The Devious King

by B L Mute

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Playlist

  Epigraph

  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 Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Acknowledgements

  Follow Me!

  Copyright 2020 BL Mute

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the authors imagination or used fictitiously.

  All right reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or by information storage and retrieval system, without written permission from the publisher or author.

  EDITOR: One Love Editing

  COVER DESIGNER AND FORMATTING: TRC Designs

  Sweet Little Lies- Bülow

  Trouble-Stripped- Halsey

  Coming Down- Halsey

  Dark Times- The Weeknd, Ed Sheeran

  Love Is a Bitch- Two Feet

  Like Lovers Do- Hey Violet

  Dark Side- Bishop Briggs

  Call Out My Name- The Weeknd

  Fire For You- Cannons

  “Respect is really only a devious route taken by violence.” -George Bataille

  I shuffle slowly along the balcony overlooking the crowd, letting my hand caress the curve of the mahogany banister. The men all look similar in their designer suits, complementary to the colorful gowns the women are wearing. Some in beautiful sequins and others elegantly draped in satin, chiffon, and an array of other extremely expensive fabrics.

  The low-hanging chandelier flickers, and light dances off the dress of a woman beneath me. Just like most of tonight’s guests, she’s smiling and laughing while mingling with another. I roll my eyes and look away.

  Half of the people here didn’t even know my father personally, however, by rite of passage, when the chief of police is murdered, you show up to his benefit.

  This whole thing is nothing more than trying to find some sort of lead to follow, something to ease my mind. My dad meant so much to me, and I’ve done nothing but fail him. When he was murdered, it was swept under the rug. But I guess that’s what happens when there is no evidence to point you in the right direction.

  The smell of Cuban cigars permeates the stale air, teasing my senses and calming my nerves. In a way, it makes me feel like my dad is here. Cigars were always his guilty pleasure. He would light one up after closing a major case or special event. The sweet and tangy smell takes me back to better times, times he was still here.

  Six months.

  One hundred eighty-seven grueling days.

  That’s how long it’s been since I’ve seen his face. Since that day—the day of his murder—every lead has faded, and even my own investigation turned up barren. It seems the people of Northridge Heights are tight-lipped. But I’m sure, had I not been cursed with the political awareness of being or having been the police chief’s daughter, things would be different. The title has followed me like a shadow the entire twenty-five years of my life.

  Sometimes it’s a blessing. Speeding tickets or unpaid parking meters fade away with my name. Other times, it’s a misfortune and can spread through a group of people like the plague. No one wants to associate with the police chief’s daughter. And they definitely don’t want to provide information about a murder.

  As I descend the spiral staircase, I analyze the faces of the people, singling out the ones I’ve never seen before, and compile a sketchbook in my mind. I can’t help but feel that if his murderer is ballsy enough, he’ll show up tonight. At least that’s what I’m hoping—that whoever it is will give me a sign, answers—something. I’ve read that sometimes when people kill, they like to see the effect it leaves, the people who mourn. It’s a fucked-up way to go about things, but I’m out of options. If it takes me gathering everyone in town for a bullshit benefit/remembrance party, then I’m going to do it.

  Now at the foot of the stairs, I scan all the faces closest to me again. The mayor is here, which isn’t surprising considering this is his home, Chief Sloan—he’s the one who replaced my dad—and Lieutenant Snyder. Fuck my life.

  I can see him approaching, and immediately, the hair on the back of my neck stands up. After a short mental pep talk, I throw on a fake smile and flash it in his direction. Because of my father’s position in this town, I’m expected to smile and play nice, but Cameron fucking Snyder makes me sick.

  He stops in front of me, bringing his face close to mine, and pecks my cheek. “You look beautiful, Charlotte.” The smell of his aged yet obnoxious cologne plays hide-and-seek with the brandy on his breath.

  Bile creeps up the back of my throat, but I swallow it down. “Don’t you ever put your lips on me again, Cameron.” My voice is stern.

  He’s had a thing for me for as long as I can remember. Everyone swore he and I would end up together. We were both raised by cops, and although our parents may have been cut from the same cloth, he doesn’t sit right with me. My skin crawls when he’s around, my body tells me to run, and my mind wishes to be anywhere other than within his vicinity. And no matter how clear I’ve been, it seems he can’t take a hint.

  “Oh, come on. It was nothing,” he mutters with a smirk.

  “You’re a cop. What’s the definition of sexual harassment?” I raise an eyebrow at him.

  He doesn’t respond; instead, his back straightens and his jaw clenches. I can see his chest rise as uncertainty settles on his face. Cameron’s eyes comb over me like he’s skimming the pages of a book, and without another word, he takes a step back, turns, and slips into the crowd.

  My dad taught me a lot of things before he died. He taught me to change the oil in my car, how to defend myself, never to let my guard down, and most importantly, never settle. He had big dreams and high hopes for me. He wanted me to leave Northridge Heights and never look back, but I can’t.

  Not now anyway.

  I fight back a tear and push my thoughts from my head, not wanting to ruin my makeup. I quickly scan the crowd again, not looking for anyone in particular, but trying to busy my mind.

  A tall-stem glass of champagne carried by a well-dressed waiter catches my attention. I reach for the glass and lock eyes with Sloan from across the room. He nods and in return, I raise my drink.

  As much as I never wanted to see my dad replaced, Sloan is probably the best person for the job. He’s skilled, levelheaded, and honest. Just like Dad was.

  A middle-aged man appears at his side and touches his shoulder, drawing Sloan’s attention from me. The man’s back is to me, but something about him seems familiar. He’s tall with dark hair and broad shoulders. His stance exudes confidence and respect as his strong hands grip a small glass tumbler.

  Two other men dressed in identical suits, with similar tattoos snaking up the collar of their shirts and peeking out the cuff of their sl
eeves, flank the mysterious man’s side. It’s clear they are his bodyguards. The expensive suits and high-end Italian leather shoes make them fit in, help them look as if they belong amongst the flood of political and city officials. But everything else about them stands out. The way their hands rest along the seam of their blazers while they survey the room, almost as if they’re waiting for something to happen.

  I sip my drink and scream in my head at the man to turn around just long enough for me to see his face. Then, like he read my mind, he does so slightly, letting me catch his side profile. His tie is bright red, and his steely face doesn’t seem familiar, but his eyes do. They’re a cobalt blue with small flecks of gray. They are eyes I remember vividly, but I can’t put a finger on why.

  My concentration is interrupted when Chief Sloan pats the man on the back and makes his way toward me. I try to look around him, but the man with the red tie and the twins slowly and easily evaporate into the crowd.

  “Who was that?” I ask as Sloan stops in front of me.

  “Him?” He half-ass points into the crowd, knowing exactly who I’m talking about. “That’s Theodore Hale. He lives on the top of Asher Hill outside of town.”

  There is only one house on Asher Hill, and calling it a house doesn’t do it justice. It is more of a Victorian gothic-style mansion. It towers above an infinite lining of white steel fences, intertwined with a layered cobblestone drive. A black iron guard shack stands alone at the end of the public access, defending the beauty of what lies within. The neatly trimmed bushes and flower beds explode with color, adding depth to the scenery. Every time I drive by it, I can’t help but slow down to admire its beauty.

  “Why have I never seen him before?” I question.

  Although he may seem familiar, I can’t figure out why. I’d much rather act oblivious and see what details Sloan can give me.

  “He sticks to himself. I think he comes from old money or something like that,” he says quickly, almost as if he’s rehearsed the lines. It’s like he doesn’t even believe his own words as they spill out with little effort. Like he’s trying to convince himself more than me.

  “Huh,” I let out, dragging my eyes to his. “Did he know my dad?”

  “Of course he did.” I can tell he wants to say more, but he doesn’t. He darts his eyes from mine and sips his drink.

  Something about his answer doesn’t sit well with me. He said it so quickly with confidence, then like he knew he messed up, tried to crawl back into his shell.

  “How do you know that?” I knew everyone my dad did, but that guy’s face doesn’t ring any bells as a friend.

  He shrugs. “I just do, Charlie.” He walks away without another word.

  Deciding I’ve had enough for the night, I walk to the front of the mayor’s house and ask for my coat. Once it is handed to me along with my purse, I dig my keys out and let them fall between my fingers. One of the many things dad taught me. When some things are drilled into your head so much growing up, it’s hard to forget it. It doesn’t matter where you are, always protect yourself.

  The night air is crisp and clean as I step outside. A welcome change from the bouquet of floral perfumes and bursts of burning tobacco from inside. Valet was offered, but I decided against it. If anything went down or my anxiety got the best of me, I wanted to be able to leave without a hassle.

  I stroll down the concrete drive. The music and chatter of the benefit party grow quieter as the distance separates us. Turning onto the sidewalk, I lean against a light pole and slip my heels off. My 2006 Pontiac GTO is less than fifty yards in front of me, but the sound of light steps crackling against small sticks has me momentarily frozen. My dad always said to never let anyone know they’ve been caught if you happen to catch them following you, so that’s what I’m going to do.

  I take a deep breath and smooth the wrinkles in my dress. Heels in one hand and my keys in the other, I hold my head high and start the short trek to my car, regretting not getting valet service for the night.

  The crackling gets louder, and dread creeps into my bones. My fingers tremble, and my breaths get away from me, but I don’t stop.

  Just make it to your car, Charlie. Get in, lock the doors, then grab your Glock from under the seat.

  I repeat it to myself, but it doesn’t help. Before I know it, a big hand is wrapping around my upper arm. My fight or flight kicks in, but in order to fly, I have to fight.

  I turn quickly and swing my keyed hand, connecting with someone’s face, then I push the stems of my heels into their chest, knocking them off-balance. I spin quickly, not giving myself any time to look or inspect my damage. I run like my ass is on fire toward my car. My feet scream at me to stop as small rocks and twigs dig into them, and my lungs beg for air.

  My stomach is in my throat, but I keep going. I make it to the driver’s side, fumbling with my key fob. My shaky fingers try and fail to push the unlock button, and in my scared fog, I do the one thing I should have never done.

  I turn over my shoulder to see how close the person has come to me. Standing further back than the spot I left him at is the man with the red tie.

  Theodore Hale.

  Blood is oozing from a gash on his face, running from above his eyebrow down to the peak of his hardened cheek. His blue eyes lock on to me, and for a split second, I stand frozen again.

  He sucks his teeth, sending a loud click into the night, before dragging his finger over the cut, then bringing it to his mouth. He smiles at me after all his blood is licked clean from his finger, a smile full of dread and mischief.

  I break my eyes from his and look down, hitting the Unlock button on my fob. Luckily, the locks click open. I hurry and slide in starting the car. I grab my gun from under the seat, before releasing the e-brake and pushing in the clutch to shift into gear.

  Within seconds I’m speeding away, telling myself not to look back because if I do, I have a feeling I won’t like what I see.

  When I finally make it back to my apartment, I run up the stairs and throw open my door. I slam it closed behind me and secure every lock I have. Knob, dead bolt, and chain.

  I pace my floor wondering why he would come after me. I mean, his touch seemed almost gentle and unsure when he grabbed me, but who the fuck creeps up on someone like that at night? I try and push the thoughts of him away, but it doesn’t work. I panic anytime the wind blows, and the small branches of the tree tap the glass of my window.

  Stupid fucking tree.

  I lie down in bed, but all night I toss and turn, seeing nothing but his piercing blue eyes every time I drift off.

  The warmth of the sun peeks through the curtain on the window behind my bed, splashing onto my face. I sit up and stretch my arms beside me. I didn’t think I would ever sleep last night, but somehow, I managed to get in a couple of hours. For a split second I forget about last night’s events. However, like the blood flowing to my restless limbs, they all come rushing back to me.

  I leap from my bed with my heart racing and run to my front door, checking to make sure every lock is still in place. Once I’m satisfied the crazy man from last night can’t get in, I maneuver into my kitchen.

  I fill the back of my stained, yet functioning, coffeepot with cold water before splashing some onto my face. I then scoop in my ground coffee, adding an extra scoop for good measure, before closing the lid and hitting Brew. I’m too anxious to sit, so I pace the length of my floor instead.

  Who is this Theodore Hale? How does he know me? Will he retaliate for what I did last night?

  Questions bombard my half-asleep brain, demanding answers, but I come up with nothing. The only thing I can focus on at this point is survival.

  My coffeepot dings, letting me know it’s done, dragging me from my thoughts. I reach for a mug out of my top cabinet, then pour myself a cup. I spoon in three scoops of sugar, then stir it lightly before taking a sip.

  I let out a deep breath, trying to calm my nerves that still seem to be on high alert, but it doesn’t he
lp. Setting my cup down, I pace again. I know I’ve seen him, but where? I’ve met so many people in my life, people I love and care about, but I’ve also met ones I can’t even remember their names. With my dad being a cop, I was in and out of the station my whole life. Druggies, criminals, domestic violence victims, and even kids have crossed my path there.

  A loud knock on my door halts my exploding thoughts and drags my focus to who could be standing on the other side. Is it him? Has he somehow tracked me down to finish what he started, whatever it is?

  Slowly I move across my floor, begging the wooden planks beneath my feet not to creak. I grab my Glock from the table that houses my keys and purse before leaning my ear against the door. Listening closely, I try to hear talking, breathing—hell, anything, but there is nothing other than eerie silence.

  Kicking myself for not installing a peephole, I slowly unlock the knob and dead bolt but leave the chain in place. I crack the door and peek out, expecting the man in the red tie. My eyes scan the hallway as much as they can and find nothing other than a bouquet of potted flowers on my welcome mat.

  Immediately, I recognize the flowers. Standing tall, blue/purplish petals spill down the stems. They’re gorgeous, but deadly. They go by aconite, wolfsbane, devil’s helmet, and a few other names, but I know them as monkshood.

  It’s a nickname my dad gave me in my teens. When we would train together, he always told me I would be the best. With my quick thinking and precision, he called me Monkshood. Beautiful but deadly.

  My jaw falls open, and my lungs forget how to function. It’s a small detail about me that only my father knew, or so I thought. Tears form in my eyes as my gun slips from my hand and hits the floor. I let my instincts take over. I try to hurry and close the door, but I’m too late.

  A big black booted foot wedges itself between my door and the jamb, preventing me from closing it. I push as hard as I can, but it’s no use. Trying to be quick, I lean over to grab my gun. Before my fingers can wrap around the cool metal, my door is thrown open, breaking the chain lock, and I’m pushed to the ground by its impact.