Burning the Devil

By Jen Ponce

To get the good, you've got to pay.

Mechanic Gwen Colburn knows this better than most, so when charismatic megastar Neo Tucker walks into her life, she doesn't trust the glitter of admiration in his eyes or the sweet words on his lips. It's only when a demonic killer from her past begins to stalk her and the bodies pile up that she realizes he's the only sane thing left for her to hold onto.  

Rumors of supernatural murders have dogged Neo ever since he became famous but it wasn't until he met Gwen that it mattered. She's the one he's been waiting for all his life and all he has to do is help her learn to trust him. Too bad someone close to him wants to make sure he never gets the chance to find out just how perfect she is.

Gwen and Neo must fight to get what they desire most. The only question is whether either of them will live long enough to enjoy it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jen Ponce
• Release date: Nov 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386160236

Jen Ponce

This world needs more readers. Readers are open-minded, imaginative, and more empathetic. Picking up a book, whether one of Jen's fantasy-fueled novels or someone else's thriller, puts another person's perspective of the world in your hands. (Unless you're telepathic, then you've already experienced being in another person's head. Good thing about books? Organized thoughts. Bad thing about people's heads? Unorganized chaos, judging from my own stream.) Pick up a book and enter a new world. See Tibet without getting on an airplane. (Good for those of you who are afraid to fly.) Live with cannibals without getting eaten. (Good for those of you who don't want to be eaten.) Become a lion-tamer, an assassin, or a lover. Ride a dragon, eat a dinosaur (Come on, who hasn't wondered what they taste like?), or fall in love with a man who looks like Fabio. Do it from the comfort of your couch, your bed, the hard, plastic seat on the subway next to the man dressed in pink taffeta, singing songs about chickens. Whatever you do, don't stop reading. And if you haven't started reading, grab a book! Jen's love for reading came from her mom, who valued books above all things (except maybe the Dallas Cowboys and Michael Jordan.) She writes for the same reason some people run marathons, climb mountains, sculpt, paint, or put on suits of Mentos and jump into vats of Coke: because there is a fire burning inside her that doesn't let her NOT do these things. Writing is necessary, like breathing or double chocolate chip cookies and perfectly salted potato chips. Reading is not a lost pastime and Jen refuses to believe that something so magical could ever go away. Even during the zombie apocalypse, she will be reading. She will just have to learn how to wield an ax in one hand while holding her book in the other. Jen lives in the Panhandle of Nebraska, with her boys, her cats, her goldfish Reggie and a large supply of books that help insulate the house in the winter and expand her mind. She loves connecting on Twitter and Facebook. You can also send her email and she'll write back. Visit www.JenniferPonce.com to figure out how to do all of the above. Jen. Writer of kick ass women and oogy monsters. One-handed, ax-wielding zombie hunter/reader.

Book preview

ONE

IT WAS GWEN’S THIRD and last pair of hose. The first two she’d already ripped, one on a hangnail and one on her watch. Hangnail clipped and watch now on the cabinet, Gwen held her breath as she rolled the stupid nylons up her legs. She could go to the interview without them, but she needed every bit of professional armor she had at her disposal, which wasn’t much.

When she tugged the hose into place without any further catastrophes, she let out the air she’d been holding in a rush of sound. Now for the rest of the outfit her friend Thalia had declared, The power suit to end all power suits.

Gwen had to trust her. Her knowledge of clothes began and ended with jeans and t-shirts. Being a mechanic meant the things she wore had to stand up to grease or be cheap enough she could throw them away without too much pain.

She eased the skirt up to her waist and fastened the gold buttons with shaking fingers. What drives you crazy at work? She rolled her head from her right shoulder to her left, trying to loosen up as she rehearsed her answer. Thalia had printed off thirty of the top questions interviewers asked—and their recommended answers—and spent the last two weeks drilling her. Gwen knew them all frontward and backward, but that didn’t mean she would remember them when she got in front of the interviewer that afternoon.

She might forget everything she’d memorized. Hell, she might get so nervous she threw up. It had happened before ...

Gwen shook her head and made herself put on the blouse, tucking it into the waistband of the skirt. She wouldn’t think of Before because that never got her anywhere. Any thoughts of Before always conjured truckloads of guilt and filth and feelings of worthlessness and those were the last things she needed to focus on right then.

I’m going to get this job. She stared at her reflection in the mirror, hoping for a rush of strength, but all she saw was a woman who was fooling herself that she was good enough for anything more than the job she had now. I’m going to get this job, she said, but even to her own ears, she sounded desperate.

She had to get the job that was all there was to it. She didn’t know if she could bear the alternative.

Gwen swiped on coral lipstick that matched the polish she’d painstakingly applied earlier, then slipped her watch back on her wrist. Nobody wore watches anymore, or so Thalia informed her, but it was Bruce’s and so Gwen wore it to keep the memory of him close. He’d saved her life when he’d gotten her out of Hector’s filthy clutches and he’d saved her life when he took her under his wing and taught her to love cars more than she hated herself.

She hadn’t deserved his love, but he’d given it to her anyway.

Stop. She glanced in the mirror to make sure she had everything tucked, smoothed, buttoned and painted, then she grabbed her keys and slipped her feet into the pumps Thalia had insisted she wear.

She clunked down the stairs to her apartment door and locked it behind her. Her second-floor neighbor, Ted, stood in his doorway as he always did, the yeasty smell of beer and old sweat oozing onto the landing. He didn’t say a word, but she felt his greasy gaze on her the whole way downstairs

Well, ain’t you looking spiffy, her neighbor lady said as Gwen pushed through the back door. Doris sat in a rickety lawn chair that had seen better days long before the old woman had picked it up at the pawn shop down the street.

Thanks, Doris. On the far side of the parking lot, an engine whined in a drawn-out squall of sound that made her wince.

Oh, it’s just one of them ladies from next door. Can’t get her car to start. Off to your interview?

Gwen nodded and held out her arms, though her gaze cut over to the woman who was crawling out of her vehicle with her baby in her arms. The kid was screaming like he’d been jabbed with a red-hot poker. Think I’ll get the job?

You will if they don’t got their heads up their asses. Doris fanned herself with the newspaper while she sipped from a tall glass of iced tea. Guess what I heard on TV?

I have no idea. Even from where she stood, Gwen saw the look of panicked desperation on the woman’s face. No, don’t even thing about going over there. You can’t help her or you’ll be late. And you can’t be late because you have to get this job.

Neo Tucker is coming back to Omaha.

Gwen blinked, caught, for a moment, by the news. "The Neo Tucker?" Bloody famous movie star, Neo Tucker?

Yep! And I’ll bet he’s moving in across the way. That fancy house been sitting empty for a couple months now!

She snorted, her gaze going back to the woman and her baby. He won’t move in across the street, not when he could build a mansion outside town or something. She sighed when she saw the woman trying to pull the hood latch on her car while the baby screamed. Hold on, I’ll be right back.

You can’t help her! You got your interview! Doris hollered after her.

When she got closer, she saw it wasn’t only the baby who was crying. Are you okay?

The woman jumped, her startled scream shutting her child up for a precious second. Oh! Sorry. I don’t have much English.

Gwen didn’t speak any Spanish, so already the woman was ahead of her. What’s wrong with your car? she asked, keeping her words slow in the hopes the woman would understand her.

It won’t start. Her baby started to wail again, his little face pale but for two spots of bright color on his cheeks. He’s sick. I take him to doctor but it cannot start, the car.

Shit. If she helped the woman, she’d either get grease on her outfit or she’d be late or both. If she didn’t help, she’d feel guilty about it forever. Ambulance?

The woman shook her head. I don’t have any money.

Friends? Family?

No, no, she said, looking increasingly distressed.

Gwen supposed she could take her to the clinic and drop her off, but that would for sure make her late for her interview. She’d given herself a thirty-minute cushion, but traffic would gnaw that away. She didn’t have any money to give her for the bus and even if she did, the closest stop was two blocks away, too far for the baby in the heat.

Shit.

She gestured to the car and the woman moved out of her way. Praying she wouldn’t get herself filthy, she popped the hood and crossed to the nose of the old sedan to see what the trouble was. Perhaps it was just the battery and all she’d need to do was pull her old Mustang up to jump it. To do that, though, she’d have to clean off the battery posts. They were so covered in gunk, the metal wasn’t visible. It would be a miracle if the battery took a charge. It looked like it was a hundred years old.

She went to her Mustang’s trunk and dug into her tool box for her wire brush, safety glasses, and battery cable wrench. She also got into the back of her car to get her hoodie, slipping it over her outfit in the hopes it would keep her clean. Do you have baking soda, Doris?

In the kitchen over the sink. You’re going to be late. Going to rip those hose and for what? Some illegal who can’t even speak English?

Don’t be racist, Gwen said as she slipped inside the old woman’s apartment. The heat was oppressive; Doris lived on a fixed income and air conditioning didn’t fit into her budget when food barely did.

I ain’t racist, Doris said when Gwen came back out, armed with baking soda and a jelly glass filled with water, Gwen lugged her tools over to the woman’s car and got to work.

The baby’s high-pitched screams didn’t help Gwen’s concentration as she put on her glasses and gloves before removing the cables. Then she sprinkled baking soda over them and water over that, watching it like mad. When the acid was neutralized, Gwen scrubbed at it with the wire brush, de-gunking both the posts and the cables.

What time is it, Doris?

Two-fifteen.

Her impromptu hero act had already cut into her cushion, but she was almost done.

She made another trip to her car to get the jar of petroleum jelly she kept there for just that purpose and a rag to dry off the battery. Conscious of the time ticking away, she dried off and greased the posts before reconnecting the cables.

She yanked off her gloves and threw them and her safety glasses into her trunk. The Mustang roared to life and she patted the steering wheel fondly as she pulled it nose to nose with the woman’s car. The jump didn’t take long and the car sputtered to life. Get the battery changed, she told the woman.

Thank you so much, the woman said again, her desperation making her voice almost as shrill as her son’s. Thank you. She put a blanket over the car seat and put the baby on top of that, fastening him in despite his outrage.

Gwen didn’t wait to see her go. With a wave to Doris, she slipped into her own car and pulled into traffic, almost, but not quite, speeding. She couldn’t afford a ticket, so stayed off Dodge Street and went only five past the limit. Any more than that and she’d end up with a fine big enough to bankrupt her.

Her luck held and she pulled her Mustang into a spot next to a gleaming Ferrari. Her baby looked rough in comparison, her paint job worn and scraped away in places. Still, it looked better than the bright yellow sports car next to it because the Mustang was hers. She’d helped build it with her own two hands, had learned how much she loved taking cars apart and putting them back together again.

Bruce had given her that, too.

She pulled off the hoodie and tossed it on the seat beside her, covering the envelope that had been giving her stomachaches since she’d plucked it from her mailbox. It was from the hospice where her mother resided and Gwen didn’t want to know why they would be sending her mail.

She took a deep breath then gave herself a second to evaluate her clothes. The jacket was wrinkled a bit and the blouse had a smudge of grey near the collar. She prayed it wasn’t noticeable, but didn’t have much time for more than that.

What am I doing here? Who am I kidding?

There weren’t any answers, and so she slammed the car door and hurried up the sidewalk.

.~***~.

The clock ticked loud enough to be distracting and warred for most annoying office noise with the small fountain burbling in the corner. The burble was fine, it was the buzz of the motor that drove Gwen crazy. The ficus behind the manager—What was his name again? Shit. Right. Franklin. Franklin Greer—was dusty and she itched to take a damp cloth to the leaves.

Focus or you’ll blow this. And you can’t afford to blow this.

Tell me about a time you disagreed with someone at work. How did you deal with the matter?

It was one of the questions she and Thalia had worked on, but for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what she’d written down. Luckily, she’d prepared for brain farts, too, and said, That’s a great question. Give me a moment to think of an example. She couldn’t tell if Franklin was annoyed or impressed: he hadn’t looked up from the paperwork on his desk more than a handful of times. When the answer came to her, she answered as succinctly as possible.

Franklin looked up with the first gleam of interest in his eye when she mentioned the ‘73 Corvette that had started the disagreement between her and her former boss. When she was finished, she waited for him to move on, but he didn’t look down at the paper again. I can’t get over that you work on cars.

She nodded, keeping the friendly smile firmly in place. She hated the look in his eyes, the one that said he knew she wasn’t good enough to work there. I went to trade school to learn how to break down engines and put them back together again. I have a knack for it. That’s why I’ll be a great fit at your company. Putting together an engine takes an eye for detail and precision, as well as—

He waved his hand. I’ve always wanted a ‘Vette. I’d imagine they run like a wet dream.

Disappointment crept in, inch by inch. She’d been down this road. In her experience, when men in positions of power started dropping sex into the conversation, it meant they were about to make a sleazy move. If they are properly maintained, then yes, they do. She knew how she could get the job when his gaze dropped to her breasts. There wasn’t anything much to see but a large expanse of white material, but he still looked.

All she had to do was pop a button or two, maybe cross her legs and let her skirt ride a little high on her thigh. If she did that, he’d spread his legs a little wider, loosen his tie maybe, and let her blow him. After that? Shit. Stop it. She straightened her spine. Getting back to the interview, I would be a great fit for the open—

Oh yeah, I do too. It’s just that I’m not sure the guys would respond well to a female crew chief. This position is open after our former chief retired. Thirty years as a FasBenCo employee, then manager, then crew chief. Usually, our folks work their way up but our CEO wants new blood. He nodded to her. That’s where you come in. Or someone like you. You think the guys will listen to you? Really?

I can earn their respect. I know engines and I appreciate hard work. I’ve cut down the time spent in each bay at my current job by thirty percent and reduced on-the-job accidents by over seventy-five percent.

Why would you leave, then?

Because there are few opportunities for advancement and I’d like to see how far I can take my skills.

He shifted in his seat, tapping his pen on his desk. Gwen resisted the urge to squirm in her own seat, instead willing herself to be still, to look calm, cool, and collected.

Right.

All right, Ms. Colburn. I’m putting you in the recommended candidates’ pile. I have three more interviews to conduct, but you’ll be hearing from me next week.

For a moment, she wasn’t sure what she’d heard and then she wanted to jump up and down in excitement. Instead, she stood and thrust out her hand. Thank you for the opportunity.

He rose more slowly and took her hand, holding it a smidge longer than was necessary. Still, she could forgive him that much if she got the job, right? Do you have any other questions for me?

I don’t think so, no.

Good. He grinned, but it wasn’t quite friendly. For a moment, I thought I was being interviewed. People usually don’t come so well prepared.

I really want this job. As soon as the words were out, she mentally kicked herself. She didn’t want him to think she was hitting on him. Thank you for your time.

Not a problem, Ms. Colburn. Like I said, we’ll be giving you a call next week with an answer. At the door, he said, I don’t suppose you know of anyone selling a Corvette for cheap, do you? I’d be willing to pay a finder’s fee for the right car.

She didn’t want anything to do with Franklin beyond a job, but she dutifully pulled out her cell phone and scrolled through the numbers. You can call John at Yancy’s Garage. If he can’t find you the perfect car, no one can. She gave him the number, watching impatiently as he scribbled it down on his blotter.

Thanks, he said, already dialing, and flipped the door shut on her.

Nice.

Uncertain if the interview had gone well or not, Gwen kept her head up until she got back to her car. Then she pressed her forehead against the steering wheel and squeezed her eyes shut. These were the moments when she almost wished she believed in something. A higher power. Magic. The Wizard of Oz. Something. Instead, all she could do was hope that the rest of the recommended applicants dropped dead or found other jobs. And at least she wouldn’t have to stay at home all night wondering; her evening cleaning job would be busy enough to keep her mind off Franklin, his roaming eyes, and the certainty that she’d get the job if she was willing to take off her clothes.

.~***~.

A lean figure slipped through the shadows downtown, unnoticed and unseen by the people around, except for the shivers and unease that were left in his wake. In one of his hands was a long, curved knife; in the other, a box made of alder wood. It was empty for now, but it would be filled before morning.

A woman stood on a street corner, her short skirt revealing long expanses of pale skin. The figure watched her, reading her body language, the tilt of her head, the curl of her hair. In the end, he let her go, let her live out her life without knowing what lurked just beyond civilized reality. She wasn’t the one. Perhaps no one would be quite right for his purposes. Perhaps he was doomed to live out his life in this place without seeing home again.

The figure walked one block, two, four, seven, looking for the right spot. On the tenth block, a row of rundown houses loomed on the right, windows boarded up, graffiti smeared across the walls.

Perfect.

Shadows danced over weed-choked lawns dotted with beer cans, broken bottles, used needles and condoms. A broken crack pipe lay discarded on a step for all the world to see. These were the places that those living in civilized reality didn’t see. The figure knew this, it was why he had come. Those that lived here, that crawled around in the filth and made their beds here, they were as invisible to the bigger world as the crack pipe was. If he was careful, and he was always careful, no one would even notice him taking what he needed to start the ritual again.

Again.

Again, for the hundredth time. The thousandth.

He was fading. He felt the strain of keeping to the darkness. He felt it in the struggle to stay anchored inside the human body that sheltered him, allowed him to roam among the sheep without them knowing there was a wolf in their midst.

The figure’s eyes grew distant as he searched for life, not with his human senses but with the magic that still tied him to the home he had been exiled from centuries upon centuries ago. Pale tendrils of green energy snaked through the walls of the house to the left. The monster in human disguise mounted the steps and put his hand gently on the wood of the door. It crumbled to dust under his touch.

He stepped over the threshold, wrinkling his nose at the stench. Mold. Unwashed bodies. Piss, shit. Other things he didn’t want to categorize.

Hector Alvarez Garza. Calling Hector Garza, he said into the filth and darkness.

At first, there wasn’t an answer, but he’d discovered that humans were awfully curious about people who knew their names. It would only be a matter of waiting.

Finally, an aggressive voice said, Who the fuck wants to know?

The figure smiled. He followed the sound to what once was a bedroom, perhaps for a human child from the looks of the fading paint. A monkey with half a face grinned from a grimy tree that had long lost its trunk to black mold. I do, he said, taking in the man before him. At his feet, a half-starved waif slumped against the wall, her upper arm banded in rubber, her face slack. Small, pitiful snores came from her drool-moistened lips.

Hector Alvarez Garza might have once been a passing handsome man. Now, his eyes glittered with mean-spirited violence and his muscles were covered in a thick layer of blubber. He pulled a gun and tipped it to one side. Who the fuck are you?

Someone who needs a favor.

You looking to buy ass or smack? The man kicked the girl none too gently in the hip. Get your ass up, K.

Tsk. No need to wake the girl. I don’t want ass or smack. He pulled a thick stack of money from his pocket. Hector’s eyes lit up. I just need a few moments of your time.

Toss it over here.

In a moment.

Now, bitch.

The figure snapped his fingers and Hector’s wrist snapped. He screamed in startled pain and then the figure was on him, impossibly strong hand clamped tight around Hector’s throat. You have a foul mouth, Hector. You’re lucky I need you or I’d stuff you in my basement to play with for a couple centuries. He leaned close, his lips but a breath away from Hector’s. The man squirmed, grunting his anger and fear. The figure kept his eyes on Hector’s as he unbuttoned the man’s shirt, ignoring the weak protests of his hands. Shh. I’m not after sexual favors. Though, if I didn’t have a use for you, I might show you just how terrible it is to spread your legs to earn money for someone else. He drew a circle over Hector’s heart and then sketched a sigil with the tip of his finger. Zazas, Zazas, Zazas, Nasatanada, Zazas.

The figure let Hector go and he dropped to the floor next to the girl, gasping for air. Before he could do aught else, the thing posing as a human dug his fingers into the flesh of his chest. Hector screamed.

They always scream, he murmured, pushing harder until his fingers hit Hector’s ribs. Like the door, they, too, crumbled to dust and then he was cradling Hector’s heart in his hand. Thank you.

The girl moaned as if she were having a nightmare. The figure laid his hand on her head and she quieted, a small smile gracing her sleeping lips. Sweet dreams, K. He placed Hector’s heart in the alder wood box and wiped his hand off on the pimp’s jacket before rising.

The wall where the monkey once gamboled cracked, broke open. Light spilled out, light brighter than the sun and the figure shielded his borrowed eyes as he placed the wooden box with its gruesome trophy inside the hole where a solid wall once stood. Let it begin.

Again. Again, for a hundredth time. A thousandth. Will this be the one?

Only silence answered.

The figure left Hector’s body in the cooling pool of its own blood.

TWO

HAVING A DAY OFF WAS a rare treat and one that Gwen wished she could take full advantage of. She let herself sleep in until ten and then made her way to her small, spotless kitchen to pour cereal into a pretty white and blue bowl, part of a set she’d saved three months to buy. She sat at the table in the nook that overlooked Cuming Street and peered across to see vans and trucks in the long, curving drive that led to the elegant home. Someone was moving in.

She’d lived in her apartment for five years and in that time, she’d watched her affluent neighbors play with their money. It was both fascinating and depressing living so close to people who had so much. Her apartment was the third floor of what had once been a magnificent Victorian mansion. Now, it was slowly sliding into disrepair, which was a shame considering how beautiful it must have been in its heyday.

In stark contrast, the house across the way had been meticulously maintained. She was surprised it’d stayed empty as long as it had. And Gwen didn’t envy the new owners the intense scrutiny they would receive until people realized they weren’t Neo Tucker. She grinned, picturing the hapless new owners standing behind a wall of microphones. I don’t even know who this Neo Tucker person is! My wife and I just wanted to live somewhere nice.

She snorted and scooped up a spoonful of cereal, popping it into her mouth—movement across the street caught her eye. A man stood on the curb, a man in blue jeans and a red leather jacket.

She won’t be any trouble at all. You go hang out with your friends. I’ll watch her. We’ll have a great time, won’t we, Collette?

Gwen blinked away the memory, certain the man would vanish with it, but he was still there, his existence a punch in Gwen’s gut.

It couldn’t be him. It couldn’t be ...

The man lifted his hand to his forehead and stared right at Gwen. Impossible. No way could he see her and yet his gaze felt like a bloody caress. Red flooded Gwen, a red-hot thundering of pulse and fear. Him. After thirteen years, after numerous searches, after all the agony and guilt, there he was, right across the street.

Gwen dropped her spoon and tore out of her apartment, stopping only to slip on her flip flops and grab her keys.

It couldn’t be him. There was no possible way it could be him. She ran past Ted on her way down, past Doris, who stuck her head out her door and hollered something Gwen couldn’t hear. She tore around the front of the house and stopped just short of running in front of a car. Horns honked. The sharp, hot smell of exhaust rasped past her nose, thicker and more cloying in the humidity.

He was still there, still staring at her.

Impossible.

The man smiled.

She looked desperately at the traffic, knowing she wouldn’t make it across the street without getting hit by a car. Part of her scoffed, told her she was being stupid, that maybe she’d lost her mind, that maybe she’d finally broken. Another part, a younger part, pushed her into a sprint for the light. She glanced back to see if he had moved but no. He was still there. Waiting.

Was he waiting for her? Was he taunting her? Yes, he was.

She made it to the corner and punched the crosswalk button. Another glance.

He was gone.

No.

Had she been seeing things? No. The man was real, he’d been there, damn it. The light took forever and Gwen contemplated going back for her car when a black Nissan pulled up to the light beside her, its bass vibrating through the soles of her