Bury Me Before You Go (Pandemonium Book 1) Read online

  PANDEMONIUM BOOK ONE

  Copyright © 2021 Lc Lehesaho

  All rights reserved

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  ISBN-13: 9781234567890

  ISBN-10: 1477123456

  Cover design: Linda Lehesaho/Graphic Tiger

  Editing: Zainab M. at Heart Full of Reads Editing Services

  Interior formatting: Linda Lehesaho/Graphic Tiger

  Contents

  Copyright

  PROLOGUE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  Epilogue

  My fireflies, this is for you.

  I write love stories—raw and unhinged but love, nonetheless.

  It might leave you bruised or bleeding or give you anxiety, but feelings happen to do that, so there's that. If you've read my other series Beasts of Prey, you know what kind of books I write, and if you haven't, I highly suggest you read those first. There is a crossover with the characters since Pandemonium is a spin-off, but this can be read as a standalone.

  Anyhow, thank you for picking up Bury Me Before You Go!

  I really appreciate it.

  love, LC

  Devil’s Playground-The Rigs

  (Don’t Fear) The Reaper-Blue Öyster Cult

  Darkside-Neoni

  Where the Dark Things Are-Kerli

  Falling-Trevor Daniel, blackbear

  Killing In The Name-Rage Against The Machine

  Toxic-2WEI

  Whose Side Are You On-Tommee Profitt, Ruelle

  Wicked Games-RAIGN

  Adore-Amy Shark

  Blood Hunter-Varien

  Army-Besomorph, Arcando, Neoni

  And many more. Playlist available on SPOTIFY

  PROLOGUE

  One month ago

  SANGUIS HOSTIS. The blood of the enemy.

  After rereading the text and the name under it, I wrap the thin paper into a roll and thumb my lighter. The flame sparks to life, ready to serve whatever purpose I have for it, not questioning its task. It can be good or bad or something in between; it doesn’t matter.

  An order is an order. Obey or demolish.

  Bringing the flame to the tip of the paper, I watch as it catches fire and, within seconds, burns to a crisp in my fingers. I click the lighter closed, taking a long inhale through my nostrils.

  My turn.

  I change places with the butterfly knife and the lighter, the latter ending to the pocket of my jeans. My stomach churns, the same tingle consuming my body as always when it’s about Pandemonium.

  Other jobs and kills, nothing. Those can get messy, and no one cares. As long as the job is marked under your name, no one gives a flying fuck about you doing any collateral damage or how the target went down, as long as you stayed under the radar and didn’t get caught.

  But the rules of Pandemonium?

  I get fucking itchy about those. So precise.

  No one wants to fuck up when it comes to the Order of the Six.

  I’ve done my homework. Observed and calculated for the past two weeks so systematically, I’d fucking earn a pro stalker patch if those would be a thing.

  Scrubbing the overgrown beard on my jaw, I go through my plan and check the clock. Five minutes. That’s how long Judge Semenov is alone after leaving the courthouse and walking to the hotel two blocks away, where he meets his hussy, and lays on the bed like a walrus, letting the young and perky and, no doubt, well-paid whore jump on his miniature cock.

  After that, he walks to the restaurant across the road, orders take-out for his wife and himself, and calls his driver to pick him up.

  So these five minutes? They’re my crack on the window, letting me in to steal his soul because that’s what the Grim Reapers do.

  The air in the alley is thick with filth and grease, making bile tickle in my throat. The first comes from the dumpster beside me and the latter from the fumes coming out of the restaurant around the corner — the one where Judge Semenov orders his food. There’s no other living soul in the alley, save for the rats in the trash, but if he hasn’t stopped to take a piss or shoot the shit with someone, the judge should be walking around the corner right about...

  Now.

  The chubby figure stalks forward with such determination I’d guess he had a difficult day at work, and he can’t wait to release the pressure with his hoe. Too bad for him, but I want to fly back home and get on with my life, and I can’t until he is cold as a rock in the bottom of the Baltic Sea.

  After pulling the beanie deeper down my head, I step out from the shadows, keeping my posture slouching to fit in my hobo disguise and the butterfly knife in my fist, ready to flick it open.

  He sees me but doesn’t slow down. That’s the result of almost two weeks of determined work. When I started hanging out on this alley this time of the day, dressed like a drifter in an oversized, ragged jacket and nappy beanie, he hesitated. But day after day, he became braver. As if I’m just a harmless drunk minding my own business and no danger to him.

  So now, when I pick a cigarette from my pocket and lift it enough for him to see it, there should be only one outcome.

  “Daite ognja?” I ask, keeping my tone low and rough for the character. I know he’s a hardcore chain smoker, so he must have a lighter.

  He halts, debating a brief second, but pulls a lighter from his pocket and hands it toward me as I keep approaching. “Zdes.”

  Instead of taking what he offers, I grab hold of his arm, jerking him forward and spinning myself behind him. With one flick of my wrist, the front of his expensive suit is painted in a new color, and his free hand flies to his throat, desperately trying to keep the gushing blood inside his broken carotid artery. I slap my gloved hand over his mouth to keep the sound of his gurgling down and follow him as he drops to his knees, the paralyzing shock taking over his system.

  My heart is hammering out of my chest, and the time, until his lights go out, seems to take fucking forever. Keeping my eyes on the alley and making sure no one can surprise me, I go through what happens in the next thirty minutes.

  Make it look like a robbery—don’t forget the IDs.

  Get rid of the hobo outfit.

  Taxi to the private airport and take off.

  Shave, for fuck’s sake.

  Confirm the kill and breathe.

  When I suck in a long, calming breath as
I’d do when I’d finally get to sit on the leather seat of our plane, Judge Semenov collapses on the ground with a thud. Quickly, I snap into action.

  Everything goes exactly as I planned, with no distractions or disturbances, no witnesses, and no proof left behind. No doubt there’s already a homicide unit and a bunch of cops and reporters, everyone doing their job, as I eventually let myself fall on the soft seat in the private plane, dropping my head back just for a second.

  My muscles get the memo that it’s fucking over, letting me relax for the first time in weeks. The familiar chime comes from my pocket, and I pick it up, clicking the reminder off. That’s how little I trust myself not to fall asleep before letting the Order know I’ve completed the first part of Pandemonium. My fingers fly on the screen as I type Ad patres and send the text to my father, as the tight band around my lungs loosens.

  Thirteen hours later, which I slept without waking up even once, the plane arrives at Preston. As soon as the cabin opens, I throw my duffel bag over my shoulder and jog down the stairs from the jet with light steps and a smile on my face. The fresh air greets me, and the puddles on the tarmac gossip it’s been raining recently, which is nothing new in our city. Zigzagging between those, I fumble with the keys to my Audi and take a note that Lennox’s white Dodge Hellcat is still parked right beside my car in the storage building. It means he is still in Italy, completing his task, but since Cruz’s car has vanished, he was the fastest of us again. I haven’t exactly paid attention to the Reaper’s ranking list, but there’s no doubt Cruz’s name is holding the highest position right now.

  I click the doors open and throw my bag on the passenger side while sitting behind the wheel. “Cruel World” by Tommee Profitt blasts from the speakers as I floor the accelerator and steer through the busy streets toward home. I wanted to surprise Mabel, so all I can do is wish she’s home and not shopping or some shit.

  My hopes of getting her in my arms die instantly when I veer my car to our driveway. Her car is gone, so I guess I should’ve just sent her the fucking text. Groaning in frustration, I kill the engine and drag myself inside. A cold lingers through my bloodstream as I take in the fact that something’s missing from the foyer.

  What the fuck?

  There are no fresh flowers on the vase at the side table. For the past year we’ve been living together, she’s placed flowers there. Dropping my bag on the floor, I make my way to our living room only to see nothing has changed there. The bridal magazines she’s been reading are on the low coffee table, but my gut feeling tells me something is still pretty fucking off. My heart hammering unnaturally fast, I jog to our bedroom, spinning around to see what the fuck is wrong that’s giving me creeps.

  The black envelope with my name on it, written in her handwriting, on our bed catches my attention, and with shaky hands, I pick it up. From the corner of my eye, I see the door to our walk-in closet is open, and the sight stops my fucking heart, rips it off my chest, and stomps it on the floor.

  Even before opening the envelope, I fucking know what it’s going to tell me.

  1

  Present

  Raining at funerals is a cliche, but then again, it’s usually fitting. Heavy, mourning raindrops show that even Heaven condolences on the passing of the soul who’s ripped from its nearest.

  I clutch the umbrella tighter, maintaining the mask of stone on my face as I stare at the endless line of headstones behind the priest. He speaks such beautiful things for such a monstrous man.

  There shouldn’t be tears in these funerals. Not from Heaven, nor from people.

  People, I can forgive — they didn’t know he was a heartless devil incarnation, but Heaven?

  It should know better than shedding a tear for him.

  Relieved is a mild word to describe what I feel when I stand on the green, wet grass, the subtle wind caressing my thighs through the stockings, with my weeping mother beside me. Here, at my father’s funeral, I have to restrain myself from smiling. Was it either karma, justice, or my lucky charm working for my benefit even once which got him to meet his maker; I don’t really care.

  All I care about is that I don’t have to see him ever again.

  My skin prickles as I feel people’s prying eyes lingering on me, but I can’t blame them. Keeping my focus solely past the priest, I lose myself in my mind to the forest behind the row of graves and let them stare. It’s part of human nature, being interested in something new, especially if it’s someone else’s business. I don’t recognize even one person here, save for my mother and our driver Frank, of course, but I could throw pretty accurate guesses about the guest list.

  City counselors, business owners, lawyers… Basically, the cream of this city is here to honor the memory of my daddy dearest. After all, he was standing for the election to become a mayor of Preston.

  If they only knew.

  The ceremony comes to an end, finally, and I follow my mother to the car while she sniffles into her napkin on her way. In her tight black dress, elegant occasion hat with bows and mesh, and high heels, which make her long legs look even longer, she looks precisely like a grieving widow. I’m sure there’s a line of men ready to give her a shoulder to cry on and then some.

  And when it comes to my mother?

  She is just as two-faced as my father was, so it won’t probably take long until someone rolls in her expensive sheets.

  As the rain grows denser, everyone hurries into their cars, saving their condolences for the memorial service, which suits me just fine. I have no intention of pretending to be a grieving daughter a second longer than I promised to my mother. Or more like, she blackmailed me into it, but that’s how she rolls, so nothing new there.

  I can’t wait to get this over with and get back to Atlanta tomorrow because being in my mother’s presence is as pleasant as swimming in a pool of piranhas. This is not my town, and the faster I get back to my own life, the better.

  _____

  I should have expected something like this from my mother, but still, after twenty years of watching her bullshit, she caught me off guard.

  Her steel eyes watch me from the end of the table as she brings a cup of coffee to her flawlessly painted lips and takes a sip, being as elegant and grand as anyone could be while drinking morning coffee. Her posture and my parents’ fancy mansion look like we could be in the middle of filming the Housewives of Beverly Hills. And no, she doesn’t look like a woman whose husband was buried yesterday. Or maybe this — tormenting me — is her way of dealing with the grief? Make other people miserable as well?

  Oh, wait.

  That would actually acquire the heart to feel anything, which she doesn’t have, so there’s that.

  “You can’t do that. No.” I shake my head, dropping the fork on top of the omelet her cook made for me. “I’m not moving here. I have a home and friends in Atlanta. You can’t—”

  “I can, and I did.” Mom stops me, lifting her palm. “You’ll get a roof over your head and maintenance from me, but I’m not providing for your life in Atlanta because you’ll be needed here. The moving company is already packing your belongings from there, and those will be delivered here in a few days.”

  An uneasy weight churns in the pit of my stomach, immobilizing me to my place. “What the hell? Why would I ever be needed here? What about the money Dad left for me—”

  “You won’t get your inheritance until you turn twenty-one,” she cuts me off, speaking calmly as if she’s not ruining my whole fucking life right now. “I am taking Mateo’s place in the election, and I need you, my daughter”—the pressure she puts on the word makes my blood run cold—“to be by my side. As a family unit.”

  I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

  A fucking family unit?

  “You gotta be shitting me?” I snap, throwing my palms up, ultimately losing the last remnants of my self-control. “There’s no fucking way I’m staying here and pretend we’re something we’ve never been. Big, fat no, Mother.”


  “Language!” The echo of her hands slapping against the dining table makes my ears ring. “I swear to you, Cierra, you don’t want to stand up against me. Your father isn’t here to hold your hand and pamper you. This is my house now, and as long as you’re still twenty, you’ll live by my rules.”

  I gasp, and my jaw practically hits the floor. “Whoa. You called that what he did as holding my hand and pampering?”

  The heaviness in my abdomen turns into bile that wants to crawl up my throat. How can she even say things like that? She is my mother, she should…

  I don’t even know.

  The defeat settles deep into my bones, and my shoulders sag when I realize how stupid my thoughts are. She’s never been a supporting or nurturing mother, so why would she suddenly start acting like one after Daddy is out of the picture?

  Mom stares at me from the other end of the table, her eyes hard enough to pierce my skull. Her delicate hands curl into fists as she speaks, her voice cold as ice, “For the next six months, you will behave yourself and support me, so I can win the election. I’ll get the votes because people see us as survivors of a tragedy, and you will play your part, Cierra. Do you understand me?”

  I don’t get to answer before she continues, “And trust me, if you dare to protest me, Dear Daughter, you’ll regret it.”

  2

  “It’s Cierra with a C.” I raise my gaze from the misspelled name tag to Dean, the owner of the Busy Beans, lifting it in the air for him to see. “Not with an S.”

  He stares at me for a brief moment, mouth slightly parted, like considering if I am serious or not. Shit. Quickly I wave my hand dismissively and clip it on the black employers’ T-shirt he gave me earlier.

  “It doesn’t matter. C or S, all the same, right?” I babble nervously, hoping he won’t tell me to beat it.

  I need this job. It was the only one open in the city which didn’t need a Ph.D. or a truck driver’s license or some other permit I don’t have.