Destined to Reap (Reaping Fate Book 3)

by Kinsley Burke

  “What favor do you need?” Andrew asked. Ever the peacemaker, his expression was often a tight mixture of amusement and exasperation around Wilcox and me.

  “I need information about the college student who committed suicide in her dorm room this morning.”

  “Why?”

  “She saved my life.”

  “When did she do that?”

  “An hour ago.”

  “Her roommate found her dead at two o’clock this morning,” Wilcox said.

  “I didn’t say she was alive when she saved me.”

  Wilcox rubbed at his head. He did that a lot whenever I was around. “Does she have anything to do with your current…”

  “Fashion statement? She prevented you from having to scrape my flattened body off a cement floor, so be grateful all I have is torn clothing and a missing shoe.”

  “Why the hell would—”

  “Do we really want to know?” Andrew, the logical one, cut in.

  Wilcox went back to massaging his head.

  “She was… interesting,” I said. “She saved my life, yet stared as if she hated my guts. Then she led me to a bookstore where I think she tried giving me a message, but she wouldn’t actually speak.”

  “What kind of message?” Andrew asked.

  “It has something to do with Celtic mythology. There was a book I think she wanted me to look at but it was overpriced. That store’s a rip-off.”

  “She was Irish,” Wilcox said, “and was only in America for university. Here on a student visa.”

  “Her name was Anna Dunne,” said Andrew. “She was twenty years old.”

  “Why did she kill herself?”

  Andrew hesitated. He turned to Wilcox with a questioning glance. Lowering his voice, he answered, “I’m not certain she did. We’re to quietly look into this matter since the coroner’s office is expected to officially rule it as a suicide.”

  I bit my lip while absorbing several things at once: the hesitation in Andrew’s voice. The irritated tapping Wilcox was doing with his fingernail against the top of his desk. The fact that an Irish girl sought me out and saved my life. Or had she even been looking for me? But what other reason could she have for being in an abandoned warehouse miles from the university only hours after her death? I glared Andrew square in the eye. “What aren’t you telling me?”

  “There have been several suspicious suicides over the past two weeks. They have all been female and have either been Irish or first generation Americans born from Irish parents.”

  “I think someone is searching for the Fáithsine,” Wilcox said. “I’m not certain this is what the suicides are about, but we need to consider the possibility.”

  My mind blanked. Then thoughts came crashing back at once, all jumbled on top of each other. Nothing made any sense inside my head except for the fact that by what limited understanding of the prophecy I had, I apparently was the Fáithsine. “Someone wants me dead?”

  “All of Hell wants you dead,” Wilcox said.

  “Which is ironic considering…” Andrew nodded at the pendant clasped around my neck.

  The intricate design of red and gold I wore not only marked me as a Praedator working for Satan, but the garnets drew out the power of the demon blood flowing through the veins inside my human body. Which, unfortunately, wasn’t much. Possessing supernatural abilities, that was.

  I didn’t have telekinesis like the other cambions working this job, much to my chagrin. Strength I had. And visions, which were becoming more powerful every day. Sight into the future, like my ancestor, Aerowen—the one who prophesied me. Maybe one day I’d actually be able to control the inherited gift that oftentimes proved to be detrimental to my health. Only five days had passed since I foresaw a mark calmly allowing me to approach with my withdrawn sword at the ready for his fiery demise. Nowhere had I envisioned he was luring me in front of a speeding delivery truck. Fortunately, my more-often-than-not keen observation skills got me out of that impending death. Still, I would have been better off had I not marched into the danger with a false sense of security or the expectation for an easy mark thanks to a limited vision that had snapped me back to the present before allowing the scene to be shown in full context.

  “Hell knows I’m not a cambion. Why haven’t they realized who I am?” I asked Wilcox. He seemed to be more in the know about my destiny than I was, but trying to coax the information out of him was like trying to drill into a brick wall with a regular screwdriver.

  “Think about it,” Wilcox said. “Who would believe the woman prophesied to defeat Hell would be working for them?”

  “True.” I nodded. The human mind was great at piecing together the information that made sense while rejecting the data that didn’t. Perhaps the demon mind was no different. “The only good thing that’s come out of this twenty-nine-year contract.”

  “Twenty-nine years?” Andrew let out a low whistle. “Damn.”

  “So…” I frowned at both men. “Why did they wait until now to start killing off potential… whatever it is I am?”

  “Fáithsine?” Wilcox asked, and then he shrugged. “The prophecy. Maybe it’s now time for it to be fulfilled.”

  Hell, no. That, I was not ready for. Years of preparation would be required before taking on the seven most powerful demons. Doubt nagged at my thoughts. “The more I think about this, the more I believe I’m not the right girl.”

  “You are.”

  “How can you be sure?” I asked, voicing my uncertainty. “I didn’t believe in any of this supernatural lore until I wound up with this… this job.”

  “Lore?” A smile cracked Wilcox’s rigid features. “You believe in ghosts.”

  “That’s different.”

  “How?” He leaned back in his chair, his grin settling into something smacking of smugness. “The chosen one probably doesn’t know who they are until it’s time. Isn’t that how it often works?”

  “What books have you been reading?” I asked. “You sound like my aunt.”

  Wilcox blanched. He wasn’t as skittish around Aunt Kate as Officer Menendez, but with his ass having been on the receiving end of my aunt’s leers one too many times, the detective wisely kept his distance whenever Aunt Kate was in the vicinity.

  “Speaking of your aunt,” Andrew said and leaned down to pull a small box out of his bottom desk drawer. “How has her trip been?”

  “I’m not certain,” I said. “It seems that both her and her friend’s cell phones disappeared at the airport right before they boarded their flight. Then after they arrived at their hotel, the room phone was broken, and the front desk didn’t have a spare one to replace it with. Nor was there a vacant room Aunt Kate could be moved to. She accosted some poor tourist out on the Strip for the woman’s cell phone in order to call me and explain what happened. I’m shocked that I haven’t received a phone call from the Las Vegas police department telling me she’d been arrested.”

  Andrew grinned in the way only the culprit of the phone plight could do. Slowly was I coming to the realization of the sneaky tendencies he had while looking oh-so innocent.

  “I don’t understand why they haven’t purchased new cell phones,” I said.

  “All stores have been put on alert to not sell phones to either of them.”

  “As a cop, you have that much influence over businesses in a state you don’t even work in?”

  “Not as a cop,” he said. “Here.”

  The box shoved into my hands distracted me from the further questions my inquisitive mind wanted to ask. I opened the lid and peered inside. “This will work?”

  Andrew nodded. “I have a group monitoring Phillip. He hasn’t been in contact with Kate since she left, and he’s none too pleased about it, I might add. A week away from him will have lessened his hold on her.”

  “I thought all witches stood around in a circle chanting a spell, but Damon and Phillip can control people simply by speaking to them?”

  A rueful smile hinted at Andrew�
�s lips. “You have to understand, The Thirteen is an old and powerful coven. Perhaps even the very first coven. The magic they use is dark and pulls straight from Hell. Because of this power, they have some abilities others will never achieve.”

  “Why do they want anything to do with Satan?” I paused in thought. “They sold their souls to the devil for this power, didn’t they? How come?”

  “Why do people do anything?” Andrew shrugged. “Money, prestige… clout.”

  “At that cost?” I touched the Sterling and stone pendant tucked inside the box. “What will this stone do?”

  “That’s nuummite. Some people call it the Sorcerer’s Stone because of its powerful energy. There are a lot of uses for it, but it will help protect your aunt from the negative energy Phillip uses against her.”

  Touching my own pendant, I’d come to realize how powerful certain stones could be. “Thank you. What do I owe you?”

  “Nothing.”

  “But—”

  “This is part of what Andrew does, Kiara,” Wilcox cut in. “Look at it as a gift rather than a service.”

  I bit back the part of me desperate to argue and instead nodded. “Again, thank you.”

  The sound of an incoming text message chirped from inside my purse, and I pulled out my cell phone.

  Text me if you’re dead.

  Good ol’ Hadley. She’d once told me I was too stubborn to die. Then she said that should I ever perish, I wouldn’t move on toward the light. Instead, I’d spend every moment haunting my mother into alcoholism as payback for the years of neglect. I was pretty certain my mother was halfway there without my assistance—but, of course, all drinking commenced after the clock struck noon—as was proper.

  “You two are friends?” Andrew asked, his gaze focused on the screen of the phone I’d set down on top of his desk.

  “The best.”

  His eyebrows rose. It was probably a plus that mind-reading wasn’t part of my skill set. Some thoughts were best left unknown. Especially when concerning me.

  Another text chimed. Not Hadley. I stood and shoved the phone back into my purse. “Duty calls.”

  Wilcox pushed up from his chair. “I’ll walk you out.”

  My lips pressed down into a scowl as I hobbled beside him. “Do you always have to be so controlling?”

  His arm wrapped tight around my waist to provide a better balance as I walked. “Do you always have to be so ungrateful when a man tries to be a gentleman?”

  “Touché.” I looked up to find his startled face staring down. “What?”

  “You actually agreed with me?”

  “It happens.” Heat hit my cheeks. Really, he hadn’t been all that overbearing since I’d walked in. The witchy part of me needed to be locked back in her broom closet. No one liked a bitch. Except… some sort of perverse adrenaline rush happened whenever I succeeded in pushing his buttons. “You’re always so busy thinking you’re the one right to notice.”

  “You are the most hard-headed, disagreeable woman I’ve ever met,” Wilcox said.

  “Right back at cha.”

  We’d reached the door leading into the lobby, and Wilcox paused. “You’re calling me a woman?”

  “Of course not.” I grinned. “Unless there’s something you need to tell me, Detective?”

  Wilcox sighed as a smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “The sass that comes out of your mouth should be weaponized. No one would stand a chance. But, hey?” His face tightened in seriousness. “Please, be careful?”

  I leaned up and kissed his cheek, fighting back the silly grin I felt like giving at his genuine concern. At the same time, heaviness weighed inside my chest at the thought of yet another person—or demon—wanting me dead. “I will. Promise.”

  Exiting back to the lobby, I listened as another text message dinged. Maude, the fake psychic who governed my paychecks, would have to wait. A trip to my apartment was the first order of business. If I were to show up at Fated Match—the job location where I spent the hours of nine and five and all the minutes in between—looking like the mess I currently was, I’d give the woman a fatal heart attack and then no more paychecks would be issued. That would be a very sad day.

  Right as I approached the main doors to exit the building, two ghosts materialized in front of me. Fortunately, a serious discussion was in progress, and neither one noticed my presence as they headed toward the interior door leading back to the offices. The same door I’d just exited.

  “You really need to give his butt another chance, Margaret.” The ghost wearing a white button-up blouse and a swing skirt, whom I preferred to call Miss Prim, said before they disappeared from view. “He has a really great butt.”

  And Wilcox had concerns over my aunt ogling his ass? I guessed it was a good thing he was unaware that a nineteen-year-old ghost, who’d died more than sixty years ago, was doing the same.

  Chapter 3

  Life was to be simple. Decide on a career path in fifth grade. Grow up. Marry Prince Charming. Have two-point-five children. And a white picket fence, of course. One that surrounded the castle moat.

  Life sucked. Castles were on the Endangered Human Habitats list in the United States and any sane person containing even the most trifling spark of intelligence would question how a woman could have only point-five of a child. Not biologically possible. Which didn’t matter because I wasn’t living my fifth-grade dream of becoming an international ice cream taste tester.

  Doctors, teachers, and astronauts were so passé. I had let every teacher and student at Lincoln Elementary School know that precise opinion on career day. Every last one of them.

  Never once had my ten-year-old self mentioned a single thing about chasing after ghosts who wished nothing more than my demise as being the superior-than-thou career path choice to take. Neither had I aspired to have a Warlock stalker—especially not one who considered me his guinea pig for psychotic mind games. Yet that’s what I got, and now I could add death of innocent Irish women to my growing list of concerns while a murdering bastard went on a killing spree in his—her?—search for me. That brought me to the question du jour: Was it human or demon who now hunted me? Most likely demon but I refused to place bets.

  The tenth pencil of the morning snapped in half thanks to my crushing grip. I wasn’t certain why I purchased that form of writing utensil whenever it was office supply shopping day. Except… HG—aka Handsome Ghost, aka Miss Prim’s future soulmate after she wizened up and got her knickers out of a wad—had begun using them as fetch for The Beast. The pencils always ended up as ash, so HG went through a lot of wood covered lead…

  Because that’s what happened when there was only one pencil per throw… and someone—not naming names—had adopted a hellhound from that place where the flames shot high and the word air conditioner was nothing more than a wish.

  Or perhaps the beast had adopted me? Jury was still out.

  HG wasn’t in the office at that moment. Neither was Hellhound.

  “No, this will not do. How could you do this to me?”

  Maude certainly was. In the office, that was, and instead of me spending time identifying what this she spoke of was about, I wanted a trade. Desperately. One hound the size of a Shetland pony in exchange for the head honcho of an exclusive matchmaking service. The matchmaker who demanded an established place in high society. At all costs. Maude Taggart was many things. Boss extraordinaire was the one thing she was not.

  Looking up from behind my desk, centrally located in the foyer of Fated Match as my commanding receptionist job demanded, I took in the cream-colored walls, sleek furniture that looked to belong inside the posh living room of an upper-class One Percenter rather than a reception area, and an average height brunette clutching a strand of white pearls. The necklace was wrapped around a scrawny neck, and one hand tugged at the beads in distress while the other rubbed aggressively at new worry lines marring an expanse of pale forehead. Past due for her quarterly Botox session with her dermatologist i
t seemed.

  “Yes, Ms. Taggart?” A quick click of the computer mouse and all meager information on Anna Dunne disappeared from view. “How may I help you?”

  “Help? You’ve not helped at all.” The agitated woman marched back into her office and then returned clutching a fistful of papers—which were plopped down onto the desk in front of me. A slam had certainly been intended, but the thin fibers of each individual page were shit for the dramatics. Maude’s gaze grew stern. “They will not do. None of them.”

  A cement truck dumped a load into the pit of my stomach as I stared down at the light-colored documents contrasting against dark wood. Realization dawned at what had Maude so upset. “I will have five more candidates to you by the end of the day.”

  Somehow. Promises were always an excellent offer. Assurances to the big boss that would keep my butt out of the unemployment line. I could only hope.

  “You’ve gone through every event planner in the city. None of them are good enough. All of their ideas were insipid and dull.”

  I was ninety-nine point nine percent certain the words insipid and dull were synonyms, but the woman was on a roll, and I liked to think Mouth was intelligent enough to stay shut.

  “Which part of wedding of the year is so hard to comprehend? Frauds, the lot of them.”

  Like Maude.

  Or charlatan, imposter… even hoaxer if she preferred. Psychic Matchmaker, as Maude advertised herself to be, the woman most certainly was not. The I-see-all swindler couldn’t predict her next meal even if Fate handed her a Prix Fixe menu containing a single selection in advance. My knack for matching suitable clients on the discreet—as in, stalking people around the city and then convincing Maude when the intel I’d provided for her psychic revelations matched a particular couple together was really her choice—had saved my boss a lot of face. Image was everything to her. Along with status. Accomplishing this wedding of the year was her perceived ticket into social standing. She desired a lofty rank that rubbed shoulders with both the politically elite and the fabulously rich and famous.