Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1)

by Jen Rasmussen

I hoped I was doing a decent job of hiding my fear as I approached them. Wendy had said she came from a long line of witches. Maybe she would help me, if it came to a fight.

  “Ah, Verity! There you are.” The older man—older feeder—stepped forward and extended a hand. “Cillian Wick. Head of the Wick clan.” He frowned when I made no move to shake. “Come now, you’re not going to be rude? I believe I’m the one who has a bone to pick with you, not the other way around.”

  He had a point, but I wasn’t about to let him touch me, not after my last experience with vitality vampirism. I cleared my throat and said, “Sorry, I have a cold. And no offense, but you don’t look like you need any germs.”

  Cillian’s laugh was nasal and weak, much like his voice. He gestured at his son. “This is Falcon. Kestrel was his sister. I believe you met Kestrel?”

  I didn’t answer, but nodded in greeting at Falcon, who nodded in return. His expression was much less pleasant than his father’s, and I had the feeling he was considering throttling me right then and there.

  “Shall we sit?” Cillian asked. “How are the pastries here?” Seeing my hesitation, he smiled. “We do eat regular food, too, you know. I’m as fond of a cookie as the next man.”

  Falcon seemed to take this as an instruction. He went to the counter to place an order with Caleb, while Cillian gestured at a table by the window. I found myself sitting down, although I knew that hanging out with these guys was probably phenomenally stupid. Cillian just had that air of an alpha about him; he seemed so organized and in-charge, it was easy to get swept up in it.

  Once we were seated, he leaned slightly toward me and sniffed, like he was trying to get a whiff of my perfume. “Ahhh.” He sounded like someone smelling the Thanksgiving turkey. “Powerful, aren’t you? And young.” He licked his lips. It was grosser than any sexual come-on could have been.

  Falcon came back with two cups of coffee and a cookie for his father, but he didn’t sit down. He stood against the wall behind the table instead, hovering just over Cillian’s left shoulder.

  “Well now,” said Cillian. “Let me tell you why we’ve come. We know Kestrel is dead. We also know you were involved.”

  “I didn’t kill her.”

  Clearly he wasn’t used to being interrupted. Cillian stared sternly at me for a few seconds, until, disgusted with myself even as I did it, I dropped my gaze.

  “I didn’t say you killed her,” Cillian said. “If I thought you had, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. She was my favorite daughter. I said you were involved. I’m sure you of all people would agree that being precise with one’s words is important.”

  Was that meant to show that they knew how my magic worked? I said nothing.

  “How are things here?” Caleb approached our table.

  “Fine,” I assured him.

  “Don’t need anything else?”

  “No, we’re good, I think,” I said.

  Caleb looked from Cillian to Falcon, then back at me. “Holler if you change your mind,” he said pointedly.

  I smiled my gratitude, and Caleb went back to join his wife at the counter, both of them watching us.

  Cillian took a dainty sip of his coffee. His fingers were long, I noticed, ending in neatly manicured nails. “They want me to know you have friends,” he said. “Point taken. We are in your home territory, after all.”

  I bit back a laugh, but outwardly I agreed. “Yes, so we are.”

  “So tell me, Verity, do you like police dramas?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Was he actually threatening to go to the police about his daughter’s death? Then why come all the way down here to confront me first?

  “Oh, not real life ones,” Cillian said with a little titter. “I meant on television.”

  “I don’t watch a lot of TV.”

  “No, of course, you’re a big reader.”

  They did know things about me, then. How many things? Which ones? Not enough to know that Bristol was unlikely to provide me with a home field advantage, at least.

  “But you’ve seen police dramas on television,” Cillian went on. “You understand the concept of bargaining for your own immunity.”

  Finally, a point to this whole bizarre conversation. I decided to cut directly to it. “In other words, you’ll spare me whatever horrible punishment you’re prepared to threaten me with, if I help you catch…” I trailed off, wondering if they knew for sure it was Cooper they were dealing with. “… anyone else who may have been involved.”

  Cillian laughed again, and the sound of it set my teeth on edge. Behind him, Falcon smiled.

  “We found you,” Cillian said. “Did you really think we wouldn’t know it was Cooper Blackwood who killed Kestrel?”

  I cleared my throat and stood up. “Mr. Wick—Misters Wick—I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time. I can’t help you.”

  Falcon scowled at me, but Cillian didn’t look the slightest bit annoyed. He carefully chewed a bite of cookie, swallowed, then smiled at me. “Fair enough. We don’t mind waiting while you think about it, do we, Falcon?”

  “I suppose not,” said Falcon.

  “No.” Cillian looked out at Main Street and inhaled loudly, as if he could breathe in the mountain air through the window. “As it happens, I don’t mind at all. This is a very interesting little town you’ve got here.”

  He looked back at me, his eyes at once hard and merry. “It’s a very special place, isn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever sensed quite so much vitality.”

  That night, I dreamed of a spider. We faced each other like lovers across my pillow, and I stared into its strange bulbous eyes, letting it see into me.

  “She licked my neck,” I whispered to it. “She stole from me. I can’t stand it.”

  You can, the spider told me. You’re safe now.

  “No. There are more of them. They’ve come for me.”

  When I woke up a little after three, there was indeed a fat spider on my pillow. I saw it skitter away in the glow of the alarm clock. I’m not usually missish about bugs; the Phearson had been a favorite of spiders for as long as I could remember. I’d always supposed their presence to be expected in an old building, and now all the construction was probably stirring them up. But I still couldn’t fall back asleep.

  I found out later that day from Rosalie, whose cousin worked at a bed and breakfast on the other side of the mountain, that the Wicks had taken a room there. I debated whether to call Cooper. They were obviously watching me, and they’d proven the day before that they had ways of finding things out. Suppose they traced the call and used it to find him?

  On the other hand, I knew where they were. That was no doubt extremely useful information for him. And he was clearly experienced at hiding from them.

  He’d told me to call if anything came up. At the time, I didn’t think I would. But what if this was something he needed to know?

  I went back and forth on it all day, in between deliberately pushing away any intruding thoughts about my conversation with Wendy. As far as I was concerned, the news that my father was dead would have to wait for a quieter moment, when I didn’t have a clan of vitality vampires at my threshold, to process.

  By dinnertime, I’d reached a decision. I brought a sandwich up to my room, put the Do Not Disturb card on the door, and made the call.

  And I’ll be honest, I felt a little thrill at the sound of Cooper’s voice. He sounded happy to hear from me, but worried, too.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  “Cillian Wick and his son showed up here.”

  “Which son? Falcon or Talon?”

  “Are you kidding me?” I asked. “That’s taking themed names a little far, isn’t it?”

  “Verity. Which one?”

  “Falcon.”

  “That’s not good.”

  “Why not?” I went and stood guard by my window, as if I expected to see an army of Wicks emerge from the woods.

  “Because he’s the stupid one,” said Cooper.
“Talon is a lot more dangerous.”

  “So it’s not good that the more dangerous one isn’t here?”

  “At least we’d know where he is.” Cooper sighed. “You should leave.”

  The suggestion hit me like a splash of cold water, not because it was so outrageous an idea, but because I hadn’t thought of it myself. I’d spent the whole day thinking about Cooper, and how to deal with the Wicks. But leaving town hadn’t crossed my mind. Why was that?

  “Verity?”

  I’d been quiet too long. “I’m here. Cooper, is this what you do? Just run from place to place every time they find you?”

  “I’m duty-bound to engage as little as possible.” His voice was suddenly clipped, almost hostile. I’d struck a nerve. It seemed Cooper didn’t like running.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “I can’t risk them getting… what they’re after.”

  “Your vitality?”

  “It’s more complicated than that.”

  “Well, I don’t want your life,” I said. “I won’t run.”

  “What are you talking about? You hate it there. You didn’t even want to go, when they first called you.”

  “I know, but…”

  But what?

  Cooper was right. A week ago, the idea that I would insist on staying in Bristol would have been ridiculous.

  But I brought Cillian Wick here.

  “But he said something about Bristol,” I said. “Cillian, I mean. He said he’d never sensed this much vitality in one place before. It sounded like a threat.”

  And I can’t leave Bristol to be devoured by a new devil.

  “He said what?” Cooper sounded alarmed. So it was a threat, and one I should take seriously. “Verity, are there others of your kind, in that hometown of yours?”

  “No other half-humans, if that’s what you mean. Not that I know of, anyway. But we’ve got kind of an odd history. There are a lot of witches here. Going way back for centuries. There’s definitely more vitality here than your average place.”

  Cooper swore. “Why didn’t you tell me that when you left?”

  “It didn’t cross my mind.”

  “It didn’t cross your mind? When you were running from people who survive by draining vitality?”

  “Hey!” I said, giving in to a flare of indignation. Who did he think he was, talking to me like I was an idiot? “Excuse me for not being as well-versed in your enemies after two encounters as you are after a lifetime! And I have you to thank for this, you know. You’re the only reason we even got on this monster’s radar.”

  Now it was his turn to be quiet too long. “Cooper?”

  “I’m here. And you’re right. Sit tight, I’m coming to you. What’s the name of your hotel? I don’t think you ever told me.”

  “Are you insane? You can’t come here. That’s what they want, they’ll catch you!”

  “The name of the hotel?”

  It was clear from his tone that he was coming, no matter what I said about it. I gave him the address for the Mount Phearson, so he could put it into his GPS.

  “I’ll write some spells,” I said.

  “Look for me around this time tomorrow,” said Cooper. “Avoid any contact with them until then, if you can. Be careful.”

  “You too.”

  As soon as I set my phone down, I pulled out some paper. This would be a delicate business. Luckily, I had the background for it: my magic had always been focused on protection, and I’d lived most of my life in a hotel. I knew a few things about inns. Their peculiarities, their rules. Their advantages and disadvantages.

  I’d studied a lot of magic theory, during my teenage years. Especially after what happened with Max. I wanted to be able to defend myself if Miss Underwood (or Asher Glass) came after me again. As ever, I turned to books for answers, working my way through all of the Bristol Public Library’s unusually large section on the occult and witchcraft. Even the obscure books that nobody else had checked out in years.

  I learned back then that places have a power, an energy of their own. Entwined with that of people, but also different. Your home, for example, is where your magic will be strongest. It’s the easiest place to protect yourself, and the most dangerous place for your enemies.

  Inns, on the other hand, are meant to be neutral ground. Safe havens for all. People die in hotels all the time, of course, but rarely if they know how to use the place’s energy to their own advantage. This is especially true of older inns that have spent decades or even centuries giving welcome to strangers.

  The Mount Phearson was converted to a hotel in 1912. Which meant it had long since become predisposed toward magic that protected its guests from harm.

  But an enemy might also know how to tap into that same power. Using magic to keep anyone—including the Wicks—out might be difficult.

  And the Phearson was further complicated by the years Miss Underwood had been in charge, working her considerable power, twisting it into her own place. I was pretty sure I wasn’t the only one who’d failed to find a safe haven under that roof. There was an iron vault in the basement, big enough for a prison cell. I’d never seen her take anyone down there, but the idea of it had terrified me as a child.

  I thought some of Madeline’s energy must be lingering there still. Marjory had been able to work a harmful spell on me just a short time ago.

  But I’d also been able to turn it aside. Had I done that with my personal power alone? Or had I reflexively tapped into a familiar, but nearly forgotten, vein of magic?

  Most witches never bother with place-magic. Many never even learn that it exists. It’s unpredictable, imprecise, difficult to control. But it’s also powerful, if you know how to use it.

  I thought I knew how to use it. But calling on the hotel’s power would mean working with it, not against it. I couldn’t try to secure its borders, only to protect all those who crossed them.

  The Mount Phearson Hotel granted its protection to everyone under its roof.

  Neither Verity nor Cooper, nor anybody else inside the Mount Phearson’s boundaries, came to any harm.

  All were safe at the Mount Phearson Hotel.

  I wrote dozens of them. When I ran out of ink, I made more. When I ran out of supplies for more—I’d been going through ink fast, since I came back to Bristol—I went back to pure blood. It wasn’t until I started feeling weak and exhausted, and saw that it was past midnight, that I went to bed.

  No spiders disturbed my sleep.

  The next day, I went straight down to the front desk and told Jamie (whose name I had learned for certain, my second day at the hotel) that I needed to reserve a room for a friend.

  “What kind of friend?” he asked with a slight leer. “Male or female?”

  “Male,” I said. “But he’s not that kind of friend.”

  “Well, what kind of friend is he?” asked Jamie. “Because your suite does have the pull-out sofa in the living room. He could just stay with you instead of taking up an extra room, if you guys are buddies.”

  “He’s not actually a friend so much as an old colleague,” I said, failing to think things through in my impatience with Jamie’s questions (and my panic over the thought of sharing a room with Cooper). “He’s a chef, and since he’s passing through the area, I asked him to stop and meet with me. I want to get his thoughts about the fine dining restaurant.”

  I realized how stupid it was as soon as I said it. Lance would be sure to hear about this chef I was meeting with, and pester Cooper and I half into our graves, if the Wicks didn’t get us first. But it was too late to change the lie.

  I spent the rest of the day tucking my spells away everywhere: in potted plants, behind heating vents, inside spaces under construction, where no drywall had been hung yet. Nor did I neglect the outside, scattering them around the outdoor patio, the future site of the spa, inside knots in trees and hollowed-out stumps at the edge of the woods. Cordelia got her own, under a gnarled root.

  If Lance or Agatha
had caught me, they’d have thought I was crazy. A native, like Ellis or Rosalie, would have just assumed I was working some sort of magic, and not bothered asking questions. Even the ones who didn’t believe in such things were resigned to the fact that half the townsfolk did.

  All the while, I watched the parking lot and, when I could manage to get a view of it, the driveway. I had no visitors, either friends or enemies. Dinnertime came and went with no sign of Cooper.

  I sat in the lobby by the fireplace until well after midnight, waiting for him. Or waiting to hear—maybe via Asher Glass, if I was really lucky—that there’d been some “accident” out on the road. That the Wicks had gotten him.

  Finally, Cooper came through the front entrance, looking rumpled but unharmed, rolling a small suitcase behind him.

  I didn’t bother trying to hide my relief. The sight of him, solid, strong. Safe. And smiling at me. There was that arc of electricity between us, the one I always told myself was my imagination.

  He walked over to me and kissed my cheek. His lips were warm, and he smelled like soap and black pepper. I never realized he had a scent all his own, certainly not one I could identify so readily with him, until I smelled it again in that moment.

  I did hide my shaking hands, tucking them away in the back pockets of my jeans.

  “Nice place you’ve got here,” he said. “You look good.”

  I did look good; I’d made sure of it. Which I’ll allow was a petty and shallow thing to do when I had bigger things to worry about. But no matter the circumstances, I wasn’t about to meet Cooper Blackwood without doing my best with my hair. Not that I wanted to be like all his admirers back in Lenox, always primping, hoping he’d notice. It was just that I knew we had important things to do, things that would require concentration, and it’s hard to concentrate when you’re feeling self-conscious in the presence of someone beautiful.

  “Any problems getting here?” I asked.

  “Not that I’m aware of.”

  “Okay, well, I got you a room.” I handed him the key. “I’ll walk you up, it’s just down the hall from mine. Why don’t you get some sleep and we’ll talk in the morning?”

  I waited until we got in the elevator, then said, “If anyone asks, you’re here in your capacity as a chef. That’s what I said when I booked the room.”