Demon Warden: A Paranormal Urban Fantasy (The Cursed and the Fallen 1) Read online

  I listen to the instructions and reply to the questions the police officer asks as numbness spreads inside my chest, making it hard to breathe.

  I look at the phone in my hand, wishing it was all a nightmare, wishing I could go back to that morning and have a long conversation with grandma. I would’ve if I’d known that was the last time I’d hear her voice.

  “Hey, you okay?” asks the neighbor from his door.

  I don’t answer him and simply go back inside, limping but feeling no pain.

  CHAPTER 2

  DINAH

  I shower and change in a daze, packing what I need for the flight. Spence will not come home for the night, so I leave him a note explaining why I have to go and asking him to change the locks because there was an attempt at robbery. I’ve not told him about Daniel, I’ve not told anyone. I don’t want anyone to know. If I could, I would wipe it off my memory.

  I lock all the windows and doors, waiting for the taxi, wishing I could use a spell to protect the house, but nope, I am a useless witch, only capable of elemental and accidental magic. I settle on the taxi and close my eyes. Memories of me and grandma flash in my mind’s eye like a movie. She could make the world’s most delicious chicken soup and would listen to my crazy dreams, using one of her old books to interpret them.

  A heart attack, it makes no sense, she’d always been healthy, and she was only 63. I know it’s possible but still can’t help but find it strange. My chest constricts painfully as my vision gets blurry.

  Not yet, I order myself.

  Once I start to lose myself to grief, I won’t stop for a while. I need to be strong for at least a few days.

  * * *

  I arrive at the funeral home in the morning. My grandma’s body has been taken there directly since they ruled her passing as natural, said the police officer on the phone the night before. The lined coffins and floral arrangements make me nauseated, and I am very grateful for my empty stomach.

  The mortician, a scrawny old man that used to creep me out when I was little, makes me sign some papers, his eyes not leaving me.

  Okay, he still creeps me out.

  “I want to see her,” I say once I’m done.

  “Hmm, how about if you wait until I am finished with her?” he asks, bespectacled eyes cutting through me.

  “How about now?” I request.

  He gives me a crooked smile. “As you wish.”

  I follow him to an eerily chilly room that smells of disinfectant. Two steel tables take over most of the space. Only one is occupied. My heart hammers hard, the pain in my right thigh grows stronger. He lifts the sheet and I can see grandma’s pale face. Her graying blonde hair is loose, as she rarely used it, the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth more noticeable than they’d been a few months ago. I swallow, sensing no peace in her death, I think she suffered pain.

  I turn and flee from the room. My lungs seem to have forgotten how to work properly. I wipe at the humidity under my eyes, biting my cheek to steady myself.

  “I told you it was not a good idea,” says the mortician, following me out.

  “When is the funeral?” I ask brusquely, wanting to silence him.

  “Tomorrow morning, you have nothing to deal with, all arrangements have been done.”

  “Thanks,” I mutter and hurry outside.

  My very practical grandma, of course, she’d made preparations.

  The outdoor chill curls on the uncovered parts of my skin. Dazed by grief, I walk a block and wait for a taxi. Grandma lived on the outskirts of Clovetown, away from the gossip mill. Located in rural Massachusetts, Clovetown is a closed, conservative, and religious community. How did my very pagan witch grandma end up living there? I will never know.

  A taxi finally arrives, I climb inside eager to escape the chill, absentmindedly giving the driver the address and focusing on not breaking down. The familiar streets and buildings don’t bring any nostalgia, I was always an outcast. A nerd who loved reading copious amounts of fantasy novels and never went to church, who always talked about moving away and never looking back.

  Too soon, I arrive at my childhood home. I pay the driver and hang my bag on my shoulder, standing on the muddy curve. A few birds chirp happily in the tall trees that further isolate the vast property. The fresh morning air does little to steady my mood. On shaky legs, I make my way inside, cleaning my feet on the worn-out red carpet before entering.

  I am immediately welcomed by the familiar smells of my childhood, sage, lavender, clover, salt, and pine. The old but well taken care of furniture is immaculate, as everything else is, I know. My stomach cramps as I look at the stairs. Grandma died in her room, and I can’t bring myself to see that empty space.

  The police officer had said she was found by a neighbor who’d come by to borrow some sugar. I snort. Sugar, my ass. The mysterious neighbor had probably come for a tonic or even a card reading. Most of the town prudes were afraid of grandma, but I know for a fact several came to her for help.

  My knees give out as soon as I am close to the sofa, I take the picture on the small table. Grandma’s eyes alight with pride and happiness, her arm firm around my waist; me standing beside her with my arm around her shoulders, wearing the ugly yellow gown, smiling brightly, knowing I was leaving for college. I hug the picture and cry.

  I am alone; I have no one else, no one who truly knows me, no one to tell about my demented dreams.

  Limping, I make my way to the kitchen, bending to reach the cabinet that hides the good stuff. Grandma has quite the stash of brandy, bourbon, and rum, something I’d discovered at twelve. I open the rum and take a good swig, focusing on the burn of the liquor instead of the gaping hole in my chest. Knowing I won’t be able to push away the pain completely and future drunk me will need a bed soon, I climb upstairs, pausing to take long gulps. I purposely ignore the main bedroom and pay little attention to my suspended in time room. The bottle is half-empty when I set it on my nightstand. Already feeling lightheaded, I climb to bed, curl up in a ball and wait for the liquor to do its job. Mercifully, it doesn’t take long before I’m out.

  * * *

  I wake up when it’s almost dark, nauseated and shaky, with an epic headache that makes even my ears hurt. Groaning, I sit, hangovers are so not fair, why must there be a side effect to drowning one’s sorrows? Thankfully, I know just the cure, it’s sitting on my nightstand. I open the bottle and take a couple of gulps. The headache dulls just enough for me to get up and make my way to the bathroom, holding onto the walls and giggling as I trip over my own feet. It takes me a couple of good tries to sit properly on the porcelain throne.

  To my great disgrace, I am too awake to crawl back to bed, and I smell like a bar. So I struggle with my clothes and get in the shower. Once I’m done I use mouthwash, emptying almost half the bottle until I am satisfied with the minty-ness. My pale, wet, and haggard reflection is truly pitiful, a few strands of golden hair are stuck to my neck, large circles under my rather big and swollen gray eyes.

  “You look terrible,” I scold myself, entering a state of silly laughter.

  I stumble back to my room, rummaging through the drawers until I find a big white tee and pajama bottoms.

  “Sexy,” I mutter.

  I look at the bottle yearningly, knowing I can’t stay shitfaced forever, I need to be ready for tomorrow.

  Tomorrow, the funeral.

  “Lalalalalalalalalala,” I chant as I make my way downstairs, and stumble to the kitchen.

  The fridge is well stocked with all sorts of things I could never cook, thanks to the heavens there’s also a bottle of coke. I lean on the counter and take a few gulps, pondering calling for a pizza as I see a notebook peeking from under a box of cereal. I pry it open and the first page has a long list of herbs.

  “A cookbook!” I cry excitedly.

  I stop on the page that has the title: the cure for colds.

  That’s what grandma called chicken soup.

  Maybe with grandma’s instruc
tions, I can cook a semi-decent dinner without lighting the kitchen on fire.

  I repeat the words barely understanding myself, I must be drunker than I thought, and it doesn’t really sound like soup ingredients.

  A flash of purple light coming from my left blinds me for a second.

  “Ahhh, the hell!” I shriek.

  I blink, fighting to see again, and then immediately regret it.

  There is a giant man with wings in my kitchen. Black towering wings full of shiny onyx feathers.

  Not a man, I realize. A demon.

  A shiver blasts down my spine.

  Grandma had told me long ago about demons, and I would’ve believed she was completely nuts if I weren’t able to set things on fire and move things with my mind at times. Or if I had not seen her do magic.

  “You are not my chicken soup, are you?” I ask.

  His pale face is oddly emotionless, but his eyes flash with anger. “Do I look like a chicken to you?” he asks, voice arctic.

  “Uh, well, in my defense, you are kinda feathery,” I mutter, gesturing his wings, unable to quench the drunken humor despite knowing he can fry me, quite literally.

  Damn it, I should not have gotten wasted. But why in hell would grandma leave a grimoire in the kitchen?

  Even weirder, how could I read the spell?

  I can see the gibberish clear now, but it had seemed like English before.

  The demon’s purple eyes narrow with suspicion, his towering black wings scrap the ceiling. The faint scent of smoke and ash makes my nose itch, and I have to tilt my neck to look up at him. He’s about six-foot-eight, and the leathers enhance his powerful and elegant frame. I usually feel tall and awkward, but right now I feel tiny. My eyes roam his body and my gut clenches painfully. No hooves, no tail, and no stench.

  I’ve not just summoned a demon, I’ve summoned a high-ranking demon. Only the most powerful demons look like him, almost completely human, grandma had explained. There’s a black crystal sword strapped to his hip, daggers on his thighs. Not to mention, somehow I can sense his unearthly contained power, like a massive chasm with no bottom, ancient and unending. I gulp.

  Oh, gods.

  “And just why were you using magic to make chicken soup?” he asks, his tone mocking and disdainful.

  “I wasn’t, I was trying to read a recipe for chicken soup.”

  He cocks a brow and examines me as if to see if I’m lying, then he snorts. “Summoned by an inept half-human, shameful.”

  “Hey!” I snap. “Watch your mouth!”

  His face grows stony as he leans to my eye level, I keep my arms crossed in defiance even as my knees feel weak.

  I’ve just shouted at a high-ranking demon.

  That goes high on the stupid-shit-I’ve-done list.

  He blinks and pulls back in surprise. “I’ve seen you before.”

  “Uh, no you haven’t, I’m sure I’d remember.”

  His wings vanish in a blink of purple light along with his leathers, a black suit and matching shirt replace it. It really doesn’t do much to dampen his intimidating aura.

  His eyes focus on a spot above my head, and I follow his gaze to find my grandma’s photo sitting on a tall shelf. She is sitting on the porch with me on her lap, a book opened in front of us.

  “Magdalena,” the demon mutters, surprise and recognition in his deep voice.

  I freeze. “You know my grandma?”

  A flicker of something akin to sadness flashes in his face so fast I’m not certain I’ve imagined it.

  “When she was about your age, she summoned me as well,” he says, zeroing his gaze on me again. “Only she did it intentionally, and it had nothing to do with cooking.”

  I blink. My grandma knew a demon. The same grandma who had warned me never to peek on her magic books and grimoires, to be a good little witch even if I felt like setting my bullies asses on fire.

  Then something much more important finally hits me through the numbness of the rum.

  “You called me half-human.”

  “Did I?” he asks with calculating purple eyes. That unnervingly knowing gaze narrows on my left cheek.“What happened?” he demands, jerking his chin to point at the growing, throbbing bruise.

  “I fell,” I lie.

  He cocks a brow. “On what? A male’s fist? You summoned me using my real name, which means I am bound to do a deed for you. Give me the name of the idiot so I can deal with him and go back to my business.”

  I blink, feeling my stomach cramp with uneasiness.

  “There’s no need for you to intervene. He is much worse than I am, believe me,” I say, trying to keep my voice leveled. “And unless you want to make me my chicken soup, I have no use for demon favors.”

  “For now,” he says, his tone giving me chills. I recoil as he leans to take the old notebook from the counter, the heat of his body makes me shiver, I’ve not turned on the heating.

  “Where is Magdalena? I’d like to give her a little talk about hiding such material better.”

  I blink several times as the old notebook magically turns into a leather-bound book. The pages are yellow and full of symbols and what I think now it’s some form of Latin.

  “How did you—”

  “It was glamoured,” the demon says, eyes hard on my face, “where is Magdalena?”

  Icy pain cuts through my chest, I blink fast. “The funeral is tomorrow.”

  He goes preternaturally still. “How did she die?” he demands.

  I swallow, my throat clenching. “Heart attack.”

  His brow knits as a horrific thought crosses my mind.

  “She’s not… I mean, she knew how to summon demons,” Oh gods, I think I will vomit. “She’s not in hell, is she? Please tell me she’s not.”

  He snorts. “Foolish girl, a mortal must exchange their soul for wealth or power in order to end up in Hell, or have done wicked deeds. Her soul was amongst the purest I’ve ever encountered.”

  I breathe again as the room spins. The rum, lack of sleep, and hunger are taking a toll.

  To my surprise, the demon catches me and sets me down on a chair, his hands warm against my arms, face a few inches away. Just then I notice how extraordinarily handsome he is; sharp features and pale skin that makes a beautiful contrast with inky black hair. His purple eyes lose some hostility as he examines me back. Amethyst, I realize, not purple.

  His head snaps toward the door, brow furrowing.

  “What—” I begin to ask as the door is pounded several times.

  I flinch. The noise does not help with the throbbing headache.

  “Dinah! I know you’re there! Open the door, you little bitch!” Daniel screams.

  My eyes widen. How did that psycho find me?

  Fear rears its ugly head and I can’t help but shake. I’m in no shape for round two. The bruises still hurt and I feel too weak.

  The demon growls, startling me, and moves towards the door with long strides.

  He opens the door and Daniel’s blue eyes widen in terror. His forehead still has a big purple bump from where I hit him with the skillet.

  And then the demon takes the six-foot-two football player by the collar and hauls him off his feet.

  “I see you weren’t lying about fighting back,” the demon says as he takes in Daniel’s wound, voice as cold as ice, amethyst eyes bright with an eerie glow. “Nevertheless, I say he’s earned a little reprieve, don’t you?”

  Before I can answer, the demon sends an invisible coil of chilly power around Daniel who lets out an unearthly wail and kicks madly for a second before the demon drops him to the ground.

  Thanks to the heavens, there are no neighbors around for at least a couple of miles.

  Daniel picks himself up, still wailing like a banshee, and runs to his car, rushing inside and revving it up. Mud is lifted off the damp ground as he maneuvers out of the property in a matter of seconds.

  “There, he will not be back, I can assure you that,” the demon says, eyes n
ormal again, his expression slightly less murderous.

  I stare at him, stunned. He didn’t get a request out of me but still helped me. I can’t deny a dark part of me enjoyed the sheer terror he put into Daniel, but I don’t want to owe him. “Dammit, I would’ve preferred you making me that chicken soup.”

  He sighs. “We will see each other soon.”

  “Huh? Why? I thought the deal was o—”

  He disappears, just like that, in a blink of amethyst light.

  I swallow and close the door, staring into the empty living room.

  “Thank you,” I mutter.

  Even though it is quite insane to thank a demon for scaring off your obsessive ex-boyfriend.

  Meh, I’ve done crazier.

  CHAPTER 3

  NOX

  I head upstairs, invisible to human eyes, and examine the house. Magdalena’s room is neatly organized, the scent of lavender and sage clings to the bedclothes and the curtains. I can almost see Magdalena there, not the woman who died but the young girl who dared to ask me for help so long ago. Wild black hair—dyed, I realize now—and fierce green eyes, scared but resolute.

  Something’s off about the house, it feels bare despite the furniture and the half-drunk girl downstairs.

  I flick my hand idly, examining the remains of the wards Magdalena had cast to protect her home. Once the caster dies wards fade, but the way they’ve degraded seems… violent. Not to mention, witches aren’t exactly prone to suffering from heart attacks.

  Perhaps I’m seeing more into the situation that there is. But I can’t help the nagging sensation that something is off and I feel the need to investigate.

  I walk back downstairs to find Dinah leaning face-first on the kitchen counter.

  “That didn’t happen, did it?” she says, and I stop for a moment, wondering if there’s any chance she can see me.

  She stands a bit too fast and loses her balance; I take a step forward but stop myself from trying to catch her and she stabilizes herself. She was worryingly cold when I touched her before. I use my telekinesis to manipulate the thermostat.