Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1) Read online

  My supplies wouldn’t be there until the next day, but I didn’t think I could afford to wait. I sat at my desk and pricked my finger with a nail file, until I had enough pure blood to write a hasty protection spell.

  Plain blood was how it had begun, after all. As a child, I escaped into books so often that protecting myself with stories became second nature. I started out writing my story-spells in normal pen, but soon discovered that blood was much more powerful. It was only later, when I learned more about the properties of herbs, minerals, and metals, that I started mixing that blood with various powders and essential oils to produce my ink.

  I refined my recipe over the years, and the spells written in that ink served me awfully well. But for now, basic blood would have to do.

  I went to bed that night fairly confident that I could fend off whatever Marjory was sending after me, but also wondering whether she wasn’t a little bit right. Of course I didn’t trust her, or believe for a second that she felt protective of Max. But shouldn’t I feel protective of him?

  Didn’t I owe him something, for not being brave enough as a kid to keep trying to help him? And now I was taking his birthright. What if he really was still alive?

  It had been a long time since I’d written a spell for anything other than protection, but I resolved that I’d use part of my first batch of ink to try to find him, somehow, or at least discover his fate.

  Feeling a little better, I went to sleep.

  And then feeling a lot worse, I woke up.

  It was just after midnight. I’d been dreaming of Madeline Underwood. And I was burning with fever.

  Marjory Smith had come for me, as surely as if she’d entered my room. Her dark will ran through me, making me hotter, weaker. My chest ached. My bones, too.

  But Miss Smith, competent witch though she might be, was no Miss Underwood. And I wasn’t quite such a novice anymore.

  I didn’t bother with paper. I cut open both index fingers, and wrote directly on my forehead, my cheeks, my chest.

  Unharmed. Unharmed. Unharmed.

  A one-word story that I put every ounce of power I had behind. I thought of what Cooper had told me, about his kind directing their vitality inward to keep themselves healthy and strong. True, they were built that way, and I wasn’t. But will was will, and power was power. If they could do it, why not me? Maybe just this once?

  I didn’t have a thermometer, but I didn’t need one to tell me my temperature was getting dangerously high. If it went on much longer, I’d have to give up and call 911.

  Unharmed. Unharmed. Unharmed.

  I wrote it over and over, always in threes. I focused inward, on the heat building inside me, and willed it to cool.

  My fever rose higher. I started to shake.

  And then I started to sweat. The fever broke.

  An hour later, after a nice long drink and a cool bath to wash off the blood, I was tucking myself back into bed.

  “Take that, Marjory Smith,” I whispered. “Round one goes to me.”

  Max got in touch with Verity in the only way he could.

  Which was how? As a spirit from beyond the grave, or with a simple phone call? I decided to let the spell decide. It was tricky enough as it was, writing a story about someone else. Mine was usually the only name mentioned in my spells. Working your will on another human to any degree beyond self-defense is a difficult task, not to mention ethically questionable. But maybe Max, if he was influenced by the spell at all, would understand that my heart was in the right place.

  It was the first thing I wrote when I finally made some ink, even before the protection spells I scattered around my newly-renovated suite.

  By a happy coincidence, construction on one of the new sections of the third floor finished only a few days after I arrived in Bristol, and they were able to move me. So now I had a kitchenette, at least, and a small bit of office space. I didn’t think Lance was very happy about taking one of the new luxury suites off the market for paying guests, but apart from giving me his own, there wasn’t much he could do about it.

  Marjory had stayed away since my successful defense against her spell. Regrouping, I supposed, now that she’d taken the measure of me. And no doubt making plans for something even nastier. So I had that to look forward to.

  But I was plenty busy without her. After our meeting shed some light on Lance’s motivations, I got more involved in daily operations than I might have otherwise. I got reports on all his plans and progress, mostly approving them, but occasionally telling him to change something, just to prove I could. That might sound spiteful, but I already had two strikes against me when it came to establishing authority: I was young, and he’d been there first. If I didn’t make it clear that I was the boss right away, I never would.

  I also spent a lot of time with Mr. Pickwick, going over the particulars of the estate. I was right about the money; I would be a very wealthy woman, once everything was settled.

  As the days stretched on, it seemed there would be no fallout—legally, anyway—from everything that had happened in Lenox. I got word that the cause of the fire had been established: bad wiring gone wrong. Nobody ever said anything about a body in the dumpster around the corner, at least not to me.

  It all should have given me a great sense of freedom. Kestrel and the fire were behind me. I had no family, no roots. And I would soon be richer than I could really fully grasp. I’d be able to sell the hotel if I wanted to, go anywhere, do anything or nothing at all.

  But I didn’t forget that the world outside Bristol wasn’t safe for me anymore. Nor, as I learned not quite two weeks after I got back, was the world inside Bristol.

  I hadn’t ventured outside the hotel much, especially once I had the means to make my own meals. I wanted to minimize the risk of running into Marjory, or any of her coven. Or anyone else I knew, come to mention it.

  But one morning I decided to go back to The Witch’s Brew for a cup of tea and an almond croissant. I don’t know whether that decision was driven by overconfidence or just optimism, but either way, I should have known it would get me into trouble.

  It was mid-morning on a Thursday, so the shop wasn’t all that busy. There was only one person in line at the counter. But as I took my place behind him, I saw that he was possibly the very worst person I could run into. And I included Miss Smith in that assessment.

  I looked at the floor and said a silent prayer that he wouldn’t look around and see me. Or recognize me if he did.

  Of course he turned around. Of course he saw me. And of course he said, in the friendliest, sweetest voice imaginable, “Verity Thane! I heard you were back in town.”

  You couldn’t let that voice fool you. That was one lesson I’d never forget.

  “Heard it from your aunt, I assume?” I asked, forcing myself to meet his eyes.

  Asher Glass was Marjory Smith’s nephew. And he had the family talent for magic.

  He had used that power, among others, to destroy me back in the tenth grade. On a glorious October day, during one of the best years for foliage we ever had.

  I came into school feeling exhilarated by the walk, and found a note from Asher taped to my locker. It said he had something he wanted to ask me. It hinted that the something had to do with the homecoming dance.

  You might well wonder how I could be such a fool. It wasn’t like I’d never seen a teenage movie. But Asher and I had been partners on a poetry project that fall, and I guess I thought we’d connected over Keats and Donne. I was a hardheaded girl, relentless in my optimism; despite my mother’s death, my discovery of Max, the abuse from Miss Underwood and the town in general, I still hadn’t learned the dangers of harboring some hope for myself. But I was about to.

  I met him in the back hallway, before the bell rang that morning. And he did ask me to the dance. I said I’d love to go, although inside, I was already starting to panic about what I would wear.

  As we said goodbye, Asher leaned in, and kissed me on the lips. I let him. Of
course I did. I even kissed him back.

  That kiss sealed a spell he’d been working. I was rooted to the floor, powerless to move at all, except for breathing. Asher, still smiling tenderly, pulled my skirt down around my ankles and walked away.

  I stood there for almost an hour, exposing my cheap cotton underpants, with their stretched-out elastic and a hole in one butt cheek, to everyone who walked by. And as you might expect, there were plenty who walked by; Asher and his friends made sure of that.

  There were also teachers drawn by the commotion. Naturally, they insisted I pull up my skirt and go to the principal’s office immediately. But when I didn’t—couldn’t—oblige, they had to be concerned about getting physical with a student, especially one who was partially undressed. I had to wait for one who practiced magic herself, and understood what was going on, to come and pull me away.

  Once she did, the spell was broken. But the damage was done.

  Asher Glass still had that face, that smile that had once beguiled and now only repulsed me.

  “Actually, I heard it from my wife,” he said in answer to my question. “She said you threatened her. You’ll want to watch that.”

  Of course. Jessica. They’d dated in high school. Of course she would be Jessica Glass now, and that baby in her belly Asher’s. Now there was the true spawn of the devil.

  “I was just joking around,” I said. “I remember how you guys love a good joke.”

  Asher smiled. “Good. Then I’m sure you also remember how—”

  “Your coffee, Ash.” Wendy’s husband Caleb set a cup down on the counter, maybe a little harder than necessary. A paper to-go cup, thank goodness. Then he turned his pleasant face to me. “You’re Verity, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Welcome back to town. How’re things going at the hotel?”

  “Very well, thank you,” I said, ignoring Asher’s smirk. “I’m still settling in, but Lance is awfully good at what he does.”

  “That he is,” Caleb agreed. “What can I get you?”

  I was determined not to let the encounter with Asher throw me off my mission. “An almond croissant please. And a cup of oolong.”

  “Eating in or out?” Caleb asked.

  “That depends. Is Wendy around?”

  “Should be, any minute.”

  “In, then.”

  I turned back to Asher, who was still hovering by the counter, and raised an eyebrow. “Was there something else? Don’t let me keep you from… whatever it is you do now.”

  He leaned forward, just a little, just enough to get into my personal space. His expression was so charming that for a second I thought he was going to flirt with me. But surely he didn’t think I’d fall for that twice.

  He didn’t. Instead he said, in a steely voice that belied his smile, “I’m a police officer, as a matter of fact. So you’ll want to watch yourself, and your little jokes. I’m not one to show mercy, as you probably remember.”

  I did my best to look bored as he turned away.

  “People really don’t change,” Caleb said with a sigh. “Asher Glass was always a little shit, and he still is. But his father’s a sergeant, so.” He shrugged, then nodded toward the door. “Here’s Wendy now.”

  “Verity!” Wendy smiled at me, then glanced at Caleb. “She looks upset, did you oversteep her tea?”

  “I haven’t even made her tea yet.” Caleb leaned across the counter to kiss his wife, then turned away to get my order ready.

  “So what happened to you?” asked Wendy.

  “No big deal. Asher Glass—”

  “Say no more,” she interrupted. “He puts that look on my face, too.”

  I explained that I’d come in in hopes of having that chat she’d suggested. A few minutes later she had me settled with my tea and croissant—on the house—in the back office, where we could talk privately.

  The room was more like a library in an old mansion than an office, with its plush chairs and expensive rug. I cautioned myself not to get too cozy. I instinctively liked Wendy, but I didn’t know what she was about, or why she’d taken an interest in me. And my encounter with Asher had been a sharp reminder that trust could be a mistake.

  “So, things are going okay at the hotel?” she asked.

  “Not too bad.” I considered her. She owned one of the social hubs of Bristol. If there were any rumors about Max Underwood, she might know them. “Marjory Smith’s been protesting my inheritance though. She says Max Underwood is alive.”

  Whether deliberately or by coincidence, Wendy chose that moment to take a sip of her coffee, so I couldn’t see her reaction. Her voice was neutral as she said, “Does she, now?”

  “Have you heard anything?”

  “Not really. Look, I just wanted to talk to you about your father.”

  I choked on my bite of croissant.

  Wendy smiled in the infectious way she had and said, “Sorry. It’s probably one of those things people don’t usually bring up in polite conversation.”

  “It’s fine,” I said. “I take it you’re a believer, then.”

  She dismissed that with a wave of her shortbread. “Witchcraft runs in my family as far back as I can trace it.” She didn’t need to say more; all of the witches in Bristol believed in the devil. It was sort of like you were all in with the supernatural, or all out.

  “I wanted to know if you came back because of him,” she went on. “I assume he was the one who instructed Madeline to take care of you. But if you want the Mount Phearson because you think you’ll be able to amass some kind of power here, under his protection—”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. I’d come to Bristol for protection, that much was true. But I would never look to my father for it. “It’s not like that. And I heard he left town, anyway.”

  “So he did,” Wendy agreed.

  “That must have been an adjustment for people.”

  “Not as much as I was afraid it would be. We’re doing okay on our own. I guess two hundred years was enough of a head start.”

  “Are you talking about the local economy, or local magic?”

  “Both, I guess. But I’m afraid there’s more to it than his just leaving town. The sanctuary was broken deliberately, by someone who was hunting him.” Wendy hesitated, then shrugged. “Look, I’m no good at mincing words, so I’m just going to lay it out.”

  “Please do.”

  “Your father was not a good guy. He was a psychotic killer, actually, as it turns out.” She sat back in her seat and gave me an appraising stare, I guessed waiting to see how I would react.

  What did she expect? That I would be shocked? Defend him? You didn’t grow up with a nickname like Devilborn and live under any illusion that you came from virtuous stock.

  Besides, everyone knew what my father was like. Sure, he took care of the town, but he terrorized it, too. Tourists disappeared, young women claimed to be ravished. Nobody kept dogs or cats, because legend had it they would drop dead if they crossed his path.

  All I said to Wendy was, “I notice you’re talking about him in the past tense.”

  She raised an eyebrow. “Observant of you. The fact is… well, sorry you’re hearing this from a stranger, but he’s dead.”

  I took a sip of my tea, then a bite of my croissant.

  “You okay?” Wendy asked.

  I nodded. “I’m just waiting.”

  “For?”

  “To feel something.”

  But I didn’t feel a thing.

  I guessed that wasn’t entirely surprising, given I’d never met the guy. But still, he was my father. And Wendy was right; it was because of him, one way or another, that I’d inherited the Mount Phearson and the Underwood fortune. It certainly wasn’t loyalty or affection for me that had motivated Madeline Underwood.

  I looked at Wendy, then shrugged. “I didn’t know him,” I offered.

  She nodded and drank her coffee.

  “But you’re sure?” I asked.

  “I know
the people who killed him,” Wendy said.

  That did get a reaction from me, although I wasn’t sure whether my surprise was tinged with anger or not. “You what?”

  “They’re friends of mine. I wanted to see you because—”

  She was interrupted by Caleb, sticking his head in the door. “There are a couple of guys here asking for Verity,” he said, then looked at me, frowning. “I guess someone at the hotel told them you were here.”

  I nodded as I stood up. “I asked Rosalie if she wanted me to bring her back anything. Who is it?”

  “That’s the thing,” Caleb said. “They’re strangers and, if you don’t mind my saying… they’re pretty damn creepy.”

  I felt like I’d just taken a big gulp of ice. Creepy was not such an unusual description in Bristol, but if it was a local, Caleb would have known them.

  Wendy stood up, too. “Did you tell them she was here?”

  “No, I said I was coming back here to ask you if you’d seen her.”

  Wendy shrugged at me. “You can hide back here if you want.”

  “Thanks, but I’d better go,” I said. “It’s probably just something about the renovations.” That was nonsense, of course. If it was hotel business, they’d have gone looking for Lance, not me.

  Someone had found me, and nobody who was looking for me was anyone I wanted to see.

  But if I didn’t go talk to them, they might keep looking around, asking questions. They might even ask the local police. And the last person I wanted involved in my business was Asher Glass.

  “We need to finish this conversation,” said Wendy.

  I nodded. “I agree. And we will.” I thanked her and left the office.

  I didn’t recognize the two men I found waiting for me out front, but they were certainly creepy. The elder of the two was tall and cadaverously thin, bundled up in a warm coat and wool skullcap despite it being sixty degrees outside and plenty warm in the shop. I pegged the younger one as being in his late twenties, and although he looked healthier than his companion, he still seemed delicate and weak.

  Father and son?

  Father and brother. Kestrel’s.

  Balls.