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Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo
Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo
Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo
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Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo

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Time to take the gloves off.

Joshua struggles to reach balance in his new role, stuck between furious enemies and friends he’s wronged. Earning their forgiveness might take more time than he’s got. As Sola launches attacks against him and Lana, the dark indiscretions of their pasts overshadow his glimpses of a brighter future.

When a team member’s murder invites an opportunity to end the war, Joshua channels his anger into a plan that will protect his companions and his city. He holds the power to make it succeed and win back the friendships he misses. But Sola wields power, too, and her influence could push him far enough to cost him everything he’s fighting for.

*For a limited time, get exclusive freebies and peeks behind the scenes. See inside for details or visit the author's website.*

LanguageEnglish
Release dateJul 26, 2015
Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo
Author

Cassandra Leuthold

Cassandra started creating outside-the-box, character-driven stories in second grade. Over twenty years later, she continues to combine what most people think of as opposites: the magical and the everyday, the modern and the vintage, the darkest recesses of the mind and the greatest heights humans can achieve. In between new ideas and breathing fresh life into old projects, you can find her sewing, watching TV, and binging on music from around the world. Cassandra lives with her writer husband and their moody cat, Gaia, in a house three sizes too big. She holds a Bachelor's in Liberal Studies and a Master's in English. Get free exclusive content and peeks behind the scenes. Visit bit.ly/writeruninterrupted.

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    Book preview

    Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo - Cassandra Leuthold

    Demonslayer Book 3

    Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo

    Cassandra Leuthold

    Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo

    Copyright © 2015 Cassandra Leuthold

    All rights reserved.

    Published by Green Hill Press

    South Bend, IN

    This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and events are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

    Book cover design by Deranged Doctor Design

    www.derangeddoctordesign.com

    Table of Contents

    Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo

    About the Author

    Learn more about Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo and the Demonslayer series. Take character-based quizzes and peek at what’s coming next.

    Get details here!

    Girl with the Strawberry Tattoo

    Sam shrugged into his suit coat as he flew out of his office. His calendar for the day ran through his head as he raced down the stairs. Set out a new client portfolio. Get ready to organize his records and files. Call at least three clients and finish up my proposal for the last appointment at four o’clock. He consulted his watch as he sailed through the lobby. With less than an hour to grab lunch and get started.

    He pushed the glass door open and pulled his keys out of his jacket pocket. The rain that had poured all morning left the street and sidewalk damp and glistening in the emerging sunlight. The neon sign for the Thai restaurant across the street flared like an electric bull’s eye, and Sam weighed his options. He’d already eaten there three days out of the last week, but it was faster than anything else.

    Sam released his keys into his pocket and stepped up to the curb, scanning the oncoming traffic on either side of him. His fingers drummed through his pants against the wallet in his front right pocket. Come on, come on, he urged the vehicles whether they sped past or crawled toward him. He craned his neck to the right, desperate for an opening. A crunch of stones and a purring motor rolled towards him. A deluge of cold water slapped Sam’s body from his shoulder to his ankle. He gasped as the wet chill shocked his limbs rigid. It soaked through his trousers to his legs, and he balled his hands into fists.

    He took even, calculated breaths. He swept tentative fingers at his sopping jacket, brushing away grit from the gutter but hardly able to dry himself. He heard the door of the offending car click open, his heart sinking and bobbing up again. He didn’t have time to talk to anyone. He needed a new plan – fast. Get home, dry off, throw on a new suit, and – if I’m lucky – eat on the drive back to the office.

    I’m so sorry, the driver called out, a woman’s full, smooth alto drawing memories from the back of his mind.

    The door closed as he looked over. On the other side of a bright yellow Charger lingered the driver. Her eyes widened at him. Sam? Alana sighed, propping her elbow on the car and propping her forehead in her splayed fingers.

    Hi. The word escaped as stiff as his spine stood.

    Alana strolled around the front of her car, toting her purse over her arm. I guess we finally have to talk, huh?

    He swallowed, the Thai restaurant’s signs catching his eye. Not really. I’m in a hurry.

    Is that why you didn’t see me?

    Sam’s eyebrows rocketed sky high. See you? What about me, standing here waiting to cross?

    Alana pointed to the brick building behind her. I had an appointment next door I was focused on. I’m really sorry. Let me write you a check and cover the cost of dry cleaning.

    Sam inched away from her. It’s not necessary.

    Alana produced a pen and purple crocodile-skin checkbook from her purse. It’ll take less time if you just tell me how much it’ll cost to get your suit taken care of. She pinned him with a serious stare.

    Sam remembered countless days and nights spent gazing into those determined bronze eyes. Four years’ worth. He forced himself to answer. Five bucks is fine.

    Better make it ten. Alana bent her head, setting her checkbook against her purse and pen against paper. Good thing it stopped raining, huh?

    Yeah. Sam combed his fingers through his hair, glad some part of him remained as intended. The puddles are big enough already.

    Alana wrote as she talked. I was running through my introduction. I hate meeting new clients at the businesses they run. It always distracts them. You have to make every second count before they push you out the door.

    Sam lifted his arms away from his sides. At least you get to meet your new client in dry clothes.

    She flicked her gaze up at him. You have a new client today? Seriously?

    He nodded.

    And you really didn’t see me trying to park here?

    He pointed down the street. I was looking for a break in traffic. You didn’t recognize me?

    Alana’s pen indicated the car parked behind Sam. I didn’t want to hit the Lexus.

    Alana signed her name, poised and graceful even while hunched over. Sam’s eyes wandered over her ensemble. Two gold necklaces hung over a blush-pink blouse buttoned up to the base of her neck. A charcoal-grey pencil skirt hugged her thighs while reading chic and professional. Toned legs the sun had always tanned gold and still did. White high heels supported her feet with stacked wooden bases. You look good, he said, trying to sound offhanded while his voice skipped.

    Alana tore off the check and held it out. You don’t have to give me a compliment. I would’ve written a check for whoever I drowned.

    It’s not buying you off. I’m being honest.

    Alana scanned him from hair to shoes. You look good, too.

    Sam accepted the check with reluctant fingers. He’d once thought about marrying this woman, and this was how far they’d fallen.

    It was never appearances that posed a problem, though, was it? Alana asked with a cool edge.

    Sam ran the check through the loose pinch of his fingers. He didn’t want their last two conversations to end in argument. How about dinner instead of a check?

    Alana deposited her checkbook and pen in her purse, alarm cocking one eyebrow. I buy you dinner?

    No, I pay for you.

    Alana checked her watch and the building behind her. I don’t know, Sam. What do we have to talk about? How to pay off debt and pick stocks? She crossed her arms. What if everything becomes about avoiding what we don’t want to talk about? The Steadman account.

    Sam cringed, keeping it more on the inside than flexing his expression. He didn’t think she’d remember the end as sharply as she did, as deeply as he did sometimes. That was three years ago.

    Months of you holding it against me that he chose me over you? Her fingertip hooked one of her gold necklaces and let it fall.

    We can talk about other things, Sam insisted, although he wasn’t exactly sure what. We can’t let one client rule our lives forever.

    No, Alana agreed, tightening her arms.

    You did splash me. Sam held his arms out. And I’m offering to pay. Shouldn’t you apologize a little more than a ten-dollar check?

    Her eyes narrowed. What are you doing outside during the day, anyway? Don’t you call out for food and meet the delivery guy in the lobby?

    Exercise, Sam explained. Change of atmosphere. And it’s faster this way. Or it would’ve been. If your schedule’s anything like mine, you’re fighting to fit meals in, too. Why not let me pay for one?

    Alana huffed out a long breath as she studied him. Do you still have that system for comparing stocks, short term versus long term?

    Yeah.

    Could you show it to me again?

    Sure. Sam ripped the check in half.

    Alana fished a business card out of her purse and handed it to him. Call me, and we’ll set something up. Nothing fancy. It’s only business.

    Of course. He held onto the halved check and tapped his finger against the card’s edge.

    Alana patted her full, curly hair and adjusted her shoulders. Good thing I was early.

    You don’t need practice. Sam rebelled at the idea. Just walk in there and say ‘Steadman.’ They’ll listen to you.

    Is that what you’d do? Drop client names?

    Sam backed up toward the parking lot alongside the Wallace G. Everett and Company building. No, if I were you, I’d drive slower.

    Alana curved her cool-red lips into a smirk. Maybe you shouldn’t stand so close to the street.

    Maybe you should write a check for the Thai restaurant. Sam gestured across the way. Since you drenched me and I don’t have time to eat there.

    I can’t. You tricked me into this conversation, and I have to meet my client.

    What are you waiting for? Me to wish you luck? You never needed it before.

    She tipped her head at him. Don’t make jokes about Steadman.

    Sam spread his fingers in transparency. It’s not a joke. And I wasn’t talking about him.

    Alana pressed a button on her keyless remote, and her car locks shifted. Don’t lose my card, she teased. Or there’ll be no business dinner for you.

    Don’t count on it. Sam tucked the card deep in his pocket, his hand sliding against the wet fabric.

    She backed away toward the sign and print shop next door. Maybe I’ll get lucky, and the ink will run.

    You wish you would’ve bought the cheap ones now, don’t you? Sam’s eyes twinkled with the same pride he used to take in their banter. They’d always been more than colleagues, more than daters. They could’ve taken over the financial world of Ashton or any other city they lived in. A team greater than the sum of its parts, in the office and everywhere else.

    I’ll see you later. Alana turned and hurried up the sidewalk to the front door of the shop.

    Wow. Sam walked away to his car. The breeze blew his soaked clothes against his skin, spurring his pace more than what time it was. Alana Richmond, after all these years. The conferences and seminars where they’d discovered themselves in the same room and glanced away without acknowledging each other.

    Wow. She looked fantastic, better than good. She must be doing well for herself, or she certainly knew how to fake it. He guessed it was the former. She never did anything she didn’t mean.

    Wow. He unlocked his car, glancing at the corner of Everett and Company even though he knew he couldn’t see her from here. Dinner? They were either going to rekindle something wonderful or nosedive in a spectacular mess of flames.

    .

    Sleigh bells rang out above the door, and the brown-clad delivery man walked out into the bright afternoon. Lana grabbed a pair of scissors from a basket under the counter and sliced the tape securing the top flaps of the box. She set the packing order aside and freed the first of several bubble-wrapped purchases. Peeling the plastic away, the resin statuette of gleeful figures enthralled her, dancing around a maypole with satin ribbons crisscrossing the post and extending into their hands. Lana examined the details, the brilliant colors and unique character of each participant. Floral wreaths rested in their flowing hair, heads tossed back in celebration.

    The bells jingled again, and Lana assumed the first customer of the weekend had arrived. She stashed the box and unwrapped keepsake on the floor at her feet. Welcome.

    She stood up as a teenaged girl stepped into the store. Heavy black liner circled her clear blue eyes, bold pink gloss emphasizing the smooth bow of her lips. The hem of her white t-shirt fell short above the top of her jeans, her blue-jean jacket framing an exposed, gentle bulge.

    Lana prepared herself for any of the vast array of questions customers asked her over the years. All kinds of people came in, and they all wanted something different. This girl might’ve wanted to learn Tarot or charm a boy or hex her parents, but her piercing gaze defeated those theories, like she’d come in with a bigger purpose than shopping.

    Lana opened her mouth to offer her help.

    The teen cut her off. Are you Lana?

    The rapid-fire assumption chilled Lana to her bones. Yes. Under the counter, she reached in slow increments for her cell phone, closing her fingers around it.

    The teen popped one hip up, her flat affect squeezed between bored and pompous. I have a message for you. From Sola. She wants you to know she picked a side.

    Lana steadied herself, taking time to breathe before she reacted. Of course Sola sent this girl. Why did the sudden attitude surprise her? Lana kept her demeanor calm, afraid to show fear or chase the teenager off before she could learn more about her. Okay. You found me. Can I ask who you are?

    The teenager jerked her chin up, gleaming with pride. Heather Pataki. I go to York High School, and I’m three months pregnant.

    Lana blinked in a daze. Are you part of the group Sola joined?

    Yeah.

    How long ago did she do that?

    A couple of days. She said all her enemies were on your side, so she picked us.

    How do you know I chose one?

    Heather flicked her eyes around the room. Sola figured Gatekeeper got to all of you eventually.

    A tickling presence probed Lana’s psychic shield. She strengthened it, maintaining her composure to keep a stronger attack at bay.

    The teen tucked her thumbs into her belt loops. You protect yourself. That’s cool. I just wanted to see if you were. They told me not to use my power on you.

    Relief and trepidation warred in Lana’s body. What’s your other name? What do you do?

    I’m Dynamite. I blow things up, all out of proportion. You didn’t hear what happened to that guy from York?

    Lana shook her head, not sure which of the many strange incidents Heather referred to.

    The guy who killed his dad? Heather cocked an imaginary shotgun and threw her hands up in arcs, palms wide. Boom! That was me.

    Lana’s face scrunched up, and her sandwich lunch rolled over in her stomach. Why did you do that?

    Heather relaxed and patted her belly. I wanted a family, and he wouldn’t help me. He wouldn’t have made a good dad, anyway.

    Lana wondered how Heather didn’t make the assessment sooner. Teenage boys seldom do.

    Heather perked up, swatting the air. Nobody knew it was me, but I still got my name in the paper. Did you see it?

    Lana tensed. For what?

    My mom didn’t know where I was. I wasn’t gone long enough for the cops to search for me, but when I got back, they did an article on me. Interviewed me and my mom about how heart-warming and shit it was nothing bad happened to me. She rolled her eyes to the ceiling.

    Who’s the father? Lana asked, not sure she wanted to know.

    Gallows. Christopher Salem.

    Lana’s concentration heightened at the familiar name, not to mention the idea of their child having two special parents. Salem?

    Yeah. So you do hear things. Christopher broke his dad out of prison. The cops’ll never find him.

    John Salem doesn’t have powers?

    Heather shook her head. Nope. Just a regular guy. She tittered in spurts and extended her hand up, marking a height level at the top of her reach. Regular giant.

    Lana agreed with that statement, nervous about how close John Salem might be hiding with his violent history. As silence wore on, suspicion crept into Lana’s marrow. Why are you telling me so much?

    Heather tossed her shoulders up. It doesn’t matter what you know. You can’t do anything to us whether you have five people or five hundred. We’re stronger than you, and Catalyst wanted me to tell you he can’t wait to meet you. Whatever that means.

    Why? Who’s Catalyst? Lana’s heart raced, stumbling over itself for every beat. She didn’t like the way

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