I don’t understand why my dad is doing this. I don’t understand why he took me on a date or bought me the comics and books. I don’t understand him at all—but I’m smart enough not to look a satanic gift horse in the mouth.
After dressing in a fresh T-shirt and jeans, I go back downstairs, feeling a bit more optimistic about my life decisions. Sebastian is still fluttering around the repair guy when I notice a familiar face out on the stoop of the shop, examining the damage.
I step through the cardboard door, then stop when I see the absolute horror on Mac’s face.
“What the hell happened?” he asks, sounding angrier than I expected.
I think about making up an excuse about a break-in, but I’m sure he’s read the incident report by now. So I say nothing.
“It was them, wasn’t it? The Toltecs?”
I shake my head. “It’s okay, Mac. I wasn’t here when it happened.”
“Weren’t here...?” He turns and stares at the sidewalk a long moment and takes a deep, shuddering breath. I see his fists clench as if he’s thinking of putting one through my glass display window. “We need to talk.”
“All right.”
He leads me toward his car, then suddenly changes his mind and walks me down the street. I feel a twinge of concern. Up ahead is the pizza parlor Sebastian and I ordered from the first night we stayed in the shop. They serve Chicago-style deep-dish pizzas. Awful stuff Sebastian calls “pizza lasagnas.” But I let him lead me inside and to the unisex bathroom at the back of the shop.
He locks the door on the tiny room that smells of cheap, bottled Freesia, but doesn’t flick on the light. Instead, he turns to me. The space is so small we are up against one another. The room is dim, but the hunger in his eyes is unmistakable. We’ve been apart a good number of days, and now he’s learned that I was in substantial danger…
I slide backward a little until the edge of the vanity brushes my ass. He follows my motion before pouncing, grabbing my ponytail of long red hair, and kissing me. It’s difficult to breathe suddenly. He tastes of coffee and peppermint. He doesn’t merely kiss me; he bites my lips, growling. His free hand follows the line of my body, and then he shocks me with his newfound aggression by seizing my left breast and working my nipple with this thumb. I shift around, my breasts heaving up as an unfamiliar whimper crawls up my throat and past my half-parted lips. His tongue goes into me then, slippery and hot.
I cry out, right into his mouth. He responds by attacking my jeans, pulling them down, along with my boy shorts. “Lift your ass,” he says in a voice so deep and steely cold, I can’t help but tremble for him.
I wriggle around on the vanity while he works my shorts over my hips and down my legs, then forces my legs farther apart. I shiver and a small cry catches in my throat when he touches me softly—a fluttery touch that drives shivers up my spine. I’m about to beg him to take me when he goes to one knee and bows his head like a prince at the end of a fairy tale. But instead of proposing marriage, he flicks his tongue over my clit. I finally cry out and wrap my arms around his strong neck. Mac licks, sucks, and then eats me out like a man dying of starvation. I thrash and buck against him, my climax building like a storm.
The room fills with soft, dark light. At first, I’m afraid I might be burning him, but then I realize Mac is the one who is glowing. I’m absorbing his strength or vitality or whatever you want to call it while he gently growls against my core, driving me over the edge. I come quickly and forcefully and Mac sucks at my wetness even as he gives me his light. I dig my fingernails into his powerful shoulders even as I dance against his mouth, giving myself to him, but also taking from him.
After we both come down from our sexual high, we fix our clothes, unlock the door, and walk to a booth in the back. I have to lean on Mac since I feel all weak and wibbly-wobbly inside. The lunch crowd has thankfully cleared out, so we have practically the whole place to ourselves. A waitress comes by, but we just order a couple of sodas. We can’t stop staring at each other, breathing almost in sync.
Eventually, Mac gets himself back under control and starts in on me.
“Why didn’t you tell me they hit you?”
I realize after a moment he means that the Toltecs hit the store. Cop talk.
“There were cops here half the night,” I say, hoping to reassure him. My voice is a little hoarse from all my moaning and screaming, and I can’t help but wonder if the waitresses heard anything. I take a long sip of soda. “I reported it. It’s over.”
“It’s not over. They weren’t arrested.” He sucks in a deep breath. I notice a bead of sweat at his hairline, and he’s doing that thing again where he keeps clenching and unclenching his hands. “You should have come to me, Mistress. This is my fault! I never should have gotten you involved!”
I hush him before he attracts anyone’s attention. Then I put a hand on his. I’m reminded of what Nick said about gathering brides. If I wasn’t convinced before that Mac is my bride, I am now. I just have to figure out a bride’s proper care and handling.
“This is not your fault,” I tell him ardently. “And you don’t need to take care of me. I am Mistress, remember? I take care of you, Mac!”
He looks confused. I think he thinks all this is a game, a sexy little role-playing charade.
I realize we are at a crossroads. He doesn’t understand the weight of what’s happened between us—and I’m afraid that if and when he does, he won’t accept it. I’ve never seen a cross on him, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t believe in God or the church. How would any Christian man respond to being made one of Lucifer’s brides?
I realize something, then. He needs to know the truth about me. He needs to be able to make an informed and committed decision about me.
Taking a very deep breath, I say in a rush before I chicken out, “I lied to you, Mac. I’m not a psychic. I’m a witch.”
He looks confused, but being an astute detective, he starts putting things together like puzzle pieces in his head, his brilliant mind fusing it into something that makes sense to him. I can see the wheels turning. But before he can jump to the wrong conclusion, I add, “And I don’t mean a Wiccan, Mac. I’m not a goth or a pagan or any of that—not that there’s anything wrong with all that. I’m just not it.”
His lips form words, but it takes him a moment to speak. “What…what does that even mean?”
I bite my lip. “Are you a Christian man?”
“What?”
“Answer the question, Mac. Please.”
He frowns but says, “No. Atheist. Why?”
I don’t know if that’s better or worse. I start slow, explaining everything about my parents, about myself. Hell, I even dive into a brief subplot about Nick as the current ruling Lucifer, though I do manage to bring everything back around to myself—and what Mac is to me now. I don’t hold back, and, as I finish my tale and my soda, my one wish is that Mac doesn’t think I’m a raving lunatic.
After it’s all said and done, he continues to stare at me, but I can’t read his expression, which frightens me.
Naturally, I expect him to accuse me of being crazy or lying or trying to manipulate him in some way. I half expect him to bounce up and run from the crazy women in the booth who thinks she’s Satan. So, I’m surprised when he bypasses all that to say, “So, what you’re saying is…I’m not in control of the way I feel about you?”
His voice is soft and hurt. I feel as awful as if I’ve stabbed him in the heart.
I don’t know how to answer his question, and I can’t meet his eyes, so I just say, “I have no idea. I’ve only just found out about all this. About brides and such.”
I raise my head and finally look him in the eye. “You believe me.”
“It…it feels real,” he confesses. Then he frowns again. He doesn’t remove his hand from under mine, but his other balls into a fist again. “So…what you’re saying is you’ve made me this. You’ve made me a…bride. Like a slave.”
I don’t
like where this is going. “I never meant to make you anything,” I tell him honestly. “Mac, you have to believe me…all this happened purely by accident.”
His eyes shift downward and he stares at our entwined hands. Slowly, he pulls his own hand back. I think he’s going to explode, based on the stunned look on his face, but he doesn’t. He just looks up at me instead and says, “So none of this is real.”
“That’s not what I mean! Of course it’s real!”
A waitress headed back to our table stops at the sound of my shouting. I ignore her and I try to take Mac’s hand back. “This is all real to me. It always was!”
But he interrupts by rising from his seat. “I have to go. I have to…be alone. Put my head together.”
Standing there, Mac actually puts a hand to his head as if it hurts. I start to get up, but he moves in a flurry toward the exit. I watch him go, wondering if I should go after him. Wondering if I’ll ever see him again.
Wondering if I’ve made one more terrible life decision in a long, long line of terrible life decisions.
42
WHEN I get back to the shop, I feel the best and worst I’ve ever felt in my life. Empowered. Heartbroken. I know from past experience that it’s a potent—and dangerous—combination for me.
I march past the ratty secondhand sofa where Sebastian and the repair guy are doing some serious tonsil spelunking and go straight to our shared bedroom. There, I change into the leather jeans, boots, my red Devil T-shirt, and the leather motorcycle jacket with the skulls and roses embroidered on the back. I snatch up the atora, my keys, and head for the door before good sense rears its head and I change my mind.
“Where are you going, dressed like that?” Sebastian inquires. He’s wrapped in an afghan we got at Goodwill and standing in the kitchen while his handsome stud cooks dinner at the propane burners. I think they are making spaghetti together. “Jordan is making an alfredo sauce…you’re welcomed to join us…oi, wait up!”
He follows me to the door.
I turn around and say the first thing that comes to mind, “It’s a rave. I’ll be back late. Don’t get in trouble.”
He looks at me dubiously.
His confused expression is the last thing I see as I shut the door.
43
ONCE AGAIN, I park at the 24-hour Kwikimart and walk down to the roadhouse, tying the atora on as I go. It’s a Saturday night and the dump is packed to the rafters. I can hear the live band playing something that sounds like a modern cover of a Grateful Dead song.
By the time I’m within eyeshot of the bar, I’m tossing the Devil’s Tarot from one hand to the other and hyping myself up. I think of what my dad said. “You strike first. When dealing with a brujo verde, it’s important to exert your dominance.”
A man gets out of a pickup truck, takes one look at me crossing the parking lot, and gets in again, slamming the door. I guess he didn’t like what he saw. Goodie.
Each step makes me feel ragey-er. I keep seeing my broken-up shop. Sebastian in the body bag. Mac looking at me as if he’s afraid to be in the same room with me. Mostly, though, I see Tupoc’s shit-eating grin—and I think how much I want to break it. By the time I reach the door, I’m breathing harshly through my nose and mumbling under my breath. Instead of grabbing the latch, I swipe my arm out at the door. I’m surprised when it catches fire in a sudden whoosh—but not the building around it—and burns down to kindling supernaturally fast.
I hear a commotion inside as I step through the hole that remains and into the roadhouse. I don’t think they expect me to be the source of the fire because everyone looks surprised by my return. Several of the Toltecs move away from the pool tables, long cue sticks in their tight fists, but then stop to assess the situation. A few big guys shove away from the bar. But no one looks eager to engage me
One guy, smaller but beefier than the rest, moves in front of the gathered crowd and eyes me. “Who the fuck are you, gringo girl?” I see his hand waver over his vest where I assume he’s packing some heat.
“Your leader knows me. Tupoc?” I look around the narrow, low building, but I don’t see him here tonight. “Short and ugly as fuck? Likes to bust up establishments like a little bitch having a temper tantrum?”
No one I look at answers, so I add, “He called me Lady Lucifer.”
A Toltec standing behind Shorty barks out laughter as if that’s the funniest thing he’s heard tonight. Several other brave souls join in. But Shorty raises a hand to silence them.
“Ain’t no Tupoc here,” Shorty says after a few breathy seconds. His eyes slide over my getup suspiciously, but he doesn’t laugh. “And Halloween is in October, bitch. Get out.”
I snort. “I’m not leaving until I get to talk to Tupoc. We have unfinished business.”
“He won’t talk to you, little girl. Leave!”
My rage kicks up a notch. I hate being dismissed almost more than anything else.
“No,” I tell him firmly, standing my ground. I stretch out my arm, spreading the Devil’s Tarot between my fingers, and shake the cards at one of the guys getting too close to me with a cue stick in his hands. The cue catches fire and the biker drops it with a bark of surprise.
“Tupoc, shorty,” I repeat in a gravelly tone. “Now!”
That pisses him off. He cants his head sideways at two of his bigger lackeys and mutters in Spanish. The two Toltecs move toward me, a look of business on their faces. I recognize one of them as the big guy I first encountered in the parking lot the first time I was here—the one who bumped me to get past.
As he approaches me now, fists clenched in a threatening way, I say in a clear voice, “Stop.”
But they don’t. The two reach for me, grabbing me by the shoulders. My heart flits in my chest. I jerk back with a shout, my right arm going wide. I release the cards in my hand. The kinetic force driven by my will causes them to slice into the back of the bar and stick there. Suddenly, with the loss of the cards, I feel vulnerable again.
As the men drag me backward, I make a come-hither gesture toward the cards, but I discover my brain isn’t with the magic. It’s too busy reeling, wondering what I’m going to do about the brutes dragging me off to who knows where. I realize too late that practicing at home where I’m safe and sound is one thing; doing it in a volatile situation is something else completely.
The cards shiver but don’t move from where they’re embedded in the wall.
We’re not headed toward the front door, I now realize. We’re going in the opposite direction, toward the employee door beside the bar. That makes my heart beat too rapidly and makes my rage flag as my body goes into panicky self-preservation mode. Where the living hell are we going?
I start to fight. Hard. I fight the way every woman fights when she’s up against a killing male force. Heckle and Jeckle don’t expect that, and as I wriggle around, their hold on me slips. As soon as I’m free, I bolt for the door, but another Toltec slides in front of the entrance. I put the brakes on and eye him, trying to look tough, but I’m frankly scared half to death, and I know that’s not what he’s seeing.
Shorty appears beside me and grabs me around the waist. I scream and twist to get him off me, but he’s incredibly strong and he lifts me up and throws me over his shoulder as if I’m a potato sack. My head down and spinning, I start to thrash but his grip only tightens, and when I start to scream, he mutters something in Spanish and slaps my ass as he marches back toward that other door.
The blow enrages me, and as I twist and fight like a cat, I lose the atora pinned to my hair. But I can’t get free. He slaps my ass again. “Quiet, bruja roja!”
He shoulders through the door and into the parking lot behind the roadhouse. The moment I breathe the clean, frigid air, I fight harder, finally making it too hard for him to carry me. Muttering curses, he swings me down to the asphalt, the back of my skull cracking against it. That makes my vision swim, and for a moment, I can’t tell what’s up from down.
While the ot
her Toltecs gather around, he leans down to me. I open my mouth to scream, but he draws his elbow back and pop-punches me in the upper cheek, bouncing my head against the asphalt again. I sputter as pain spreads out over my face and deep into my skull from the impact. I want to scream but I’m choking on the blood in my mouth.
“Quiet, bitch,” he tells me and stalks past, nodding toward one of the other bikers. The big guy grabs me by the hair and starts roughly dragging me across the asphalt.
This time, despite all my pride and my desire to go this alone, I start shrieking for help. There’s blood in my eyes and it’s getting hard to tell which way is up. My heart won’t stop hammering and sending my thoughts reeling off into dark places. I just flail around until we reach the roll-up door of the garage behind the roadhouse.
I’m still carrying on while the men pound on the metal roll door, but the band has started up again, louder than ever, and I know no one can hear my screams. After a second or two, the door trundles up on its track and they drag me inside the dark recesses of the garage.
The fucker ripping my hair out at the roots finally lets go. I immediately twist around onto my hands and knees on the filthy concrete floor. Pushing myself up, I glare around wildly at the interior of the vast space. There are workbenches full of greasy tools, machine mounts, and several cars and a few bikes up on hydraulic lifts—typical things you find in a garage. But there are also several other men here, including Tupoc, who is standing near a box truck parked at the rear of the garage, talking to the driver. The box truck is parked with the back facing us, a heavy chain on the doors.
Tupoc swivels his horny, vicious head around when he spots us, and I see a smile split his face in half. It drags his piercings in two different directions, giving him an even more demonic appearance. The sight of him makes me flinch and sit up. Honestly, I totally forget what I am and what I’m capable of doing as he swaggers toward me. “I hear you are looking for me, bruja roja.”
To the Devil a Daughter Page 18