by G A Chase
The Devil’s Daughter Books 1-3
G.A. Chase
Bayou Moon Press, LLC
Copyright © 2019 by G.A. Chase
First Edition 2019
Cover Art by Ravven
Editing by Red Adept
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher of this book.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locals, business establishments, or persons, living or dead, are entirely coincidental.
Bayou Moon Press, LLC
Contents
Hell in a Head Gasket
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Hell Bent for Demons
13. Chapter 1
14. Chapter 2
15. Chapter 3
16. Chapter 4
17. Chapter 5
18. Chapter 6
19. Chapter 7
20. Chapter 8
21. Chapter 9
22. Chapter 10
23. Chapter 11
24. Chapter 12
25. Chapter 13
26. Chapter 14
27. Chapter 15
28. Chapter 16
Hell’s Highway
29. Chapter 1
30. Chapter 2
31. Chapter 3
32. Chapter 4
33. Chapter 5
34. Chapter 6
35. Chapter 7
36. Chapter 8
37. Chapter 9
38. Chapter 10
39. Chapter 11
40. Chapter 12
41. Chapter 13
42. Chapter 14
43. Chapter 15
44. Chapter 16
45. Chapter 17
46. Chapter 18
47. Chapter 19
48. Chapter 20
Book List
About the Author
Hell in a Head Gasket
Hell in a Head Gasket Blurb
When Sere Mal-Laurette escaped hell, she thought she’d left her demons behind her. But now that one has found his way through hell’s gate, others are sure to follow. Then all hell will break loose.
If Sere fails to contain the little soulless bastards, the loas of the dead will likely figure out her true identity. Then they’ll be all over her soul, and she can kiss immortality goodbye. Moreover, someone needs to send the demons back to where they came from before they wreak havoc on the citizens of New Orleans.
To prevent the demon doppelgängers from killing their human equivalents and taking over their lives, Sere will need the help of people she trusts—and some she doesn’t. It’s time for her to embrace the badass demon hunter she was always meant to be. To do so, however, she’ll have to quickly figure out the line between protector of humanity and murdering psychopath.
***
Want to know what happens next to Sere? Find the next book in the series here:
Hell or High Water
Curious about how Sere got to be the bad-ass demon hunter? Find her back story woven into the Malveaux Curse Mysteries starting with book 1 here:
Dog Days of Voodoo
G.A.’s Newsletter
Connect with G.A. on Facebook
Website
1
High above the murky swamp waters, Sere Mal-Laurette lay naked in the porch hammock, watching the sun set over the bayou. It wasn’t the peaceful end of the day, however, that held her attention. The green glow on the horizon that she hoped she was just imagining grew brighter as the light of day faded. She rolled over toward the decrepit cabin nestled in the limbs of the cypress tree.
“It’s probably just a chemical-plant fire or distant lightning strikes.” She knew in her gut, however, that her plausible explanations were nothing more than a desire to turn her back on her obligation. The same burst of Day-Glo green had heralded her crossing between dimensions.
She bolted out of the woven-rope cocoon like a scalded cat and stood with fists clenched at the railing. “Damn it! The gate to hell isn’t a revolving door. Why can’t you demons leave me alone? I didn’t make my escape just to have you fools follow me like I was some demented Pied Piper of the damned.” No one would be able to hear her on the island far out in the swamp, but yelling provided a release, however brief, to her frustration.
Though corralling the recently escaped soulless demon back into its dimension wasn’t her responsibility, she sure as hell would pay the price if its existence among the living was discovered. The voodoo loas of the dead were on constant guard against empty bodies. Sere—as a soul stolen from Guinee, placed in one of those empty shells, and made immortal—was number one on their Most Wanted list. So long as they believed the gate between realms was sealed with their missing soul trapped inside, they had no reason to suspect it was she, and not her father, who had sidestepped the final resting place. One dumb-ass demon flailing around life like a drunken college student on spring break would make the loas leave their realm to start investigating.
With no choice but to search for the cause of the rift, she stared into the bayou, trying to estimate the green glow’s location. Between the meandering rivers, cypress groves, and hyacinth-clogged marshes, finding her way directly through the swamp would be impossible. Like an ever-changing maze, hell’s swamp never provided the same connection between dimensions twice.
She clenched her fists so hard her fingernails bit into her palms. “Fuck. It’s not likely the demon will just be sitting out there waiting for me. I might work my way out there just to find out the fucker has already made it into some hick town. The more attention it attracts, the sooner the loas will be all over my ass.”
The only way to discover what dangers lay ahead was to follow the path behind her—the one leading away from the peace of her swamp cabin and back to the chaos of towns filled with people. If something strange had slithered, swum, flown, or walked out of the bayou, it would certainly be the talk of the superstitious redneck bar gossips. All she had to do was wander the small taverns, getting hit on by fat assholes with missing teeth, until she found one drunk enough to think he had a shot at impressing a passing young woman with his tales of derring-do.
“No point in dragging this out.” She entered the cabin that had been her home in both hell and life for nineteen of her twenty-six years of existence. The place still reeked of spells cast by the original swamp witch, hell’s creator, to contain Sere’s father. Too bad Agnes Delarosa sucked so badly at containment charms. Even though the old witch was long gone, some ideas were best left unspoken.
Sere squeezed into the skintight black leather pants and matching halter top. Once her body adjusted to the outer coverings, the outfit moved like a second skin. She sat in the dusty rocking chair that Agnes’s granddaughter, Sanguine Delarosa, had used to cradle Sere in as a young child. The alligator-skin boots she yanked on fit snugly over the riding pants.
Before climbing down from the porch, she stepped on the lower board of the railing and reached down to her boot. The combat knife was sheathed inside just as she’d expected, but touching the handle of the deadly weapon gave her a sense of reassurance. It and the clothes on her back were all she needed from the c
abin. She’d snatch whatever else she required from the hidden cache close to the highway.
She looked back at the open door, wondering if she should lock the place up. “If anyone stumbles this far out and needs a place to hole up, I expect something like a rusty lock won’t prove much of an obstacle. Besides, what is there worth stealing?”
The dark of night was fast approaching. While most people headed to the safety of their homes, Sere would start her hunt, but first, she needed transportation. She climbed down the makeshift ladder consisting of a dozen boards nailed to the tree trunk. Then, with all the enthusiasm of a commuter facing a wearisome drive to work the nightshift, she approached the weathered canoe tied up in the reeds. With a firm push, she had the fiberglass hull off the silt bank and into the dark water. As she jumped in and pulled away from the island, she watched the last rays of daylight brighten the storm-tossed cabin like a beacon to help her find her way home.
After an hour of paddling along the well-known waterways, Sere beached the old canoe on an island that looked like every other one she’d passed. Headlights from cars plying the interstate a half mile away barely illuminated the old shipping container that lay on its side, covered in vines. “Let’s see what surprises you have for me this time.”
Strictly speaking, the cache wasn’t hers. Joe Cazenave was a firm believer in having escape options, and for every covert store of supplies, he had constantly changing security features. As her fighting instructor and mentor, he seldom complained when Sere borrowed what she needed. However, that didn’t mean she didn’t have to figure out his deadly little puzzles to gain access.
She squatted down to begin her inspection of the rust-red garage-sized metal strongbox. It had sunk low enough into the bog that a small moat had formed around it like a medieval castle. Based on the flat rock wedged against the container’s top—now facing sideways—and the matching one meant to look haphazardly buried in the reeds, she assumed the protective guardians Joe had assigned to keep an eye on his treasures weren’t fluffy little river otters.
She thought back to her training. Joe set up his caches such that even if he turned up naked and near death, he could still open the box. “Everything I need is right in front of me.” The jump from rock to slippery moss-covered rock would be a challenge even in the best of conditions. “There must be a makeshift bridge somewhere close.”
A little hunting through the vines and reeds revealed the waterlogged plank. After setting it over the two rocks, she carefully edged her way to the center of the protective canal. A ball of water moccasins teemed so tightly under her feet that she wondered if the head of Medusa was buried in the silt.
“Clever, Joe.” Even if some kid did happen upon the treasure chest, he wouldn’t risk multiple snakebites just to explore an abandoned shipping container. But the snakes would only be Joe’s first line of defense.
Sere didn’t even bother working her way toward the front to check the bolted-shut doors. They would be much too obvious for a man trained in all manner of military evasion tactics. The rock under the board hadn’t sunk at all from her crossing. She bounced on her toes to make sure of its stability. “You wouldn’t have bothered with a foundation unless you knew it would be needed.” Staring up along the corrugated metal, she caught sight of a rust-free section of the top surrounded by thick vines. “Right.”
Even if Joe had shown up in a bad way, the ability to run up a wall was so firmly ingrained in his conditioning that he’d have had no problem performing the basic-training maneuver. Like a military cadet, Sere backed up to the far side of the plank and took a running start at the rusty-metal climbing wall. Her smooth boots slipped on the wet wood and metal as she leaped high enough to grasp the thick creepers that hung off the cabinet. Hand over hand, she pulled her slender frame up onto the top of the shipping container.
From above the marsh, she could barely make out the circuitous route from the island to the mainland. “You never could make anything easy, could you, Joe?”
A passing set of misaligned truck headlights made her hit the deck to avoid any possibility of being seen. Lying flat on the box, she ran her hand over a section of repaired corrugated metal. It had been aged to look no different from the rest of the container, but based on the Phillips-head screws, she knew she’d discovered Joe’s way in.
No matter how clever you think you are, never accept your first—or even your hundredth—conclusion that you are safe. Joe’s words were like an encyclopedia of self-doubt. His puzzles were bomb-disposal chess matches.
She ran her fingertip around the head of the nearest screw. As with the front door, simply using it as intended was far too obvious. “If I’m not supposed to turn you, then what am I to do with you, little fucker?”
A sliver of metal that had gotten trapped under the screw head sliced into her finger. “Ouch.” Sere put her fingertip to her mouth. The metallic taste of blood made her realize the cut hadn’t been accidental. She pulled her finger out of her mouth and squeezed it until a drop of blood formed. Then she dripped it into the indented cross of the screw head. The plate of repaired steel popped up just enough for her to work her fingers underneath. “DNA detector… you’re getting technological on me, old man.”
The hidden door lifted up like the hood of a car. She scampered under the steel plate and landed on the floor like a cat jumping off a ledge. Once the secret hatch had reclosed, lights came on in the shipping container.
The contents made her smile. “Joe’s garage.” As a combination of fallout shelter, resupply depot, and workshop, the room was filled with food, weapons, tools, and—most importantly—four motorcycles, which stood proudly along the wall. Her packed alligator saddlebags—made from the same hide as her boots—were secured on the back of a vintage Triton. The handmade café racer made up of a Triumph motor mounted into a Norton frame was so well constructed that she knew it must have been one of Joe’s creations. “Is there anything you can’t do with your hands?”
A note taped to the gas cap read, “throttle sticks, no rev limiter.” She wasn’t sure if the message indicated further work he intended to do, a warning to Sere, or intentional modifications. The leather bomber jacket draped over the handlebars was a nice touch. She threw it on. Based on how tightly if fit around her chest and shoulders, she had to wonder which of his conquests had left it behind.
“Let’s hear how you sound.” She threw her leg over the seat and gave the starter a firm thrust. The old engine kicked over but grumpily refused to start. “I see how it is. Just like your creator—as obstinate as hell.” She stood the bike up off its kickstand, jumped six inches into the air, and landed with the full force of her five-foot, four-inch, one-hundred-three-pound frame against the foot lever. The bike roared to life like an English lion.
Before coaxing the motorcycle toward the main doors, Sere enviously eyed the wall lined with knives, guns, and explosives. She resisted the temptation. “No point in stealing anything else until I know what I’m up against. Best to travel light.”
For a normally high-revving speedster, the Triton crept along the metal floor like a wild cat controlling its desire to pounce. When the front tire hit the ramp five feet from the rusted-shut doors, hydraulic rams lowered the wall like the opening to Batman’s cave. The heavy metal plate fell across the swamp moat, creating a drawbridge.
Halfway across, Sere stopped and set the bike on its kickstand. She stared over the edge at the water teeming with snakes. “I suppose a little company for my personal protection wouldn’t hurt. It’s not like a couple of you guys would take up much room in my bags.” As she lowered her hands into the water, the water serpents gathered around them, each vying to be plucked out of the moat. She chose two young and energetic canebrake rattlesnakes. They wriggled around her wrists until she fed their heads into the top flaps of her saddlebags. Their thin, scaly bodies disappeared into the darkness with only a final shake of their rattles as thanks for being included in the upcoming adventure. With living compani
ons from the swamp she loved, heading out into the wilds of humanity felt slightly less daunting.
2
Sere shut down her Triton in front of Bubba’s Bar and Grill. After two hours straddling the high-vibration engine, she was ready for a shot and a fight—preferably in that order. The row of Harley Davidsons that took up prime real estate on either side of the front door displayed their asses to her like an aging chorus line. Not one of the bikes was less than thirty years old, and more than a few looked like they’d been ridden hard for too long. At least I won’t be dealing with rich-kid wannabe bikers, she thought.
She swung her leg off the tandem seat and unbuckled her skullcap helmet. Dust from the gravel parking lot, kicked up by her tires, hung thick in the humid night air. She tossed her leather helmet onto the matching saddlebags and left the petcock under the gas tank set to open. “I won’t be long.”
At some point in the building’s history, someone must have thought old-West-style swinging front doors gave a bar some panache. Really, the only thing the squeaky hinges and banging doors were useful for was announcing any new patron’s arrival. She scanned the bar for both potential threats and tactical advantages. She had the room mapped out before the hinges of the swinging door stopped their screeching.