To the Devil a Daughter (A Vivian Summers Investigation Book 1)

by K. H. Koehler

  “Everything! Anything!”

  “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

  “How old you are. What have you seen?”

  He looks at me oddly. I realize I’m babbling like some excited groupie. No, I need to control myself around him. And there is something I’ve always wanted to know. Something important.

  Another deep breath. “Was I…?” I look at my hands and then back up. “…some kind of accident? Did you mean for it to happen? For me to be born?”

  His expression never changes. “You must understand something important, child. I may have sired you and your brother, but I have little interest in playing the role of teacher, mentor, or father. Any plans you may be developing in your head for a ‘relationship’ must cease immediately.”

  “I wasn’t…”

  “There are no Chosen Ones. You have no great destiny ahead of you. You exist. There is no more to it than that.”

  I stare at him, dumbstruck. I can feel something in me crumpling up and dying. I sit back in my seat and rub my stomach like a have a stomachache. “So…so you don’t love us? You have no feelings for us at all?”

  “Of course not.”

  “How…can you say that?” My voice sounds so small. So hurt.

  He smiles a little. “I am being honest. I told Nick something years ago, and I will tell you the same thing now. My gift to you both is total honesty. I will never lie to you or deceive you in any way, child. That is a far greater gift than you can ever appreciate.”

  “So…this…” I spread my hands. “Coming here…talking to me…none of this means anything to you?”

  “Everything I do means something,” he corrects me. “What you mean to say is do you mean anything to me. And the answer to that question is no.”

  “You don’t care I exist?” I can barely get the words out. My head is spinning.

  “You exist. I care about that. But I do not allow myself unnecessary attachments. Understand?”

  I don’t know what to say to that. I’ve just met my biological father for the first time, and he’s told me directly that he doesn’t love me. That I mean nothing to him. That we can never have a relationship. I wish…

  I struggle to keep tears from welling up in my eyes.

  …wish this had never happened.

  Nick was right about him, I realize. He warned me that our father was a loveless shadow of a brute, but in my heart, I didn’t believe him. I thought he was being bitter. Oh, my god, I’ve never felt so damned alone…

  He interrupts my reeling thoughts. “Love is sentimental. Human. You are not. Stop crying.” He hands me a handkerchief from the sleeve of his suit coat.

  I just stare at it as I suck back the tears. After a few seconds, I wipe them from my eyes with my sleeve.

  “My turn,” he insists. “Do you want to learn to use your powers properly?”

  I don’t know. I suddenly don’t care. But then I look over at Tupoc, still standing there, leering down at the place where I was lying. If I could fight properly, creeps like that wouldn’t be hurting anyone. I look back over at my father and say, “I…guess.”

  “You guess?” He sounds annoyed.

  “Yes.” I wipe the remaining wetness from the corners of my eyes and sit up straight. “Yes, I want to learn to fight.”

  He nods once and reaches into an inside pocket of his natty linen jacket and produces something vaguely rectangular-shaped wrapped in red silk. He set it down on the table between us.

  I look at it numbly. “Is that a present?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is it for me?”

  “It is.”

  “Why?” My voice is so bitter.

  “Because I want you to have it.”

  I reach for it and slowly unwrap the satiny cloth. Inside, I find a stack of Tarot cards forged from what feels like paper-thin sheets of steel. They’re cold and intricately engraved with the images of the higher Arcana on one side and the sign of the House of Lucifer on the other. I spread them out in a shiny silver fan and look at them. They are so thin, you could prick your finger on the edges. “What are they?”

  “My Tarot cards.” He gets up. “Learn to use them.”

  I have no idea what he means. “What?” I look up and suddenly grab his hand. “John, wait!”

  He looks down at me. His face is beautifully passive. Untouched by human emotions. I realize I am likely looking into the face of a sociopath and almost let go of his hand. He doesn’t shake me off, though.

  “How?” I beg. “How do I use them?”

  “Learn. Or be taught.”

  I stare at him, open-mouthed. “By whom?”

  My father puts his hat on. He smiles a little. “I’m pleased I came.”

  I watch him go to the bar and collect his walking stick. Then he turns to Tupoc and looks the man straight in the frozen eye as if he is studying him. “Brujo verde. He’s very powerful.” John looks over at me. “You will need to kill him. I cannot. None of the reigning Lucifers can kill a mortal. It’s in the rules. But you are not yet on the throne. So you may still take his life.” His eyebrows shift up his icy, handsome face. “I suggest you do so, daughter.”

  He turns back to the brujo verde and passes a hand over the man’s pincushion-like skull. “As I figured. You and he are bound by red thread.”

  I get up and limp forward to collect my lost boot. “What does that mean?” All of this is so surreal, I don’t know what to make of it as I slide my boot on, jump-limping to do so.

  John turns to look at me, amused by the little dance I am doing. He taps his temple with the stick. “It means you and the brujo are bound together in a dance of death. One of you will kill the other. But I can’t see which way it will go—perhaps the Fates have not yet decided whose thread to cut.”

  My heart thuds once, hard, at the news. First, the woman in the iron coffin, and now this…it’s like everyone in the known universe wants to kill me. The irony of the situation is that I am nothing. My father has said so himself. Certainly not worth this much effort to kill.

  Before I can say anything to that effect, John turns back to Tupoc, lifts his snake cane high into the air, and uses it to lay into the man. I hear a crunch as the cane connects with all those facial piercings. The impact drives Tupoc to the floor at John’s feet. Blood splatters the floor, John’s shoes, and even his suit pants, though he doesn’t seem to care.

  He leans forward and whispers, “That is for threatening one of the royal Lucifer line with your tiny penis, el cerdito.” He says a few more words in a language I don’t understand. I’m terrified it might be Divine—angel-speak, the oldest known language in the universe.

  After he finishes, John spits on the man before straightening up and turning to glance at me. I see his eyes are lit from within. He’s enjoying this a bit too much. It’s like a drug to him. “That was fun. I would like to see you again, daughter. Perhaps a ‘daddy-daughter date?’ Provided, of course, you don’t cry when again we meet.”

  I move toward him, unafraid now. He can’t hurt me any more than he already has. “Why?” I demand accusingly. If he does not love me…if he doesn’t care that I exist…why would he want to spend a single moment more with me?

  His smiles and his icy cold eyes drift over me. “You are beautiful, child. Like a bird on fire. I wish to look upon you again.” And with those words, he sinks through the floor in front of me like a ghost and is gone.

  He’s gone…and I am alone once more.

  Seconds later, the time-lock begins to dissolve and life slowly returns to its normal pace in this shabby little rundown roadhouse. The people around me, including Tupoc on the floor, begin to move in a kind of nightmarish, bionic slow motion. I don’t wait around. But by the time everything has resumed at its normal speed, I am already halfway to my jeep with the Devil’s Tarot cards in my pocket.

  26

  I SPEND the next three days turning that conversation over in my head while I work my butt off in the prep ro
om. I don’t think I’ve ever worked so hard, so long, or with so few breaks in my whole life. Sebastian finally notices and sidles up to me one day and puts a hand on my arm.

  “Tell me what’s going on,” he says.

  I look up at him. Even three days after that strange encounter, everything feels so surreal. “I’m okay.”

  “You’re not okay.” He indicates the jars surrounding us. I’ve made so many sweets that the display room is full and we’ve begun moving jars of the stuff into the prep room. “You’re twitchy, witchy. You won’t stop making candy. You’re spiraling.”

  “I’m not spiraling!” I say irritably.

  He gives me a close-lipped half-smile as if he doesn’t buy my bullshit. “Even though we’re scarcely moving this stuff, money keeps magically appearing in the joint account. Can you tell me about that?”

  I totally forgot he can see the joint business account. He never checks (to my knowledge), so, naturally, I assumed he’d never notice the extra cash. I keep stirring my honey pot, but he reaches over and turns off the heat.

  “You’re ruining my candy!”

  “Tell me what the hell is going on!” he retorts, sounding angry for the first time since I’ve known him.

  I bite my lip and look up at him. Then I turn and rub my sticky hands over my apron. “If I tell you, you’ll get angry with me.”

  He looks at me as if I’m insane. “Maybe let me decide that? I mean, aside from you robbing banks or doing hitman stuff in your spare time, I’m pretty much okay with ghost money appearing in the account…” He thinks a moment before adding, “You’re not doing amateur cam stuff, luv? Not that I’m judging, mind you. I did a little softcore back in the day…”

  I hold my hand up to stop him from going on. “I’m doing…side projects.”

  “Side projects.”

  “Yeah.”

  He continues to stare.

  I sigh. “Nothing illegal. Or shady. More like…helping people with small magical problems.”

  I’m reluctant to tell him more about my encounter with Matilda—and then, later, Doris. Connor is getting the help he needs from his therapist and Malcolm walked his daughter down the aisle. He couldn’t do more than shuffle across the dance floor with his daughter during the daddy-daughter dance, and he died only two days after the wedding, but Doris was so moved, she gave me another check a few days after her daughter’s wedding. That and a lot of tears. Like Matilda, she wet my hair with them.

  Those are good things, right? Still, I’m reluctant to share the details with my partner. I just stare at Sebastian, whose face looks strangely blank.

  “You’re mad.”

  “Nah,” he answers after a long pause. Then he adds, “And you’re making money this way?”

  “You make it sound dirty.” I sink down onto a stool and gesture wildly. “I figure if we can’t make it on all this crap candy, at least I can keep the lights on with my crap craft talent.”

  He moves a stool beside mine and sits down. It takes him a moment to respond. “I’ll be honest, Vivian. I’m no fan of the craft. I’d rather you do porn.”

  This is serious. He never calls me Vivian.

  I try for humor. “This—coming from a necromancer.” I bump his shoulder.

  He bumps me back. “I wasn’t born a necromancer…” He pauses, looking thoughtful. I know when he gets that faraway look that he’s trying his damnedest to remember…something. “I mean…I don’t think I was. I think I was a regular ol’ witch like you, but the craft did this to me.” He touches his chest like he’s still not at peace in the body he’s in. “It’s bloody fucked up my whole life, to be honest. And I don’t trust it. But…if you can handle it…if you think it really listens to you…I won’t stop you from using it.”

  “Do you mean that?” I ask uncertainly.

  He looks up. “No. I just like to hear myself talk, you cunt.”

  He’s such a dick! I shove him and he shoves me. We both laugh.

  And, for a few minutes at least, I actually forget that my father doesn’t love me, that I’m a half-ass witch who doesn’t know shit, and that there are forces trying to kill me for their own unknown reasons.

  Gasping with laughter, I say, “There’s more.”

  “Right.” He gets very serious and waits.

  It takes me a bit to wind up the courage for this one. “On my day off, I followed up on a lead.”

  He blinks, taking a moment to digest that. “You mean…that case you are looking into for the sexy detective?”

  “That’s the one.” I rattle off a concise version of the details of the day, but I don’t mention meeting my father. I’m not ready to talk about that yet—even with Sebastian. When I get to the part where Tupoc grabbed me, I tell Sebastian I managed to wriggle free and run away. I don’t tell him anything about the metallic Tarot cards I have hidden under my mattress upstairs, but I do tell him about the Aztec woman I saw. I don’t want to overwhelm him with all my crazy craft stuff, but I do want his take on her.

  “Do you think…?” I glance down and take a deep breath. “Should I tell Mac about Tupoc, the Toltecs, and the Aztec woman?”

  He thinks a moment. “The dead men…they had tattoos like what you saw on the bikers?”

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s relevant, don’t you think?” He tilts his head slightly. “It’s a lead. You should tell him.”

  “Yeah, but…” I hesitate, take a deep breath, and then tell him what’s really bothering me. “This is connected to the Aztec goddess, right? I mean, it’s all connected somehow.”

  “All the more reason to tell him. If that…creature…is working for the Toltecs, it should be stopped, no?”

  “I know what you’re saying, but that thing is dangerous, Sebastian. Mac’s not prepared to deal with something like her. Hell, I’m not.”

  “You like him.”

  His comment surprises me. “Yeah.”

  “Then protect him.” He reaches out and pushes a hair off my face that’s come loose from the usually tight ponytail I wear it in when I’m working. It’s a distinctively fatherly gesture. “Witchy, did it ever occur to you that you’ve been given these powers to protect Mac and help put an end to whatever this thing is?”

  27

  I DON'T wait. With Sebastian’s blessing, I rip my apron off and rush to my jeep and drive like a bat out of hell down to the police station, hoping I’m not too late and Mac hasn’t gone home yet.

  Inside, I’m surprised by what I find. I always thought a police station would look like it does on TV, with chaos reigning everywhere. Perps being walked to the jail cells in the back while suspects are tearfully interviewed by tough, inner-city cops in small, dark rooms. Maybe a smartass kid handcuffed to a desk sergeant’s chair and giving him lip. But it’s surprisingly orderly—or maybe that’s only because the city has had so many violent crimes these last few weeks and can’t be arsed to commit any tonight. A couple of cops wander past me, sipping coffee, while a female cop stands at a vending machine, feeding quarters into it and banging on the glass until she gets her Diet Coke.

  I move to the dispatch desk. A young black man sits behind it, doing a crossword puzzle. “I’d like to speak to a Sergeant Detective Miles McCall,” I tell him. “It’s in relation to a case he’s working on.”

  The young man looks up, seemingly surprised by my statement. “Mac? He’s going home.”

  “It’s important. I’m like…almost a CI? He asked me to check in with him.”

  Not exactly the truth, but I know Mac has been waiting for something. I also know the moment he learns I’m here, he’ll set everything aside to talk to me.

  “CI, huh?” The young desk sergeant sounds unimpressed. He picks up an old-fashioned desk phone and relays the information to someone in the back before setting the receiver down. Seconds later, I see Mac come around the corner and motion to me. He’s carrying his coat over one arm. He looks as handsome as always but also tired looking.

  The stati
on is mostly empty, the offices dark and bullpen quiet, as I follow him back to an abandoned office at the back. He closes the door but doesn’t put on the lights. Going to his desk, he half-sits on it. The glow of the city fills the room, instead, outlining him like a gumshoe in a pulp story. “I didn’t expect you would ever come here.”

  “I have information on that case and I didn’t want to give it to you over the phone,” I tell him as I undo my jacket and wander around his office. I’m not trying to be catty or seductive, but I see him looking me over. Under my jacket, I’m still in my cook’s whites and Dr. School’s no-slip shoes—and none of that is sexy in any way. But that doesn’t seem to be a deterrent for him.

  Mac redirects his attention to my face. “I thought you didn’t have anything for me,” he says, referring to the phone call we’d had a few days ago.

  “Yeah, well…things have changed.”

  “And here I was afraid you were avoiding me.”

  I clasp my hands together coquettishly. “That, too.” I tremble. “Talking to your little girl spooked me, is all.”

  Mac smirks. “You’d like Charity. She’s my little power girl. Likes all those warrior-girl shows.”

  “What’s her favorite?”

  “The blonde girl. With the cat friend.”

  “She-Ra and the Princesses of Power.”

  “That’s the one.”

  He seems so relaxed with what we’re doing, it frightens me.

  He indicates the bullpen. “Do you want some coffee? It’s shit, but I can doctor it up some…”

  “That’s okay. I won’t be here long.”

  He looks disappointed by that.

  I wander over to a large, well-worn leather sofa situated against one wall. I imagined Mac sleeping many a night on it while working a case. I sit down and look up at him.

  He shakes his head. “Just looking at you does something to me. I feel like some fool with a second-grade school crush.”

  “I’m sorry,” I tell him honestly. “I’m not trying to do that…”