiled flooring.

  The dagger. Holy… fudge. Seriously, what the hell? I jerked back my arm at the pace of a snail. Movements had become very sluggish, and my attached appendage didn’t exactly feel to be a part of my body as I lifted my hand. The palm wasn’t red. Or fried. No boils marred my skin. Yet I had touched the freakin’ blade. Extending my arm, I touched the smoothness of the dagger. All right then. Change of plans.

  Crackling emitted the otherwise silent room. The muted colors of my surroundings sharpened and faded. Visions could apparently come to an end, and instinct informed me this fu
ture glimpse was done. Needed to move. I grabbed the dagger and pushed forward until reaching Emma. Relief of making my destination was replaced with the realization that time was frozen. How was I to determine if Emma lived? Couldn’t. I had to hope for the best. Placing the weapon into her relaxed hand, I collapsed back onto the floor.

  Eyes drifted shut, but sleep did not come. Sounds of activity surrounded me in an explosion of noise instead. All from the dining room because inside the kitchen, nothing resembled productivity. Everyone was too busy gawking at the unfolding drama. Except for Mr. Henchman. I was held upright again in his tightened grip while being shoved toward the back door.

  Body felt numb, and my ankle whacked the side of a table as we passed. Somehow I managed to wrap my entire leg around a thick piece of wood, forcing my captor to a stop. Quite the accomplishment, if I did say so. Brought on by sheer willpower because I was finding it more and more difficult to move my limbs. A disconnect seemed to have occurred with my brain. But no time for the technicalities of drug-induced side effects. Brock was still within my sight as I struggled to focus in that direction. He had approached the dagger, and just as he bent down to snatch it, the double-sided blade vanished.

  Pretty damn cool. At least in my humble opinion. The demon’s thoughts on the other hand…

  “Who’s here?” Brock asked, scanning the room.

  Mr. Henchman stopped in his struggle against my efforts to become one with the table, and he turned to face Brock. “What’s wrong?”

  “The knife that bitch dropped vanished.”

  “It’s right here,” Emma said, standing to her full height. Then she lunged. “Like I said, time to die.”

  The scream that emanated from Brock was a far cry from human. Flesh surrounding the embedded blade lit on fire. An odd blue light engulfed Brock’s body. The light then shrank into a small circle before disappearing into the dagger.

  Brock’s corpse dropped to the ground, and the kitchen erupted into chaos. Management probably would not give approval to the activity. The cooks scrambled on top of each other as they shoved their way through the back door. Mr. Henchman finally let go of my arm and followed.

  And me? I slid to the ground. Body was past the point of yelling involuntary nap time, except my intended deep, dreamless sleep hit yet another snag. One that came with a voice sounding strangely like Wilcox.