“Ms. Crawford, there’s not a Detective Smythe with the Dallas PD. I just checked.”
My head pops up and it takes effort to close my mouth. “Then who did I,” lust after, “talk to?”
“I don’t know, but we’ll figure it out.”
“Why would someone interrogate me if he wasn’t from the police department?” But even as I ask the question, the answer comes to me. Smythe, if that was really his name, didn’t want answers to Will’s shooting, he wanted answers about the bracelet appearing on my wrist.
I glance at the thing. It seems...pleased. Happy. As if it just found its true calling. I should want to take it off. Want to find Smythe and give the thing to him.
But the weird thing is, the bracelet makes me as happy as I make it. Even if it has a propensity for turning into a sword and stabbing evil intruders through the heart.
I must be going insane.
Blake shows up in the middle of the crime scene photos, raising a ruckus until the cops let him in. Seconds later he kneels on the floor beside me, arms wrapping me in an embrace, his thoughts frantic, laced with fear. It’s one of the few glimpses into his inner being he’s allowed in years and makes me realize how frightening my appearance must seem.
The thought barely forms before the door on his emotions slams closed, replaced by the generic mountain scene he usually remembers when touching me.
“Sorry about tonight.”
He pulls away and cocks a brow, staring at me as if I’ve grown another head. “All that matters is you’re okay.”
Thank god he’s not disappointed tonight turned into friends with no benefits. Despite my earlier need of good escapism sex, all I want now is to lie in the comfort of his arms. To feel cared for and dare I say, loved.
What better way to end this emotional rollercoaster of a day than in the embrace of a friend?
Chapter 5
I can’t sleep. The air conditioning cranks away, whining a protest at the Texas heat, the sound a dull rhythm in the darkness. Each heartbeat brings a throb of pain to my jaw and the weight of Blake’s arm across my stomach traps warmth like a smothering blanket. His breath falls in moist puffs of air against my shoulder and neck, the even rhythm more of an annoyance than a comfort.
Part of his arm rests against my skin, but the only reading I get from him comes in scattered flashes of dreams. When his arm first touched me, before he fell into the deep sleep of exhaustion, I felt his comfort in lying beside me, how it differed from his boredom with Jordan. Then the scene switched to a beach, complete with the roar of waves crashing over the sand. Good way to avoid the issue of me reading his mind.
Which is unnecessary considering how well I read his body language. His romance with Jordan is nearing its end.
Nothing new there. And nothing to concern myself with either. Unlike the rest of my day.
Questions run through my mind in a continuous stream of babble, but the answers remain elusive. I want answers. I want to know why that evil man attacked Will, his wife, and me. I want to know why the bracelet turned into a sword. I want to know why Smythe lied about being on the Dallas PD, which led to the real Dallas PD detective driving out to my house for an interview. I want to know if I am going crazy, if my mind splintered into the wild and unbelievable when I saw Will lying in a pool of his blood.
I want an ibuprofen.
That one I can do something about.
Slipping free from Blake’s arm, I ease out of bed and pad down the hall, my feet cool from walking on the wood floors. The only light in the kitchen comes from the streetlamp three doors down. Enough light to tell where the cabinets are, but not enough to pick out the ibuprofen bottle. I pat around on the wall until my fingers find the light switch. One flick and the room explodes into a dull glow as the fluorescent bulbs spring to life.
I take a step into the room and freeze, unable to draw in a breath. Oh shit. Not again.
My heart pounds, a staccato drumbeat locked in the confines of my chest. He’s in my house. Smythe is in my house. Suddenly the ibuprofen no longer seems important.
I turn, and he’s on me before my feet take a step. A strong arm cinches my waist. A broad hand covers my mouth. Pain shoots from my jaw and I wince and let loose a whimper. Breath fans my ear.
“Shh. I don’t want to hurt you. I need to talk to you. If I let you go, will you promise not to scream?”
And just like at the hospital, my blood boils. Electric zingers bounce through my veins, sexing me up, readying me for this man.
What the hell? At a time like this, all I can think of is sex? What kind of sick freak am I?
Yet another question I don’t know the answer to. Right up there with why he can touch me and not elicit a trip into his emotions. I nod in response to Smythe’s question, and he releases me slowly, as if I’m a frightened mare and he’s the horse whisperer.
The heat from his body disappears as he retreats to the kitchen table. I turn, still locked in place, willing my pesky hormones back to wherever they came from. I stare at him, running my gaze from the top of his short black hair, down his muscular body, over his relaxed fit jeans, ending at his black shitkickers. He’s dressed like he’s auditioning for the role of how to look sexy and still be lethal. I stop staring and meet his blue gaze, amazed at how fast he moves, wondering how he got into the house.
As if he read my mind, he gestures toward the living room. “Door was open.”
I take a few steps into the living room, look at the closed door, and walk back to the kitchen. “It has a hole in it. That doesn’t mean it’s open.”
He shrugs. “We need to talk.”
“So you said.”
“It would help if you’d come have a seat with me.”
Yeah, right. As if we’re on a date, carrying on a get to know you conversation. As if he hasn’t broken into my house and scared the bejeezus out of me.
Men.
As soon as he realizes I’m going nowhere fast, he clears his throat, patting the chair next to him, his black T-shirt pulling tight against what has to be steroidal-induced muscles. “I need to talk to you about the bracelet. I don’t think I can take it back now.”
A leap of joy emanates from the silver links, jolting up my arm into my brain, filling me with happiness. The bracelet’s happiness. I get the impression if the thing had a body it would place its fingers in its ears, stick out its tongue, waggle the whole lot and say, ‘niener-niener.’
I stop my hands halfway to my ears. Not going there.
Taking a breath, I walk to the counter and grab the ibuprofen bottle out of the cabinet. A big glass of water followed by a swallow and the pills slide down my throat, smooth as honey. It gives me time to think. Despite my guest’s uninvited entrance into my home, he doesn’t seem bent on harm.
Giving him a sideways glance, I notice his gaze locked on the colorful bruise covering my jaw. His lip turns into a snarl and something shifts in his eyes, as if he fights a battle against righteous rage and loses.
Okay, small modification there. He’s not bent on my harm. His eyes state he’d like to grab Evil Guy and kill him again—inch by torturous inch.
It makes me feel...safe.
Where’s a mind-altering pharmaceutical product when I need one?
Should I trust Smythe? The bracelet isn’t reacting to him. Well, okay, the bracelet isn’t turning into a sword and trying to kill him. Which I interpret as a good thing.
What’s the harm in hearing him out? Maybe he can explain why I have some new wrist jewelry. And if it really turned into a sword. I doubt he knows whether or not I’m on the express train to Blue Shores.
I walk to the table and sit beside Smythe. One corner of his lip turns upward, the expression erasing the glint of murder in his eyes. Good thing he doesn’t smile more often. I might melt into a state of obsequiousness.
“Talk.”
One black eyebrow skims upward. “We can’t figure out why the justitia has attached itself to you.”
&
nbsp; “The what?”
“Justitia. The sword of justice. That bracelet you’re wearing.”
“It has a name?” I drop my gaze to my wrist, the glow of the kitchen light absorbing into the silver. Of course it has a name. It wants me to learn it. Wants me to learn about it. Wants me to use it the way it was made to be used.
I’m not going insane. The thing really has invaded my thoughts.
“It has more than a name. It has a history. We don’t understand why it wants you.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
His fingers drum a rhythm on the table. “We’re the good guys. Protectors from evil.”
“Really? Did you know the guy who came here tonight?” I touch the bruise, formerly known as my jaw. “Because I think he fell under the evil category, and that was before the gray mist came out of him.”
Was that a hint of a blush on his cheeks? Must be a trick of the light. “We didn’t realize he’d come here. At least not as soon as he did.”
“Oh? So you knew he’d come and left me unprotected?”
His brow does another meet-the-hairline as his gaze glances off my bracelet, oops justitia. “You are far from unprotected.”
“You are far from having answers. What is this? A lesson in how to be cryptic? Because I hate to tell you, but I excel at hiding things.”
That half-turned lip appears, but instead of looking attractive, it makes him seem condescending. “So you do. Does anyone at the hospital know about your trip to the psychiatric ward as a teenager? No? What about the, shall we say, extra-curricular activities you partook in? It’s a wonder you didn’t get arrested.”
“Lots of college kids do things they regret.” I shrug, hoping to pull off nonchalant. Where did he get my, what I thought was hidden, information?
“True. But most of them aren’t empaths. They don’t touch another and know that person’s immediate thoughts and emotions, do they?”
Heat flushes through my system, slaps into my cheeks, slams a ball of writhing snakes into my stomach. I try to swallow and come up short. How does he know? “What do you want?”
“When the justitia turns into a sword and kills a minion, then it cannot be removed from the wearer, barring death. That means no matter what you want, you are one of us now. You must learn how to fight the minions.”
“Whoa, fella. I’m a nurse, not a fighter. Go find someone else.”
“You have no choice. Once the justitia bonds with the wearer, your die is cast.”
And I thought insanity knocked at my door? I have nothing on this guy. Chances are good he won’t want to convince me I’m not crazy, seeing how his plans include me joining him in insanity-ville.
“Well. This was a nice conversation.” I stand and gesture toward the front door. “You can go out the same way you came in. I’m going back to bed.”
“Wait. You can’t ignore us.”
“Watch me.” I push in the chair, waggle my fingers at him, and head for the light switch. “Consider yourself ignored.”
What a waste of—
I hear the chair hit the floor at the same time a muscular arm bands about my waist, trapping my arms to my side. One hand locks around my wrist, covering the bracelet, and his breath rustles hot against my neck.
“I am your guardian. I watch you. I protect you while you protect the innocent. For millennia it has been so and for millennia it will be thus, until the darkness falls from the land. Heed my words. Join your lifeforce with this vessel and together you shall conquer the forces of evil.”
Can we say flair for the dramatic? What did he expect me to do? Get all patriotic and sing the Good Guys anthem?
Before I could show this fool my idea of the two-step—stomp on instep, kick out knee—the bracelet begins vibrating, an excited hum that reverberates through my skin. The damn thing is ecstatic over Smythe’s words. Ecstatic.
I fail to share its joy.
Heat follows the vibrations, pulses of energy igniting every pleasure receptor in my brain. Ohgodohgodohgod, it’s like the biggest orgasm of my life, coupled by the high rush of illegal substances, a lethal combination. My heart races a marathon, my skin tingles, my body hums with an unholy fire. I feel on fire. I am the fire. Burning. Alive. More alive than I ever experienced.
Whatever his words did, I want more. I need more. I will do anything for more.
The pleasure expands, filling me, invigorating me, pulling me into a vortex of desire. A desire whispering freedom from self, escape from reality. And then as sudden as it came, it shrinks, dissipating, leaving me alone in my body, alone with only myself for company.
Trembling sets in, rattling my joints, my limbs, a physical response to the loss of desire’s demand raging inside.
“Please.” I beg. I want to be lost in the pleasure, consumed by the fire.
“Please?” Smythe sounds confused. “Please what?”
“I want it back. The feeling. Please.”
His curse sears. Hurts. I don’t care. I want to lose myself in an ocean of pleasure, to drown in a current of desire. I need the escape.
“I hate working with goddamn addicts.” He mumbles something, his thumb stroking the links of the bracelet and my cravings vanish, leaving me relieved.
And yet, disappointed.
I sag against him, trying to catch my breath. It’s been years since I’ve craved pleasure above all else. Years. I’ve done well since I realized fleeing from myself is an exercise in futility. No matter where I go, there I am. The temporary escape of a high is a false illusion, one I craved for many years before pulling my act together.
Looking death in the face made me realize little things, like empathic abilities, aren’t so bad after all. Once I came to that realization, I’ve been fine. More or less.
I don’t appreciate him reminding me of my failings.
“Don’t ever do that again.” My voice comes out as a hiss, my throat ragged.
“Do you always react that way?”
I ignore him. “What was that? That feeling?”
“The bonding.” Warm air brushes my neck on a sigh. “It wanted you, for whatever reason, so I told it to join its force to yours. You two are mated. You are part of the Agency now.”
Agency my left ass cheek. I belong to no one, least of all some mysterious agency who sends a hotter than hell man to do its bidding. Although that’s not such a bad thing, is it, a little voice inside my head asks.
I squash the errant thought.
“Gin?” T’s voice sounds a second before his body comes into view. “Are you—”
His voice trails into nothing as he stares at Smythe, who still has an arm around my waist and a palm on my wrist. T goes from sleepy and concerned to pumped and ready for a kill in a nanosecond, the air around him sizzling with anger.
“Gin?” His eyes narrow, as he tries to judge whether or not Smythe has a weapon, if he can take him down.
“I needed an ibuprofen.”
“That is not an ibuprofen.”
“Meet Smythe. Smythe, my brother, T.”
Smythe moves, dropping his arm, his palm, as he steps to my side. Air hits my back, brushing against the beads of sweat running down my spine. I shiver.
Are you okay?
Mostly.
Do I need to kill this guy?
I wouldn’t advise it.
“Aren’t you the detective that’s not really a detective?” T crosses his arms, biceps bunching, his expression a palette of barely contained anger.
“Who says I’m not a detective?” Smythe shifts his stance as if he expects to go a round with T.
Smart man.
“The police force. So if you aren’t a detective, then who are you? And what are you doing in my house?”
It’s no longer his house, but I let the comment slide. Aggression saturates the room like the stench of spilled gasoline, two testosterone filled males primed and ready to punch. I try to take a step to the side, but Smythe grabs my wrist, his large palm encircling the thin
g as if I’m some sort of anorexic model. Unlike at the hospital, I’m unable to get out of his grip.
“Let go of my sister!” T takes a step forward and his body seems to grow, expand. Air crackles, little pops pinging around his head.
“My apologies, but I need to borrow your sister for the evening, perhaps longer.” Smythe starts speaking, his words a roll of unintelligible mutterings sounding suspiciously like Latin and dripping with age.
To his right, a slash of light forms in the air as if cut by an invisible sword, widening into the shape of a door. In the glare of the light, I see T’s eyes pop wide, his lip lift into a snarl.
“Like hell you are!” He leaps, but Smythe is faster, stronger, more determined.
Smythe jumps through the slash of light before I can resist, my arm, and consequently my body, yanked into the opening against my will. I reach a hand toward T, the skin of my palm sizzling as the supercharged air surrounding him hits my flesh. His fingertips brush mine, reaching, missing.
“Gi—” His panicked cry cuts off as the slash of light seals shut.
Terror ricochets through my veins, my breath a frozen ball of ice in my chest. I attempt to read T’s thoughts, attempt to use our telepathic language to tell him I’m alive, but fail. For the first time in my life, I cannot hear my twin.
Chapter 6
I’m lost in a sea of colors, of panic-filled swirls dancing in erratic lines. No air exists here, wherever here is. Or maybe I’m too scared to breath. Right when I’m about to pass out from lack of oxygen, the colors stop flashing, settling into forms, into shapes, into non-moving objects.
A room. People. I sway. Smythe yanks me against his body, supporting my sagging frame.
Demon Lore Page 5
