Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1)
Read Grim Haven (Devilborn Book 1) Online
Authors: Jen Rasmussen
Grim Haven
by Jen Rasmussen
Copyright © 2016 Jen Rasmussen
All rights reserved
Cover art by Christine Rasmussen
Cover typography by WickedGoodBookCovers.com
Despite everything that happened that day, Verity came through it all without so much as a scratch.
Had I been writing a real story, it wouldn’t have made for a very exciting opening. And I might have come up with something less clichéd than
without a scratch
. But as spells went, it would serve me fine. I set the paper aside to dry, cleaned my pen, and got ready for work.
I didn’t often use magic, in those days. For one thing, I couldn’t stand taking my own blood, so I didn’t keep a lot of spell ink on hand. And then there was that self-fulfilling prophecy thing to consider. Writing something like
despite everything that happened that da
y was pretty much an invitation for things to happen. And I preferred as few happenings as possible.
But on that particular day, I just knew the things were going to happen, no matter what I said about it. And to my credit, I was spot on with that prediction.
The sun was just rising as I left my apartment. I walked the short distance to the restaurant slowly, using both the time and the fresh Berkshire air to steady my nerves and prepare myself for… whatever it was. Darkness.
My second sight is limited to very occasional flashes, and then only of colors and moods. Whatever was coming was black and red, I knew that much, and that was always a bad combination.
I walked through the elaborately carved doors of Spare Oom at seven, expecting the place to be empty—a reasonable expectation, since we didn’t open until eleven. My heart sank when I heard someone in the kitchen.
That had to be Cooper, testing some new recipe again. Why did he have to be so conscientious?
I could just try to sneak into the office without him hearing me, but then it would make me look weird—okay, weird
er
—if he found me in there later. Not that I cared what Cooper thought, really. But being weird tends to invite questions, and I wasn’t very big on social interaction. Especially not with Cooper Blackwood.
Let him stick to the servers and kitchen staff who worshiped him like some kind of matinee idol, drawn to his good looks, his charm, his quick smile. For myself, I could never quite shake the feeling that his easy manner was an act. There was something behind it, a restlessness in the way he moved, that made me uneasy.
After a moment’s consideration, I popped my head into the kitchen and said, “Good morning, Chef.”
Cooper was whisking something, his head down. I caught a glimpse of dark stubble shadowing his chin. That wasn’t unusual, but the bed-head was. As was the slouch in his shoulders. He hadn’t slept well.
He looked up at me and smiled, and as always, I struggled to ignore the electricity that seemed to arc from his eyes to mine.
“Morning, Verity. I’m glad you’re here. Maybe I can tempt you into tasting something for me in a little while.”
A more flirtatious—or maybe just braver—soul than I would have put together some sort of joke involving the words
taste
and
tempt
. I just nodded like an idiot and made a noise that wasn’t quite a word, before retreating for the office.
I closed the door behind me and exhaled in relief at being alone again. Terry had given me the title of
manager
, which wasn’t very accurate, since I had no actual authority over anything or anyone. I guess he just thought it sounded better than
glorified secretary.
Basically my job was to do all the things that might otherwise fall to the owner, but that he didn’t like doing. (In other words, the boring things.) It paid a lot less than being a server or even a bartender would have, but it kept me isolated in that cramped little office, which at that time in my life, made it pretty much my dream job.
I wasn’t more than ten minutes into doing the payroll when my phone rang. I stared, a little dazed, at the screen for long after the split second it took me to recognize the area code.
Bristol. Who would call me from Bristol?
Was this the dark thing I’d felt coming, and spent the pre-dawn hour scribbling a spell to protect myself from? As far as I was concerned, a call from my home town would qualify.
But I had a feeling that whatever doom was coming for me would not be so easy to ignore. The call went to voicemail, and I went back to work. When a second call came an hour later, I shut my phone off.
You’ll have to do better than that, dark thing. You can’t use curiosity to trick me into inviting you over my threshold.
Not that I wasn’t curious. Of course I was. I hadn’t spoken to anyone in Bristol in seven years or so. Who could possibly want to talk to me now?
But it was Bristol that had taught me how dangerous curiosity can be, and I wasn’t about to fall for that.
As it turned out, the dark thing—or at least, the dark
est
thing in that dark day—had nothing to do with the phone call, and it didn’t come from Bristol. It came into the restaurant on the click of high heels on the tile floor, and a perky voice chirping, “Hey, Coop, how’s it going?” Which is why I didn’t think anything of it at first. It wasn’t like female visitors were unusual for Cooper.
Once she went into the kitchen, I couldn’t make out their words, just the sound of both their voices and the occasional trill of feminine laughter. Eventually things got a little louder. Thumps. And was that a groan?
Okay, that
was
unusual. Cooper Blackwood, for all his faults, had a high degree of professional pride. Flirting on the premises was one thing, but I’d certainly never known him to get right down to business in the kitchen. If nothing else, it would be awfully unsanitary.
But unusual or not, it didn’t sound like the sort of thing you’d interrupt. At least it didn’t until Cooper bellowed a few nasty words.
And then followed them up with a shout of, “Verity, what kind of witch are you? Are you going to help me or what?”
How on earth would Cooper Blackwood know I’m a witch?
There was no time to consider the matter. I ran for the kitchen.
It was in quite a state. (But smelled wonderful.) Sauce was splattered everywhere. A pan was overturned on the floor, leaving a messy trail of caramelized onions and sausage. All the burners on the stove were on, the flames flaring up unnaturally high.
And in the middle of it all, Cooper, throwing—seriously,
throwing
—a tall, thin woman across the room.
“Cooper!” I yelled as I pulled my phone out of my pocket.
The woman slammed into the prep counter and bounced off, skinny legs flailing. She wasn’t just thin, she was bordering on sickly. And Cooper was a fairly big guy, unusually hard-bodied for a chef, who in my experience tended to run soft. She couldn’t possibly pose a threat to him.
He’d clearly lost his mind. I started to dial 911, then remembered my phone was off. I hit the power button.
Cooper was advancing on the woman, who was on the floor and muttering now, when he must have spotted me out of the corner of his eye. He glanced at me and said, “What the hell are you
doing
?”
His assailant wasted no time taking advantage of his distraction. She shouted what turned out to be the last word of the spell she’d been casting, and several knives went flying at Cooper at once.
Two of them lodged in his chest, one in his abdomen.
Oh balls, I just got Cooper Blackwood killed. Balls, balls, balls.
But Cooper looked more annoyed than alarmed. He yanked one of the knives out of his ribcage and held it in fighting position.
The wound started to close immediately.
My phone call was forgotten as I stared. Even for someone born and raised around magic, this was quite a spectacle. I’d never seen the like of either of them.
But it seemed the knives were a distraction, too, designed to give the woman a chance to get up and reach into her pocket. She flung what appeared to be a handful of black pebbles at Cooper’s face.
He stopped moving.
Ignoring me completely, she pounced on him, batting his knife away with one hand while putting her other arm around him like a lover. Cooper stood frozen as she leaned into him and… what was she doing?
She was breathing against his neck. Not kissing him. Her mouth was closed. It was almost like she was
smelling
him.
And Cooper was getting weaker and weaker. I could feel that as much as see it.
I dropped my phone and launched myself at the woman’s back, closing my forearm around her throat and yanking. Cooper slid to the floor as she rounded on me instead. I got a good look at her face—sallow and wan—for a second before I was thrown backward, whether physically or by magic, I couldn’t have said.
She whispered something I didn’t catch, and the bloody knife Cooper had pulled out of his chest came flying at me instead.
Despite everything that happened that day, Verity came through it all without so much as a scratch.
The knife changed direction mid-air, and landed with a harmless clang on the counter beside me.
She wasn’t expecting that. Her hesitation was barely a moment, but it was enough for me to grab the knife as she rushed at me, her hand clenched around what I guessed would be more of her little black rocks.
She opened her fist. I stabbed and ducked sideways at the same time.
Some of the pebbles hit me, their dust clinging to my cheek and arm. It burned, and I felt a weight around my waist, like someone trying to tackle or hold me, even though there was nobody there. But it didn’t paralyze me the way it had Cooper.
The knife, on the other hand, was much more effective. The woman screamed, then gurgled around a rush of blood. I’d stabbed her in the throat.
I pushed her hard as she slumped against me, knocking her aside before she could pin me between her and the counter.
She fell to the floor, her mouth still working, but her eyes already glazing over with death.