Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  “What did he want?”

  “To tell me he knew who killed Jenny and I might know too.”

  “Did he kill her?”

  “No, he said a jealous minion did it.”

  Smythe pauses before nodding. “Leaving her with a rose isn’t something he’d do. Come to think of it, that’s not what any demon would do. At least not a demon I know of.”

  I yawn, a subtle indication this conversation needs to wrap up sooner rather than later.

  Smythe ignores my silent plea. “Minion kill then. So why leave the body at the stadium? Why not leave her where she was killed?”

  “To make a point?” Since the subtle failed, I move on to the obvious. “I’m sleepy. Think we can finish this discussion in the morning?”

  He looks at me as if seeing into my soul, his gaze leaving a hot trail of interest as he searches my face. “Sorry. I should’ve noticed.” He touches my arm, a brief stroke of his fingers before he drops his hand.

  Heat pools warm against my skin, in my blood, a pulling of need. I meet his heated gaze. He swallows. I lick my lips. His hand cups my cheek as he steps closer. My heart pounds against my ribs as I tilt my face to his.

  In slow motion, his head bends toward me. Firm lips cover mine, and I melt into a kiss missing the clatter of another’s emotions storming my mind. I love it. I can’t get enough of his quiet touch.

  I wrap my arms around his neck and run my tongue across the seam of his lips. He responds with a moan low in his throat, a vibration of pleasure rumbling from his chest into mine.

  THUMP! “Oh baby, yes, yes, yes!” Jackie’s shrill orgasmic voice cuts right through our moment, a big bucket of cold water thrown onto a raging brushfire.

  Smythe steps back, red tingeing his cheeks. He opens his lips and closes them as if he wants to speak but the words stick in his mouth. Stupid Jackie and her enthusiastic response to horizontal action. I swear, this is T’s last night in my house. My almost extracurricular activity ruined by a double-D blonde bimbo.

  Although maybe I should thank my twin for keeping me from breaking the eleventh commandment of Gin: no messing around with thy boss.

  I glance at my mentor, at his muscular six-foot-five physique, at the seriousness in his blue eyes. Remember the way he’s always there for me, his friendship, his breakfast making skills. On second thought, who pays attention to commandments?

  Smythe clears his throat. “That was awkward.”

  It could be worse. He could apologize for kissing me. Instead he speaks the truth. In more ways than one. “Yeah.”

  “I can usually tune them out.”

  “Seriously?” I raise a brow. “How the hell do you do that?”

  He shrugs. Mysterious mage powers to the rescue. “I just do.” He offers me a half smile, his gaze centering on my lips, a banked fire of lust behind his eyes. “Gin…”

  “Yeah?” my voice purrs, all hope mingled with sexiness.

  “You look dead on your feet. Why don’t you go to sleep, and I’ll see if the detectives have made a case report. We’ll meet up in the morning and return to the Dumpster. See if we can find anything new.”

  “Right.” So much for hoping for a different ending.

  Instead of carrying out my fantasies, he’s formulating a game plan. Not that I blame him. Avoidance of prickly emotions has been my modus operandi for so long it’s like pulling on a comfy pair of socks. “Good night, Smythe.”

  I’m to the door of my bedroom before his voice stops me.

  “Gin?”

  I look over my shoulder. “Yeah?”

  “I’m not sorry.”

  With those words, he strides into the living room, leaving me alone with nothing for comfort except my battery-operated BFF and a wishful imagination.

  Chapter Five

  Bright sunlight streams through a crack in the blinds, forcing me awake. The scent of bacon mixed with coffee draws my eyes open. Mmmm. Bacon and coffee. A great start to any morning.

  Even mornings when you’d rather stay in bed.

  The clock reads 9:00 in glowing red numbers. I blink in surprise. Smythe let me sleep in? Is he sick?

  Curiosity and hunger propel me out of bed. Fifteen minutes and a shower later, my feet follow the aroma of breakfast into the kitchen. Smythe stands in front of the stove, the sizzle of bacon releasing a strong allure. But not nearly as strong as the fresh pot of coffee. My mentor makes a mean breakfast.

  Since he looks as well as ever, I assume his allowing me to sleep in means he’s turned into a kinder, gentler hard-ass.

  Must be due to last night’s kiss. Not that I’m going to mention what could have been without Jackie’s not-so-timely interruption. Not unless he brings it up first. And the chances of that happening are about as likely as two feet of snow in North Texas. “Morning.” I pull my extra-large mug out of the cabinet and apply a dose of the liquid black gold to its insides. I might be able to move in the mornings without caffeine, but my personality tends to improve with each cup. Since Smythe wants to track minions today, I need to fuel up and transform from Madam Grumpy-pants into Ms. Nice Mentee.

  Self-improvement via caffeine.

  “The sleepyhead finally wakes.”

  I grunt a better-left-as-nonverbal reply while taking a sip of the tongue-burning liquid.

  His lip twitches. “I heard that.”

  “What? I said something?” I force my eyes wide, all mock innocent.

  “You said something, all right.” He winks as he places a strip of bacon on a plate loaded with eggs.

  Time for a topic change. “T and Jackie still in bed?”

  He shakes his head while dropping two slices of bacon into the skillet. “They woke me up trying to be quiet leaving. I guess they’re at work?”

  I shrug. Damn. Looks like once again sex and double D’s conned T into staying in the relationship. Men and their fascination with boobs.

  “Work, yeah, it’s Friday.” Little caffeine particles finally make their way into my brain, flickering on neurons. “Sorry, as you know, mornings aren’t my thing.”

  “Never would’ve guessed.”

  I roll my eyes. “We still hitting the minion trail?”

  “Yep.” He flips a piece of bacon onto the plate and hands it to me. “Eat up. You’ve slept half the morning.”

  “Hey, it’s my morning off. I’m allowed.” I take the plate and my mug and walk to the table. His words follow me, small stalkers of guilt.

  “Not when there’s a minion to track.”

  This time I ignore him. In the three months we’ve been working together, I’ve learned to track minions as quick as most people process thoughts. What’s a little shut-eye when I can track down the walking evil in no time flat?

  Minions, here I come.

  Right after I read the paper and eat my breakfast. I spread out the newspaper—thank you, whoever plopped it on the table for me—and pop a bite of bacon into my mouth. Yummy. My favorite, cooked through but not crispy. Smythe’s skills with a skillet and a spatula rank high on my list of things I love about the man. If only he lived here on a permanent basis and not just when he needed to crash.

  Did I actually think that? I glance up at my mentor as he places the last pieces of bacon on his plate.

  Smythe sits across from me, his brows twitching together. “What?”

  “What, what?” Yeah, right. Like I’m actually going to tell him I want to fuck his brains out. He might take me up on it.

  Or worse, he might not.

  “You had a strange look.”

  “Just planning my day.” I’m such a good little liar. “You find anything on the report?”

  He stares at me for a two count before his brow relaxes. He nods. “She didn’t die by the Dumpster.”

  “Newsflash, we already knew that.” I swallow a couple of gulps of the no longer burn-your-tongue-hot coffee, trying to get as much caffeine in my system as fast as possible. Past experience taught me when Smythe falls into minion-hunting mode,
caffeine becomes a rare commodity. The man thinks my mug is optional on hunts. You’d think by now he’d realize never to come between a grumpy woman and her morning addiction.

  “Just confirming. They also gave the body a last name. Jenny O’Connor.”

  Nothing about my touch-n-see episode with Donny gave me her full name. Speaking of, maybe I should fess up about what I saw.

  “I touched Donny last night.”

  “You didn’t say anything.”

  “It was…” I squeeze my eyes shut and shudder at the memory. “…unpleasant.”

  His eyes flare. “You saw him kill her?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. We wouldn’t be planning a minion hunt if that was the case.”

  “Right, right. Guess I’m not as awake as I thought.”

  “See?” I point a piece of bacon at him before popping it in my mouth and talking around it. Etiquette be damned. “That’s what you get for calling me a sleepyhead.”

  He grins. “I can’t help telling the truth.” The smile fades from his face as his gaze grows serious. “What did you see when you touched Donny?”

  “Them having sex in a club bathroom.” My face twists involuntarily. “Gross. Do you know what’s in those bathrooms?”

  “Semen?”

  “Well, that too, but yuck, all the germs.”

  “Was he telling the truth about leaving her at the club?”

  “No clue. The only memory I saw was them”—I wave my hand—“in the bathroom. That was bad enough.”

  “So he could’ve lied.”

  “Killed her and then met up with a minion to dispose of her body? Then acted all shocked and surprised she was dead? I suppose. I could also win the lottery.”

  Smythe raises one brow. “Highly unlikely doesn’t mean impossible. Remember that.”

  Through a strong application of willpower, I manage to avoid an eye roll. Go me. Instead, I circle my hand, encouraging him to keep talking. “Try for option number two. What else ya got?”

  “The detectives are trying to determine who she was with at the club, so they can talk to her friends. I should have more information tonight.”

  “I work from three to eleven.” Which means I probably won’t leave work until midnight. Friday nights in an ER never end on time.

  Smythe focuses on shoveling several bites of eggs into his mouth. Unlike me, he waits until after swallowing before speaking.

  “We better get going then. It’s almost ten. You having to work cuts into our time to track the minion.”

  What he fails to say, yet tinges his words with accusation, is how my working as an ER nurse goes against the Agency standards. No Justitian except me holds a job. How freaking plebian. A job. Why work when you were born into a wealthy cult that admits no new members? Not only do they not have to work, but unlike me, they all know their heritage and trained their entire life to be ready to fall into the role of demon huntress. I’m an oddity all the way around.

  As if “odd” and “Gin Crawford” don’t already go together.

  You’d think when the justitia chose me to wear it, the Agency would want to ante up and pay my bills, allowing me to work for them full-time. But no, come to find out, being appreciative of my services was not in their playbook. One of them, a blonde bitch named Samantha, tried to kill me for some unnamed reason and all of them see me as trailer-park trash.

  Despite me never living in a trailer park.

  Their attitude doesn’t bother me. Not much anyway. I wear a justitia. I kill minions and the occasional demon. I rock. Who cares what they think? Without me, they would be missing a valuable Justitian.

  Time to show off my abilities.

  I shove my chair back and walk my mug and plate to the sink. “I’ll take the second cup with me.”

  He chuckles, turning in his chair to face me. “As you wish. Just get a move on.”

  “Let me brush my teeth first, and I’ll be right back.”

  I leave the mug on the counter and hustle to my bathroom for the toothbrush. Some might find following a minty fresh mouth with a cup of java disgusting, but I’ve grown used to the taste. Not much different than adding mint to chocolate and who doesn’t like that concoction?

  A few minutes later and I return to the kitchen, pour my second mug and salute Smythe with the cup. He shakes his head and sighs.

  “Ready, padawan?”

  You’ve gotta love a man who’s as big a geek as you. I smile at his nickname for me. The reference never grows old in my book.

  I take a sip of the coffee before answering. “Ready as ever.”

  He holds out his hand, palm facing the wall, and speaks words in an ancient language that sounds suspiciously like Latin. A slash in the space-time continuum opens, deceptively warm air billowing outward, a portal from my house to the stadium. Much faster than driving. Smythe grabs my hand, and we walk into the cold depths of the portal. How the things manage to spit out warm air yet be colder than Antarctica makes it onto the world’s most-amazing-oddities list.

  When we step out of the portal beside the stadium Dumpster, my hands are a nice shade of eggplant and I shiver despite the warmth of the day. Steam no longer circles my mug. Smythe touches the mug, speaks a word, and steam once again flows out of the top. Mage power to the rescue.

  Maybe I’ll cut him some slack for not waiting until I had my third cup.

  You’d better, drifts through my mind as he winks at me.

  “Smythe, Smythe, Smythe. Reading minds without permission is rude.” Especially my mind. Some things in there he never needs to know.

  “It’s not invasive if the thought’s projected into my mind. I was answering your comment.”

  “You say po-tay-toe, I say bullshit. But it’s all good.” I pat his arm. “You heated my coffee.”

  He shakes his head and offers me a grin. “You have an addiction, you know.”

  “Hey, it’s coffee. And it helps cover up the smell of the trash.”

  “Good point.” His nose wrinkles. “Besides the obvious, what do you see?”

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath as I tap into the minion sensors in my eyes. When I first started as a demon huntress, using the phrase 'minion sensors in my eyes' struck me as crazy. As in, I expected little men in white suits to show up at any minute and haul my ass to Blue Shores, my hospital’s psychiatric facility. Now? The phrase is as familiar to me as asking for a beer.

  Guess that means I’m not going crazy after all.

  When I open my eyes, red and red-orange lines streak around the narrow space, clearly coming from the steel doors at the end of the alley. The lines are thickest next to the Dumpster where Jenny’s body was found. Usually a thick red line means the site of the crime, but in this case, it meant the minion hung out by her body for awhile.

  So where did he kill her?

  “The trails come from the doors and are thickest by the Dumpster.”

  “Good. That’s what I see too.” Smythe nods.

  Mages see minion trails like Justitians do. Which begs the question of why they need us. The Agency claims that only the sword of the justitia possesses the ability to kill the essence of a demon. Demon essence imbues minions. In theory, if you kill enough minions with a justitia, the demon becomes weakened. While a mage can kill minions, they can’t destroy the demon’s essence hosted in a minion in such a way as to injure the demon. Hence the need for Justitians.

  Sounds plausible, but something seems off to me. An idea niggles in the back of my brain, telling me another reason exists. Wouldn’t surprise me at all to discover the Agency lies. Enough intrigue and unanswered questions exist in that place to give a thriller author plot lines for the rest of eternity.

  Questions such as Where do justitias come from? and Why are there only thirteen to fight all the demons and minions on the planet? should have a quick response. But the esteemed Agency seems foggy on the answers.

  “Hello, Gin.” Smythe waves his hand in front of my face, snapping me out of m
y thoughts and back to the present.

  Heat slaps my cheeks. “Sorry.”

  “Stay focused. What do you think happened?”

  I narrow my eyes at him. “I am focused.” Just not on the minion trails. One of these days I’m going to get my questions answered by someone other than Zagan. You know you have a problem if the demon of lies and deceit tells the truth more often than your employer. “I see the same thing you do. Minion carried the body in and lingered by it. Pride over his kill?”

  Smythe shrugs. “Maybe. Or taking time to arrange the body. Either way, the minion lingered. Did it walk or drive?”

  I head to the steel doors, following the minion trail. Instead of being locked, the doors are merely closed as if to make things easy for the garbage truck. Or a demon huntress and her guardian.

  I push one door open only to jump back when the motion snaps apart the yellow crime-scene tape. Damn it. Should’ve realized the police had taped off the scene after CSI worked all night to discover clues.

  Smythe peers over my shoulder at the tape damage. “Repairing the damage is outside my scope of magic.”

  “Let me get this straight. You can heat my coffee, but not repair tape?”

  “Magic should not be used for such minor things. The coffee was a necessity, not a minor thing.”

  Nice to know he finally understands my coffee addiction. Not so nice to know he won’t erase evidence we tampered with a crime scene.

  The chances of the police catching us are slim to none. Fuzzing out cameras is an ability of Smythe’s he doesn’t mind using. Speaking of…

  “Do you see a camera?” I point to the stadium. “You don’t suppose we were seen appearing, do you?”

  Smythe’s brow raise subs in for speech. Right. He clearly already thought of it, which makes me seem like a nag.

  “I took care of the camera while you were looking for the minion trail.”

  “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.”

  He makes a noncommittal noise. “Looks like the minion arrived in a car. You see that?” He shoves the steel door wider and steps through, pointing at a spot on the concrete several feet in front of us.