Reaping Hell: Kiara Blake Book 2, page 6
And that was why the top part of my eyes stared unblinkingly at the white ceiling high above my head in the hour of way-too-early-o’clock. But only half of my eyes. The bottom part hid, peacefully enjoying the underside of my high thread count purple Egyptian cotton sheets while pretending it was a field of lavender that I galloped across while riding on the back of a unicorn. In a world full of fairies, demons, and hellhounds, unicorns had better exist. At least one. I would find it, and it would then reside in the other half of my postage stamp-sized living room, right next to Hellhound—who was getting way too cocky with having the largest room in the apartment all to his own.
Those happy visions of peaceful unicorn-riding days would now be a daily requirement. I wasn’t going through it again—not returning to the life of fear I had lived for almost two weeks while outrunning the hounds of Hell, fulfilling the damn contract with my first mark. No longer would that particular emotion rule, and instead, all thoughts were allocated to focusing on the Lisa Frank posters that had once decorated my childhood bedroom walls. Brain became rebellious, taking full advantage of the calm silence by reflecting on the very crime scenes that left my stomach knotted in unwelcome dread.
Vacant eyes. Waxy skin. Pores of ash. Hard to not remember when every minute detail had engraved itself on my cortex. Brain pronounced two dead bodies as two too many. Body took charge of the internal conversation and declared a strike on witnessing a third. That was, if number three was scheduled to make his ghastly appearance that day.
Regardless, I didn’t see dead bodies despite the recent diversions, only dead ghosts—ones who tended to haunt, annoy, stalk, blast energy, and attempt murdering innocent people simply wishing to cross a bridge and make it home before curfew. Because ghosts did not smell—probably due to not residing on the earthly plane of existence. Ghosts did not appear gruesome and haunt my dreams—usually.
Mental note was taken to issue Wilcox the I don’t see dead bodies memo before he had any more misguided notions of dragging me to another crime scene. It was past time for my life to resume normalcy, which did not include Wilcox calling me to inform that Daniel or Nicholas’s dead body, containing unexplainable charred insides, had been found.
Because it would not be normal to keep me appraised of those findings.
And if I repeated it enough, that sentiment would become true.
Sharp pounding knocks at my front door, instead of the expected shrill ring of Wilcox’s foreboding call, caused my body to lurch in a spastic jump off the top of my mattress. Loud and insistent were those raps. Enough that Body was forced to cross the picket line after sorting itself out from the comfort of expensive sheets. Because those knocks weren’t stopping. The tempo increased, and Feet about tripped over themselves in haste to reach the front door. The building sounded one pound away from collapsing.
Nothing greeted me on the other side of the peephole as I peered through. Yet I was watched. The pricks of awareness that tickled down my back told as much. Spine-tingling alertness was never wrong in Hollywood horror movies. The Japanese versions, either.
Full disclosure: horror movie. Only one had I watched. From behind spread fingers. And now my life felt as if it had turned into one, complete with a cheesy title referencing blood. Mine.
Hand reached behind me and scrambled to unhook my sword from its harness… except nothing was strapped. I grabbed a fistful of the silk camisole I’d worn to bed instead of a weapon to send all of the bad guys to Hell.
Well, damn. My sword was in the bedroom. I stood at the door. Despite only five steps separating the two inside my minuscule apartment, it was five steps too many when an invisible hand was pounding at my door, and I had no coffee in my system providing the required adrenaline for running.
“Kiara Blake!” Cheap wood did nothing to soften the severe tone of voice. “I know you’re in there. Learn your manners and open this door.”
My breath huffed out a sigh. Confirmation was now given that something stood on the other side of that peephole. The kind of something that created additional nightmares—especially at six o’clock in the morning. I tugged open my front door and looked down at the top of a white head. “Good morning, Mrs. Tidwell.”
Four-foot-nine of frail woman glared up at me. “This is not a good morning. Do you know why it’s not a good morning?”
Crap. Trick question? Jaw had slackened before I clenched it to bite my lower lip. Questions often became complicated around Mrs. Tidwell when she was in a mood. The angry flush on her wrinkled cheeks strongly indicated this was not a happy one.
“A woman can’t get her beauty rest when there’s pounding on the wall.” Her narrowed eyes widened, and her voice dropped to a scandalized hiss. “Kiara Abigail Blake, are you entertaining a gentleman?”
Oh, for the love of… How did the crazy neighbor know my middle name? How in the world—Wait! Sluggish thoughts screeched to a halt and then zeroed in on her last question. “Mrs. Tidwell, did you just ask if I have a man in my bedroom?”
A boney hand flew up to clutch her chest. “It is simply not proper for a woman of your single status to entertain a gentleman in her bedroom and keep her respectable neighbor awake while doing so.”
I stared into Mrs. Tidwell’s brown eyes, searching for a flash of green. She was possessed by Miss Prim. It was the only logical explanation for the ludicrous conversation that Mrs. Tidwell insisted on having at the break of dawn. “I can assure you, the headboard to my bed is not against our shared wall. The noise is not coming from inside my apartment. Perhaps you left the television on?”
“So you admit there’s a gentleman in your bedroom?”
“What? That’s not—”
Sharp pounding on a wall cut my words short. The sound originating from inside my apartment. I leaned back to peer around the obstruction of my front door. A marked ghost sat at my dining table.
“Go back to bed, Mrs. Tidwell.”
“Young lady, you are not—”
“A man wearing a bandana has invaded my apartment. I must fight him off.”
Mrs. Tidwell disappeared from my view. The front door I’d closed may have had something to do with the vanishing act. I didn’t need a visual to know her hands were covering her mouth as she gasped in horror. As irrational as crazy people were intent on being, Mrs. Tidwell was always concerned about a bandana-wearing man carting her off to God knew where. Sometimes, I’d considered hiring a man to do just that—and then safely return her unharmed to her apartment in order to squash her foolish fear. Extreme irrationalities called for drastic measures, but she’d probably die of a heart attack before the hired captor could drag her to the first-floor landing. Her death would then be on my conscious. For eternity.
With Mrs. Tidwell no doubt in hiding behind the peephole of her own front door, it was down to me and a ghost. A marked… to be precise. He was the same one from the hotel two days prior. And that damn sword of mine was still five steps too far away.
Never before had there been a ghostly invasion in my home—demon, yes. Ghost? No. Decision made: The Welcome mat was getting pulled. Paranormal beings were obviously taking the written words on nylon fibers too literally. Welcome would be replaced with Go Away. As soon as I located one.
Yet my irritation didn’t change the fact that I had an unwelcome visitor. Nothing good could come out of a marked sitting inside a Praedator’s home, and there was only one question right then that begged to be asked: “Why the hell do you keep hitting my wall?”
His mouth scrunched into a scowl as his head continued thumping against the thin-enough-to-bother Mrs. Tidwell wood behind him. A mindless banging, as if he attempted to work out a problem—or admonishing himself for overlooking something stupid. There was no guess as to which. Red eyes hardened when his gaze focused on me. “Where is he?”
Many thoughts struck at that moment… his anger… my fear the anger would morph into a rage and blast me through my living room window… my impending demise occurring five stories below since death was a natural result of going splat on hard concrete… my mother’s forthcoming embarrassment that I’d publicly perished while wearing only a thin camisole and ass-hugging sleep shorts.
Since Brain had already informed that fear was an unsanctioned emotion, all listed worries became obsolete. No ghostly rage or concrete death would occur on my turf. The smart choice was to march into my bedroom, grab my sword, and send Hell a new resident. But Feet froze. Carpet clung to me like ice. Rationale could not move past the fact that this ghost still searched for Todd Ashford. And the meddlesome personality inside me demanded to know why.
“Answer my questions if you want me to answer yours.” I drew my five-foot-five-inch frame up to full height as the lie rolled smoothly across my tongue.
“He can stop it,” the marked said.
“Stop what?”
“Stop Hell.”
Not the expected answer. “How—no, wait. He can?”
“No.”
“No, what?”
“No, he can’t.”
“But you said he could.”
The ghost leaned forward. His hand running through his hair while his agitation grew. He was both frustrated and too new to his ethereal body to maintain control of those emotions; although, I had doubts a ghost ever fully commanded such discipline. High was the probability that still adjusting to the afterlife was simply an excuse. Too many ghosts smirked when saying those words. Strong energy pulsed from Young Ghost as he said, “The fáithsine.”
That word. The same one Wilcox had used. “What is the fáithsine?”
“Who, not what. The portals will close.”
Whiplash had to be less jolting than this particular conversation. I could no more than grasp one train of thought before his topic of discussion was on to something else. The portals, however, I knew.
“Todd Ashford will close the portals to Hell?” I asked.
Energy thudded stronger from the marked’s direction. Frustration turned his deathly pale face into a shade of red. His body trembled. “The fáithsine will close the portal.”
With a guttural yelp, he poofed. The question he’d asked of Todd’s whereabouts still unanswered. Thankfully, since I had no answer. Violent shakes hit the thin wall as he dissipated. Mrs. Tidwell would not be pleased. But the irritable old woman was the least of my concerns. Chest heaved as his words clicked into place.
The fáithsine.
Upon her death, my grandmother had left behind a journal belonging to an ancestor from the Middle Ages. The written words in Old Irish only partially translated at the time of Grandma Maura’s death. Enough of the old prophecy deciphered for me to gain an understanding of my future.
The portals will seal. Earth will be protected.
I was foretold to close the portals. Logically, I could only conclude that this mentioned fáithsine was me. And Todd Ashford held the key to my fulfilling destiny.
Who knew a party boy held the fate of the world in his hands?
Chapter Seven
The Alchemy Hotel.
There was only one good reason for being awake at seven o’clock in the morning: two whole hours until Maude’s scheduled office arrival. And that particular hotel choice was it. Destination selection to utilize my free time was clear and taking a closer inspection of Todd’s home away from home before his death a must. Figuring out how to close those portals would not only fulfill the prophecy, it’d get me out of the damn contract with Satan. Only one slight hiccup to my formulating plan and she came in a tiny four-foot package.
“Kiara, he had a red bandana, right?” Mrs. Tidwell asked as I walked past her front door in the hallway. “Tell the officer about his red bandana.”
My head turned from Mrs. Tidwell’s earnest face to the policeman’s exasperated one. The cop’s arms were crossed, and he leaned against the side of Mrs. Tidwell’s doorjamb. The notebook wasn’t withdrawn as no note taking was required. The police were summoned at least twice a month for reports of bandana-wearing men loitering in the vicinity of our apartment building. Mind had to wonder whose bad side the cop was on to get assigned this particular call. Perhaps they tossed coins?
Shoulder lifted in a shrug. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Tidwell, but I don’t know anything about a red bandana.”
“I saw him.” She pointed a bony finger at me, and for a second I feared she was placing a hex. “He sat inside your apartment, and he wore a red bandana. The color of the Devil.”
“You can be assured there is no man sitting inside my apartment with or without a bandana.” I waved my hand toward the cop. “Let the kind officer finish taking your statement so he can leave and do his job.”
“Kiara Blake!” Mrs. Tidwell’s voice yelled at my retreating back. “Come back here and describe the bandana to the police officer.”
Even from behind the slam of the stairwell door, I could hear her demands for my return. One bus ride later, Mind still hadn’t rationalized how Mrs. Tidwell expected me to describe a bandana. Red and a piece of fabric. There really wasn’t a lot to say about cloth. My crazy neighbor probably didn’t realize it—doubtful she’d even encountered that particular item in years with her unreasonable fear.
A human arm nudged into me as I neared The Alchemy Hotel. The form attached to the pushy shoulder was large and bulky, brushing past in a rushed beeline for the lobby doors.
“Excuse you,” I muttered. My voice soft, but obviously not quiet enough. The woman whipped around, her beady eyes pinning me to my spot. But it wasn’t the I-will-fry-fur-off-kittens glare that had me pausing.
“Hey, you were here the other day when a man was murdered, weren’t you?” I asked, recognizing the housekeeper who’d had the dramatic showdown with the hotel manager in the lobby before publicly declaring she quit. Yet she now stood before me wearing the uniform of a hotel maid. A rectangular piece of plastic attached to a retractable badge holder was pinned at her waist, and it snagged my attention. That badge could be put to great use if placed into my hands. I threaded my fingers together in a grip to steady my antsy impatience. “Do you work here?”
The uniform was a given, yes, but the scene from my last visit left room for skepticism. Her eyes remained untrusting while glancing me over. “Who the hell are you?”
“I came to interview someone about the ghost murder.”
“You believe it was a ghost?”
The question threw me as I recalled her loud proclamation while stampeding toward the exit door. I was a hundred percent certain her words had been I don’t work with ghosts. “Someone said a ghost had killed him. Am I wrong?”
A long sigh wrung out of her. “It was a ghost, but they won’t believe me.”
“How do you know your suspicion is right?”
“Because I feel it.” She placed a hand on her chest. “Right here. I know it’s true. The others believed me at first, but then Mr. Walker got to them. He made them think I was crazy.”
“Who’s Mr. Walker?”
“The hotel manager. He said I was nuts, and I shouldn’t scare the guests with nonsense.”
“Why didn’t you quit?”
“I tried to. My husband. He wouldn’t let me. He marched me right back here and made me beg for my job back. Now I’m forced to work with a ghost who will kill again.”
During the conversation, I’d angled toward her, hoping for the appearance of a sympathetic gesture while my hand itched with an ulterior motive to yank her badge free. But her next words put Feet’s slow advance to a stop.
“The ghost had watched Mr. Ashford. If only I had felt it was a killing ghost in time, maybe I could have stopped the murder.”
“What do you mean?”
“Mr. Ashford stayed here a lot, and he always requested the same room. But things started happening last month whenever he was here. I was cleaning the room, and stuff started moving. One minute his computer would be sitting on the desk, and then I’d turn around, and it’d be on the bed.”
“Strange.”
Her head bobbed up and down. “Scared me to pieces, but I didn’t want to stop cleaning his room. He was a good tipper. We always fought over who’d get to clean it. I usually won, even if I wasn’t working that floor. Seniority, you know?”
“Anything else strange happen in there?”
“It was always hot.” Her forehead scrunched. “But maybe Mr. Ashford only liked to keep a warm room. The thermostat was always turned up high.”
Heat. I knew of a red two-foot demon who enjoyed the heat. He also liked to move people’s stuff and play pranks. An Imp—a mischievous pest. A household servant to the dark Warlocks—ones practicing demonic magic, according to Miss Prim. Made sense. Wilcox and Detective Ross had already concluded the murders were committed by a Warlock. Interesting to note that Todd had been under surveillance by one… long before the day of his death.
The sharp ring of a cell had me reaching for my phone. It wasn’t mine, and I studied in curiosity the housekeeper’s sharp scowl.
“I’m late, and they’re calling to tell me I’m late.” She jammed the cell phone back into her purse while it continued its attention-seeking blares.
“Thank you for taking the time to explain everything.” I shifted close and gave the woman an awkward pat on the back. “Just know that I believe you.”
Well, I believed in ghosts, anyway. Close enough.
“Thank you.” Her lower lip trembled; suddenly, I felt like an utter ass. Sadly, that feeling kept hitting me a lot of late. The hotel maid continued, “No one else has believed me. It’s nice to know someone doesn’t think I’m crazy.”
She disappeared inside the hotel. Breath released out of Lungs while Hand closed over smooth plastic. I did it, I’d stolen a housekeeper’s badge. My mother would be so proud. I could also brag about how smooth my lying skills had become. She’d be thrilled. Ecstatic. If proud, thrilled, and ecstatic translated into horrified, that was. My mother would disown me while crying in shame—which may very well come into realization, regardless, once she gained a daughter-in-law named Lacey Briggs. My high school nemesis. I was the complete opposite of Lacey. Yin and yang. Black and white. Pork chops and pineapple—wait. Was the last one even considered a contrast? Regardless, my mother loved her and barely tolerated me. After only a month of working for the Underworld, I’d already determined Lacey would fit in quite nicely down below. And speaking of Hell…
