LUCY
A Paragon Society Novel
David Delaney
Copyright © 2018 David Delaney
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic or mechanically, including photocopying and recording, taping or by any information retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of a brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
www.davidadelaney.com
Cover Art Design by: Twinartdesign
Formatting by: Polgarus Studio
For Mr. Erickson, it all began with you.
And of course Shelly
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
CHAPTER 1
Lucy Maddox shrugged off her fluffy, terrycloth robe, hanging it on the back of the bathroom door. She had already pulled the blinds, lit all the candles, and the small upstairs bathroom was awash in a soft, warm glow. Lucy stared at herself in the mirror; her thick black hair was pulled back in a ponytail, she had removed all her make-up and jewelry—including earrings—per the instructions she had been given. She leaned closer, checking for any blemishes on her face, she smiled.
“I could totally rock the natural look if I wanted to.”
Lucy stood on her tippy-toes, adding two inches to her tiny frame. When she realized in junior high that she wasn’t going to get any taller, she had moped around for several months. All the hot swimsuit models were tall, with long sexy legs, and Lucy was going to be stuck at five-foot-nothing. How was she even supposed to deal? Then Morgan’s dad had scored backstage passes to a Pat Benatar concert. It turned out that the awesome, sexy, badass lady-rocker is only five feet tall. Lucy never complained about her own height again.
Lucy did a small twirl on her toes, again checking herself out in the mirror. She was tiny, but gorgeous. All of her parts were the right proportion for her height and she had just the right amount of muscle tone—thank you Jazzercise. Lucy didn’t feel the least bit conceited in her self-assessment, she turned the heads of enough boys, so she knew she was hot.
Lucy sighed, enough procrastinating. She needed to begin. She turned the water on, getting it nice and hot before setting the drain. Lucy had carefully measured out the . . . in her mind she still couldn’t bring herself to use the phrase magic potion. But basically that’s what the pungent smelling, yellow-tinged water she had so carefully portioned off into seven different Tupperware containers was—a magic potion.
Magic.
Lucy was still super-doubtful that the ritual bathing would have any effect, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and she was desperate. Just last week her parents had once again suggested she get a job.
As if.
It was bad enough that she had to miss the senior class graduation trip to Paris. A job was like totally out of the question. Even if she got a job at a totally rad place like Tower Records, Lucy would still run the risk of people she knew seeing her working, and would be humiliated. It wasn’t Lucy’s fault her dad lost his investment-finance-whatever job because the stock market crashed. Lucy didn’t understand why he just didn’t get another finance-thingy job? Black Monday, as her parents and other people who were way too serious and boring called it, had been almost a year ago.
Sheesh, get over it already.
But her parents didn’t get over it. Instead, they sold their totally awesome house in the hills above Ventura Boulevard and moved to a gross condo in North Hollywood.
A condo.
The only way Lucy had been able to finish her senior year at El Camino Real High School was by using her great-aunt Betty’s address. It had been so unfair. She had begged her parents to let her move in with Aunt Betty, but they said it would have been too big an imposition. So, Lucy had had to endure a forty-five minute bus ride every morning to get to school—her parents also sold her convertible VW Rabbit, along with all the other cars except for a puke-brown Honda her dad bought from some shady guy who lived on the other side of the condo complex.
Lucy’s parents didn’t use the word poor; they preferred financial setback. Lucy didn’t buy into their delusion, they moved from a five-bedroom house in Woodland Hills to a condo in trashy North Hollywood, they had one crappy car, she missed the Paris trip, and her mom and dad kept suggesting she get a job—they were definitely poor.
Lucy dumped the liquid from one the containers into the bathtub. It was only parsley water, but the smell still made her nose wrinkle. A few days ago she had boiled pounds of the green stuff to create the potion. It stunk up the condo to an eye-watering level. Her parents and little brother had been out, and she opened every window to try to get the stink out before they got home. No luck. The moment her brother, Jason, walked through the door he started gagging dramatically.
“What’d you do, Lucy, wash your underwear? Because you might want to try using soap next time,” Jason teased.
Lucy had made up a lame excuse about trying to cook. Her mom eyed her suspiciously, no doubt because Lucy had never cooked a thing in her life.
The tub was full and Lucy cranked off the water. Now for the part she wasn’t happy about at all. Lucy picked up a long, silver needle. The ritual required that she add seven drops of blood to the bath water.
Lucy hated needles and got woozy at the sight of blood. She studied the needle in the candlelight. It was pure silver, about three inches long, and had itty-bitty writing along the shaft. Seriously, the writing was so small Lucy had asked what it said. She was assured it didn’t say anything in particular. The markings were just ancient power symbols that aided in energizing the spell.
Right.
Lucy made sure she had a good grip on the needle, scrunched her eyes up tight and poked her index finger—hard. A small whimper escaped her lips. She peeked with one eye. A large blob of blood was forming on her fingertip. Her vision did that weird spinning thing, and she dropped the needle to grab a hold of the counter.
“Whew. Calm down, girl.”
When she felt stable enough, she held her hand over the bathtub and counting the drops, squeezed her finger. Lucy started to panic when the blood stopped flowing at five drops. There was no way she was going to poke herself again. She squeezed her finger so hard the tip started turning purple, and she was able to force two more drops of blood into the water.
“Done.”
Lucy picked the needle up from the floor and placed it in her make-up bag. She glanced at herself once more in the mirror.
“Here goes nothing.”
Lucy stepped into the tub, gently slipping into the steaming water. The ritual called for completely submersing herself under the water seven times while visualizing her desired outcome. Lucy began to clear her mind.
Bang!
Lucy jerked sideways, bumping her head against the wall and sloshing water out of the tub.
Bang! Bang! Bang!
“Hey! I gotta go!” Jason shouted from the other side of the door.
“Jason, you little spaz! The bathroom is occupiedo’.”
“Occupiedo’s not even a word,” he shouted, continuing to pound on the door.
“It’s Spanish for occupied, dummy,” Lucy snapped. “Now leave me alone. I’m taking a bath.”
“No it’s not, did you even crack a book during your two years of Spanish?” Jason asked.
“Go away, you little turd!”
“What is going on up here?”
Oh crap. The banging and shouting had drawn the attention of Sharon, Lucy’s mom.
“Jason, why are you banging on the door?”
“I need to go and Lucy won’t let me in.”
The door handle jiggled, thank goodness for locks.
“Lucy? What are you doing in there?” her mom demanded.
“I’m taking a bath and would like some privacy, please!”
“A bath? It’s the middle of the afternoon and it’s eighty degrees outside?” Her mom sounded incredulous.
“I can take a bath, if I want. Now, would you both please leave me alone?” said Lucy.
Her mom huffed. “Fine, just don’t take all day.”
“Mom, I gotta go really bad,” Jason whined.
“Use the bathroom in the master and leave your sister alone.”
Lucy listened as her mom and brother padded away down the hallway.
Unbelievable.
Alone, Lucy took a few deep, calming breaths. She started the visualization process once again. The instructions said the more detail you could add, the stronger the spell—spell was the word the author used—would become. As she tried to build a mental picture, her mind kept drifting to the events that led Lucy to even try a ritual bath.
* * * *
It started a few weeks ago when she and Morgan were hanging out listening to CDs. They were singing along to Faith, Lucy scrutinizing the photo of George Michael on the cover. As far as she was concerned, George Michael was what every man should aspire to be.
“He’s just so perfect,” said Lucy.
Morgan rolled his eyes. “His looks have nothing to do with his musical talent.”
Lucy made a face. “Duh. That’s what makes him so perfect. He’s gorgeous and he can sing.” She pouted. “I wish I could sing. How much money do you think a hit record makes?”
“Millions,” Morgan answered.
“Millions,” Lucy repeated dreamily. “That would be nice.”
“Are your parents still after you to get a job?”
“Yes. They, like, won’t even shut up about it.”
“Well, if you wanted to have extra money—”
Lucy cut Morgan off with a gaze.
He put his hands up in defeat. “Sorry I brought it up.” Risking Lucy’s wrath further he switched to a different tactic. “I’ve been working for the past two years and it’s actually fun. You just have to get the right job. For instance, you are a walking music encyclopedia. You could totally work in a record store.”
“It’s different for boys,” Lucy snapped.
“How is it different? A job’s a job.”
No, it’s not,” Lucy insisted. “Let’s say I get a job at Music Plus or Tower. A cute guy comes in, I’m talking George Michael cute, and I start talking to him about music, like what he’s into and stuff. He will quickly realize I know more about music than him and then he’d be like, ‘I gotta go, I forgot I had a thing’. Boys don’t like girls who are smarter than them.”
“Are you serious?” said Morgan, stunned. “You’re worried about looking too smart? That you’ll scare off some random idiot who is intimidated by someone as cool as you?”
Lucy ignored the compliment. She and Morgan had been friends since Fifth grade, there had never been anything romantic between them, but lately she had caught Morgan looking at her in that dopey way boys sometimes did when they wanted to kiss you. He was one of her best friends; she didn’t want to lose that, so she just ignored the looks and the comments about her coolness, looks and personality. And because Morgan was Morgan, he didn’t push it.
“Cute boys aren’t the only reason. I just don’t want to work. I’ve never had to before and I don’t want to start now.”
“Working is how people make money and, you know, live their lives.”
“Not attractive people,” Lucy grinned. “Attractive people do things like model, and act,” she held up the George Michael CD, “and sing. Or they marry somebody who does one of those things.”
Morgan groaned. “Did you just make the case that being a gold-digger is a valid life-choice? Your coolness just dropped a couple of notches.”
“Okay, Mr. Smarty-pants, what are some creative ways I could earn money that don’t, like, involve a regular job?” asked Lucy.
Morgan smirked and said, “Well, there’s always high-priced call girl or stripper.”
Lucy threw the CD case at him. It bounced off his shoulder.
“Ouch,” he said, laughing.
“I’m serious.” Lucy crossed her arms. “There has to be something we’re not thinking of; a creative way to earn money that doesn’t involve getting naked.”
Morgan’s laugh trailed off to a chuckle. He frowned and started clucking his tongue.
“You’re making that weird sound with your tongue.” Lucy sat up and leaned toward Morgan. “You only do that when you’re having a totally rad idea.”
Morgan nodded slowly. “Have I ever told you about my Uncle Marcus?”
“I don’t think so. Who is Uncle Marcus?”
“He’s not really my uncle, not by blood anyway. But he and my dad were college buddies, best friends really. Uncle Marcus . . . well, he’s different.”
“Different how?”
“He’s into all that New Age stuff, you know, crystals and psychics and junk.”
Lucy’s shoulders sagged and she sat back. “Crystals? All that stuff is totally bogus. I need to make money.”
“I know.” Morgan agreed. “Most of that psychic crap is total BS. But Uncle Marcus, he’s got something. Heck, even my dad says that Marcus leads a charmed life.”
“Charmed how?” Lucy asked, intrigued.
“Everything he touches turns to gold.”
Lucy snorted. “Please.”
“Not actual gold, loser.”
Lucy stuck her tongue out.
“He doesn’t fail. It’s like money just falls in his direction,” Morgan tried to explain.
“I like the sound of that. Does he live in LA? Can we go see him?”
Morgan shook his head. “I don’t know about seeing him. I’m pretty sure he has a house here, maybe in like Beverly Hills or something, but he’s always traveling. We can try to call him.”
Lucy grabbed her cordless phone off the nightstand and pulled out the antenna, fingers poised to enter the number.
“I don’t have his number on me. I’ll have to ask my dad and he might not give it to me.”
“What? Why?” Lucy dropped the phone on the floor.
“They had some kind of falling-out a few years ago. I tried to ask my dad what happened, but he wouldn’t talk about it. It was totally weird.”
“You have to get that number,” Lucy insisted.
* * * *
That had been three weeks ago. The information Uncle Marcus provided was why Lucy was now sitting in a hot bathtub of smelly water, trying to clear her mind and visualize her desire.
Money.
Money was her desire.
Sure, large piles of money would be great, but Lucy would settle for enough cash to buy a car. She would even take a used car, and maybe a new bikini or two for summer. If this ritual bath thing worked she could always re-adjust her goals. For now, though, a car and some spending money. That would be enough, and as a bonus it would get her parents off her back.
Lucy closed her eyes, held her breath and sank below the water. She counted to seven and came up for air. The ins
tructions for the ritual were clear, her movements needed to be methodical with strong, focused intent. Lucy continued: sinking, counting, coming up for air, sinking, counting, coming up for air. Maybe it was the repetitive breath-holding, but Lucy began to feel a tingling along her skin. The tingling was soon joined by a low, buzzing sound. Was it the spell? Did the tingle and the buzz mean it was working?
When Lucy emerged from her last dip, she wiped at her face to clear the parsley-water away. Some still managed to drip into her eyes blurring her vision.
“Ooh, that stings,” Lucy mumbled, turning to reach for her towel.
An old woman, well at least her mom’s age, with scary, silver eyes was standing in the bathroom, staring intently at Lucy. Fear shooting through Lucy immobilized her. All she could do was stare back at the woman. And as Lucy watched in horror a massive . . . shadowy . . . thing appeared behind the woman and wrapped two huge claws around the woman’s arms. The woman started shouting and struggling against the shadow-monster, but for some reason Lucy couldn’t hear any noise at all, just the dripping of the tub faucet.
A jagged crack appeared in the shadow-monster, no not a crack, a mouth. Yep, it was a large mouth and as it opened wider and wider. Lucy could see that it was filled with rows of razor-sharp teeth. It was clear to Lucy what was going to happen next, the monster was going to eat the woman, right here in Lucy’s bathroom in the middle of a hot summer day in North Hollywood.
Lucy screamed.
She scrambled back in the small bathtub, desperately trying to stand. Her feet slipped out from underneath her, sending Lucy splashing back down into the water. Her head snapped back, cracking against the porcelain rim of the tub.
Lucy was dazed and still terrified that she wasn’t alone. She blinked, trying to refocus on the intruder, but the woman was gone. She was alone in the candlelit bathroom.
A knock on the door made Lucy jump and cry out again.
“Lucy?” Her mom sounded worried. “Honey? What was that noise? Are you okay?” The doorknob rattled again.
Lucy: A Paragon Society Novel (Book 3) Page 1
