Divine Vices Read online

  Divine Vices

  By: Melissa Parkin

  Book One

  All Rights Reserved

  Copyright © 2013 by Melissa Parkin

  http://melissaparkinsblog.blogspot.com/

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to real people, real locales, or historical events are used fictitiously. Other characters, names, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual locales, events, or people, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The author holds exclusive rights to this work. Unauthorized duplication is prohibited.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: New Perspective

  Chapter 2: All American Nightmare

  Chapter 3: Tornado

  Chapter 4: People Are Strange

  Chapter 5: The Point of No Return

  Chapter 6: Kiss With a Fist

  Chapter 7: Comedown

  Chapter 8: Riders On the Storm

  Chapter 9: Beautiful Dangerous

  Chapter 10: Teeth

  Chapter 11: Fever

  Chapter 12: Echo

  Chapter 13: Sweet Dreams

  Chapter 14: All That You Are

  Chapter 15: Bad Karma

  Chapter 16: Seven Devils

  Chapter 17: Superstition

  Chapter 18: A Girl Like You

  Chapter 19: What Kind of Love Are You On

  Chapter 20: Out of My Face

  Chapter 21: Wide Awake

  Chapter 22: Radioactive

  Chapter 23: Restless

  Chapter 24: Familiar Taste of Poison

  Chapter 25: When the Levee Breaks

  Chapter 26: How We Operate

  Chapter 27: Shadow On the Sun

  Chapter 28: Time of the Season

  Chapter 29: Rescue Me

  Chapter 30: Red Right Hand

  Chapter 31: The Kill

  Chapter 32: My Side of the Story

  Chapter 33: The Past

  Chapter 34: Perfect

  Chapter 35: Stigmatized

  Chapter 36: Dance With the Devil

  Chapter 37: Bad Moon Rising

  Prologue

  Droplets of water cascaded into small puddles across the cement floor, affixing to the potent odor of mold and mildew permeating the cellar. No matter how strong the musty stench was though, nothing could conceal the unmistakable metallic tang of blood, both new and old.

  “Just tell us what we want to know, and this can all end now,” spoke a calm voice, resonating from a dark corner of the room. “If not, my friends here will happily continue in their quest to persuade you.”

  A single light bulb hanged overhead in the center of the basement, its bright intensity creating an island of isolation over the man in question as he sat limply in an iron chair. Broken, beaten, and desperately coughing to find relief, Donovan choked on the blood sliding down his throat. Looking through the dampened tangles of hair plastered over his eyes, he watched figures loom about in the shadowed open space, inching closer like great white sharks about to make surface-charges.

  “Go to Hell,” he said, bracing himself for the impact.

  “Not my first choice for vacationing this season,” cracked the same voice in the darkness. “Unseasonably hot this time of year.”

  Still desperately fidgeting at the restraints digging into his wrists and ankles, Donovan yelped in agony as a blow from a heavy fist registered to the back of his head.

  “Stubbornness doesn’t suit you,” said the stranger, striking a lighter with a gleeful snap. The subtle glow highlighted his mouth, which was tightened to a sadistic grin as a cigarette sat between his lips. Taking a deep breath, the bud burned like smoldering coal as he snapped the lighter shut. “And I’m not entirely certain why you’re resisting here? We both know that there’s no cavalry coming to your rescue. You’ve done an impeccable job at isolating yourself.”

  “So what makes you think I would know anything then?” barked Donovan.

  “Glad you asked,” replied the stranger, emerging from the shadows with an assertive stride. “Not only do I have it on high authority that you do know, but the very fact of your existence says everything. It was your job.”

  “Hasn’t been for some time.”

  “Oh, don’t tell me that transgression and age have robbed you of your memory,” the stranger said, grabbing a folding chair resting against the wall. He opened it up and placed it in front of Donovan, turning it backwards so that when he sat, his arms slackened on the backrest. “You’ve been in this game almost as long as we have, so spill.”

  “And why would I tell you? My fate was decided the moment you dragged me down here. Doesn’t matter what I say, we both know I’m not leaving.”

  “Don’t be so sure of that. I have the distinct feeling that living with the ensuing destruction you’ll implement will be acceptable punishment enough. Wouldn’t want you to get off easy now. Sometimes the conscience can be deadlier than any manmade weapon.”

  “All the more reason to keep my mouth shut,” spat Donovan.

  “Now, now, don’t go all altruistic on me,” teased the stranger, blowing a mouthful of smoke into Donovan’s face. “It’s not exactly rocket science to put two and two together. That’s the one thing that separates us from you. We don’t have weaknesses. You, on the other hand, wouldn’t have turned from the high life unless it was for something, or someone, truly worthwhile, giving you a distinct disadvantage.”

  The color in Donovan’s cheeks waned, leaving him as ghostly white as snow blossoms.

  “Oww, I hit a nerve there, didn’t I?” the stranger teased, pulling out a menacing 12 inch ka-bar knife from inside his jacket. Its carmine stained carbon steel blade gleamed under the burning bulb as he admired the device. “If your years in the business have taught you anything, you’re well-versed on our tactics. We have the patience for execution, and not only do we have no mercy for those who hinder our plans, we truly savor the sadism of inflicting pain on those individuals. So don’t think that your loved ones will be spared from our cruelty. And yes, we know all about them.”

  Amid the external pain, nothing was more agonizing than the knot that manifested in Donovan’s stomach as morality and love dueled for victory. His eyes clouded over, tears streaking down his battered face upon blinking.

  “Ahh,” said the stranger, running the clip point of the knife beneath his own bottom lip satisfyingly. “Looks like we may have just come to a compromise.”

  Chapter 1

  New Perspective

  Tinges of orange and gold haloed the borders of my window shades, notifying me that it was just after dawn. I pulled my arm out from under the covers and slapped the alarm clock until its incessant, strident shrieking stopped. The cool morning air bit at my bare skin, so I instinctively retracted my arm back into the warmth of my comforter. I snuggled up again, but as much as I wanted to return to the safety of a dream state, it was still Tuesday. It was time for school.

  I finally surrendered to the morning and threw off the blankets. As I opened my bedroom door to head to the bathroom, I was greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of coffee overwhelming the upstairs hallway. My dad was an early riser and always had a fresh pot ready in the kitchen even before the sun would rise. That was one of the ways that I differed from him. I’d never really been a morning person. Granted, I wasn’t the type to sleep until noon if given the chance, but I didn’t want to be the one waking up the roosters either.

  Going through my same, monotonous morning routine with bleary eyes urging me to return to my bed, I threw on a self-made, off-the-shoulder Aerosmith top and a pair of vintage leather pants before hur
rying downstairs to knock back a full cup of Joe. Normally, I’d make some eggs, but I settled for the simplicity of a bagel. No preparing time. Best friend of the lethargic. I didn’t even bother with a plate out of sheer laziness, and ate the butterless bread over the sink to avoid getting crumbs anywhere.

  “Bagel, huh? You stay up studying last night?”

  I turned to see my dad standing in the entryway of the side door that went out to our driveway.

  I shook my head, downing the last bit of my breakfast. “No, I just didn’t sleep well. Restless mind, you know.”

  “Well, make sure to eat something with some actual nutritional substance for lunch,” he said.

  “Will do,” I replied. “How’s Lucille?”

  “Like all other women, she’s giving me a hard time,” my dad said, his long dark hair falling into his eyes as he cleaned oil and grease out from under his fingernails with an old rag. “I’ve been under her since five-thirty, but her engine just won’t give me anything.”

  “I’m pretty sure that’s the only time I’m ever gonna hear you say something like that and not be creeped out,” I chuckled.

  “Don’t be a smartass,” he said, playfully nudging me away from the sink so that he could wash off his hands.

  Lucille was a black 1972 Oldsmobile Cutlass SS, and she was worth every bit of frustration he put into fixing her. He inherited Lucille from my grandmother, who somehow inherited it from her former neighbor. It had been sitting in her garage for ages, and he had made it his new pet project to get the car up and running.

  I unbuckled my black satchel book bag that was sitting on the kitchen table and sorted through it to make sure I had everything I needed for the day.

  “Houdini’s here,” said my dad, seeing a red 1994 Saturn Sport Coupe pull up in front of our house.

  “Hey, take it easy on him,” I said. “There’s nothing wrong with being eccentric.”

  “A young man who aspires to be a Steampunk David Copperfield, yeah, what’s not to love?”

  I pulled on my leather coat and shoved the ends of my pants into knee-high stiletto boots before collecting my things.

  “So, what, you’d be more accepting of him if he lived out of flannel shirts and Lynyrd Skynyrd concert tees like you do?” I chimed back.

  “Wouldn’t hurt,” he replied with a sarcastic smile.

  “Love you,” I said, kissing him on the cheek before heading for the foyer.

  “Love you, too.”

  Just as the first knock registered at the front door, I unlocked and pulled it open to see none other than my best friend, Ian Callaghan, standing at the front steps dressed in his unusually-usual attire. Donned in a black brocade frock coat with bucket cufflinks, a partially unbuttoned black dress shirt, dark acid-washed blue jeans, and black pointy-toed boots, he looked as if he had stepped out of the Victorian era and had not yet become fully accustomed to modern fashion, which was quite refreshing. His peculiar choice in style accentuated the slightness of his frame, which made him appear lankier than he really was. Though the weeks of autumn had washed away the tan from his complexion, his long, chest nut, razor cut locks were still kissed with sun-induced highlights. Despite his deceptively matured, sharply angular cheekbones and his thin, almond-shaped, pale green eyes, his infectiously wide smile and cleft chin managed to give him a boyish charm.

  “Good morning, beautiful,” said Ian.

  “Hey, stranger,” I replied.

  “Mr. Foster,” Ian acknowledged, looking over my shoulder to see my dad eyeing him back with a somewhat judgmental once-over.

  “Ian,” my dad replied out of politeness. “You two have a safe drive.”

  “Unlikely,” said Ian. “Fast and the Furious is behind the wheel today. She insists that since it’s her car, she gets to drive.”

  “Did Gwen at least take off her shoes?” I asked.

  “Nope, she’s wearing five inch wedges, and is hell bent in believing that they don’t impair her ability to work the foot pedals.”

  “Well, I’ve clocked in sixteen years on this planet. Despite my hopes for an extension, I guess I’ve had a good run. Just make sure not to bury me in the Pet Cemetery,” I teased.

  “Will do,” said Ian.

  “Seriously, be safe, Cassie,” cautioned my dad.

  “Always,” I replied, waving goodbye as Ian and I walked down from the porch.

  “I’ll take the back seat,” I said, approaching the car.

  “You sure? I will happily relinquish my position at shotgun,” he said.

  “If Gwen hits something, which will most likely be head-on, the back seat may help lessen the impact,” I remarked.

  “In that case, may I join you?”

  “Somebody’s parking their butt in the passenger seat!” called out Gwen, seeing Ian open the backdoor and gesturing me through. “I’m not gonna look like I’m chauffeuring you two around.”

  “Time for me to grab my ankles and kiss my ass goodbye,” said Ian, closing my door and taking the seat up front.

  Gwen smacked her lips as she coated them with a fresh layer of peach-colored gloss and turned up the volume on the radio before putting the car back into gear.

  “What are we listening to?” Ian asked, cringing at the sounds of a hyper pop song.

  “Do you have to hate everything popular?” Gwen snapped back.

  Clearly, the ten minutes they spent in the car together between Ian’s house and mine had been nine minutes too long.

  “If what’s popular is total crap, then, yeah, I do,” he replied.

  “If it was total crap, then it wouldn’t be popular, would it? The general populace overrules your verdict, so I declare victory.”

  “I’m not even going to dignify that with a response,” said Ian.

  “Because you don’t have an actual argument. There’s music out there other than your miserable, anger-infused hard rock garbage,” said Gwen.

  “Well, at least the artists I listen to have enough talent to not have to make up their own vocabulary just so their lyrics can rhyme, unlike what your generic pop-princesses resort to,” he shot back as he shuffled a deck of cards in his hands.

  I reached between them and changed the radio to a classic rock station, where The Rolling Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” granted us equal satisfaction, so Ian and Gwen surrendered to call the outcome of their debate a draw.

  "Pick three cards," said Ian, turning to me with the deck fanned out.

  I did as he said, pulling out each from a completely different location in the pile.

  "Let me guess... Queen of hearts, nine of clubs, and the four of diamonds," he declared, even without me returning the cards to the deck.

  "Okay... that's unsettling," I said laughingly, turning the cards around to reveal their identities. "Cool, but unsettling."

  "You know, they had a place for people like you around here back in the seventeenth century," said Gwen, looking over at Ian as he showed her the results as well.

  "What, an asylum?"

  "A noose."

  The fallen foliage of autumn danced about the streets as the Saturn rocketed down each stretch, the greenery of the trees overhead ablaze with vibrant tinges of red, orange, and yellow. This was the first time I saw with my own eyes the splendor of the fall months. Up until eight months ago, I had lived in the city, and there wasn’t much distinction between the seasons other than the temperature if you didn’t visit the scarce parks.

  When we rolled out of the woodlands to the temporary open stretch of the oceanfront, I observed the heavy overcast hanging above the Atlantic tides just off shore. Despite the sun’s higher position in the sky, Maine’s coastline still burned with the warm palettes of sunrise.

  Gwen roared into the school parking lot at 7:21 a.m. and took our designated space. The seniors were privileged with seats closest to the building, but because we registered our parking permit under Ian’s name, Callaghan granted us the next best available parking for juniors since the charts were arran
ged alphabetically.

  I threw the strap of my satchel over my head and adjusted it on my shoulder as the three of us climbed out of the car.

  “Hey, Ginger-vitis!” called out a blonde four rows down. It was Stacy MacArthur, captain of the cheerleading squad and resident high school tormentor, not to mention Gwen’s arch nemesis.

  “Keep talking, Stacy. Perhaps one day you just might say something intelligent,” Gwen replied with a fake smile as she smoothed out her red locks.

  “At least my head doesn’t look like it had a misadventure in Kansas,” Stacy fired out.

  “At least I’m all natural, unlike a certain bottle blonde I just so happen to be staring at,” rebutted Gwen with wicked delight. “Don’t think anyone’s forgotten about that mousy brown hair you sported for fifteen years.”

  “It’s too early in the day for this,” I said, urging Gwen away from what was inevitably going to be a physical confrontation.

  Ian and I each took one of her arms and guided her to the front of the building.

  “I hate her,” said Gwen, shaking herself out as if Stacy’s invectives had dampened her. “I revel in the concept of karma, because when things come 360 for her...”

  “It’s gonna be an even bigger bitch than she is,” Ian finished as we headed up the stone steps to the duel door entrance of the high school.

  “Aww, I love when you speak foully,” said Gwen. “And trust me, she’s every bit disserving of it.”

  “Although, those are rather harsh words coming from you,” I said to Ian. “Something personal there?”

  “Asides from the time when Stacy convinced everybody in our second grade class that I was responsible for killing all their pets, then no,” he replied.

  “Come again?”

  “When we were seven, there was a serious case of canine influenza going around. A lot of the kids’ dogs started getting sick. Some even died. And Stacy, being the opportunist she’s always been, took it upon herself to persuade everyone that I was dabbling in dark magic and was using it to wreak havoc on man’s best friend.”