Demon Daughter (Haven New Jersey Series #3)

By Nancy Beck

Trust and fear and demons don’t mix.

Tessa Palmisano loves her husband, Bert Gaston, a djinn. But she can’t trust him with her secret: He might not be the father of her baby, and the baby might be more than he or she appears to be.

Tessa confronts Jane, her landlady’s daughter, in Hades, Jane’s home turf, as Tessa guessed years ago she was a real demon. Tessa only has to massage the information out of Jane and offer it telepathically to a magical Elder (her landlady). Yeah, right. But Tessa is determined to end this here, to destroy this demonic daughter, and get the hell out of Hell.

• Language: English
• Publisher: March Winds Publishing
• Release date: Dec 27, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465805072

Nancy Beck

Nancy Beck lives in New Jersey - not down the Shore, not in the urbanized northeastern part of the state, nor in the flatlands of the southern part of the state. No, she lives near Pennsylvania, and sometimes wishes she was already there. She has one fantasy series under her belt (Haven New Jersey) and a mini short story collection. She is currently working on the first in a new series, something she's wanted to write for some time. Please visit her website for any updates. And she hopes you enjoy the fiction she writes - that is the number one reason for her writing!

Book preview

Demon Daughter

(Haven New Jersey Series #3)

A Short Fantasy Novel

Nancy Beck

Copyright 2011 Nancy Beck

Published by March Winds Publishing

Cover copyright Harris Channing

http://harrischanning.com/BookCoversDesignedByHarrisChanning.html

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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To keep up to date on this author's books, go to:

Nancy Beck's Website

Other books by Nancy Beck:

Changing Faces (Haven New Jersey #1)

Night Terrors (Haven New Jersey #2)

Ten Cent Wings (2 short stories)

Table of Contents

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

About the Author

Connect With the Author

Chapter 1

My love is like a red, red rose.

No, really. I was staring at one, in a black vase with shimmering flecks of gold cascading down its smooth sides. Of course, it was a magical rose that Bert Gaston, my boyf—husband—gave me after one of his many journeys.

Not that he takes the usual jaunt down the Shore or a Sunday drive in the country. Three things: He doesn’t have a car, we already live in what passes for the sticks in New Jersey, and he’s a djinn. The smoke, the granting of wishes, the bulging muscles—he’s the complete package.

Maybe not the granting of wishes part, though.

The yelling and screaming continued upstairs between my landlady and Elder, Doreen Ipcress, and her daughter, Jane. I tried my best to ignore them, trying to remember where Bert picked up the rose and vase. They came in a pair, just like love and hate, but from where?

I heard a grunt and a short yip. Sitting on the window seat, lounging against one of the windowsills, it was no bother to turn my head at the expanse that lay just a few inches from my feet. Sakari, my Alaskan Malamute, now sat up, ears at attention, head craned at the ceiling. It’s all right, girl, I said, rubbing the bump that was my belly. It’s the usual. Go back to sleep.

Sakari stared at me for a moment, sighed, and laid her head back between her paws.

For some reason, Sakari jogged my memory. I nodded my head. He said he got it from some pasha’s palace. Something like that. My left hand reached for the vase, but the strain made me pull back.

I had other things, other people, to consider now. And I wasn’t talking about my dog.

I stared at the rose, thinking of when Bert handed it to me—almost six months ago. And that was about the time we decided it didn’t make any sense to put it off—so we married in May, with a two-day honeymoon at some secluded inn in the Pennsylvania backwoods.

That was fun. And memorable.

But then reality intruded when we realized I had to get back and start making some money.

Reality intruded as the noises increased. I turned my attention to the rose, musing over it. Why hadn’t it wilted? Why did it possess such a silky sheen? Startled when the cacophony of sound ceased, I jumped again when someone knocked on my door.

Correction. A pounding on the door. I suspected The Worst. Who is it? I asked.

You know it’s me, Jane Ipcress said.

The Worst had arrived. "What do you want?"

Lose the attitude. Mom wants to see you. I waited the merest whiff of a second as I heard Jane stomp away. She wasn’t exactly a little thing, but I knew she just wanted to piss me off.

Screw her.

I pushed up as best I could, but couldn’t quite maneuver myself into a standing position. I tried again, this time bringing my legs up, sort of tucking them under me. Panting, I grabbed the windowsill and pushed up and out, thrusting my legs onto the floor. If I keep doing this, I said to Sakari, who now sat upright like the Sphinx, I’m going to have a heart attack way before delivery day.

Sakari stared at me, sneezed, then gave me an I’m waiting look.

No, not saying anything else, I said between wheezes.

You should have more big pillows around. And why aren’t you and Bert in the same apartment now?

I heard all this static from my mother via mental telepathy. Yes, my mother is sharing the mind of a dog; better a dog than a slug. Besides, Sakari always showed a certain intelligence that I appreciated.

My mother has early onset Alzheimer’s. She’s stuck in a home far away from me, far away from Zauber, in the urban jungles of northeastern New Jersey. My father visits her on a daily basis. That is, he visits her body, as her mind has withered away from that body.

That she managed this mind transference thing points to her having some magical ability, something she never offered up before the Alzheimer’s set in. I’m not blaming her for that; I keep my magical stuff from the public too. And how her mind managed to inhabit an animal’s brain is beyond me; Doreen once explained it, but I think I was out to lunch that day. The thing is, I can now converse with her, something I couldn’t do for many years.

Of course, sometimes I wondered if that was too much of a good thing.

His place is being redone, I said, sitting in front of the computer stand. I already told you that. It has to be outfitted—

—with special stuff because of his wooden leg.

Stop that. I turned all the way around to face my dog. It’s called a C-leg, and it’s mechanical. If you want to find someone with a wooden leg, go find a pirate.

Whatever you say.

I could have argued with her, but I tire easily nowadays.

A gentle knock came at the door. It couldn’t be Doreen; her telltale knock was more a scritch or a scratch. Jane pounded doors within an inch of their lives. I looked at my Snoopy watch. Nine-fifteen. Only fifteen minutes late. Hi, Allison.

Hey, shit for brains, how’s about unlocking the door?

Ah, Allison. Some people can speak in different tongues: Spanish, Italian, German. Allison spoke in curses, lots of them. And what she’d just said to me was her usual greeting, so I took no offense.

I leveraged myself out of the chair with ease—having a sturdy pillow under my ass helped—to unlock my apartment door. There stood stout, pudgy Allison, almost all in black, like the Goth chick she was.

Actually, she’s a shapeshifter, and she’s perfect for the job, as she’s an exhibitionist at heart.

Standing to her right was her boy toy, Cal Birdsall. He stood about six feet two, had long, dark hair, and possessed a bulbous head that always looked as if it were going to fall off his neck. Hiya, he said, ducking his oversized head, afraid to make eye contact with me.

Typical Cal. With me, anyway.

How many times do I have to tell you, fuckwit, Allison said, smacking Cal on the back, that it’s okay to look at Tessa? She snorted. She’s not a gorgon, for fuck’s sake.

Yes, Allison speaks quite well in the Cursive tongue.

Cal’s shaggy hair obscured his eyes, but his stance suggested he was ready to direct some words at me.

I waited.

Sorry. Been turned to stone too many times.

Allison shoved Cal into my apartment, shaking her head, while I did the same; she did it out of annoyance, while I did it out of pity. Maybe having a kid does that to people: Softens them. I beckoned both to the window seat; I sat on the chair in front of my laptop again. So? I asked, showing them my palms. Are we going to koffeeklatch here or head off to my doctor’s appointment?

Koffeeklatch? Allison stared at me as if I’d grown four heads. Or maybe I was a gorgon, with snakes for hair. Where the hell did you dig up that one?

I smiled, rubbing my belly. Talking with Mom. I eyed Sakari, who lay slumped near my feet. She wasn’t asleep; she occasionally opened her eyes to check out my friends. Just talking about old times.

Allison snorted again. Yeah, whatever. She put a hand up to me, motioning me not to get up. I need to talk to you about something.

Ominous talk, although we’re talking about Goth Girl here, so dark and foreboding talk wasn’t exactly unusual. I ducked my head at Cal. Allison shook her head again. Okay, I said. Lay it on me.

Allison screwed up her face before she launched into—well, it’s hard to say. She went on and on about her parents, about discovering her shapeshifting ability when she was about seven. Where this was leading, I hadn’t a clue. And the clock ticked and tocked.

My doctor would be pissed.

It’s okay. Allison took a gander as I showed her my watch. Damned doctors always overbook anyway.

I rolled my eyes. Would you move it along? Tripping down Memory Lane makes me sick. I knew that would get her. As