The Naughty Live Longer

By Alex Lux

A page-turning suspense from USA Today and internationally bestselling author, Alex Lux.

Damon Deveaux has done his best to bury his demons. But when he receives a letter from the daughter he never knew he had, he is forced to confront his past and reopen the wounds of a twenty-six year old trauma. 

Wednesday Silver is a private investigator by day, and a vigilante con artist by night with a unique skill set. With one look, she can tell everything about a person they'd never want anyone else to know. 

When her FBI sister calls her for a favor, to drive to a small town in Nevada and prove a man innocent of murder, Wednesday is reluctant, until she reads the details of the case.

Satanic Ritual Abuse was mostly debunked as a mindless Evangelical panic in the 80s and early 90s… But someone is targeting sixteen year old girls and taking their hearts… while they're still alive. 

Now Wednesday and Damon must work together to hunt a killer, before the killer hunts them. 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Daring Books
• Release date: Sep 23, 2017
• ISBN: 9781393510260

Book preview

1

1991 Furlock, Nevada

Some truths are too cutting to sustain life.

Some reveals come with death trailing behind, eating up the remains.

If it's true that the first sin was in seeking knowledge, then ignorance must be sainthood.

She wasn't a saint.

She'd learned too many truths and now those truths would destroy her.

The bitter wine coated her tongue, leaving a red stain on her swollen lips. She swallowed, feeling the acidic burn in her throat, an unfamiliar heat making her stomach spasm.

But still she drank more as trickles of blood trailed down her neck, reminding her of the cost of disobedience.

Music filled the spaces around her, pumping into her, ancient humming in rhythms that reverberated through her body.

A drop of wine trickled down her chin, blending with her blood, and landed on the cream parchment paper that contained her last words. It splattered like blood over her name.

Her vision blurred as she watched the stain spread.

Heat filled her as the words swam in her mind.

---

even in death there is truth and life if you know how to seek it

---

She was surprised she'd been given the option to write last words. She doubted anyone would ever see them. Still… there was some catharsis in writing them.

The humming intensified, drones of voices chanting in languages long forgotten.

But she remembered.

She'd always remember.

Even after they buried her body, she'd remember. Somehow she knew this, and it gave her comfort in those last moments.

The humming grew louder and entered her mind, playing tricks with her perceptions. She looked down at her naked body, her budding breasts and curves that hinted at the woman she would have become.

The glass fell from her hand, shattering on the cold ground.

A wave of panic fought through the warmth, trying to grip her, but she breathed through it.

She focused on the chanting. On the humming. On the flickering of candles dancing on her skin. On the deep vibrations of sound pulsing through her as the world faded away.

And then she heard the voice. Saw the figure approaching. It no longer looked human, like the person she knew so well. She briefly wondered if it was something in the wine, but she dismissed that quickly enough. She hadn't been drinking before, when she saw what would ultimately lead to this moment. To her death.

It was all lies.

Everything was lies.

And in her last thought, as the figure cloaked in black approached her, eyes glowing in the shadows, she realized with a soul-crushing sadness that everyone had been wrong.

And now they would never know the truth.

2

Damon Deveaux

TWENTY-SIX YEARS LATER

When I think of fear, I think of an old friend I once knew. I remember the way they looked, the way it felt to be around them, but not much else. It happens, I suppose, when you've seen friends die by your side and explosions take off limbs. Most things are less terrifying by comparison, but even I trembled at the message I received earlier today. I felt a new kind of fear then. One I was unprepared for. And tonight, I will have to decide. Whether to meet her or not. Whether to be what she needs or not. Tonight, I will have to decide, but today I'll focus on the one thing I'm good for. The job. Always the job.

The Nevada heat beats down on me with unrelenting force as sweat trickles down the side of my face, but it's nothing compared to what I endured in the past. In the sandbox, as it's called. Still, my lungs fill with uncomfortable warmth as I stand by the car door waiting to escort my client into the hotel.

The likelihood of anyone trying to harm the beautiful woman exiting the limo one long leg at a time is slim to none. Still, it's enough to inspire a certain kind of client to hire men like me. Then there's the other kind. The kind that hires me out of ego. I look good in a black suit and sunglasses, a gun at my hip. I look formidable, dangerous, and like the kind of bodyguard someone rich and famous would have.

I don't mind. It's easy money, and a lot of it. I could act on a true threat if it came to that, but thankfully it almost never does. I took this job after the war to get away from who I was forced to become, to get away from the past. At least that's what I tell myself. Then I wonder, why did I come back to Nevada?

Granted, Las Vegas is another world compared to the small town I grew up in. But home is just around the corner, waiting for me like a monster under the bed.

I slip my hand into my pocket to check if the paper is still there, but of course it is.

The letter arrived today, with a date stamp from Furlock, Nevada, population 9, 472. The city has grown a bit since I last visited, just after I left the Marines.

The night I ran into an old flame, and rekindled something better left dead.

And now…

I pull my hand out and follow my client into the hotel, scanning the crowd for possible threats.

Once my client, Amy… or maybe Susy… I don't remember, the names blur together. The way I like it, I suppose. The more my memories blur, the less the demons come out. My life could drift me by, and I think I'd be a happy man.

So, screw it… Once Amysusy settles into her room, she tips me a large bill and smiles. Golden hair, perfectly groomed and expertly colored, waves down her tan back as she turns and slips off her dress, showing me her pale pink lingerie before sliding into a silk robe she leaves loosely tied.

When she turns back to me, there's a look in her eye I know too well. Thank you for your service today, Mr. Deveaux.

You can just call me Damon, I say.

She nods. Damon. It suits you. She crosses the room to pour herself a drink. Would you like one? she asks.

Thank you, but no. I don't drink on the job. I know what her next words will be before she says them.

But you're no longer on the job. And I won't need those particular skills until tomorrow evening. For tonight… She puts her drink down and unties her robe. For tonight, I might need another skill set I've heard you possess.

She was a referral. And I know exactly which skill set she was referred to.

And I know I'll stay.

There are only two things that silence my demons. Alcohol and women.

I gave up alcohol when it almost destroyed my life.

I didn't give up women.

It's 2:13 a.m. when I slide out of Amysusy's bed and quietly search her room for my clothes. They can end up in surprising places, I've discovered over the years. I'm nearly dressed when she sighs deeply and turns over in bed. Leaving so soon, lover? Her voice is throaty and full of wine and sleep.

Early morning, I lie.

See you tonight. She rolls back over and falls asleep before I leave the room.

I nod to the concierge as I step out of the air-conditioned hotel and into the still-hot Las Vegas night.

Five minutes later I'm in a cab heading to my shit stain apartment. I'm never home, preferring to spend most of my nights in fine hotels. I could afford something nicer, but instead I put my money in savings, with the plan to leave this all behind someday. I have dreams of a beach somewhere in Mexico where I can disappear for good. Maybe my demons won't haunt me there. Some say ocean water cleanses impure spirits. I don't buy that new age bullshit, but part of me wonders. There is something… healing… about the ocean. The sound of waves, the smell of salt and sun and sand. Maybe the new age hippies have more merit than I give them credit for.

Being landlocked in Vegas is its own kind of hell, but soon I'll have the money I need.

And yet.

There's the letter.

The letter that might change everything.

I check the messages on my phone: one new client request, one telemarketer, and one with nothing but static. I look for the caller ID, but it's blocked.

Shrugging, I slip the phone back into my pocket and pull out cash as the cab stops in front of my building. I thank the driver, slip him his fee plus tip, check my mailbox and then walk up two flights of stairs to my front door. My keychain, a Vegas casino chip, was a gag gift from Ana, my first client. I kept it out of irony at first, then habit. Now it feels like something of a good luck charm. Ana spread the word about my services to other rich and powerful friends, helping set up my personal security business. We still get together for old time's sake whenever she comes into town on business.

My apartment is just as I'd left it. Cold. Sterile. Nearly unlived in. My sliver of privacy in Sin City. Most days I prefer company, voices to drown out the demons. But tonight… tonight I need to be alone.

I glance longingly at the cabinet in the kitchen where I used to keep the liquor. If anything could justify falling off the wagon, it's this, but instead I pour myself a glass of water, leave the stack of mail on the kitchen counter, and head into the small living room.

I furnished the apartment with a black leather couch, a matching chair, a glass coffee table, and an eighty-two inch flat screen with a PlayStation and Xbox connected underneath. I didn't bother with a kitchen table, since a few bar stools at the kitchen island serve just as well. The walls feature a couple of expensive paintings from local up-and-coming artists; some dark, abstract and cathartic shit. There's no personal knick-knacks or pictures. Nothing to indicate a real human being lives here.

My shrink, who I haven't seen in ages, would say it signifies my inability to express myself. I'd say it's because I'm not so sure I'm human anymore, not after everything I've done.

I sink into