Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  Smythe’s eyes widen, and several people around us turn.

  I point the sword to the floor, trying to hide it against the inside of my calves. Talk about embarrassing. Anytime the thing wanted to return to its bracelet state would be nice.

  Unfortunately, nothing happened.

  Except for Smythe getting his surprise on.

  “What the fuck, Gin?”

  “No clue. It malfunctioned.”

  “Justitias don’t malfunction.”

  I give the thing a shake, proving him wrong. Still a sword. With no demon or minion.

  Un-fucking-believable.

  “Do you see a demon or minion in here?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” He shakes his head. “This is the Agency. It’s warded against demonic intrusions.”

  “As I said, it malfunctioned.”

  Or did it?

  “Thank you for coming today.” David’s voice booms across the room courtesy of the sound system.

  The one good thing about his interruption? Most of the people staring at my wrist turn their gazes to the front of the room. Not that it helps my malfunctioning justitia, who continues to emit puzzled emotions through its path along my nervous system. Nor the coffee stain spreading on the no-longer pristine white carpet.

  Smythe points a finger at the stain and mutters a word. I can feel the flash of energy as the spell erases the stain. Seeing how the noise level in the room dropped to nonexistent, I use telepathy to talk to my mentor.

  Thought you weren’t supposed to use a spell for something so trivial.

  If it gets them to stop looking at us, then it’s worth the energy.

  I continue to face forward, like I’m paying attention to whatever it is David says. What the hell is wrong with my justitia?

  No fucking clue. Try telling it to retract.

  Closing my eyes, I locate the purple entity of the justitia lying along my nerves and ask it to stand down.

  Demon? Despite not having a voice, its bewilderment comes across as if it shouted.

  We’re at the agency. No demon. You can retract.

  Demon?

  No freakin’ demon. Retract!

  If it had been a teenager, the damn thing would’ve rolled its eyes and spat out a “fine.” With a pop the juvenile equivalent of shooting the bird, the sword retracts into the bracelet, the silver links rattling as if I missed the message it wasn’t happy.

  I remove my arm from between my knees and straighten as if nothing happened. The people around us have stopped looking at me and are focused on David like he’s passing out winning lottery tickets to one lucky soul.

  Good job. Smythe pats my knee, never removing his gaze from the front of the room.

  Yeah. But we still need to figure out why it did that in the first place.

  After the meeting. Look sharp and pay attention.

  Yes, oh mentor.

  He shakes his head while removing his hand from my knee. I should be paying attention, but the room’s congregants provide a shiny distraction. Which ones are my fellow Justitians? Which are mages? Why does my justitia think one of them is a demon?

  What’s going on in the Agency to give my justitia the demon-spotting jollies? I’m no longer convinced it’s the staticky white noise puzzling the thing. Is it possible a demon could get into the building?

  Were there even doors opening from the sidewalk?

  I’d never been outside the building, but what were the chances of no outside doors? Wouldn’t that be a fire-code violation?

  “…Gin Crawford.”

  My name leaving David’s lips snaps my thoughts out of their questioning loop. What the hell did he just say?

  Pay attention! Smythe’s voice explodes in my mind. He commended you for killing two demons.

  Thank you. For saving my ass yet again.

  I give a little finger wave and a shrug. Which are good enough for David and everyone else staring at me. Gazes heavy with curiosity and suspicion return to the front, leaving my cheeks warm.

  Head out of your ass, Gin. Pay attention.

  “The other Justitians are killing more minions than ever. Crime has increased worldwide. Terrorism. Murders. Kidnappings. Rapes. There are too many of them and not enough of us. We need a game plan. A way to send them back to Hell where they belong.”

  Whistles and claps sound in response to his good-guy anthem call. I’m beginning to feel like a super-human from one of those comic-book-based action movies. Go Team Agency!

  David nods at the audience before bringing his hands up in the well-known meeting gesture of settle down. “Chuck Tweedy has some ideas on accomplishing this goal.”

  He steps back and the brown-haired, muscle-bound man steps forward. Cue the clapping. Even I get in on the palm-slapping action, mainly to look like I fit in.

  Who the hell is that?

  Smythe raises a brow. The leader of the Agency.

  I thought that was your dad. Wasn’t the leader of the guardian mages the leader of the Agency?

  No, Dad is the leader of the guardian mages, which makes Chuck his boss.

  So your dad is second in command?

  Something like that. Try to pay attention this time.

  As you wish. I wink at him. Pat his knee. Wish I could run my hand up his leg…

  Gah. I really need to stop thinking of Smythe in that way.

  Which is about as hard as bringing a DOA back to life.

  Chuck air pats his hands, asking for quiet. The low rumble of his voice fills the room. “Thank you for coming. I know you are all busy. First and foremost, we need to get a handle on these attacks. We need to discover why they are occurring and put a stop to them.”

  I tune him out as he drones on and on, reiterating David’s good-guys anthem speech. Yes, yes, yes, there’s a lot of shit going on in this world and not all of it is human-based. What else is new?

  Cynical much?

  “…offense instead of defense. We need to find their lairs and attack them there. Samantha here”—he points to her, as if we can miss her—“led a team against Zagan. They went to that demon’s lair and annihilated his ass. We need to do more of that. We need to share more intel. Work together instead of separately. Any suggestions for doing so?”

  Hands shot up. Impatient people shouted. And the room turned into a high-energy buzz of excitement.

  I lean over to Smythe, pitch my voice low. “Seriously? Does he really expect us to come up with that answer?”

  “Why not? Maybe someone has a better answer than him. We aren’t a dictatorship.”

  “I don’t want to work with anyone else on a daily basis. Working with you is good enough for me. Why add another?”

  “That might not be what’s decided.”

  “I guess teaming up with others on occasion is okay. It’s just doing it all the time that bothers me.”

  He smiles. Instead of the knee pat, he grabs my hand, lacing our fingers together and giving a squeeze. Then he sets our joined hands on his thigh. My heart trips a fast beat. My breath hitches in my throat. The noise of the room fades away until the only sound left is his heartbeat and mine, a fast dance of attraction.

  In the middle of a meeting. With a roomful of people.

  Not our smartest move.

  I look at him, at his profile, while he faces forward. He squeezes my hand again, his grip loosening, when I see a flash behind him, out the wall of windows. A helicopter flying over the Boston bay draws closer, and I lean forward to watch. Tightening my fingers on Smythe’s, I give our hands a little shake.

  “Look at how close that helicopter is flying to the building.”

  Smythe turns as the thing flies parallel to the wall of windows, hovering above the ground. Chuck stops speaking, which means heads start turning to the helicopter.

  And then all hell breaks loose.

  Chapter Eleven

  A door on the side of the helicopter opens, allowing the muzzle of some huge-ass machine gun to stick out. Before I can ask if
the wards are set to stop gunfire, the gun explodes with a steady stream of bullets. Glass shatters. People scream. Smythe yanks me to the ground, falling on top of me as if his body wards off bullets.

  My justitia tightens, releasing on a sharp sting as it changes into a sword. Too bad I’m lying on it.

  Screams, shouts, and spells mix with the loud thuds of bullets smacking into walls, ripping through flesh. The thick coppery scent of blood fills my nostrils. I swallow, trying not to gag.

  Bloody bodies lying on exam tables in the ER don’t bother me. Active crime scenes? The stench of fear mingled with the acrid scent of blood turns my stomach into a nausea-inducing machine every time.

  Silence descends, punctuated by the click-click-click of a jammed gun and the moans of the injured and dying.

  Smythe jumps to his feet, along with other mages, hands held toward the helicopter as they shout spells. Energy builds in a line, an invisible wall replacing the shattered windows. Just in time for the gun to un-jam and the shooter to start firing.

  Bullets smack into the mages’ invisi-wall and bounce off. Score!

  Right when I push to my knees, a bullet smashes through the magical wall, takes out one of the mages. Shit! I yank on Smythe’s arm, get nowhere, and ram my body into his legs. He stumbles, rights himself against a chair. More bullets crash through the barrier, despite the mages sending extra energy into the thing. Pop! A flash of light in the invisi-wall indicates a bullet breeching the barrier.

  Smythe shakes a leg, trying to dislodge me, but I have a brother and know how to tackle. He falls against the chair, a combo of shock and anger racing across his face. I grab his arm to yank him down beside me and get nowhere.

  His mouth opens, but before he can yell at me a series of pop, pop, pops coat the room in terror. The barrier keeping us safe from the gunfire flickers under a barrage of bullets. And then it and the remains of the windows explode into the room, glass flying as sharp projectiles, the blast knocking us backward like ships tossed in a hurricane. I bounce off the back of a chair and land in a heap by Smythe. My ears ring loud enough to turn the constant bang-bang-bang into a dull background noise. Everything hurts, but a quick body systems check proves no serious injuries.

  Blood drips down my arm as I roll onto my stomach, small cuts from the glass turning my arm into a macabre splatter painting. It hurts. I ignore it as I inch toward Smythe. Tiny slices streak his face, but that injury isn’t what catches my eye. A large glass shard pierces his chest. Dark red blood blossoms from the wound. Gunfire erupts over our heads as I use my free hand to explore the extent of his injury.

  Not good. Without help, he could bleed out.

  My gaze snaps to his pale face. Keeping one hand over his wound, I give his shoulder a shake with the other, but his lids remain closed.

  “Smythe?” No response. “Aidan?” Still nothing.

  A shot of panic ricochets through my body. Why won’t he wake? Excessive blood loss? Which did not bode well for him. I touch his bare arm and a well of silent darkness pulls me into its depths, his normal thoughts absent.

  How bad was he hurt?

  “You better not die on me, you hear?”

  Still no response. I withdraw my shaky, blood-coated hand.

  His blood on my fingers draws memories of a dead Blake from their hiding place, a wellspring of emotion bubbling through my veins. Dark red fills my vision, drives my anger. A rushing noise fills my ears, blocks all remaining sound in the room.

  Those minions are going down.

  And I’m the one to kill them.

  Without thinking, I rush the shattered windows as if I’m one of those super-human action heroes on the big screen. Thrusting the sword before me, blade facing the attackers, I run forward, my yell heard over the pop-pop-pop of the gun. Which, of course, trains on me as if spotting an easy target. Yanking on the red energy Zagan filled me with after my fight with the fear demon Agramon, I throw it around me like a bulletproof coat until I glow with unholy power.

  When I get to the former wall of windows I stop. I might be charged with some extra enhancements, but I’m pretty sure flight isn’t one of them. Gathering the red energy into my palm and along the justitia, I shout at the minions in the helicopter.

  “Go away!” Real original, but it’s the first thing that enters my mind.

  Naturally they crack smiles. Then I let loose with the ball of energy while pointing my sword at the gun. My energy ball strikes true, smacking the minion manning the gun in the chest. The minion flies backward out the opposite door of the helicopter, falling to the ground. The gun explodes into pieces.

  The pilot’s eyes widen. I reach inside for another round of energy, but he yanks the craft up. The steady thump-thump-thump of the rotors fades as he flies off.

  I collapse. Apparently throwing Zagan’s red energy drains me of mine.

  “What the fuck did you just do?” David’s voice penetrates my ringing ears.

  Oh shit. Turning into the equivalent of a human glow stick was probably not the best move for keeping secret the source of all that red power.

  “Killed a minion?” I shove to my feet. Always best to face the devil head on.

  Not that I stop to chat. Stumbling into a run, I head to Smythe, David following in my wake. When I get to Smythe, his eyes are closed, dark lashes contrasted with his pale cheeks. David gasps, shoves me out of the way, and kneels by his son.

  I give my wrist a shake and command the justitia to turn back to a bracelet. With a shiver of the silver links, the thing obeys me. I kick a chair out of my way and kneel beside Smythe. Taking his wrist in my hand, I check his pulse. Thready and weak with skipping beats, a definite symptom of blood loss.

  At least he’s alive. For now.

  “Don’t just sit there. Do something!” For once David’s gruffness doesn’t bother me. His wide eyes and trembling hands speak louder than his words as to his shock and horror.

  Emotions we share.

  Before I can move, shouts herald the arrival of the healers.

  “Who needs help?”

  “Who’s hurt?”

  “Who’s injured?”

  David stands. “Get your asses over here now! What the fuck took you so long?”

  One healer jogs over, medical bag strapped across her chest. Brave woman to run straight for a scared and angry father.

  She doesn’t ask questions, just kneels beside Smythe, unzips her bag and pulls out a wad of gauze.

  “Hold this.” She directs, passing me the gauze.

  I press the gauze around the shard, doing my best to ignore David who hovers over her shoulder as if to critique her work. In my ER, we would have run an IV with fluids, typed and crossed him for a blood transfusion, and called the attending doctor to determine if the wound could be fixed in the ER or if he had to be transferred to the OR. Instead, the healer holds her hands several inches above his wound and mutters words that sound suspiciously like Latin.

  A blue glow surrounds her palms as she places them on either side of the shard.

  “I can move if you need the space.”

  She shakes her head, continuing whatever spell she speaks. Smythe draws in a deep breath, which I take as a good sign. After a couple of tense moments, she stops muttering her spell.

  “Pull the shard out slowly.”

  I grab the piece of glass and tug gently. She resumes her spell, continuing when the glass pulls free. I drop the bloody thing on the floor, then grip Smythe’s hand. By this time David has inched around the healer to kneel at Smythe’s head, his hands stroking his son’s hair as if he’s a small child.

  “The bleeding’s stopped.” The healer fists her hands, the glowing blue light dying. She rocks back on her heels to stand.

  “Where are you going?” David snaps his gaze to the healer. “He’s not awake.”

  “There are other injured. I’ve done all I can for him. You’ll need to either wait for an available stretcher or carry him to the infirmary.”

 
David blinks, color rising in his cheeks like an impending storm. The healer holds his gaze for a two-count, then backs away, clearly wanting out of the path of the coming yell-fest.

  “I’ve stopped his bleeding. Take him to the infirmary.” And with those words, she hurries to the next victim.

  Fists clenched, David watches her go, his glare strong enough to burst a person into flames. Good thing I’m not in the way of it.

  Before he can incinerate the poor healer, I touch his hand, meaning to distract him, then offer calming words. Instead, I’m sucked into his emotions, into memories running through his mind. Red overlaid with orange tangle against a black backdrop. A woman lies in a hospital bed, hooked up to a ventilator, her pulse a steady beep-beep-beep on the machine monitoring her vitals.

  David yanks his hand away, the image vanishing. Who was she? Not that I’m going to ask. He looks pissed enough to fry me where I sit.

  Back to the original goal of calming words.

  “His bleeding has stopped. That’s good.” That burn-me-up glare lessens as I talk. Thank God. “Let’s pick him up and take him to the infirmary. Okay?”

  A swallow followed by a nod, and David takes Smythe into his arms, heading for the door. I never would have pegged David as being strong enough to carry the six-foot-five giant otherwise known as my mentor, but he doesn’t even grunt or strain.

  Maybe he cast a strength spell. If there is such a thing.

  We pass healers working on the injured. I should help, should put my kickass ER nursing skills to good use, but Smythe takes priority. What would I do without him?

  Healers and injured line the hallway, interspersed among debris. The once-elaborate hall lies in shambles, crystal chandeliers shattered, the pristine carpet smothered with blood. David hooks a left out the door, passing by the carnage on his way to what I hope is a shortcut to the infirmary. The only way I know of to get there is from the landing room.

  The man might be gruff, get on my last nerve, and be the poster child for an asshole, but he loves his son. Which means there has to be an infirmary shortcut up ahead.

  And sure enough, a cluster of healers dashes toward us pushing stretchers.

  David snags a stretcher and places Smythe on it with care, ignoring the wide-eyed expression of the healer shoving it. Clearly, the thing was meant for someone else. Not that the healer objects. For once I want to high-five David.