Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Gin!” T bellows from the hallway, blocked by the frantic motions of the ER staff working on Will.

  I’m okay.

  T and I can talk telepathically. Maybe all twins do this, I never bothered to ask one.

  What the fuck did you think you were doing?

  Going to work?

  Don’t be a smart ass with me. I saw you in a pool of blood up here at the hospital and dropped everything to get to you. You think I like seeing shit like that?

  I look out the doorway, straight at my twin. He stands in the hall, fists balled at his side, a muscle twitching along his jaw. It takes a lot for T to come to a hospital.

  The dead walk at hospitals.

  Or so he says.

  I wouldn’t know, having never met a ghost, but T says they’re here and I believe him.

  I’m sorry. It’s not my fault Will got shot, but it seems like the thing to say in the face of my jaw-twitching, fingers-clenching twin.

  T sucks in a deep breath and shakes as if throwing off his anger. Which is good. Anger and T—

  I’m thrown from my thought by a touch on my arm. A touch with a glove, thank god. No emotions.

  “Are you okay?” Laura, another nurse, peers at me from where she squats in Will’s blood.

  By okay, does she mean, am I physically hurt? Because emotionally I bounce around, unable to focus. My friend has been shot. He might not survive. Will I ever be okay? But as she expects an answer, I decide she means physical and answer accordingly. “Yeah. No. I mean—” I gesture to where the doctors are trying to stabilize Will “—I lost it seeing him like that.”

  She does the little rub on the arm thing people do to show support. It feels nice. “I know. I can’t believe it. Did you see the guy who did it?”

  I shiver and close my eyes. When I open them, T stands in front of me, staring down, his brown eyes full of concern. Laura glares at him.

  “How did you get in here?”

  “It’s okay,” I say.

  “It’s not okay. He’s not supposed to be in here. How did he get past Sally Ann?”

  He has this thing with locks. “He’s my brother.”

  “I’m taking her home.” T reaches for me, but before he makes contact, the huddle of doctors around Will moves.

  “Out of the way! We need to get him to the OR!” They shove the gurney across the room, and T hops back to avoid being hit. The wheels streak lines of blood through the doorway and down the hall, crimson reminders of death. We watch them run down the hall to the elevators, a huddle of shocked faces, exploding into excitement.

  “Let’s take you to a room.” Laura rises, pulling on my hand. “I think you’re in shock.”

  Yeah, ya think? But the shock she thinks I’m in is not the only shock I’m experiencing. Not only am I dealing with the emotional trauma of seeing my friend shot and lying in a pool of his blood, but a million questions about the shooter rush through my mind. Who was that evil man? Why did he want Will’s bracelet? Really, what was so important about a bracelet? Couldn’t he have just broken into Will’s house and stolen the thing instead of shooting Will?

  I rise to my feet, my head swimming, and put a hand out to T for support. He grabs my palm and squeezes, and instantly I feel better. Laura grabs my other arm and together we walk down the hall toward an empty room.

  Something rattles in my pocket, hitting against my work cell phone, a metallic clink. Odd, nothing but the phone should be in my pocket. I shake loose of Laura’s grip and stick my hand in my scrubs.

  One phone. One...I pull the object out and stare. Gulping in a deep breath does nothing to calm my speeding heart. My stomach makes a pit and shoves my body into the gaping maw.

  “What’s that?” Laura and T ask simultaneously.

  Silver links shift, catching the light. Something’s carved into the metal, words, runes, a recipe for disaster, who the hell knows. I’m too busy staring at the thing as if it’s going to bite me. Which, judging from what happened here today, it very well might.

  How the hell did it get into my pocket?

  Will’s special bracelet lies in my palm, the links glowing under the florescent lights and the cold bite of metal against my skin makes me...happy.

  Chapter 2

  But not nearly as happy as what I sense from the bracelet. Since when do bracelets have emotions?

  The thought prickles my scalp. I try to shake it off, to no avail.

  “It’s a bracelet.”

  “Duh. Did you hit your head?” T gives my hand a squeeze, a little joke, and yet not.

  “No. I just sat in blood. Which is all over my pants. I need to change. Would you please get me a spare pair of bottoms?” I turn to Laura, trying to forget it’s Will’s blood soaking my skin.

  “Sure. You feeling better?”

  “Right as rain.” I’m such a liar. My hands shake like a Parkinsonian patient.

  “You look better.”

  That’s because T holds my hand. Touching each other helps calm us. Always has. And not something I share. “Yeah. I need to change and then go check on Mr. Talley.”

  “Sure. I’ll be right back.”

  T and I slip into the empty room as Laura hurries away to fetch me a pair of pants. I take a couple of deep breaths, willing the hand tremors to disappear. T’s touch calms me enough for my mind to stop whirling and focus on the oddity of having Will’s bracelet appear in my pocket.

  “What the hell is that?” Still holding my hand, T points to the bracelet.

  “It’s a bracelet.”

  “Aren’t you fucking Sherlock?” The muscle under his eye twitches.

  I squeeze his hand tighter. “What is it?” Usually my touch helps him to not see the spirit world. But he’s acting as if ghosts are standing in the room.

  “It’s not working,” he hisses. “There’s one that won’t leave me alone even with you holding my hand. And others keep floating by. I need a drink.”

  “Why don’t you ask him if he knows who shot Will.”

  The eye twitch becomes more pronounced. “I. Don’t. Talk. To. Them.”

  “You have before. You can do it again.”

  His go to hell glare sparks a memory best left forgotten. But Will was shot and the ghosts can help catch the shooter. You know you have a messed up life when you can think that thought in all seriousness.

  “Whoever shot Will is evil. I need to know who it was.” So I can tell the police about the evil man.

  “Are you fucking nuts? Who do you think you are? Nancy fucking Drew?”

  I stare at my twin, open my mind and let Will’s memories pour into him. He sucks in a breath, his eyes flying wide.

  “That bracelet? It’s his?”

  “Yep. And T. It’s happy.”

  He glances to where I’m clutching the bracelet. “What happens if you put it on?”

  “I become a beacon for Mr. Walking Evil?”

  “Maybe it fights evil.”

  I stare at the silver links. They seem to be waiting, hoping, desiring...me.

  “There’re more of them now. Like the whole freaking cemetery is standing outside the door.” A fine sheen of perspiration beads on his forehead, slides down his cheeks, bleeding color from his face.

  “Ask them if it’s okay to put on the bracelet.” I hiss back.

  He clears his throat. “Can she—” The rest of the sentence dies on his lips as his eyes widen. He turns to me and the look in his gaze sends chills chasing through my limbs. “Put it on.” The voice is not T’s and my chills multiply.

  “T?”

  “They say do it.” This time it’s his voice.

  I obey, dropping his hand, fumbling with the catch. He helps and the bracelet settles against my forearm, slightly above my wrist. I turn my wrist back and forth.

  “Nothing’s—” Pain shoots through my arm, traveling up to my neck, ricocheting into my brain, settling along my nerves. I want to scream, but the noise dies in my throat.

  And as suddenly as
it came, it vanishes.

  I blink a couple of times, trying to clear the pain-tears from my eyes and clutch T’s hand. Blurry figures cluster in the doorway. Blurry see-through figures.

  “Are those ghosts?”

  T shivers. “You can see them?”

  Laura uses that moment to walk right through the shadow figures, bursting through the door holding a new pair of scrubs. “Sorry it took so long.”

  “Not a problem. Thank you.”

  She turns to go and holds the door open, looking over her shoulder at T. As if my twin will walk through a cloud of ghosts. Judging by his coloring, I’m surprised he’s still standing.

  “I think he needs to sit down. It’s all right.”

  Laura raises a brow, clearly not approving of brother watching his sister undress.

  If she only knew.

  Once the door snaps shut behind her, I shimmy out of my ruined scrubs and into the fresh pair. Oddly enough, despite seeing Will shot and bleeding out, I feel happy. Ecstatic. Like I’ve found a long lost friend and been reunited.

  Questions ping through my mind, a repetitive chase of who, what, when, where, all swirling around the bracelet and the evil man. And then my mind stutters back to Room 1. Were the doctors able to save Will?

  Oh god, Will. My poor friend. What if he doesn’t make it? What if he dies? Why him? Who would want Will dead?

  A sense of calm sweeps through me, a sense all will be made known, all will be okay.

  Oh, wonderful. To top the day off, not that it needs a cherry on the whipped cream, the bracelet seems to have infiltrated my thoughts.

  How much worse could the day get?

  “Are you having some sort of communion with that thing?” T glares at the bracelet, snapping me out of my thoughts.

  “It’s like it speaks to me.”

  “Okay, that shit right there just freaks me the hell out. Take it off.”

  I give it a half-hearted tug. “It won’t come off.”

  “That’s bullshit. You put it on—”

  “At your insistence.”

  “You would’ve done it anyway. What goes on can come off.”

  “Except this time.”

  He grabs my wrist and tries to unfasten the hook. Or what was the hook. The silver links join together without a trace of the clasp, prohibiting the thing from ever being removed. Not that I want it removed. It makes me as happy as I make it.

  Where’s a psychologist when I need one? Happy should not be on my feelings list right now.

  “Fuck. It won’t come off.” He punctuates each word with a jerk on the bracelet.

  I yank my wrist back before he tears the thing off. “I told you that. Come on, you need to get out of here. You’re getting pale.” Not to mention sweating.

  “Best idea I’ve heard today.” T grabs my hand, yanks open the door, and pulls me through the opening.

  Blue-suited men swarm through the hallway like bees on pollen, speaking into their wrists, their voices a buzz of energy. Wires spiral from their ears down their necks, disappearing under their collars. Security. Now they show up. A bit late for the shooting party, but I guess none of them possess psychic abilities and therefore can’t be held accountable for allowing a would-be murderer onto the premises.

  Letting said would-be murderer escape is another matter.

  I’m being dragged toward the exit by the equivalent of a twitchy human train, when I spot Laura talking to a security guard at the same moment she spots me. One finger points me out, and the guard marches in our direction.

  “Hey, T. I need to stay.” This is the ER after all. Just because you see your friend shot and bleeding out is no reason to leave before shift end.

  Not to mention I’m the star witness. Plenty of people wanting to hear my story.

  “Nope. I’m getting you out of here.”

  “I’m pretty certain that guard wants to talk to me.”

  “I don’t care.”

  “Ms. Crawford?” Mr. Security Guard stops T’s frantic bid for the exit.

  “Yes?”

  “May we have a word with you?”

  “Of course.” I try to remove my hand from T’s grasp of steel and get nowhere fast. Let me go.

  No. You need to get out of here.

  No. You need to. I have beer in the fridge. Go help yourself and I’ll be there when my shift ends.

  Beer. The ambrosia of tatted, ghost-seeing auto mechanics.

  Curses fill my brain, but he releases my hand, bids adieu to Mr. SG, and darts out the exit as if the place wasn’t on lockdown. I watch the doors snap into place, sealing us in and T out, before turning back to security. Soft brown eyes hold a quizzical expression as the guard glances to the closed exit doors and back to me.

  “He doesn’t do well in hospitals. They kinda freak him out.” Don’t ask about it, don’t ask about it, don’t ask about it.

  Security ignores T. Doesn’t even bother to ask him to come back, to stay for an interview, to give his side of things. Weird. T’s talents might include talking to ghosts and breaking through locks, but he’s usually hard to miss. And yet the security guard continues to look at me as if I’ve been caught muttering to myself. But I’m not complaining. The less T hangs out at the hospital the better.

  “I hear you found Dr. Wunderliech.”

  And with the guard’s words my mind flashes back to Will lying in a pool of blood. Dying.

  I wrap my arms around my torso as a tremor shakes through my body. Are the surgeons able to save him?

  The guard’s hand hovers behind the small of my back, not quite touching, but still a guide. His other arm gestures toward Room 2, where it quickly becomes apparent the room has been turned into an interview room. Operation Central.

  I force myself to not look at Room 1, to not look at the blood trails screaming down the hall toward the elevator. Focus on Room 2, on the blue suits packing the room like a football team. I clasp my trembling hands together hard enough to hurt.

  The guiding hand settles me into a chair. “Tell us what happened.”

  So I do. Minus the evil tangles in the man’s mind or the way the bracelet suddenly appeared in my pocket. Speaking of what I saw when I touched Will, how his remembrances slammed through my mind, fusing to my memories was a no-brainer—not to be mentioned or even hinted at.

  They’d lock me up at Blue Shores Psychiatric Institute quicker than I could say uh-oh. Been there, done that. The less people know of my little ability, the better.

  “What made you check in on Dr. Wunderliech?”

  Didn’t I already tell them? Granted, I’ve had quite the shock today, but still. I know I’ve told them why. Why are they asking again? Surely they don’t think I shot him?

  “I heard what sounded like coughing but not. So I checked it out.”

  My questioner nods, brown eyes aiming for sympathetic but falling short of the goal. I’m sure he means to inspire trust. It’s not working.

  “May I go now? I have a patient to tend to.” I tap my fingers against my leg. Is Will still alive? How long until they let us know the outcome of his surgery? I really want to go check on him instead of sitting here answering questions.

  “Just don’t leave the ER until the cops talk to you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I’m out the door faster than a champagne cork shooting out of a newly opened bottle. And promptly slam into what feels like a mountain of muscle.

  Strong hands grip my upper arms, the skin of his palms resting fully against the sleeves of my scrub top. Not an ounce of his skin touches mine, yet zingers of heat race up my arms, hitting my nervous system like mainlining adrenaline. My heart races while my core goes into overdrive, heating up, getting wet.

  As if we’re about to throw down for a sex-fest.

  Which, oddly enough, sounds like the best idea of the day.

  What the hell is wrong with me? After being drowned in Will’s memories while sitting in a pool of his blood, sex should not be on my mind. And ye
t one touch from this giant and I’m ready to get it on.

  Maybe security needs to haul my hormone-ridden ass to Blue Shores.

  The mountain man drops my arms as if they crawl with scorpions and shakes his hands, flexing and curling long fingers as if he’s been stung.

  “Are you ok, ma’am?” His voice sounds like melted chocolate, warm with a hint of sweet in the tone.

  I drag my gaze up his body, from eyelevel at his chest, across wide shoulders to his face. Black stubble grazes his chin, the look of a man whose morning shave ceases to be effective in late afternoon. Piercing blue eyes stare out of a tanned face surrounded by short black hair. A study in contrasts.

  Apparently running into him renders my voice non-existent. I clear my throat, taking a step backward. Distance is my friend.

  “I’m sorry.” I try to step around him, but he moves with me. I take a step back, he follows, and we fall into that little dance two people stuck in the same place at the same time do. I giggle. He doesn’t.

  “I need to see my patient.”

  “I need to talk to you.” His voice sends another round of zingers zipping through my system to lodge in my core.

  So this is what it’s like to star in a romance novel.

  “I’m Detective Smythe. Please clear the room so I can interview this witness.” One hand slips into his navy blue sports jacket pocket, pulling out a badge which he proceeds to flash, a quick open-close motion.

  The security guards look at each other, back to Detective Smythe and shrug. The good detective moves out of the way, and the guards file past, joining their blue-suited brethren and the now-arrived police. A regular party out there and I’m trapped in here with Mister Fuckalicious.

  And I’m complaining—why?

  Click. The door snaps closed, and Detective Smythe crosses the room. It might not be professional, but I check out the view, pleased to see the back end looks as good as the front. Muscles roll under khaki pants, the clench and release of thick thighs leads my thoughts away from attempted murder toward how all that flesh would feel against my skin.