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

by K. H. Koehler

  He looks surprised—but not as horrified as he should. He takes a moment to study the cross-shaped red mark there, even reaches out and tentatively touches it with one finger. “Forgive me,” he says and reaches for the chain and slips the cross over his head and sets it down on the coffee table.

  I shake my head. “Why?”

  He looks confused. Then his eyes clear. “You feel like the closest thing to God that exists in this world.”

  I’m not sure if I buy that, but I do want him. He makes the pain in my soul lessen a little. And I know he’s craving me—I can feel that. A low, lonely simmer in his soul that is different from the raging, uncontrollable fire I can feel inside of Mac. Since we are almost the same size, I don’t have to reach up to lay a kiss on his roughened cheek the way I do with Mac.

  Matt sighs in delight. I like that sound. When I turn my head to kiss his soft, pretty mouth for the first time, he makes a different sound. It’s as if this is a relief for him.

  For me, the kiss makes my heart race as if someone is jumpstarting my whole system. My entire body suddenly feels the hunger of the last few days. It’s as if my hunger debt has found me. It makes me squirm, and the taste of his lips—the spices still strong on his tongue—drives me into a delirium of mindless desire. He feels it too. His eyes—huge and radiant as if he’s taken a hit of hard drugs—look full of stars.

  I don’t know what I’ve unleashed this time, but soft, passive Father Matt pushes me against the nearest wall and growls faintly as he dry humps me a few times. His reaction frightens and delights me in equal measure. In seconds, he’s gone from this shy priest to a ravenous male animal. I’ve seen the same thing from Mac. Hell, Nick was the same way at the beginning of our relationship. One moment, nothing. The next…they can’t seem to control themselves.

  “Matt,” I say and slap my hands to the sides of his face. “Matt!”

  He gasps, drawing back, eyes dark and seething with desire and terror. “I…I’m sorry.”

  I run my hands over his prickly cheeks, but that just makes this feeling inside of me grow stronger. I watch him react to it. For one moment, he resists, then his eyes turn all black, with neither whites nor irises, and he starts kissing me, pinning me to the wall as the thing inside me takes him over, enlivening his lust. I want him so badly I can barely breathe. I fumble with his trousers, which is difficult under his cassock. He helps me with that, then pulls at my sweatpants until he’s able to find his way inside me.

  His first hard thrust knocks the breath from my throat. Father Matt is surprisingly well endowed and, at the moment, almost frighteningly aggressive in his need to rut with me. He groans, his eyes all blackity-black, and sinks his fingernails into my ass cheeks as he pushes up high inside me so I cry out in surprise and delight. He grunts and growls into the side of my neck, his breath hot and fast as he fucks into me harder, deeper. Each thrust lifts me off my feet and scrapes my back up the wall.

  I feel his silken wet tongue following the contour of my neck. He murmurs something so perverse into my ear, even I can’t wrap my brain around it. I cry out a soft “Ohhh…” even as my heart begins to race and my blood pounds in my ears.

  Amidst all this, I see that dim, dark light manifesting all around Father Matt. It’s warm and welcoming and nourishing. I want it so bad. The alien luminescence grows as my body absorbs the priest’s strength, his power, his very vitality. It’s surprisingly potent. It drives us both over the edge and we wind up kissing and biting into each other’s mouths as we come together against the wall.

  It’s over quickly, and it leaves us both dazed and exhausted as he slowly lets me down to the floor. As his eyes clear and become their usual pretty brown color, I start to recognize the horror of what I’ve done.

  For Father Matt, this is a different kind of horror. He looks shocked by what’s happened. “Vivian…I’m sor—!”

  I put my finger on his lips. There’s a small red sore where I’ve bitten him. “This isn’t on you. It’s on me. I warned you…”

  He squeezes his eyes shut. “Sister Marie said…” His voice trails away.

  I immediately stiffen against the wall. “What did Sister Marie say?”

  He sucks in a deep breath that fills his chest. I wonder if he’ll cry. If he does, I will, too. “She warned me about you. She said…she said you were a corrupting presence. That you were the Devil. I didn’t believe her. I thought she was overreacting.”

  I look at him, my heart aching. I feel so ashamed. I feel as if I’ve pulled the wings off a butterfly. I can’t dispute what Sister Marie has said, but it hurts to hear. “She wasn’t wrong.”

  I start to untangle myself from him, but Father Matt surprises me by tightening his hold on my shoulders before moving them up so he’s cradling my face. “She also wasn’t right.”

  “I don’t understand,” I tell him honestly because I feel like he’s talking in riddles.

  “The girls in the van,” Father Matt tells me. “You freed them, si? You did a good thing. Would the Devil have done that?”

  I squirm uncomfortably. “How do you know about that?”

  “She told me. She was so upset you put the city at risk, but I told her what you did was pure and good and…”

  I stop him there, a hand at his lips. “So you talked to her? About me?”

  He blinks, uncertain. “A few days ago, si, just before she left.” He looks confused before adding, “She said her mother was ill, so she took some personal time off to see to her.”

  I hang against the wall, fairly stunned by the news. I had assumed, with the destruction of the roadhouse and the scattering of the Toltecs, that Sister Marie would also be gone, along with her goddess. But now I realize how wrong I’ve been. Maybe, I think, Sister Marie and the woman in the iron coffin haven’t been working with the Toltecs at all. Maybe they are two completely separate entities. Hell, maybe they were even at war with one another…

  The idea makes me sick to my stomach. It means Sister Marie is still out there. It means she is still out there…somewhere. It means I haven’t done a damned thing to stop that vision of death and destruction I saw.

  I breathe out a sharp curse. “Do you know where Sister Marie went?”

  “No. She did not tell me.”

  I have to work to swallow down a new panic attack. “I’m so sorry, Matt. So sorry I dragged you into this. I have to go.”

  But he doesn’t release me. Instead, he looks deep into my eyes before canting his head down so he’s resting his forehead against mine. It’s an especially tender gesture. I wish he hated me. But now I realize that’s impossible.

  “You knew, didn’t you?” I whisper hoarsely. “You always knew…about me…but you let me in anyway.”

  “That you are a demon as well as a bruja? Si.”

  I start to struggle.

  He looks up, strokes the side of my face, and kisses me. That kiss immediately calms me. It helps me think. Whether or not I want it, and whether or not he understands the gravity of what he has allowed to happen, I now know he belongs to me. The same as Mac.

  I also know what I need to do. I have to find Sister Marie, and I’ll tear this city apart if need be. If I find her, I’ll find the woman in the iron coffin. And once I find her, I can destroy her. Or she can destroy me.

  Either works for me.

  49

  SEBASTIAN IS painfully sober over the next few days. He doesn’t question what’s been happening to me or where I go at night. He doesn’t ask me complicated questions when I’m out all night or stumble home at four in the morning, looking tired and punch-drunk, for a couple of hours of sleep before work.

  I don’t tell him I’ve been hitting the bars and nightclubs—not to drink or to party, but because I hope to spot someone who can shed some light on Sister Marie’s disappearance. I don’t know who that might be. Mostly, I just order a drink and sit in some shadowy corner half of the night, the pounding music making my ears bleed, and watch people ignore me as they come
and go.

  During the day, more and more people visit the shop, looking for charms. Many of them are Matilda’s friends, though some are not of her circle, I learn. Those people tell me they hear stories circulating that I can fix things in small but meaningful ways. There are a surprising number of people who need small fixes. Even though I know I must find the mysterious woman, I feel I also have an obligation to them. A few good things to balance out all the bad I’ve done.

  There’s the old woman who asks for a charm so she can forget about her daughter who died as an infant so she can get a few uninterrupted hours of sleep at night. The college boy who begs for something to help him with his ADHD because he’s failing his classes. The five-year-old girl who shows up with her deceased green anole in a paper bag, asking me if I can make him well again. Sebastian could probably have handled that, but I don’t want him involved in this, so I go to PetSmart and buy a new anole for the little girl. Magic, after all, doesn’t have to be complicated.

  While on break one afternoon, I lean sleepily in the doorway of the display room and watch some kids oohing over Sebastian’s dinosaur village. He has a chocolate stegosaurus with a cart attached to it to transport his chocolate cave people in, and a chocolate Apatosaurus standing in a chocolate swamp. A man in a nice suit walks up to my partner the brilliant chocolatier and starts talking to him about creating a custom-made chocolate display for his daughter’s ninth birthday party. His daughter, Amber, would like a whole herd of chocolate unicorns. While they are hashing out the small details, I notice Mac hovering in a corner of the shop, looking over the gourmet selection of boxed chocolates.

  I immediately think of Brenda and have to steel myself before I cut across the floor and stop near his elbow. I watch him pick up a heart-shaped box of dark chocolates, but I reach across him and tap the box of mocha-chocolates. “You should give her these.”

  He looks up at me and sighs. “We need to talk.”

  “We do.”

  We need somewhere private, but not isolated. I don’t want anything happening between us like in the pizza shop. In the end, we walk to the Laundromat next door and sit down at one of the booths near the back where they serve hot dogs and soft pretzels. Sheri raises her hand and waves to me from the change counter. I wave back.

  Mac immediately dives in. “The other day? That shouldn’t have happened. I am so sorry…”

  “It’s fine,” I interrupt. “That was always going to happen.”

  He shakes his head vehemently. “Brenda had no right…and then she told me about the coffee and, Christ, Vivian…”

  I hold my hand up to stop him. “She was right. About everything—”

  We’re interrupted when Sheri appears, carrying two cups of coffee. “For you guys. On the house!”

  “Thanks, Share,” I say, trying to sound cheery even though I really need to talk to Mac alone.

  She sets the coffees down. “Haven’t seen Sebastian in for a while.”

  I smile up at Sheri, knowing she has a terrible crush on my partner. “He’s been buried in the kitchen.”

  “That reminds me…I need to buy some chocolates.”

  “I’ll send some over later.” Sheri looks disappointed, so I add, “Or you can pick them up yourself.”

  Sheri smiles ear to ear. “Cool! Peace out, you guys!”

  After she’s gone, Mac clears his throat. “About Brenda…”

  I reach out and touch the back of his hand to stop him from apologizing one more time for his wife’s behavior. I feel a spark, and Mac jumps a little.

  “Tell me that’s static electricity.”

  “Mac…”

  His brows knit together like he has a headache and he leans down to sip his coffee. “What you did to me…”

  “I know what I did to you, Mac. And I’m sorry. I’m sorry all this happened, and—”

  “See, that’s just it,” he interrupts. He sounds angry, but I’m not sure why. “You’re sorry. I’m not.” He leans forward a little. “This should hurt. I should feel like a shit because I am a cheating, no-good shit. But I don’t feel it. I wake up in the morning beside Brenda, knowing what I’m doing to her, and I’m not sorry.”

  I see tears form in his eyes. I stay silent; I can’t imagine what he’s going through—the literal hell I’m putting him through. He rubs the heel of one hand over his eye, and I feel my heart break inside me. For him. For Brenda. For his children.

  “I don’t understand why I don’t care…”

  Since he’s backed me into a figurative corner, I say the only thing I can. “You know why. You just don’t want to say it.”

  “Say what?”

  I blurt it out. “That’s I’m bad. Evil. Or at least something damned close to it—“

  “You’re not evil, Vivian. Christ!”

  He sounds insulted that I should even contemplate it, but I’m not done. “Well, let me tell you something, Mac. I’m not good. For Chrissakes, my father is the fucking Devil! That doesn’t exactly put me in the saint category.”

  He looks unimpressed with my confession. “So you meant to do this to me?”

  “Christ, no!”

  He eyes me. “Then you’re not evil.”

  I shake my head, hating that he won’t blame me. Maybe if he did, we could resolve this once and for all. Maybe I could just walk away. “This has to end. It’s dangerous for you to be around me. Can we agree on that?”

  He doesn’t nod, but he does say, “Yeah.”

  “Good.” I start to get up, but he seizes my arm to stop me.

  “You can’t just leave, Vivian. I’m your bride. You said so yourself.”

  “I…” Tears fill my eyes. “I don’t know what to do for you, Mac.”

  He closes his eyes and thinks a long moment before continuing. “If you’re done with me, then let me go. But if you love me…if you want to keep me...”

  I swallow hard against the knot forming in my throat. Christ! “Give me a few days. Let me try to sort this out.”

  He nods. We stay that way a long moment. It must make Sheri nervous because she wings by our table once more.

  “Everything okay, guys?” she asks, looking to me for clues or signals.

  “Everything is fine, Share,” I tell her.

  She looks at Mac.

  “Yeah,” he agrees, his voice remarkably steady. “Everything is great.” Unexpectedly, he reaches under his jacket and sets a small manila folder on the table. “You know that case you were helping me with?”

  My heart jumps. “Yeah?”

  He waits until Sheri returns to the change desk. Then he goes on. “Well, the gang…the Toltecs…they’re gone.”

  I take a deep breath, hoping the truth isn’t written all over my face. “That’s good, right?”

  “Good and bad.”

  “How is it bad?” Suddenly, I’m terrified of what he’s going to say next.

  “There have been more murders,” he finally blurts out, sounding angry and frustrated. “Like the last ones. Just not the same type. God help me, I shouldn’t give you this folder, but I’m at a loss as to where to go from here…”

  A cold dread blooming within me, but I swipe the folder up all the same.

  50

  THE PEOPLE in all the pictures have been brutally slaughtered. Skin peeled from their faces and bodies, mouths agape in silent screams of outrage and pain. Just like before. But unlike before, these are not pimps, rapists, and murderers. Not all people who belong to the shadows in this city.

  I look at the picture of the dead woman found in the alley behind her tenement building. A slick red skeleton in a skimpy dress and cheap heels, her afro full of blood. A man skinned and hung from a tree in his backyard, his two children discovered only a few feet away, bawling their heads off. Another woman flayed, her body tossed into a dumpster.

  I set the roadhouse on fire. I burned Tupoc down to black bones. I scattered his gang of human traffickers. I’ve killed a lot of people on purpose and by accident. And my o
ne, thin consolation was knowing that maybe something good had come of it. Maybe I had stopped the Toltecs from moving deeper into the Philly underground. Maybe I had stopped the murders, if nothing else.

  But I hadn’t stopped her.

  I set the pack of pictures down on the kitchen counter, cover my mouth, and rush to the bathroom to throw up all over the toilet.

  Afterward, I stand in front of the scarred yellow sink and look at my paper-white face and feverish dark mouth in the mirror. My tangled hair. My haunted dark eyes.

  I don’t know where to find the woman.

  The woman who will destroy this city.

  The woman who will kill me.

  The woman I know will kill me.

  I exhale a sob and the glass breaks into a spiderweb pattern as if I’ve punched it.

  51

  AFTER THE shop is closed and Sebastian has tottered out the door to do his nightly binge drinking, I lock the door and set about a dozen lighted candles around the prep room. Then I turn the lights out.

  The candlelight casts a warm sepia tone over everything. I reach into the drawer where I’ve been gathering items for tonight and pull out the cloth-wrapped package, setting the items out on the prep table where I normally make my charms for my customers.

  A bag of red salt, three black crow feathers, A cauldron I can fit in the palm of my hand (it’s remarkably difficult to find cauldrons of size, I have discovered), a handful of river rocks I collected from the children’s park, a votive candle I borrowed from off a memorial for someone who died on the side of the highway, and the Devil’s Tarot, which managed to find its way back to me within hours of the fire. Finally, I pick a dicing knife from out of the butcher block because I don’t have a proper athame. But a knife’s a knife, right?