Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Maybe.”

  “But why? Why would you steal a justitia? Only one of its bloodline can wear it.”

  I shrug. “Who knows?”

  “Did he know he was a mage?”

  “Not until we told him.”

  “Was he downstairs during the attack?”

  “No.” Unless she asks, I’m not volunteering that Will refuses to learn mage skills. Something in the set of her jaw and the calculating expression in her dark eyes tell me she won’t respect his decision.

  “Most interesting. Legend has it your justitia was locked in a secure vault.”

  “That’s what I’ve been told.” A secure magical vault impossible to break into. Or so they thought. Turns out it wasn’t so impossible after all.

  “It should not have disappeared. Or turned up as it did. A mystery for both the disappearance and the reappearance.” Her eyes narrow as she drums the fingers of one hand against her leg.

  “What do you think happened?” I’ve already told her my suspicions, which echo Smythe’s. Time for hers. Maybe she can think of something we overlooked.

  “Clearly it was, how do you say? An inside job?”

  I nod.

  “Magical security in those vaults. All the buildings have them.”

  “All the buildings?” My mind continues to reel with the knowledge the Agency possesses buildings throughout the world. A fact which should have been told my first week of employment.

  Yet another important detail the Agency forgot.

  She huffs. “Yes. All.”

  “How many is that?”

  “Five.”

  Five. Five Agency buildings in the world. Five large buildings a new employee should have been told about. What the hell is wrong with these people? How can an employer overlook important points like its size when on-boarding a new hire?

  Granted, being informed I was the world’s newest demon huntress wasn’t exactly the same as being hired for a job, but still. An employee handbook sure would have been useful.

  George waves a hand. “As I was saying. Magical security means little risk of items in the vaults being stolen. Very safe. Your justitia should be in the vault, not in some doctor’s possession.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “As I said, inside job. Someone wanted it. Gave it to the doctor’s parents. Or maybe they stole it. Why, though?” She taps her pursed lips with one slender finger.

  “That’s the question we can’t figure out. Perhaps the thieves believed it wasn’t safe in the vault.”

  “Nonsense. You can’t get safer than a magical security vault.”

  “The black market?”

  “For justitias?” She laughs. “Only the bloodlines can wear them. There is no black market.”

  “I suppose not.” A thought pops into my head, dark and scary. One I prefer to keep to myself: the thieves stole my justitia to keep it from falling into the wrong hands. The wrong hands in this case being demonic. Zagan told me enough to make me realize the bracelets were forged deep in the bowels of Hell.

  By demons.

  Perhaps those same demons want their bracelets back.

  Have I told my suspicions to Smythe? I can’t remember. My guess would be not likely. Some things Zagan tells me, or in this case hints at, are best kept between the two of us. Although I try to tell Smythe most of what Zagan tells me to help build the trust between mentor and mentee.

  I can’t help keeping our secrets. My justitia considers the demon a friend, and friends don’t roll on each other.

  “You look thoughtful.” George interrupts my musings.

  “Sorry. Just trying to come up with another reason. You’ve gone through the same reasoning my guardian and me have.”

  “Where is your guardian?”

  “In a bed undergoing healing. We’re not to disturb him for a day. What about yours?”

  “Same. He was injured saving me.” Her gaze drops to her lap, lips whitening with her memories.

  I touch her jean-clad leg. “I’m sorry. What did the healers say?”

  “I’m healed. We should have brought our own instead of relying on yours.”

  “What’s wrong with ours?”

  She raises a brow. “American healers aren’t as good.” Smugness tinges her tone, bristling my nerves.

  “I have no problems with them.”

  “You are new.” She shakes her head, dark eyes glittering with an unknown emotion. Pity? Disgust? Either way, my proverbial hackles rise.

  “Eloise is the best. She heals me all the time.” Self-righteous bitch. How dare she stomp on—what seems like—my personal healer.

  Curiosity slides across George’s face. “Who is she?”

  “The white-haired, pale-skinned blind woman who told me to come see you?”

  Her nose wrinkles. “I have not seen this woman. That would be hard to miss.”

  “She opened the curtain”—I point at the curtain surrounding the bed—“and called to me to see you. When your healer was in here?”

  George shakes her head. “The only healer here was the one you saw when you opened the curtain and said hello. That healer was not your Eloise.”

  Okay. Now I’m a little freaked out. Eloise clearly called me over here. She disappeared right after, which wasn’t too unusual. But for her to never have been here?

  What. The. Hell?

  “I saw her.” My voice holds tones of a too-tired toddler on the verge of a breakdown.

  “And I say she was not here. I would know if one of her type came in here.”

  “Her type?”

  She waves a hand. “You are upset. Go. Find your healer. I will be here if you want to return.”

  I clamp my lips together before saying what I’m sure to regret. Instead I nod and slip out the curtain. I stand by the curtain breathing in deep, trying to calm the wave of anger crashing through me. How dare George say those things about Eloise?

  Breathe in and release.

  Okay, Gin, if you were in her country wouldn’t you rather Eloise work on you than one of George’s healers? Wouldn’t you defend her skills?

  Definitely. Wasn’t I already? Yep, yep. So how can I blame George for doing the same thing?

  Logic might not chase away the anger, but at least it manages to lessen the irritation.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The infirmary bustles, the elevator receiving a workout. Almost all the beds are full, healers rushing from one curtained area to the next, checking on victims. Eloise is nowhere to be seen.

  Which might mean nothing except she is treating a patient.

  Or it could mean…what, I don’t know. Did I imagine her by George’s bed? How could she have been there and not be seen by George?

  Or was George lying? I scratch that thought as soon as I think it. What reason would she have to lie?

  “Excuse me!”

  I step to the side to avoid being hit by a fast moving stretcher carrying an unconscious mage. Standing in the middle of a bustling infirmary might not be the best place for a thought-fest.

  Fast-stepping to where Smythe lies, I inch back the curtain to take a quick peek inside. He continues to sleep, but the best part is David no longer sits by his son’s side.

  Gin?

  Hurt mixed with sadness laces T’s tone as his voice echoes in my head. What happened to my twin? I slip into Smythe’s alcove, pulling the curtain shut for privacy.

  T? What’s wrong?

  Jackie left.

  That bitch. How dare she upset my twin? I’ve always thought T could do better than the Double D Wonder, but never imagined she’d dump his ass first. His loss envelopes me, a damp cloak of grief.

  What happened?

  She fell in love with Donny Football.

  Come again? The idea of Donny giving Jackie more than an autograph and handshake baffles me into a fit of inappropriate chuckling. I clasp a hand over my mouth, as if that will keep the laughter out of my telepathy.

  She fell in lov
e with Donny Football.

  Yeah, that’s what I thought you said, but I’m having trouble understanding why she’d leave you for him.

  Ditto. A visual of him pacing in my kitchen, beer bottles lined up like soldiers on the counter, appears in my mind. Which I assume means he’s drank all my beer.

  Brothers.

  What a bitch. I’m so sorry. Why would she think he’d return the attention?

  No clue. But get this. She left to go stalk his house. She thinks he’ll let her in and fuck her.

  More walls, more walls. I will not laugh. I will not laugh. I don’t want to upset T, but gaw-damn. The complete absurdity of Jackie and Donny…

  A giggle leaves my lips before I can stop it. Geez. I can’t help it though.

  I’m sorry, T.

  She left me for him.

  Pain lances my right hand as T slams his palm against the counter. Poor T. I need to stop chuckling at Jackie’s attempted affair and focus on giving my twin emotional support. I rub my palm on my leg, dissipating the pain, while I talk.

  She’s a ditz. You know she doesn’t think things through. She’ll be back when nothing happens.

  She betrayed me. I don’t want her after this.

  Cha-ching! Another thought I wall off quick.

  I’m sorry.

  No, you’re not. But that’s okay. I’m beginning to see why you didn’t like her.

  I try for an encouraging edge to my voice, hoping it doesn’t come across like I’m dancing a happy jig. Which I’m not. Dancing might disturb Smythe.

  You can do better. Double D’s only get you so far.

  That’s not the only thing I liked about her.

  Better you know now than learn later she’s cheating.

  He pauses, his whirling thoughts blowing through my mind like water vapor, dissipating without becoming tangible. Maybe I should go after her, you know? The cops might arrest her for stalking.

  That’s her decision, not yours. No, no, no. Don’t go get Jackie. Please.

  I don’t want her to get hurt.

  I know you don’t, but I really don’t want you to get caught for stalking her either. She left, no matter how stupid she is, she left. Don’t go chasing after her. That makes you look desperate.

  He pauses. She’s not stupid, but yeah, you’re right. I’m just…I thought we had something.

  The tone of his voice pulls on my heart. My poor twin. Jackie was a ditz, and T could do better, although convincing him of that truth never worked. Love strikes in odd places. I should know.

  I’m at the house. When will you be home?

  Not until tomorrow. I’m at the Agency, and there was a minion attack.

  Holy shit, Gin. Anger coupled with terror banishes his sorrow. Are you okay?

  Yeah, but Smythe’s not. Eloise healed him, but he’s going to be unconscious for the next day.

  I told you that fucking job would get you in trouble. You’re lucky you weren’t hurt. It’s getting in the way of your life.

  And in one millisecond I go from sympathetic to pissed off. Convincing him I enjoy my new gig, I like my justitia, I love Smythe’s company, proves useless. I’m good at killing minions. I’ve taken down two demons, which puts me on par with several more experienced Justitians. Why can T not see how good I am in my new gig and how much I enjoy it?

  My life? What life do I have outside of my job and Blake and he’s dead?

  Me! You aren’t here for me!

  I close my eyes and draw in a deep breath, anger dissipating as his fear over my possible loss lands like a punch to the stomach. Pain radiates from my heart to my limbs. My twin hurts. Therefore, I hurt.

  I can’t stand it when he hurts. Physical. Emotional. Both tear like a whip flaying against my soul.

  T, I’m so sorry. I wish I could be there.

  I know. I just…god, you were right, you know. I can do better, I just…yeah.

  It’s okay. You’ll be okay.

  He pauses. You said Eloise was there?

  While I’m not at all surprised he asked, the idea of them together amuses me. Why?

  Just making conversation.

  Right. Subtle is not T’s middle name. She was here. Not sure where she is now.

  Tell her I said hi.

  Sure. Because my new title is Matchmaker Gin. Time to hop back on the original topic. Are you going to be okay?

  I’m always okay. His fake grin touches my lips like a ghost.

  Seriously. Are you?

  I’m upset, not crazed, Gin.

  Good. Don’t be. Crazed, that is.

  Yeah, yeah. I’ll let you get back to whatever it is you’re doing.

  Staring at Smythe? Thanks. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’ll be okay.

  Yeah. I know. I just can’t believe it ended this way.

  You’ll get through it.

  I know. Thanks, Gin. See you tomorrow.

  Love you.

  Love you too.

  He withdraws from my mind, leaving me tossed between happiness and despair. The blonde bimbo is gone, gone, gone. Happy dance time. However, my twin is depressed and scared over possibly losing me, which makes me sad. And the Agency was attacked, people were hurt, some were killed, and Smythe was injured.

  Nope, definitely not feeling the happy-happy joy-joy.

  Even if Jackie is out of my life.

  Smythe’s even breathing catches my ear, snapping me out of my thoughts. Thank God he lives. I wish I could touch him, but that would mess up the healing.

  He’s going nowhere, which means, I’m going nowhere. At least not out of the building. I should circle around to my original plan, helping triage in the conference room. Then I can find Eloise and quiz her about the disappearing act she performed by George’s bed.

  Help first. Twenty questions later.

  Ready. Set. Go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  An hour later I’m back in the infirmary, the critically injured sent to beds or surgery, the dead covered in white sheets. Anger flows through my veins. Anger at the minions for their attack. Anger over my own sense of impotence. One mage died in my arms despite a healer’s efforts.

  Look on the bright side, Gin—most lived.

  For once the bright side fails to impress.

  If only I’d moved faster, stopped the minions sooner, the deaths and injuries would be less. At least the minion I blasted off the helicopter was caught. Not much left of him to question after an eighteen-story fall even if the demon essence animating him provided protection. Not much will be left of him either after the mages finish questioning him.

  I swallow. Torture doesn’t sit well with me. Despite its focus on a minion. Not that I feel sorry for the minion. Nope. The former human gets what it deserves. But it takes a certain type of person to purposefully inflict pain upon another, and I’m not that type of person.

  I hope.

  Taking a deep breath, I release my pent-up emotions on a heavy sigh. Now that I’m back in the infirmary, it’s time to check on Smythe. I know he won’t be awake, but I need to see for myself. To ensure he’s still alive. I walk to where he lies and pull back the curtain surrounding his bed.

  Blue light encases him in a peaceful glow. Dark lashes lay against cheeks beginning to regain color. An almost overpowering urge to touch him, to tell him without words what he means to me, strikes. My hands reach toward his leg before I stop.

  What am I thinking? Eloise gave me a direct order not to touch him lest I screw up his healing session.

  Speaking of Eloise. I need to ask her why George didn’t see her when she stood right in front of my fellow Justitian. Cross that mystery off my list.

  I turn, only to run into David, who apparently possesses ninja sneaking skills. He grabs my upper arms, not an ounce of his skin touching mine, as he stares into my eyes.

  “Come with me.”

  “Okay.” Did I really agree so easily? What is wrong with me?

  The thought crosses my mind to disobey, to stay by Smythe’s side, to
tell David nope-not-going, but as soon as the thought appears, it fades. I want to follow him. I want to do whatever he says.

  I want to grow a spine and break his compulsion spell.

  Instead, like a brainless idiot, I follow him out of Smythe’s alcove to the bed next to my mentor’s. David opens the curtain and gives me a little push into the curtained room, right into Chuck, who sits on the edge of the bed. Not a good way to meet the Big Boss. The head of the Agency grabs me before I fall, hands careful to touch only my clothed arms.

  My justitia squeaks, for my ears only, a mixture of surprise and anxiety zipping through my nervous system. Silver links shift, as if to form a sword, but the transformation fails to complete. Thank goodness for that little blessing in this SNAFU situation. Why does it react this way to the Big Boss? What is it thinking? And why is Chuck here? Why am I? What nefarious plan is David hatching?

  Why. Can’t. I. Leave?

  I try, God knows, I try. Although I can stand, shift from foot to foot, and scratch my nose, I can’t leave. And man, I want to get the hell out of this partitioned area faster than Jackie dropped T for Donny Football.

  “Have a seat, Gin.”

  I do as David says, sitting on the edge of the bed next to Chuck. Damn it. David uses the same compulsion spell Smythe uses, one of complete obedience. One I’ve not consistently learned to break. Smythe taught me the counterspell and insisted upon practice sessions, but did I learn?

  Clearly not.

  Time to dust off those lessons before I tell David what he wants to know: Zagan filled me with his power.

  The words to the counterspell appear in my mind, tangled and underused. My justitia feeds me the spell one tongue-tangling word after another, until the counterspell flows like water through the canyon of my mind.

  I can do this. Pretend I’m under the spell while spewing false information. I can do this. I can.

  “Tell us how you got that red energy you used today.”

  I want to tell David, to confess how Zagan feeds me power to defeat other demons. I want to. I know I shouldn’t. I open my mouth.

  “I don’t know.”

  Pain slams into my chest, stealing my breath, racing my heart. It takes all my willpower not to gasp, not to blurt out my secret to stop the invisible torture. Within a second, my justitia shuts down my pain receptors, eliminating the breath-stealing chest ache. Even better, I remain passive, expression closed to the turmoil inside. I will never again complain about an entity living along my nerves. Justitias rock.