Giiiiin!! T’s voice slams into my head, the scream a welcome relief from the silence.
T! I don’t know where I am, but I’m okay. I think.
He curses an unrepeatable string of words. Let me see.
No. Another oddity of being twins, we can hop into the other’s mind, see out of each other’s eyes. Other twins might be able to telepathically communicate with each other, but I’m pretty certain we’re the only set with this ability.
I’m so engrossed in dissuading T’s incursion I don’t realize someone is speaking to me until Smythe shakes my arm.
“Gin!”
With a mental thrust, I manage to block T from gaining my sight. The effort exerted coupled with however I arrived wherever I am, leaves my legs wobbly, my stomach woozy.
Nausea and unsteadiness fail to stop a good dose of what-the-hell-just-happened and its twin you-did-not-just-take-me-here.
I twist my arm from Smythe’s grip and slam both hands against his chest. “Where the hell am I, Mister Kidnapper?”
His lids pop wide, brows touching his hairline. “Mr. Kidnapper?”
I slam my hands against his chest again in hopes the pain made a point. “Where,” slap, “am,” slap, “I?” His hands encircle my wrists before I get in the last slap, his gaze delves into mine as if he sees inside my thoughts.
Small tremors shake my muscles, and I try to yank my hands free, to no avail. It’s sobering to realize he let me go a minute ago. So much for thinking I know some self-defense. Or possess my own thoughts.
The black of his eye seems to expand, grow, swallow me whole. Little yellow specks in the blue of his irises catch my gaze, and I stand transfixed, anger and fear forgotten.
Someone clears their throat, causing Smythe to blink and the spell he wrapped around me vanishes, leaving behind a sense of calm, a feeling of purpose.
The knowledge we aren’t the only ones here. This time when I pull against his grip, he releases my wrists, allowing me to turn. I notice several things all at once. White light shines from overhead recessed lighting, bathing the room in a brightness never before seen this side of the sun. Or maybe it’s so bright because the white paint on the walls reflects the overhead lighting. We stand next to a white marble fireplace, another glowing object in the over-lit room. The door, aka the avenue of escape, stands on the other side of the room. And, last, but not least, every person in the room stares at me.
Smythe’s induced calm gives way to panic. How bad do I appear? I pat my bed-head look and pull down my shorts. Or try to. Rather hard to do with shorts meant to be worn for foreplay and then removed. They did not make for good first impressions.
Unless auditioning for a hooker.
The only sound in the room comes in the whisper of a dozen computers humming a merry tune. A long desk sits to my left, filled with computers, each manned by a hue of different colored faces, all of whom stare at me as if they’ve never seen a woman in short shorts. Which judging by their age, might not be too far off the mark.
Heard of child labor laws, anyone? Last time I checked, employing high school students after midnight was frowned upon.
A rule clearly ignored here. Wherever here was.
“Ahem.”
My gaze snaps to a man and woman standing several feet in front of us. The man is older, late fifties, early sixties, tall and straight like former military with short steel gray hair and piercing blue eyes. Rather like Smythe’s, come to think of it. He wears black trousers and a white long-sleeved shirt with the top button undone and the sleeves rolled halfway up his tanned forearms.
The woman next to him sports sun-bleached—or was that bottle-bleached—blonde hair, which hangs straight around a bronzed face sporting evidence of one too many sun exposures. Clearly she missed the sun tanning is bad for you lecture, replacing it by doubling up on the gym workouts. Not an ounce of fat on her, damn her to hell. Her black pants and white tank mold to her body like spray-paint on a fence, leaving little to the imagination. I’m willing to bet her ass looks better on display than mine. Probably warmer too. All those computers must require enough cold air to make Antarctica seem hot. I shiver, cross my arms over my chest and attempt to rub the goosebumps away.
The woman’s eyes narrow, obliterating their color. Glaring doesn’t help the fine lines creeping through the skin around her eyes. Someone needs to tell her that little tidbit of info, but it’s not my lucky day. Even the bracelet grows quiet in her presence. Watching? Waiting? Her fingers flex, a distracting curl and uncurl. I drop my hands to my sides, fingers tightening and releasing, mimicking her movements. The air surrounding her snaps with energy.
Correction, make that anger.
“Why is she here?”
“If she is to believe, she needs to be shown.” Smythe takes a step forward, the air around him pulsing in rhythm to the woman’s, a volatile mix of testosterone and righteous anger.
“So you pulled her out of bed and brought her here? What were you thinking, Aidan?”
Aidan? Aidan? What did I know about this man? Not his name, for starters. A cold frost steals through me that has nothing to do with the room’s temperature. What else has he hidden from me?
“He was following my directions, Samantha. Something you should try to do on occasion.”
At Military Man’s words, red suffuses the woman’s face. Her fingers crank into fists as she sucks a breath in through her nose. The pulsing energy surrounding her ceases its sizzle as she releases her held breath with an audible whoosh.
“A justitian should not look like a washed up prostitute. Unless she isn’t a justitian?” Hope shines in her eyes until Smythe—or should I say Aidan—shakes his head.
“They’ve bonded.”
“You’ve got to be kidding me. How can that be, David? Why is she here?” Her glare turns to Military Man.
Note to self. Next time Smythe tries to convince me of something, believe him. Not believing him leads to my sudden appearance as the focus of a disagreement.
“She knows nothing of us. She needs to learn.”
“How can the justitia bond with her? She’s not from a gifted lineage.”
The insult grates against my psyche like a whip on flesh, a reminder of things better left forgotten. Allowing her words to bother me borders on the ridiculous. Obviously my lineage is not what they look for when trying to find someone for their precious bracelet. But then two falling-down-drunk abusive alcoholics rarely make anyone’s hottest lineage list. Nothing new there.
Logic and reason cease to stop my proverbial hackles from bristling.
“Excuse me? Are you dissing on my momma?” I’ve always stood up for Mom, a defense started in elementary school when she’d pick us up wobbling from one too many afternoon gin and tonics. Mom’s form of alcoholism never bothered me the way Dad’s did.
Which isn’t to say I condoned her behavior.
Samantha raises a brow. “Truth is not dissing. Your name does not show up on our bloodline chart.”
I wave a hand. “Well, la-di-da.” So she didn’t know about my family. Whatever Smythe discovered about me, he seems to have kept to himself. Whew. The less they know the better. Especially about my lovely little emotion-reading talent.
Speaking of. Wonder what said talent would turn up if I touched Little Miss Appalled? I’ve never used my gift this way before, never purposefully touched someone, but the urge to slap my hands against her muscular flesh is overwhelming. For whatever reason, I want to see inside her snotty little mind.
I stride over to Samantha, whose eyes widen as if I carry a weapon of mass destruction aimed right at her. My hands slam against the firm flesh of her upper arms and unlike Smythe, her thoughts and emotions flow like a waterfall, rushing into my mind, filling me with visions of her essence.
Rainbows and roses she is not.
Her dislike of me bursts through first, my touch on her arms repellant. Red tinges the emotion, anger I wear the bracelet, anger I threaten her, anger at my lack
of awe over being gifted a justitia. That last one I file for later review and continue rummaging through her thoughts.
I don’t get far. One, I’m so used to avoiding meddling in others’ minds I’m not sure what to do; and two, a strong arm bands around my waist, lifting me off the ground and breaking my contact with her skin.
It’s unnecessary to look over my shoulder to know Smythe’s arm encircles my waist. My body reacts as usual to his touch, the unwanted hum of attraction sings through my veins. Traitorous hormones. Despite them telling me to throw him down and sex him up, I slam my airborne feet into his shins. Or try to.
Right when I gain some momentum, he pitches me to the side, toward David, who lets me stumble into the white marble fireplace as opposed to catching me. Jerk. My hands sting from slapping against the stone, but at least I stopped myself from hitting my bruised face.
“What the hell were you thinking? She’s a fucking empath! She gets readings by touching you!” Smythe’s hands ball into fists, and once again the air crackles around him like an ominous thunderhead.
Instead of emulating him, Samantha pales, turning her popped-wide gaze to me, fear written in the lines surrounding her eyes. “Impossible.” Her whisper blends with the background hum of computers as I straighten, pressing the cool marble against my now-warm back.
“Are you sure, son?” David keeps his gaze on Smythe. Son? Smythe has a father?
Well, duh. Everyone has a father. Even those of us who refuse to admit to one. It surprises me to realize his is standing in the room. Could his father jump through doorways of light, too?
Did that doorway even exist or am I still lying in bed next to Blake having a crazy dream?
I pinch my arm.
Nothing happens.
It’s unnecessary to continue to pinch the hell out of my arm on the off chance I’d wake. I’m not going to wake. This room, these people, are real. My life went from a bit off-key to totally insane in a matter of hours.
At least I have company in the land of insanity. Not sure if I like the company, but it’s better than sitting alone.
Things. Have. Changed.
My heart pounds an erratic beat as the realization settles in. Things I never knew existed, exist. My brain runs in circles, believing, denying, believing, denying.
Is this the definition of crazy?
Maybe.
Am I going to have a nervous breakdown in a strange white room with people who think worth is based on bloodlines?
Hell no. I’ll fall to pieces later, in the comfort of my own home.
A sense of wrongness scuttles across my flesh. About time my mind got in touch with my current situation. As Smythe continues his impression of a pitbull defending its territory, I realize it’s not my mind issuing the Danger-Will-Robinson command.
It’s the bracelet’s.
The silver links fear something or someone in the room. As the fear turns to puzzlement, I take a look around. Nothing seems out of place, no Evil Guy look-alikes, but how would I know if the room was normal? It’s not like I have experience with this level of oddness. All the computer operators gawk at the trio, namely Smythe who appears as if he’s going to explode.
Part of me wants to run out of the room, but I don’t know where I am. Nix that idea. And I hope someone here will tell me what the hell is going on. Just when I think my life is under control, when I’ve conquered the demons inside, I realize I’m really living in a snafu situation.
Situation normal this ain’t.
And why am I paying my newest jewelry addition any attention? Well, that question is easy to answer. It’s the only thing in this room I trust.
“Sir!” One of the computer operators, who looks barely old enough to shave, let alone man a computer, jumps up, vibrating with energy. Nice to see certain energy drinks really do give one wings.
As if on cue, the room goes silent, all eyes on the operator as he points to the computer screen. “Demon outbreak! It appeared in Austin, Texas just now.”
Aha! Guess that meant our governor really was a spawn of Satan.
“Where exactly?” David snaps.
“I’ll send it to your phone.”
“What the hell would I do with it? Send it to Samantha’s. Her ward is closest.”
Samantha’s eyes widen, and then she shuts them for a long blink. She sucks in a deep breath, follows it with a nod. One hand whips a phone from a hiding place. How she hid a smartphone in the rear pocket of skin-tight pants remains a mystery.
Her fingers flash across the screen, her eyes narrow as she reads the directions. “As you wish,” she speaks to the screen before focusing her gaze on Smythe. “But this conversation is in no way finished.” One hand gestures to encompass my body. “Cheap looking tramps should not be brought here.”
Her words flay across my skin like a whip. Fighting words. And yet, I give her nothing but a glare. Fact of the matter is, I do look cheap. But what do they expect when a certain detective impersonator grabs me out of my house without letting me change out of my do-me-now shorts?
Bottom line: Samantha will get her due. In time.
“Don’t call my ward a tramp.”
Samantha throws out her hand, four fingers pointing to the same corner Smythe and I arrived in. “You left out cheap looking.”
A growl erupts from Smythe, and I fully expect him to attack the sun-worshiping blonde bitch. He moves forward, hands cranked into tight fists, but David steps between the two.
“We fight demons. Not each other. Cool down.” His blue eyes focus on Smythe, who sucks in a deep breath and shakes like he’s a wet dog trying to dry. David turns to Samantha. “Do you think holding your hand out makes you look pretty? Open the damn portal already.”
Aaannnd the temperature drops another couple of degrees from the glare Samantha throws David’s way. He holds her gaze as if drinking in her anger, draining her to fuel him, but that’s a ridiculous thought. He’s doing what I call the dominant dog act, letting her know who’s boss, informing her she’s not it. Her lids shutter, snap open, and focus on the wall where Smythe and I arrived.
Like earlier in my living room, a slash of light appears mid-air, growing into the size of a door.
Marching past us, she hisses at Smythe, “Try not to let this one die.” Smythe stiffens, but instead of a retort, he pales the color of the marble pressed against my back. Was she referring to me?
With a final glare my way, she steps into the swirling colors of light, disappearing as the “door” shrinks into nothing, the white wall returning into view.
Who laced my ibuprofen with acid?
“What—” I point to where the slash of light appeared, words evaporating off my tongue. Just because I arrived here through one of those light slashes, doesn’t mean I understand what happened. Or am able to get a sentence out to ask.
“Wormhole.” David mimics my gesture, waving at the wall.
“We use portals to travel from place to place. It’s quicker and cuts down on airfare.” The corner of Smythe’s mouth quivers as he turns toward me, the attempt at a smile overshadowed by the angry glint in his gaze. At least he’s no longer the color of snow.
He offers me his hand. Just like a gentleman.
A pissed off, blue-eyed, about to explode gentleman.
Not that I’m complaining.
I place my palm in his, still marveling how his touch elicits a pleasing nothing, no visiting emotions, no glimpses into his thoughts. Nothing but exciting me with an unwanted blast of lust. How does he do that?
As if seeing me for the first time, his father’s eyes widen as he takes in the bruise on my jaw. “What the hell happened to her?”
“Minion. She killed it.” Pride suffuses Smythe’s voice like warm chocolate drizzled on cake.
“With no training?” Demon-finding computer operator chimes in, mouth agape.
Neither Smythe nor David pays him any attention.
David’s eyes narrow, his gaze raking me from head to toe. �
��Were you there?”
I can’t stop a brow from rising, but as Smythe answers, it becomes apparent I’m not the one he asks.
“No. It was before I came.”
I do not like the way Smythe’s father continues to stare at me. As if I’m a thing, not a person. If it was sexual, that would be one thing, but it’s not. The look in his eyes creeps me out and makes the bracelet uncomfortable. But when he speaks, the odd stare goes away, replaced by concern. Maybe I’m imagining things.
Yeah, like this whole evening. One huge nightmare.
I wish.
“We need to discover why the justitia chose her. Have you traced her lineage?”
“Not yet. Only got to her history before I saw a minion tracked her down.”
“Wait a minute.” I interrupt. He’d mentioned the term at my house, but at the time, I had been more concerned with him informing me wearing the bracelet—or should I say justitia—meant I needed to fight. “What’s a minion?”
“What attacked you.”
And here I thought I was the epitome of evasion. “Way to answer the question without answering the question.”
Smythe’s eyes laugh, corners crinkling, a second before his lips turn in a grin. “Minions are a demon’s workers. Demons can give a bit of their life’s energy to a human in order for that human to do their bidding.”
“Why don’t they just do things themselves?”
“Demons don’t like to appear in the world in their normal form.”
“But I thought computer genius over there saw one appear in Austin.”
“They don’t like to appear. That doesn’t mean they don’t. And that’s where you and others like you come into play. Justitians fight the demons and their minions. Minions are not hard for a justitia to kill. Demons on the other hand take training to kill. They’re much tougher.”
“So you invented these bracelets to kill demons?”
David answers. “They were invented millennia ago to fight the thirteen known demons. One bracelet per demon. Unfortunately the demons multiplied. Our organization came into being around the time of the first Romans as a response to the excess demon activity.”
“Is that why the bracelets have a Latin sounding name?”
Demon Lore Page 6
