Karma Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Nadine Nightingale

  Karma

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  He cocks a brow and laughs.

  “Are you serious?” he asks, and when I don’t answer, he laughs even harder. “Oh God, you are. You can’t sincerely believe I want to be seen with a witch. That’s crazy, Manda.”

  Here we go. There’s the Alex I’ve grown to hate. My pulse races. “Of course, we wouldn’t want to hurt your reputation,” I snarl through gritted teeth. “I’m curious, though. Are your hunter friends okay with the fact you were screwin’ a witch?”

  He cocks a brow. “I wasn’t screwing a witch,” he clarifies. “I screwed a girl who lied to me. There’s a difference.”

  Wow. How the hell did we go from I-cheer-you-up-with-cupcakes to you-were-the-biggest-mistake-of-my-life in the blink of an eye?

  I’m about to go ballistic on him when he makes a calming gesture. “All right, calm down, lil’ avenger. I didn’t mean to hurt you, but working with a witch is against everything a hunter believes. Jesus, I’d never hear the end of it if anyone knew.”

  Alex’s apologies suck ass. “You’re a douchebag, Alex, a first-class douchebag.”

  Knocking the sand off his trousers, he jumps up. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m a douchebag who bought you lemon cupcakes.”

  “No,” I say as I get up. “You’re a douchebag who thinks buying lemon cupcakes justifies being a douchebag.”

  Alex pulls a pair of sunglasses out of his jacket. “Chicken and egg, Manda.”

  Stomping away, I yell, “Egg and chicken, Alex.”

  Praise for Nadine Nightingale

  “The varied texture of the narrative, produced by shifts between description, scene-setting, thoughts, dialogue, memories, etc., is rich and vivid and contributes much to the momentum and sustained interest. The characterization of Amanda has depth, while at the same time being entertaining and self-consciously played to the reader.”

  ~Frank Egerton, Novelist

  Karma

  by

  Nadine Nightingale

  Drag.Me.To.Hell Series, Book One

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Karma

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 by Nadine H. C. Buscher

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Black Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0731-2

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0732-9

  Drag.Me.To.Hell Series, Book One,

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my grandparents.

  Your love and wisdom will always be with me.

  See you on the other side.

  “Even chance meetings are the result of karma…

  Things in life are fated by our previous lives.

  That even in the smallest events,

  there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

  ~Haruki Murakami

  Chapter 1

  An electric hum charges the chilly air. The ghostly light of a bulb flickers. Seconds later, I gaze into Baphomet’s onyx eyes. He lingers over a naked couple chained to his harpy feet, guarding them like a sphinx, imprisoning them like a warden.

  “Oh my freakin’ gosh! Is that…Is that the devil?” Redhead screams. The look on her high-school-queen-bee face is priceless.

  I take a deep breath. “Yes,” I say, swallowing the laughter that crawls up my throat. “It’s the devil.”

  Redhead presses a palm against her chest. “Sweet baby Jesus. Does that mean I’m…I’m going to hell?” Her otherwise brown aura, indicating self-absorption, is gray. In other words, she’s petrified.

  The chick is obviously not the sharpest tool in the shed, and I doubt hell recruits stupid cheerleaders. I fake a smile and wave her question off. “Nah, don’t worry. In the tarot, the devil represents desire and passion.” I point to the card deck. “Draw another one.”

  Her delicate fingers fly over the cards, and she pulls the sixth major arcana card out of the pile. The lovers.

  Redhead’s sapphire eyes gleam. “I know what that means. He loves me, right?”

  The devil and the lovers? That’s as bad as a relationship can get. When her fingers accidently brush mine, I get a glimpse of how bad it’ll be.

  ****

  The fluorescent lights of the ER blinded Redhead. Closing her eyes, she reminded herself this was her fault. She should have never asked him about the other girl. She’d gotten a taste of his temper before and knew better than to challenge him. But that damn jealousy had gotten the best of her.

  “Can you hear me?” the doctor asked, worried.

  She wanted to answer, wanted to tell him she was fine, but she could hardly breathe. It felt like the air hit an invisible wall inside her bleeding nose. Parting her bruised lips, she gasped for oxygen, but the taste of sanitizer made her sick.

  “Miss Rosewood, can you hear me?” The doctor’s rich voice hammered through her brain.

  She swallowed the pins and needles in her throat. “Yes.”

  “How did this happen?”

  Every muscle in her body tensed. “I…I…fell.”

  ****

  I shake the brutal vision off. Every fortune-teller with a conscience would tell Redhead to stay the hell away from this guy. The thing is, if I tell her the truth, she’ll accuse me of lying, and being called a liar is the doom of a clairvoyant. Luckily, I don’t have a conscience.

  “You guys are star-crossed lovers.”

  “Really?” she squeaks, like the dumb cheerleader she is.

  “Yeah, course. Even Romeo and Juliet would envy you guys.” If she doesn’t hear the sarcasm in my voice, she totally deserves someone who’ll beat the crap out of her. Besides, the whole Romeo and Juliet reference should put her on high alert. Yeah, I know, people think of them as the ultimate couple. But did they actually read the play? Let’s summarize their fate: first Romeo wants Rosalind. Why? Because she’s a nun, and guys dig things they can’t have. Then Juliet, another forbidden fruit, comes along. Unfortunately, she’s dumb enough to fall for his shit, and bada bing, bada boom, they both end up dead. Some call that romantic. I prefer stupid.

  Her aura radiates fifty shades of red. Making an educ
ated guess, I’d say she didn’t get the hint. Hey, at least I tried.

  Pleased, she pulls a hundred-dollar bill from her bag and puts it on the table. “You’re amazing.”

  “I know,” I reply flatly before shoving the money in my black lace bra. “Now get out and send the next one in.”

  The chick doesn’t even mind my rudeness. “Thanks. Thank you so much.” She sounds like a broken record, and I breathe a sigh of relief when the door slams shut behind her.

  Waiting for my next client, I gather the cards. The foulness of the air bugs me a little. I hate rundown motel rooms, but they add to the mystery, and in my business, it’s all about being mysterious. Harpers Ferry is my third stop in the last two weeks. Small town folk are good clients. They hunger for the perfect house, perfect husband, perfect kids. If they could, they’d even try to breed the perfect dog. No need to say this makes me perfectly sick. But beggars can’t be choosers, and all I need is another five hundred bucks, and then I can kiss my old life goodbye.

  A faint knock, then the door swings open. My next client is a middle-aged woman accompanied by her daughter. What kind of a mother drags her kid to a fortune-teller? I straighten and wave them over. The little girl is about ten, but she still sucks her thumb.

  “Are you a witch?” the blonde angel asks, precariously.

  I totally prefer the term Wise Independent Tremendously Charismatic Human, but before I get a chance to clarify, her mother interferes. “They said you could help us.”

  They? Who the heck are they? And did she just say help them? Who the hell does she think I am, Mother Theresa? “You want to know if your daughter will become the next Miss America, am I right?” A little sarcasm never hurts.

  The woman steps closer. The flames of the black candles shed light on her wrinkled face. “Please kill my husband,” she says, throwing a bundle of hundreds on the table. My guess is about ten thousand dollars.

  “Lady, I’m a fortune-teller, not an assassin,” I say, never taking my eyes off the money.

  “You’re a witch.”

  I cock a brow. “Still not an assassin.”

  “He hurts her,” she whispers, pointing to the kid.

  I know he does. I’d sensed her heartache the moment they walked in. I might tell lies for a living, but I tend to see the truth when no one else does. The aura of the little girl is a dark, muddy gray, evidence of a broken soul.

  “Call the cops and get a divorce.”

  The woman pushes the little girl in my lap. “Please, I’m begging you. Help her.”

  Hazel eyes, clouded with misery and sorrow, look right through me. That son of a bitch robbed her of her innocence and left her drowning in self-hatred. Shivers run down my spine. Shit. I have no intention of bearing witness to the bastard’s barbaric crime. It’s a real shame visions don’t ask for permission.

  ****

  She stared at the gleaming stars on her ceiling. Her mother had put them there to keep the darkness at bay, but it didn’t work. The room was gloomy. She knew the monster would come for her. It would look like her dad, but that was just a disguise. Her real dad would never do such things to her. He loved her. She thought of the puppy he’d once bought for her and the places he had taken her. A monster could never be so kind.

  The creaking of the wooden door stopped her heart. She pulled the blanket over her head and started to count.

  One, two, three.

  The blanket pulled back.

  Four, five six.

  A wet kiss.

  Seven, eight, nine.

  “I love you, princess.”

  ****

  I push the fragile body of the girl away. Her pain. Her destiny. I don’t give a shit about any of it. “Take your money and get the hell outta here.”

  The woman’s jaw drops. “But—”

  I hold my hand up. “Out! Now.”

  The little girl’s gaze drops to her pink ballerina flats. Her disappointment floats through the dark room, leaving traces of hate and sadness in the air.

  “You said she’d make him stop,” she says as her mother hauls her to the door.

  Don’t. This is none of your business. Let them go.

  Shit!

  I heave a sigh. “Wait.”

  They spin around. Hope flickers across the mother’s face. The woman makes me sick. How dare she call herself a mother? She knows what her husband is up to. Why on earth did she never try to stop him? I remind myself this isn’t about her. It’s about the little girl.

  “What’s your name?” I ask the kid.

  “Jamie,” she replies, voice weak and broken.

  I wave her over. When she doesn’t move, her mother grabs her by the wrist and pulls her toward me. Ruthless bitch. Can’t she see her daughter is terrified?

  Mother of the Year is probably expecting me to cast a spell or torment a voodoo doll. Yeah, you kinda get the wrong idea about magic when you’ve watched too many Buffy the Vampire Slayer episodes. But real magic doesn’t come cheap. I wonder if the ruthless bitch is ready to pay the price.

  I pull Jamie’s rigid body closer and put my forefinger on her third eye. The kid is already damaged beyond repair, but what I’m about to do will kill a piece of her soul forever.

  “Close your eyes, Jamie.”

  Chapter 2

  The bus ticket in my bag, I barrel through the double doors of the Salty Dog Tavern. The place is a mess: empty glasses on empty tables, cockroaches picnicking on the decayed oak floor, and the smell a weird mixture of beer, rancid oil, and vodka. Call me sentimental, but I think it’s appropriate to honor the end of my fucked up, always-on-the-road life, in a shithole like this.

  Careful not to trample my crawling drinking buddies, I walk to the bar, grab one of the grungy barstools, and take a seat.

  The fifty-something bartender greets me with a single nod. “What can I get ya, sweetheart?” he croaks. Poor guy should quit smoking.

  “How about a glass of your best bourbon?”

  He arches a brow, and I half expect him to ask for my ID. Instead, he says, “Best bourbon, huh?”

  “I’m celebrating.”

  The bartender shrugs and pours me a glass of Jim Beam’s Devil’s Cut. “What’s to celebrate?”

  The ankh tattoo on my right wrist itches like crazy. I know what this means, but right now I don’t give a shit about karma. “New York,” I reply before I down the shot.

  “Big town for a lil’ girl.”

  I smile. People call me all sorts of names. Satan’s bride and stab-worthy bitch are my favorites, but lil’ girl is a first. I tip the edge of my glass, and Papa Bear fills it up.

  “Folks sayin’ you’re a fortune-teller. That true?” he asks, crossing his arms over his chest.

  “Must be, if that’s what they’re saying.”

  “Folks also sayin’ you’re a witch.”

  For the love of God, what’s wrong with the people in Harpers Ferry? Do they have a witch detector or something?

  I keep my gaze on the glass. “Yeah, they must have seen me riding my broomstick at night. I’m telling ya, the way to Hogwarts is a dangerous path. So…” I bring the glass to my lips. “Here’s to J.K. Rowling.” The golden liquid wraps around my throat like a warm velvet scarf.

  Papa Bear’s husky laughter echoes through the empty tavern. One hand resting on his big belly, he uses the other to pour another shot. “Folks are goin’ crazy after the McKenzie thing. But me, I ain’t believin’ such superstitious nonsense.”

  It’s time to go. His aura might be soft blue, suggesting he really doesn’t believe, but with the ankh tattoo itching, karma is about to bite, and I don’t intend to wait for retribution.

  I dig in my bag for an Andrew Jackson when I hear footsteps scuffling over the creaky floor. My right hand grows heavy, and the tattoo burns like freaking frostbite.

  “Going somewhere, Amanda?”

  I close my eyes and let my head fall back. Really, God? Alex Righteous-Ass Remington? Is that your way of thanking
me?

  Straightening, I take a deep breath and face him. Eighteen months no see, and he still wears the same worn-out leather jacket, along with completely ripped jeans? The guy needs a stylist. And a shave. Although, I have to admit he totally rocks the three-day beard.

  From the corner of my eye, I see Papa Bear monitoring Alex suspiciously. Guess he doesn’t like him either.

  “Bourbon for my friend,” I say before focusing my attention on jerk-face. “Good to see ya, Alex.” His malachite eyes travel over me, slowly, drinking in my appearance. What can I say? I’m hot. Even Alex can’t deny that.

  “Cut the crap, Amanda.”

  No pleasantries? Fine by me. “How did you find me?” I ask, examining my freshly manicured nails.

  “Tracked your phone.”

  I flash him a fake smile. “How very NSA of you.”

  Alex throws yesterday’s newspaper on the counter. “Mind explaining this?”

  “Don’t know what you’re talking about. Listen, I’d love to chat, but I have a bus to catch.” I get up to leave, but Alex grabs my wrist.

  “Quit playing dumb.” Shoving the newspaper under my nose, he forces me to read.

  HARPERS TIMES

  Mayor’s mysterious death shocks Harpers Ferry.

  The popular mayor and founder of the Prevent Crimes Against Children (PCAC) foundation, James McKenzie, 41, died earlier this week at his idyllic Harpers Ferry home.

  McKenzie, who supported at least a dozen charities, was well known for his fight against child pornography. He was found dead by his wife shortly after midnight Wednesday.

  Detective Bucket of the Harpers Ferry police described his death as “sudden” and “unexplained.”

  “There was pure and utter terror on his face. He bled from the mouth and nose, and his hair was white as snow. I’m telling you, the man faced the devil before he died,” said a source close to the County Coroner.

  Officers searching McKenzie’s house after the tragic death found no evidence of a crime. “It’s an ongoing investigation, and all I can say is we’re still waiting for the coroner’s report,” explained Detective Bucket.

  A few hours prior to McKenzie’s tragic death, the police responded to an emergency call from Jamie McKenzie, the ten-year-old daughter of the mayor. The little girl claimed her father was a monster and about to hurt her, said a spokeswoman of the Harpers Ferry police.