NOT DEAD YET: A Lucy Hart, DEATHDEALER Novel (Book Two) (18 page)

For Lila, it was a deep seated hunger.  She’d had everything she could have wanted when they had money, but she’d always wanted more.  And just looking at Vivian Enoch had rekindled that hunger with a vengeance. 

Lucy cringed at the prospect of her mother trolling the reception in something skimpy, trying to land herself a new, filthy rich husband.

For one thing, she had no idea the Enochs turned furry.  She’d known about her mother’s necromancy, and that Lucy might inherit it, but otherwise she chose to stay ignorant of the supernatural all around her.

And for another thing, she was still married to Lucy’s father.  The thought of them divorcing, for any reason, made her chest hurt.

Gram’s eyes turned wide as saucers.  “She is?”  There was that panic again.  Lucy had tried to tell herself that it hadn’t been important, that there were all manner of explanations for Gram to have known Jonas Enoch beforehand.  And even more reasons for her to look so spooked and guilty when they’d met last week for dinner.

But if she’d known Jonas, then why had she been surprised to see him?  And there was no doubt about it; she’d been bitterly surprised to have Jonas Enoch in her house.

Lucy tried to act as if she’d missed the panic in Gram’s voice.  “Yeah, the Ice Queen is invited... but I doubt she’ll show.”

Lila looked deeply disappointed, while Gram looked just as deeply relieved. 
This kind of shit just can’t be happening...

She pushed it all out of her head.  There was going to be security galore, and with her new family there, ready to go furry and kill anything that looked funny at her, and with Abbey going all Dark Sabrina on anyone who tried to lay a finger—or an axe on her—Lucy felt she would be safe enough to let down her guard and have some fun.

This new and unwanted development between Gram and Jonas Enoch would just have to settle itself.  It was just one too many things for Lucy to deal with today.

She wolfed down her food, pecked both her mother and Gram on the cheek, and then rushed out of the house to Abbey’s next door.  Any excuse to get out of the house.  Any excuse at all would do.  Maybe she could talk Abbey into going to the mall? 

When she rapped on Abbey’s front door, Oz the cart wrangler from Wal-Mart answered.

Lucy just stared at him for a moment, her mouth open.  He wore an old pair of blue jeans and a threadbare t-shirt that was nearly see-through.  Add to that his hair was kind of messed up and he stood there in bare feet, and Lucy was pretty sure he’d moved in.

“Hey, Lucy.  You here to see Abbey?”  His smile was warm, a little crooked, but still delightful.

“I’d say I was here to see you,” Lucy replied.  “But I didn’t know you lived here now.”

Oz chuckled.  It was a warm, comfortable sound, nearly touchable.  “I’m off today, so I thought I’d spend it getting to know Abbey better.”

“Good idea.  She’s worth getting to know.”  Lucy walked in and around him as he held the door open for her, and then started back through the house to the kitchen.  Oz didn’t follow right away, which was good of him.  Just in case she and Abbey had wanted a moment alone.

A strangely familiar young girl sat at the kitchen table.  She had freckles and peach colored skin that really brought out her green eyes.  She wasn’t wearing a speck of makeup, and her multicolored hair—black, pink, blue, and white—was tied back into a single ponytail.

She was wearing a plain blue t-shirt under an even plainer black sweater, and she wore a pair of faded jeans. 

Her feet were bare also.    

It wasn’t until she smiled that Lucy realized who it was looking back at her.

“Abbey... is that you?”

Abbey’s smile turned shy, and a flush came to her cheeks.  Lucy didn’t even know she could blush.  She’d never actually seen her skin before.  Abbey had always presented herself as pure, if not exotic, Goth-chick chic. 

The pretty, sweetly innocent looking girl before her could be the all American little sister—if it weren’t for the multicolored hair and pierced eyebrow.

“Who else would it be?”  Abbey had shrugged off her shyness and had worked up a descent amount of attitude, so she sounded a bit more like herself: sarcastic and wise-assed.

“Touché.”

Abbey held up her cup of coffee.  “We’ve got caffeine.  Wanna pull up a chair and stay for a while?”

Lucy felt her eyebrows shoot up for a beat.  “If you’re not too busy with Mr. Wonderful... yeah, coffee would be great.”

“I’m pretty good,” Oz said, sidestepping Lucy and snagging two mugs from the shelf above the coffee machine, and pouring them both a cup.  “But I wouldn’t go as far as saying I’m wonderful.”

Cute...

Lucy accepted the coffee and sat down at the table, across from Abbey.  Oz sat down closer to Abbey.  Lucy could tell by the suddenly ecstatic look on her face that Oz was probably playing a little footsies under the table.

This was just going swell.  She’d come to vent to her best friend, maybe even grill her about her sudden, rather frightening powers—and now she had an audience, one that was vigorously wrestling with her friend’s toes.

Ye Gods...

They made a little small talk, Lucy asked Oz about his family, and how things went at Wal-Mart after the police had carted off axe boy.  But soon she felt like a big, honking third wheel.  So she said her goodbyes, made a point of telling Abbey she’d see her at the bridal shower—she so needed a familiar, friendly face there—and made a bee line for the door. 

She was outside for no more than thirty seconds when a delivery van parked out front of Gram’s house.  A middle aged man with a bit of a beer belly strode up to the door, dropped a package on the welcome mat, rang the door bell and marched off back to his delivery van.

Just in case it was something dangerous, or something personal from Gabriel—which she couldn’t image what that could be—she trotted up onto the porch and picked up the small cardboard box before anyone else had a chance.

It was addressed to her, and was pretty light.  It was about eight inches long, and three inches wide.  It was shallow and didn’t rattle when she shook it.  The return address was State Prison in Stockton. 

Lucy’s heart fluttered.  It was from her father.

She sat down on the steps, hard.  It wasn’t very dignified, but she just couldn’t control her legs.  She held the package in her hands for what had to be ten minutes.  Finally, she shook off the shock, and then set the package down on the porch beside her.  She swiped her fingers under her eyes.  The tears had dried already.  Then she pulled her hair back from her face, twisting it and letting it fall straight down her back.

She reached out for the plainly wrapped package, but her hand shook, so she closed her eyes, took some deep breaths and pushed everything else in the world away.  She had to face this.  It was the first contact she’d had with her father since the night he’d been arrested and hauled out of their home... had it really been nearly a year now?

She sniffled and cleared her throat.  “Just get it over with!”  There.  There was the old her.  The snotty, bitchy, tough Lucy Hart.  She felt that wonderful irritated heat rise up in her head.  It was a welcome feeling.  It never failed to free her mind of all fear and worry.  And it was a precursor to her power—necromancy.  She gulped and looked to the side.  About a hundred yards behind the house was an old cemetery.  And she had accidentally raised every corpse in it one night a few months ago.

Don’t want that to happen again...

She pulled back from that irritated heat.  It made her feel better, but if she wasn’t careful, it would start acting on its own, doing things that she most certainly wouldn’t want happening.

Centered, ready, no longer shaking, Lucy reached out again, seized the brown paper package, and tore the covering free of the box.  The lid was cream colored, the bottom red, and there was a strange marking on the lid, an imprint.  Two swords crossed over some sort of circle.  She pulled the lid off and stared down at what was nestled in blood red velvet.  About six inches long, the handle leather with cherry wood accents, the blade thin and sharp, and obviously silver.

Lucy drew back from it, and shook her head.  Then she saw the envelope taped to the inside of the box lid. She pulled it free and tore it open.  Inside a note on bland white stationary held her father’s handwriting.

Lucy,

Lucy closed her eyes again.  Not “Princess” or “My little girl.”
  Not anymore...

I still can’t believe what a disappointment you’ve become.  But at least you’re trying to marry-up in the world.  That’s what your mother did, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

She felt herself choke on his words, as if she were trying to swallow them. 

Though I don’t condone what you are doing, or the way you’ve done it, I can’t just watch as you ignorantly march into imminent danger.  You are marrying into a family that’s far more dangerous than anything I ever ventured into.  And though they have great wealth, and you will enjoy greater privileges than even I could have obtained for you, never forget this.

They are monsters.  The real thing.

You don’t say...

I don’t expect you to believe me--

Don’t worry, I do... 

One day soon you may find yourself at the mercy of one of these creatures.  Keep this dagger on you at all times.  It is silver, and will seriously harm most of the sort of monsters you will undoubtedly consort with.

Best of luck,

Adam Hart

Not Daddy, or even your father.  Just Adam Hart.  As if they were simply business acquaintances. 

She set the box down again, not even looking at the simple silver blade.  As if it wanted to remind her that she already had a perfectly good—no, a far superior silver blade on her person already, Mr. Winky shivered against her flesh.  She could go weeks without remembering that the delicate, ornately forged dagger was sheathed magically (and undetectably) to her left forearm. 

She couldn’t see the dagger, but when she passed her fingers over the inner flesh of her forearm, she felt it, tracing its graceful lines.  It was of fae construct, enchanted in make, in fashion, and in alchemy.  It had a near sentient intelligence—and it was most certainly jealous of the simple silver blade that rested inertly in the little red and cream box.

Her thoughts were unbearable, and the inside of her skull felt like it was being pulled apart.  Gales of desperate pain and need flared about her, but she did not let them push their way inside her.

“Fuck this unholy shit!” she hissed under her breath, and finally opened her eyes.

She stared blankly at the hallucination that looked back at her from across the street.  Her father stood not fifty feet from her, tall, tanned, and impeccably dressed in an Armani gray pinstriped suit. And he looked unaccountably happy to see her. 

She gulped when he winked at her.  It was a gesture she’d grown up with.  It made her insides bunch up, and made all common sense evaporate immediately. 

He’s here... he’s really here...

But then he moved.  It was only a couple of steps, but she knew her father’s gait, his every physical trait.  And whoever, or whatever was standing across the street dressed up in an Adam Hart costume, was not her father.  This creature was liquid grace.  But Adam Hart had gone to Stanford on a football scholarship, and still had the bulk to prove it. 

Strong, sure, powerful... yes.  Graceful like Baryshnikov or Fred Astaire, not a chance.

Lucy should have gotten up and run into the house.  There were three werewolves inside that would’ve loved to chase down the imposter and shred the meat from his bones.

But for some gruesome reason, she wanted to do it herself.

Her father moved across the street, swerving away from her and heading back toward the graveyard.  Lucy stood, pulled up the comfortably loose jeans she was wearing, and tucked the silver dagger her real father had sent her into her back pocket.  She started down the step from the porch and followed.

~*~

Five minutes later Lucy returned to the house, minus the dagger, with some additional bruises, a shallow cut just below her ribs where the shape-shifter masquerading as her father had changed shapes—at least the shape of his hands—and had tried to gut her.  Her t-shirt also had a matching tear in it, and there was some blood too.  But most of the blood on her hands and splashed across the front of her t-shirt was the shape-shifter’s. 

She’d let him lead her into the little cemetery that lay behind her grandmother’s house.  He’d tried to move out of her line of sight, but she’d foreseen his acceleration, and poured on her own speed.  She’d acted as if she was just desperate to catch up to her father, and so the shifter had slowed, turned, and held his arms out.  No doubt to slip something cold and sharp into her back.

Lucy flung herself into his arms, but she didn’t embrace him.  She already had the wickedly sharp silver blade her real father had just sent her in her hand.  She smiled warmly as she sunk the blade deep into the shifter’s chest. 

That’s when he’d sprouted Edward Scissorhands claws and tried to kill her in earnest.  But it was too late by then.  She’d hit his heart, and even though he was stronger than she, a wound to the heart, especially one hewn by silver, was still a mortal wound.