The Devil's Heir Read online

  The Devil's Heir

  Leilani Lopez

  Copyright © 2019 by Leilani Lopez

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidences are either produced by the authors imagination or are used factiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contact Info: LeilaniLopez.com

  eBook cover: Damonza

  Editor: Rare Bird Editing

  First Edition: October 2019

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  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  THANK YOU

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  To me.

  Stop doubting yourself.

  Introducing myself as the girl whose guardian was murdered is not the best way to make a good first impression. But the bright blue eyes attached to the petite blonde girl standing in front of me don’t give me a chance to back down.

  I take a deep breath in, firmly grasp the hand extended to me, and offer the simplest answer possible. “Calla Jones.”

  “Daisy,” she says with enough enthusiasm to intimidate me. “Welcome to Diablo.”

  Standing on the steps leading up to Diablo High, I lean left and right to keep from being touched by the hordes of students entering the school. Since pulling up to the campus, I’ve avoided the large statue of the Devil with a pitchfork and horns, but I’m forced to glance up when Daisy motions toward it.

  If Grandmother were still alive, she would be horrified at my enrollment here. Not only is Diablo High a public, non-religious school with no uniforms, but the mascot is the Devil. The actual Devil. I guarantee she’s rolling over in her grave.

  I tug on my cuff; the simple, long-sleeve cotton shirt is unfamiliar to me.

  “So, where’s your mom?” the girl asks. “I’m supposed to bring you two to the front office.”

  I recognize the footsteps coming up behind me and am grateful I don’t have to answer the question. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever met takes her place by my side.

  My grandmother never spoke of Polly in my seventeen years with her. But my aunt didn’t even blink when she rushed into the police station and saw me covered in her own mother’s blood. Instead, she became my savior.

  “Wow,” Daisy says, “you two are identical.”

  I’m taken aback.

  Yes, we have the same dark hair and the same lifeless eyes but Aunt Polly radiates beauty. An attribute I’d never consider for myself.

  “This is my aunt, Polly,” I say when she doesn’t bother to introduce herself.

  Daisy reaches out to shake my aunt’s hand. “Daisy Winthrop, great to meet you.”

  Aunt Polly glares at the hand like it’s offending her. “Daisy and Calla. Cute.”

  “I thought the same.”

  “Come on, let’s get this over with.” Aunt Polly’s long legs easily step around the girl and I dutifully follow.

  “Wait, I’m supposed to show you…”

  “We’ll manage.”

  I give Daisy a timid wave and walk behind my aunt.

  The hallways are identical to those at St. John’s Catholic School for Girls. Nothing like I hoped they’d be. The only stark reminder of my new beginning is the boys lining up against the lockers, chatting with their female classmates.

  I wasn’t allowed to talk to boys.

  “Hey, teenage boy,” Aunt Polly snaps to someone, “where is the office?”

  Said guy gawks at my aunt and points a shaking finger down the hall. “Around the corner to the left.”

  She stalks onward while I lift a hesitant hand in thanks.

  The office door is covered with a wild variety of colorful flyers and announcement papers ranging from tutoring sessions to the upcoming anniversary of Diablo.

  Aunt Polly pushes the door to the small office and it parts like the Red Sea for Moses.

  The elderly woman jumps in her seat. The papers in her hands fly upward, and she struggles to collect them. “Oh, I’m so sorry. How may I help you ladies?”

  “Yeah.” Aunt Polly moves across the room to lean against the countertop. “Listen, I need to enroll my daughter into your school.”

  My spine tenses. I’m no one’s daughter anymore.

  “I’m Mrs. Henson, the secretary here at Diablo High.” She holds out her hand before gingerly retreating when the gesture isn’t reciprocated. “Do you have the proper paperwork to get you started?”

  “I was told they’d be sent over days ago.”

  “You know what?” The woman touched a finger to her chin in thought. “I do believe some paperwork was sent over for a transfer. Name please?”

  “Calla Jones.”

  “Jones, Jones, Jones,” she chants as she shifts through some paperwork in a nearby drawer. She pulls out a file, and then slouches in her seat.

  “Oh, honey...”

  “We’re not here to talk about it,” my aunt says.

  Mrs. Henson shakes her head and places the open file on her desk. “Of course, Ms. Jones, of course. I promise Calla will have a great time here in Diablo.”

  “So, when can she start?”

  She shuffles through the few papers in the file. “Seems like we’re still waiting for a proper transcript. As soon as that comes in, we’ll be able to place Calla in the appropriate classes to ensure that all of her credits transfer.”

  “Right, so, when will that be exactly? Listen, I was told by the counselors that everything was going to be handled and I didn’t have to worry about anything.”

  “The transcript request was already sent so hopefully in the next day or so. I’ll be sure to rush together her schedule and we’ll give you a call as soon as it’s ready. Are there any electives that you’d like to enroll in? I’m afraid that most of the good ones are filled since the semester started a few weeks ago but if you’re lucky, maybe someone dropped out.”

  I shrink under the weight of the two women staring at me. “I don’t know.”

  “Well, what were you doing at your old school? I’m sure we have something close to it.”

  Aunt Polly intervenes. “Art? Track? Dance? Fucking archery?”

  Mrs. Henson’s eyebrows rise.

  “I didn’t take electives. Only the P.E. requirements.”

  The receptionist gives me a sympathetic smile. “Well, I highly recommend art. I find it to be my favorite way of expressing myself and there’s still some room in Art 1. You’ll be the only senior but that’s not a pr
oblem.”

  “Great, thanks.” Aunt Polly pivots toward the door. “You have our number.”

  Mrs. Henson whispers, “God bless you,” on my way out and I wish she didn’t. It reminds me of all the times the church goers spoke it behind my back in pity but never bothered to intervene because they were afraid of my grandmother.

  I spend the rest of the day unpacking what few things I have in my new bedroom while Aunt Polly runs to the grocery store to pick up some food for the next couple of days.

  As I sift through the single bag of clothes I brought, it reminds me how little seventeen years means to me. My old school told me what to wear Monday through Friday. The only nice clothes I was allowed were the long skirt and button-up blouse I wore to church every single Sunday. It didn’t matter if I’d fallen ill or if I simply didn’t feel like going, I never had an option.

  We sat in the back corner, and my grandmother spoke to no one. All the other families in the church were warm with each other. They’d often ask each other if there was anything they could offer a prayer for. Once, another older woman made the mistake of asking my grandmother the same question. I’ll never forget when Grandmother told her that she would like the woman to pray for her own safety should she ever approach us again.

  No one ever spoke to or prayed for us again, and she attended the same church for over seventeen years.

  If I ever see another plaid skirt, I think I might throw up.

  Now, the only things hanging in my closet are long-sleeve black shirts and a jacket. The jacket is the only thing that I brought with me from my grandmother’s house. The shirts are from my aunt, bought after she realized I had no “street clothes” to wear.

  Aunt Polly calls out my name from the kitchen where she unloads the contents of her trip. Her sleeves are rolled up, and her off-the-shoulder top makes her seem like she’s hardly wearing a shirt at all. She’s treating us to a homemade meal rather than takeout for the first time since we were thrown into each other’s lives.

  “Okay, so, I’m thinking fettuccine noodles with chicken parm on top, sound good?”

  The school and my grandmother were terrible cooks, so anything she says sounds amazing. I nod.

  “Cooking is my favorite form of art,” she says.

  “Grandmother didn’t really encourage anything besides studying.”

  Aunt Polly grimaces.

  “As long as you don’t bust out in prayer, we’ll be okay.”

  I tell her I agree.

  While my faith in God is not gone, the daily ritual of living under the church is something that I won’t mind not visiting for some time.

  “Anyways, after dinner, there’s a little errand I’d like to run. Will you be okay by yourself?”

  It’s when I’m most comfortable. “Yes.”

  Aunt Polly is a traveling writer by profession. Our first stop is here in Diablo, Washington where she plans on covering the town’s history. All I care about is being far away from the broken porch of my grandmother’s house.

  Three days on the road, pumped with antidepressants prescribed by the therapist who signed my release from the station, passed by quickly. When I woke, we passed a sign reading “WELCOME TO DIABLO” and drove deeper into the forest.

  My aunt must have called ahead of time because the apartment was already sparsely furnished by the time we arrived. She only left my side when I slept.

  I’d never experienced a maternal touch before.

  And I’ve never spoken to anyone as much as I have with my aunt in these few days alone, and she’s slowly making me feel comfortable in my own skin. For the first time, I don’t feel like I have to walk on eggshells everywhere I go.

  Dinner takes a long time to cook because my aunt is a chatty Cathy. She spends an hour cutting, mixing and tasting, all while telling me about her life on the road. My aunt has lived a hundred different lives. I’ve barely lived even one.

  I’ve never been to a school dance. I’ve never talked to a boy. I’ve never watched American Horror Story or whatever the show is my schoolmates watch on the weekends.

  The only time I’ve seen a boy shirtless was by accident. I was walking by the boys’ school down the street during their soccer practice when it happened. I felt so guilty I looked down the second I saw naked skin.

  In the few days I’ve lived with my aunt, I’ve seen more of her body than my own. She wasn’t completely naked, but she likes to walk around the house with underwear and a t-shirt on.

  Grandmother didn’t even allow a mirror in the bathroom because she said it was vain to admire yourself. The one time she walked in on me reading a Nancy Drew book a friend of mine had let me borrow in elementary school, she forced me to sit in front of the fire all night long until my skin burned from the heat.

  She sat in her rocking chair reciting prayers, not allowing either of us to eat or drink water. I never snuck anything home after that day. I was only ten years old.

  I can understand why my mother and aunt left home at such an early age. I wish I had their courage.

  From the stories that my aunt told me, she’s all about moving forward. It’s why she enjoys freelance writing so much. She has the freedom to decide what stories she wants to pursue and she only follows the ones where she might have a little fun on the way.

  Aunt Polly is living her best life while I was too afraid to ask my grandmother for a soda because “sugar is a gateway drug and remember where your parents ended up.”

  When I crawl into bed after Aunt Polly left, I let the exhaustion take over my body and allow myself to close my eyes.

  I chant my new mantra in my head until my subconscious eases toward a sea of calm.

  I’m free.

  A few days later, I lie in bed with remnants of a fading dream clinging to my consciousness. My grandmother knelt on the floor in front of me, her hands shielding her face—a defensive position I used to hold when she loomed over me.

  “How did you find her?” she asked.

  I had no idea who “her” is but knew better than to question Grandmother.

  “They will come for you,” she snapped.

  For the first time, my teeth weren’t clenched when she spoke to me.

  I didn’t care about what she told me.

  I stabbed her in the chest.

  She finally stopped talking.

  When Aunt Polly strolls into my room with a fresh pile of pancakes, the memory of the dream vanishes.

  “A good day always starts with a good breakfast,” she says as she sets the tray on my bed.

  “This is delicious.”

  I’m pretty sure butter is also a gateway drug. I drag another square over a melted gob.

  Aunt Polly searches my meager belongings in the closet and picks something out for me to wear. Even though I assure her I’ll manage on my own, she brushes the tangles out of my hair for me. Passing a reflection of myself on the way out, I realize this is the most presentable I’ve ever appeared.

  She drops me off curbside. “Take advantage of this fresh start. Be the version of you that you always wanted to be.”

  Only problem is, standing on the high school steps, and peering up at the horrid devil statue, I have no idea what this version of me is supposed to be.

  Do I want to tell people about my past? Probably not. I was already the outcast at my old school. I don’t need the darkness following me across the country.

  Should I lie and say my parents passed away in a horrible car accident when I was a baby and my aunt has been taking care of me ever since? It’s a partial truth anyway.

  I don’t have time to decide because the same bubbly blonde meets me on the steps. “I’m your guide, Daisy, remember?”

  “Yes, of course,” I force out.

  “I have your schedule, so I’ll show you around, yeah?” Without giving me the chance to respond, she hooks my arm through hers and begins pulling me toward the double doors.

  The interrogation begins. “So, where’d you come from?”
/>   It’s a simple question, really, but it holds so much weight. “All over. My aunt and I travel a lot.”

  My fingers begin to twitch at the lie. The memory of writing “The LORD detests lying lips, but he delights in people who are trustworthy”—Proverbs 12:22—slams into me.

  I flex my hand, breathe. Grandmother isn’t here to punish me anymore.

  “Oh, cool. So, you live with your aunt?” she asks as we push inside.

  “Yes.”

  “What brings you to Diablo?” She glances down at the piece of paper she’s holding. “Your locker is this way.”

  I do my best to ignore all of the eyes staring at me, telling myself they’re staring at Daisy because she must be popular.

  “Just passing through, I think. My aunt’s a traveling writer.”

  “Well, hopefully we’ll show you how great we are here in Diablo and you two decide to stick around a little longer.”

  I shrug a shoulder. “I go where she goes.”

  “That’s kind of exciting,” she replies and puts in my locker combination. “I’m Diablo born and raised. Just waiting to graduate so I can get out of here.”

  “Don’t like the small-town life?” I hope this comes off as a normal conversation.

  She snorts and peeks over her shoulder at me, her curly blonde hair bouncing. “God, no. I think I was meant for more of a city life, you know? Don’t get me wrong, I love it here, obviously, but I’m looking for more. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with that, do you?”

  I shake my head and tuck my ebony hair behind my ear. “I think change is something we all search for.”

  I think back to the girls who felt equally trapped back at St. John’s. Not the rich girls who are there until they graduated and moved on to some luxurious private university. I’m talking about the girls who were forced there because their parents didn’t want their daughters “corrupted” by a public education.