Secret Lives (Secret McQueen Book 9)

by Sierra Dean

  Copyright

  eBooks are not transferable.

  They cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on the copyright of this work.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  Secret Lives

  Copyright © 2018 by Ashley MacLennan

  ISBN: 978-1-939291-33-2

  Edited by Sasha Knight

  Cover by Kanaxa

  All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Sierra Dean. electronic publication: December 2018

  Dean, Sierra (2018-12-06). Secret Lives. Sierra Dean. Digital Edition.

  Secret Lives

  Sierra Dean

  Dedication

  To everyone who wasn’t ready to say good-bye to Secret and Co.

  Apparently I wasn’t either.

  Chapter One

  Three things went through my mind when the demon shoved me off the roof of the Hotel Beverly:

  1) Oh fuck.

  2) I hope this is the side with the pool.

  3) Goddammit, my hair.

  That last one was a real kicker if the answer to the second one was yes. Did demons not respect how hard it was to tame curly hair when it got wet?

  No, no they didn’t. Because demons were assholes who only cared about virgin sacrifices and eating people’s faces off. So rude.

  The fall was fifteen floors, but it went by in a flash, the lights of the Los Angeles night skimming by me at an unpleasantly high velocity. When I hit the surface of the water, I might as well have been slamming into a concrete wall.

  It hurt.

  But I was a lot less than I would’ve been if I’d hit the patio.

  Thankfully the Hotel Beverly’s pool was known for being one of the deepest in town, and I was still fresh off my most recent healing treatment from work. Otherwise I’d probably be a pool-pancake right now.

  I swam to the edge and dragged myself from the churning water, my jacket and jeans weighing roughly a thousand pounds each. A few people milling around at the hotel’s outdoor bar gaped at me, but not a single one of them offered to help.

  One of them was kindly filming the entire thing for Snapchat, or whatever the kids were using these days.

  I grabbed the phone of a young man standing a few feet from me, his fist to his lips as he stifled a chuckle at my expense, possibly because with my hair this wet I looked like a drowned poodle.

  “Hey,” he protested as I plucked the expensive-looking device from his hand.

  “I’m going to need to confiscate this.” I then chucked it into the pool, where it made a fun pop noise before sinking to the bottom.

  “What the hell?”

  “Official government business, no time to explain.” I elbowed past him and through the doors, back into the hotel, leaving a trail of soggy footprints in my wake while I hefted my water-logged bulk to the elevator. Inside, a bellhop with a luggage cart stood next to a sixty-something-year-old woman with a terrible dye job carrying a very tiny beige dog and a very large black Louis Vuitton tote.

  She seemed much more concerned about me getting water on her tote than her dog.

  “You are soaking wet,” she announced haughtily.

  “Yeah, well, you’re too old to wear that hair color convincingly, but you don’t see me casting judgments no one asked for.”

  She let out a little gasp, and I punched the button for the roof. I wasn’t all that good at making friends in the first place, and was especially bad at it when I looked like an extra from a poorly conceived Whitesnake music video.

  Mostly I was just annoyed that I’d need to buy yet another leather jacket.

  This wasn’t even the first time I’d ruined one in a pool.

  Perhaps it was time I changed my aesthetic to something slightly more absorbent.

  The bellhop and the woman—who hadn’t stopped looking at her blonde hair in the reflection of the mirrored elevator doors—got off at the penthouse floor. I mentally gave myself points for not giving them a cheeky farewell wave.

  The elevator continued its way to the employee access floor, where I then bounded up a flight of rickety metal stairs and burst out onto the gravel-strewn roof.

  “You know, it’s pretty rude to hurl a lady off a roof like that,” I declared.

  The demon blinked at me, then growled, “It’s pretty rude for you not to have died.”

  Oh no, hellspawn had learned to use comeback lines. Soon I wouldn’t be the wittiest girl in the West anymore.

  I picked up my sword, which had been dropped during my initial kerfuffle with the monster, and which he’d been too stupid not to either throw away or grab for himself, and leveled the blade at him. He laughed at me.

  Admittedly, this confrontation hadn’t gone my way the first time around, so I could see why he was so dismissive of my second attempt, but all the same it would have been swell if the bad guys would stop doing the laughing right to my face.

  A lady’s ego can only get so bruised.

  “If you’d like another flying lesson, I’d be happy to oblige,” the demon said, still chuckling.

  “Nah. I’m here to give the lesson this time.”

  “And what will you teach me, little one?”

  “How to go to Hell.”

  Not my best line. And the demon agreed because he rolled his goat eyes at me. “I’ve been there.”

  No demons were nice to look at, but this was one particularly ugly son of a bitch. He had three eyes and only slits for a nose, as if one had been there once but cut off. His mouth was full of crocodile teeth, and he walked on goat legs but had the tail of a lizard. Why was it demons always looked like someone had taken various pieces of different ugly animals and jumbled them all together in a weird sort of puzzle?

  It could be jarring to see them outside of a possessed body. Which was, by the by, precisely why he was here. The Hotel Beverly was the place to see and be seen by Hollywood’s young elite, and this disgusting mofo was hoping to climb inside one of them and use them to live a debaucherous life of sin, while harvesting all the souls he could worm away from other idiot wannabe stars.

  The price of fame was only steep if you cared about the afterlife.

  Most of the folks on the patio downstairs cared more about Instagram likes and Teen Choice Awards than their souls.

  What a time to be alive.

  I’d spotted several CW stars and at least one fresh-out-of-rehab pop star during my brief time on the patio. Loads of options for the demon to choose from. Too bad he’d never get down there to try.

  This fight wouldn’t look very fair to an outside observer—if there had been any—and the Vegas oddsmakers would not have liked my chances. I was a five-foot-two human woman with a sword and no obvious supernatural skills to speak of. He was a seven-foot-nine demon who had already thrown me over the edge once.

  Yeah, yeah, I know. But trust me when I tell you, I’d made it through worse and lived to tell the tale.

  Except that one time I died. But that was a whole other story.

  He looked at my sword as if it were no scarier than one of those cute little plastic ones bartenders use to skewer orange slices and maraschino cherries. My sword was not a martini-glass mockery, thank you. It was silver-coated and several hundred years old, and had once belonged to a Japanese vampire.

&
nbsp; I had found out the hard way how much it hurt to be stabbed with it.

  This guy would soon join that special club as well.

  “Who are you?” I asked.

  “Belphegor,” he replied too quickly, his cracked lips curling up to show those creepy reptile teeth.

  “Yeah and I’m Charlize Theron.”

  “I loved you in Atomic Blonde.”

  Get a load of Mister Jokey Pants over here. He obviously wasn’t born yesterday though. Some wee baby demons were hella stupid, pardon the pun, and they’d brag about their names to whoever asked. Why was this one smart? Well, for starters, he’d told me his name was Belphegor. Belphegor being one of the seven princes of Hell, according to Christian theology. It would be like walking into a hotel and giving your name as Elton John.

  And this guy was no Elton John.

  For him to casually toss the name out like that meant it most certainly wasn’t his, because he wasn’t about to give me control over him. Knowing his name would give me—or someone who actually had magical powers—the ability to bind him.

  I would have to settle for cutting him up into really small pieces, taking those pieces to the office, and shipping them to different depots across the country where they could be dealt with accordingly. Witches who could bind and banish demons were great, and my sister Genie was one of them, but they also weren’t conveniently available at my beck and call.

  Chopping someone up was something I could do on my own.

  In theory.

  “Who sent you?”

  “I answer to no one.”

  “I mean, come on now. You can’t expect me to believe that.”

  He Who Was Not Belphegor took a few steps towards me, his gait impressively even considering how hard it must have been to walk on gravel with those hooves. I was wearing some pretty nice Chloe heeled ankle boots that were now exceedingly soggy, and I had to be honest, I was having a hard time looking cool.

  Demons have a hierarchy. There are greater demons, like the one he’d named, but they had such a rock star status I had a hard time believing they really existed no matter what the big books said. Then there were all number of lesser demons. I did not think this guy was a first-tier demon, despite what he was trying to convince me of. He was bottom of the barrel, especially if he was so hungry to stay in the mortal world. You know that saying, Would you rather be a slave in Heaven or a star in Hell? Well for demons, the answer was neither.

  They wanted to be on Earth.

  And I did not want to let that happen.

  They also loved to claim they were bigger and badder than they were. I met a demon once who claimed he was Grendel, of Beowulf fame. That guy might have actually been telling the truth.

  He was dead now.

  “Look, we can keep chatting about this like what you say matters, but I’m very wet and uncomfortable, and I’d like to go home and shower.”

  “I could come with you.” He licked his teeth.

  “I’m not your type, sweetie.”

  He gave a little snort. “You’re boring me now.”

  “On the first date? That’s not a good sign.”

  “Go away.”

  He wandered away from me, back towards the edge of the building, where he could better scout which particular hardbody he wanted to live inside until he used it all up. The pickings were good.

  I trailed after him, annoyed that he wasn’t snarling at me or making more threats. It was kind of difficult to show off what a big, tough, demon-hunting badass I was when the guy wouldn’t even stick around to chat with me.

  This, by the way, was not how my hunts usually went.

  Typically my night went something like: running after a monster (me), catching the monster (me), rescuing scared human (me), trading witty barbs (mostly me), fighting (both), “I’m not afraid of you” (them), dying (them). It was a whole thing. I’d worked hard to perfect the art, and this shithead wasn’t following the script.

  I wasn’t going to pull the whole Do you know who I am? card, because in a town like Hollywood that was seriously overplayed, but the demon prick could at least pretend I was a little scary.

  “Hello, we’re in the middle of a fight?” I reminded him.

  “I won.”

  “Clearly not, I’m still here with a sword.”

  “I don’t want to fight you.”

  “Okay, but I need to kill you, so could you, I don’t know, growl at me or something? Give me a reason to stab you?”

  He stared at me as if I was the dumbest person he’d ever met.

  I was worried he might not be wrong.

  “You are amusing, little one.”

  “Yeah, that’s on my resume right underneath bo staff skills.”

  “I don’t understand that joke.”

  “I should probably update my pop culture references. I guess Napoleon Dynamite isn’t cool anymore.”

  “What do you think of that one?” He pointed over the edge, and giving him a wide berth, I peered down to see what he was looking at.

  “Her?” I indicated a pretty brunette at the bar.

  “No, the one beside her.”

  “Oh, him.” I shrugged. “If you want to be the most reviled asshole on YouTube, go for it, but I would stick to the girl if I were you.”

  “What is YouTube?”

  “I’m positive they have YouTube in Hell.”

  “Bah.”

  It was becoming more and more clear by the minute that this guy, whatever his name was, wasn’t your typical demon. Honestly, if he didn’t have the appearance of something that would give Hieronymus Bosch nightmares, I might even feel a little sorry for him. He seemed very lost.

  “You know, I don’t need to kill you.”

  He glanced up from the human vessel buffet below us, where everyone had apparently already forgotten about me falling from the sky and had resumed partying like it had never happened. “Let us pretend you could kill me, and let us pretend I am interested. What are you suggesting?”

  What was I suggesting? This was bonkers. My job was to kill demons, not negotiate with them. Yet for some reason as this conversation continued, I wasn’t really in the mood to kill this weirdo.

  I was getting soft in my old age.

  “You don’t want to go to Hell. I don’t want to ruin these shoes with a bunch of demon gore. What if we made an arrangement?” They were basically already ruined anyway, but that was beside the point.

  He looked me up and down. “You’re a bit small for my taste.”

  It took a second for me to realize what he meant, then I shook my head vigorously. “Ew, oh my God, no. I’m not going to let you inside me. Yuck.”

  “That is hurtful.”

  “Boohoo, you threw me off the roof.”

  “What is your proposal, or I will do it again.”

  I took a cautious step backwards just in case.

  “Why don’t you come with me? I know the people I work with would love to have the cooperation of a living demon for a change.”

  The demon stared at me thoughtfully, and for the first time since we’d started speaking, he didn’t seem to regard me as an inconsequential annoyance. He was really considering my offer, which gave me a flutter of nerves because I wasn’t sure how Tyler and Emilio were going to react when I showed up at the office with a third-hierarchy demon in tow.

  Yet I kind of hoped he would agree.

  Over the last few years, ever since vampires, werewolves, and the rest of the supernatural community had been outed to the human public, it was hard to make headway in reaching an understanding between the groups. That’s where my little department came in. We tried to shut down the worst of the worst, the monsters who had no interest in mingling with humans and only wanted to eat them. It was our way of helping ease the transition.

  Having a live demon with insider wisdom on our side?

  That would be a huge coup for our department.

  “Can I still possess a human?”

  I laughed. �
�No.”

  “Then I’m not sure how this benefits me.”

  “Keeps you out of Hell.”

  He tongued the large gaps between his sharp teeth, and his lizard tail swished behind him like that of a bored cat.

  “All right,” he said after a lengthy pause. He held out his hand, which had six long fingers with incredibly sharp claws.

  Gingerly I offered my own, and we shook.

  He did not throw me off the roof again, and instead gave me a smile.

  “Who are you, anyway?” he asked.

  “Secret McQueen,” I told him. “FBI.”

  Chapter Two

  “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Tyler Nowakowski boomed. He was pacing our little conference room like a caged tiger, and his rage made me think my decision to recruit a demon might have gone over better if I’d passed it by a committee first.

  Emilio LaRoy sat in a chair near me, his expression unreadable as always. He wouldn’t offer any input until he had to, and for the time being Tyler seemed content to take up all the oxygen in the room.

  Tyler was tall, like over six and a half feet. It meant his long legs took equally long strides, and since the room was tiny, it looked like he was just stepping to one side of the room then back again in a single step.

  “I don’t see what the big deal is,” I replied.

  Tyler froze and gave me one of his patented Nowakowski stare-downs. I was immune to them by now. Our relationship went back over six years and had begun with dating before devolving into general mistrust and hatred on his part. You know, typical after a bad date. Now we were friends, coworkers, and probably knew each other better than anyone else on the planet.

  So his hateful stare wasn’t going to throw me off.

  He loved me.

  I just might not make it onto his Christmas card list after this stunt. Normally when I so boldly violated the rules we had established as a team, I did it in foreign countries where there were no witnesses.