Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  “She’s been known not to come when needed.” His gaze grows distant. But only for a second. A sense I know what he’s thinking pops into my mind only to vanish. “How many were hurt?”

  I blink at his sudden topic change. Since I’ve been known to change a topic on rare occasion—okay, more like whenever I don’t want to discuss deep, aka incriminating, thoughts—I give him a pass, filing the topic for another time. “Last I heard, ten dead, almost everyone else wounded.”

  “Dad?”

  “He’s fine.” While I want nothing more than to broach the problem of David’s lack of injuries with Smythe, now was not the time.

  “Good. I thought he’d be there when I woke.” His gaze drops to his feet, his voice pitched low.

  I pat his arm, using my comforting nurse voice. “Last I saw him, he was close by.”

  “Why weren’t you?” His gaze meets mine.

  “Well…” I draw the word out, trying to find non-accusatory words to describe why I’m in his apartment instead of by his hospital bed. None exist, so I go for the exact truth. “Something happened with your dad, and I talked to Eloise about it, but she didn’t like my line of questioning, so she spelled me into sleep. That was yesterday evening.”

  He blinks, a small wrinkle forming between his brows. “How did you get into my apartment?”

  “Eloise formed a portal in the infirmary, and poof, here we were.”

  He drops my hand to take a step back, eyes narrowing in contradiction. “You can’t portal inside the Agency.”

  “So you say. But you’ve seen her do it before. When she appeared in the infirmary after Agramon knocked us on our asses.”

  He runs a hand down his face. The couch squeaks as he sits. “She’s not supposed to do that.”

  “Clearly she didn’t get the message.”

  “I should’ve followed up with her sooner. I forgot.”

  “Is it that bad? Can your dad and other Agency leaders portal inside the building?”

  “Wards are supposed to block all portals except for the landing room.”

  “Clearly, the wards aren’t as strong as you thought. Or Eloise holds more power than they do.”

  Smythe shoots me a get-real look. “Eloise is a healer. Something’s wrong with the wards. It’s like they aren’t working. The minions shouldn’t have been able to break the windows in the conference room. Hell, their guns shouldn’t have even splintered the glass. Wards coat this building against attacks. At least they’re supposed to.”

  “Maybe it wasn’t warded against bullets. You all normally fight with swords and energy balls, not guns.”

  His lips flatten. “The building is supposed to be warded against everything. Including bullets.”

  “Why don’t you check out the wards? See if they’re working correctly.” Or not working as the case may be.

  “That will take a couple of days. Longer if I try not to attract attention.”

  “You think there’s a mole in the Agency.” I don’t need to read his mind to make that statement. The thought is written in the set of his jaw.

  “Don’t you?” He raises a brow.

  “I’ve always thought there was something fishy in this place.”

  “I never noticed until you pointed it out when we started working together. I don’t want you to be right.”

  “Of course you don’t.” Life would be so much easier if everything was on the up and up around the Agency.

  Smythe sighs as he looks at his feet. “What did you mean when you said something happened with Dad?”

  “It can wait.”

  His gaze snaps to mine. “That bad, huh?”

  Holding his gaze, I debate whether or not to tell him. Who wants to know their father is a slime ball? How do I phrase that in politically correct terms?

  I can’t. Time for the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

  “Your father compulsion-spelled me in front of Chuck. Tried to make me confess how I managed to take out the minion ’copter.”

  “You took out the helicopter?” His eyes flare.

  Heat splashes my cheeks. “Um, yeah, about that. I guess you were out cold by that time.”

  “How’d you do it?”

  Why did I open my mouth? Oh well, better he hear it from me than from someone else. “You went down. I got pissed, ran toward the helicopter, and the next thing I know I’m shooting this red energy at the minions. Knocked one out of the ’copter. The other flew off.”

  “Red energy?”

  I shrug.

  “You mean the same thing you fired at Agramon? Your eyes turned red then.”

  “I guess. It just happened.” After I willfully drew on the power.

  “I see. And how did you get this power? I thought your justitia redirected Agramon’s energy.”

  I don’t want to confess. I don’t want him to think Zagan ensorcelled me. Most of all, I don’t want him to know Zagan gives me power.

  Being entrusted with secrets makes me feel important.

  But I want Smythe to trust me.

  Conflicted much?

  “Gin?”

  Right. Not answering the question is giving an answer.

  I swallow.

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “So I gather. Spill it.”

  I draw in a deep breath, release it as I speak dooming words. “Zagan gave it to me.”

  Smythe explodes from the couch as if a rocket of ire fired under him. “Goddamn it, Gin! What the fuck?”

  He storms toward the kitchen, stops, and turns to me. I shrink into the recliner. But only for an instant. I am not afraid of the big, bad mentor.

  I straighten my shoulders, stare him in the eye. “It’s come in handy. My justitia had some help redirecting Agramon’s energy. You didn’t really think the bracelet managed to do that by itself, did you?”

  He blinks, stopped cold in the face of reason. “Of course that’s what I thought. You promised me you wouldn’t blindly take orders from him again.”

  His words slice strips in my heart. Zagan once convinced me to lie to the Agency, to put on a show that made it seem like I killed him. Smythe saw through the charade. Although he kept his mouth shut, not telling the Agency the truth, his trust in me eroded. I’ve been trying since then to re-establish his belief in me, successfully until now.

  “I’m not taking orders. He gave me this energy but never tells me how to use it. Remember, my justitia thinks of him as a friend, so why wouldn’t he feel the same way about the bracelet? He’s probably just giving me energy to help out the justitia.”

  “That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard. Are you listening to yourself?”

  I cross my arms. “It’s a plausible explanation.”

  “It’s—” He pauses, a wrinkle forming between his brows as he thinks. “Why does Zagan think of your justitia as a friend?”

  “He’s never said.” Neither has the bracelet. While it freely gives me snippets of memories and the occasional strong suggestion, conversations complete with answers are beyond its means. Which doesn’t mean I don’t have a theory.

  Smythe reads my mind. “But you have a theory.”

  “Yeah. I do.” And it’s high time I shared the idea with someone. “The demons created the bracelets. Zagan created my justitia. Not sure why. Not sure how they came to be used against the very demons who created them, but that’s my theory and I’m sticking to it.”

  His lips flatten, eyes narrowing. His mouth opens, closes. I keep my lips pressed together, letting him reason through my theory without additional help. After a couple of moments, he nods.

  “Interesting theory. But if that’s the case, why was that piece of history forgotten? You’d think the Agency would have recorded something that important.”

  “I didn’t say I had all the pieces of the theory worked out. Only the idea.”

  “If you are correct, I bet it’s hiding somewhere in the library. There’re a lot of old books and scrolls in
that place.”

  “Scrolls? You can’t find it on your laptop?”

  “Not all of the library’s information has been digitalized. The Agency has been around for millennia. It takes some time to scan all our documents.”

  I nod. He draws in a breath, his gaze morphing from speculative to focused. And not in a good way. I squirm under the glare of his gaze, caught in a trap of my own design.

  “This redirection won’t help you, Gin. Nice distraction, but the real problem here is you’ve hidden important knowledge. Why have you carried around a demon’s energy without telling me?”

  Can the recliner swallow me whole? Since the chair only squeaks under my squirming, refusing to transport me away, I give up on the plea. No getting out of this one.

  “I know I’m sorry doesn’t cut it, but I thought the energy would be helpful. And it was. You can’t deny it.”

  Smythe rolls his eyes as if channeling a petulant teenager. “No wonder Dad tried to compel you. You told him, didn’t you?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. You’re a better teacher than that.” I sit straighter. “I kept reciting the counterspell, and the only thing he managed to make me do was forget a couple of minutes right at the end. He planted me in a chair by your bed, and he and Chuck disappeared.” Go me. Again. I’m still in awe I managed to thwart David. On the other hand, a couple of minutes was plenty of time to spew secrets.

  But if I told all, I guaran-damn-tee David wouldn’t have left me sitting by his son’s infirmary bed. Which means I rock at blocking counterspells.

  “Huh. I guess you did learn something.”

  “Don’t be so surprised. I’m smarter than you think.”

  “That’s what worries me.” He leans against the counter, arms crossed. “You infuriate me. Lie. Hide the truth—”

  “Hey, now. It came in handy. We’d probably be dead if it wasn’t for me.”

  “If it wasn’t for Zagan, you mean. A demon, Gin. A goddamned demon.”

  “He wants to help my justitia.” The words sound crazy even as I speak them. A demon helps a justitia, its sworn enemy? Maybe the bracelets were originally created by demons for whatever nefarious purpose, but they’ve since been turned against their creators. Why would Zagan want to help?

  “Have you ever asked yourself why?”

  Yeah, just now. “I didn’t think about it.”

  “I know.” His jaw tenses, relaxes. “And that’s what’s so infuriating. You act without thinking.”

  “Not all of the time.”

  “Often enough you do. It drives me nuts, but you’re my partner, so I can’t stay mad at you, either.”

  “And that makes you upset.” I grin, hoping he really isn’t as irate as he says he is.

  He returns my grin, shoulders relaxing as if the anger holding him upright drained away. Yes! Mentally, I pump my fist in a victory dance. He’s not mad at me. He forgives me.

  I need to start telling him everything about Zagan, even the parts I prefer to keep to myself. Losing his trust in me is not an experience I care to repeat.

  “I’m glad you didn’t tell Dad. We need to discover the why of it before we go letting him in on your source of power. There’s something about this whole situation I don’t like, and I plan on getting to the bottom of it.”

  “And I’ll be there to help you.”

  His gaze meets mine, draws me in, cements our pact. A sense of foreboding shivers along my spine. I ignore the possible meaning and stand.

  “Are you ready to take me home?”

  “Sure, but I need to come back to check out the wards. And the library if I have time.”

  “Okay. I have to work tomorrow. Your Agency still hasn’t hired me to do this demon huntress gig.”

  His lips twitch. “Justitian. Not demon huntress.”

  “So you say.” I return his grin. “Ready to take me home?”

  He holds out his hand, his palm an offer of peace after our fight, his grip strong enough to hold us through tough spots. And I want him to hold me, to stay with me, despite the secrets threatening to rip us apart.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Wednesday evening sneaks in early, darkness blanketing the wall of windows on the skywalk, making the hospital courtyard disappear from view. My feet hurt from running around the ER nonstop for twelve hours. Usually I get a break, but not today. Despite the lack of a full moon, the emergency room was packed with a variety of illnesses and accidents, dooming the staff to employ their iron bladders.

  I’ve never been happier to see a toilet in my life.

  An hour past shift end, I finally get to walk the long hallway leading to the parking garage. A set of double doors greets me at the end of the hall. I pull them open, the soft tread of my shoes against concrete lost in the vast space of the garage. The distant sound of a car starting echoes across empty parking spots, letting me know I’m not alone. Fluorescent lights buzz an uneven tune as I head to my car.

  A shadow slips around my car. My heart pauses, resuming with a racing rhythm guaranteed to make a cardiologist reach for pills. Yellow fluorescent light turns the shadow into a man with dark pants and a hoodie, his face hidden in shade.

  My breath catches. But only for a second.

  The silver links of my justitia morph into a two-foot-long sword jutting across the top of my hand. Which, naturally, causes me to drop my keys.

  Minion, whispers the justitia. Kill.

  What a great way to end a tiring day.

  Teeth flash white against tan skin. “Get ready to die, bitch. You ain’t gettin’ away from me tonight.”

  Was this Bad Dye Job from the club or a random minion with a grudge against nurses? I squint, trying to see his face above his upper lip. The voice was different, not to mention the guy from the club failed to set off my justitia.

  Could this be the minion who killed Jenny? Chances are better it’s Random Minion with a grudge.

  “Sorry to ruin your evening.”

  The minion blinks, surprise radiating from his skin. Clearly, he expected me to run away screaming. The dumbass needs to check out the fancy sword jutting across the back of my hand. Maybe then he’d get the drift I’m not one to mess with.

  Unfortunately, no such luck.

  Minion takes a step toward me. I fall back into a fighting stance, flashing him my sword. The movement makes my purse slap against my hip. Damn it. I forgot about the purse.

  Shrugging it off my shoulder takes only a second, as does pitching it to the side. But my gaze follows the purse instead of remaining on the minion. He uses the distraction to get in a punch.

  Or half a punch.

  I step to the side, so his fist grazes my chin instead of connecting with force. Evil thoughts skitter through my mind from his brief touch. Pain slithers across my skin, dull and infuriating. My justitia blocks my pain receptors. Euphoria slams into me as I duck down, ramming my shoulder into the minion’s stomach.

  With a loud “oomph,” the walking evil falls onto his back, limbs moving like an upside down turtle, flapping around and getting nowhere fast. His gray eyes widen, face no longer protected by the hoodie’s shade. A strand of light brown hair falls into his eyes, his tan sliding into paleness as he finally realizes I am his death.

  A breeze laden with the salty scent of the ocean fills my nose as I raise my justitia for the killing blow.

  “Good-bye, su—”

  A heavy weight slams into my side, stopping my “good-bye, sucka” cold.

  Concrete greets me with scrapes and bruises as I slam to the ground. No time to wallow in pain. The justitia takes care of the pain problem. Not to mention, wallowing on my back leads to whatever just hit me having a wide-open shot.

  Demon, demon! My justitia shakes a warning, alerting me to the identity of my newest attacker.

  I roll to my feet, albeit slower than normal. But that’s what happens when the air gets knocked out of your lungs. The guilty party being a tall demon with dark hair and olive skin, wearing a blue polo
with khaki pants. Like a taller, broader Zagan. A prickly sensation flows across my skin. As if I’ve met this demon before. As if I know him.

  The strangest urge smacks me to stand straight, shoulders back, chin up, like a model showing her wares. Which makes abso-fucking-lutely no sense in the middle of a fight.

  Although I made those exact same moves at my first night at Club Monster right after I saw a mysterious man observing me from the balcony. The emotions coursing through me now, the feeling I can conquer all, also occurred at the club. Could the man from the club be this demon?

  I’d ask, but I’d rather concentrate on sending his ass to Hell where it belongs.

  The creature stands in front of the slowly-rising-to-his-feet minion, palms facing me. Like it’s protecting the poor little minion from the big bad Justitian.

  Damn straight. This Justitian can whoop its ass.

  “Do not steal what is mine, Justitian.” The demon reaches behind, yanking the minion forward. As if there’s a doubt who he means. He gives the minion’s arm a little shake. “His deeds give me sustenance. You shall not take that away.”

  I take a step to the side, trying to circle around to get to the sustenance-giving minion. Kill the food source, kill the demon. But the demon moves with me, a proud grin parting his lips.

  “You think you are better than me. You aren’t. I am the best. And I will beat you.” He flicks his fingers my direction.

  A blast of energy slams me airborne, limbs pinwheeling in my best flying-ragdoll fashion. I land hard against the side of my car, breath once again knocked out of my lungs by the same guilty party as before. Which proves routine really can be painful. The minion laughs a spine-scraping sound, full of pleasure about my pain.

  My justitia vibrates, happy attack tremors running along my arm, giving me confidence I can kill this thing.

  The demon waves at the bright-eyed, maniacally grinning minion to stay put while he takes a step toward me. I take a step toward him, raising my sword to strike. A small finger flick is the only signal he forms a portal. I blink at the same time a pop sounds in front of me.

  Before I can move, I’m slammed against the car by his hand at my throat. His other hand grabs my right wrist, trapping my justitia against the car. Pain slashes through my mind, his evil thoughts a swirl of horror. My justitia blocks the connection before my brain hemorrhages. Immune from his touch, I grab his hand with my left one and bring up my knee. Right before I make contact with his package of hellfire, he disappears.