Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Justitia was the Roman Goddess of Justice. Lady Justice. The same as portrayed in courts around the world even to this day.”

  I glance at the justitia with a new respect. “What were they called before Roman times?”

  “We don’t know.” He shrugs. “The original name has been lost.”

  “But why was your agency even formed? Don’t we kill these demons?”

  “As I said, demons multiplied. Our agency was formed to protect the justitians.”

  “Uh, not to be bullheaded here, but if I’m the one that wears the justitia, and therefore has the sword, then how can you protect me?”

  Smythe gives my hand a squeeze. “We’re mages. If it looks like you’re losing the fight, we can get you out. You’ve already seen how.”

  “And a demon can’t jump into a portal?”

  “Oh sure. Just not our portals. They have to form their own.”

  Who knew? Demonology 101 really does exist.

  The chuckle dies on my lips. Demons. Really. Exist.

  And it’s my job to fight them.

  I am not crazy. The thought slowly seeps into my mind, growing stronger the deeper it goes. This evening really happened. Evil Guy was just that—evil, but evil can be killed.

  I’m not up to the task. I believe Smythe now, but how can they expect me to fight? Even with the justitia. I want to be a nurse, to heal people, to help people.

  Isn’t fighting a demon infestation helping people?

  Was that my voice or the bracelet’s?

  Tingles shoot across my nape, almost as if a nerve suddenly became pinched. Which is ridiculous. Standing around does not cause pinched nerves. By the time I realize what the tingling sensation means, it’s too late.

  My vision dims as T stares out of my eyes. Dammit. And here I thought my mental barriers would keep him out.

  What the hell, T?

  What the hell? Are you kidding? I had to know you were okay. You stopped answering me.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, throw both hands over them, and squat on the floor.

  “Gin!” Smythe drops beside me. “Are you all right?”

  “Headache.” To put it mildly.

  Open your eyes!

  Get out of my head!

  What the fuck is going on?

  See for yourself. I give him access to my memories, my remembrances of what happened since Smythe took me from my house.

  While T’s taking a look-see around my mind, I jump into his. He sits on the couch in my living room, hands resting on his knees, palms up. Like a yoga meditation position minus the crossed legs. Blake and Jackie hover in the periphery of his vision. I could make him look at them, but then they might try to talk to T and that would prove weird.

  Letting others know about our body switching abilities would lead to an extended, if not permanent, stay at Blue Shores.

  So I pull back into my own mind, leaving T sitting on the couch.

  The first thing I notice is a hand on my back, patting me like I’m a hurt pet. Smythe’s. Amazing. It appears he has a gentle side. Who would’ve thought?

  The second thing I notice, which really should have been the first thing, is T’s presence. He’s not a happy camper.

  Demons? What the fuck?

  Don’t ask me. I just put the bracelet on. Didn’t mean for it to lead to a superheroes episode.

  Can you take it off?

  You saw my memory.

  “Gin? Do you need an ibuprofen?” Smythe asks.

  “I need a different life.” Did I really speak that out loud?

  Yep. I heard it.

  It was a rhetorical question, T.

  Sorry. Couldn’t help myself.

  “No. You need to adjust to the one you have.”

  “Quit mollycoddling the chit, son. Give her an assignment, and she’ll get used to things soon enough. Or die.” I drop my hands from my eyes and stare at David in time to see him shrug.

  I don’t like that guy.

  A wave of anger sweeps over me, and I’m halfway to my feet before I realize it’s not my anger, it’s T’s. Word to the wise, do not make my twin mad. I know this, and yet I’m unprepared for the pure force of the rage that shoots through my limbs.

  It’s all I can do to straighten and stand still. I want to hit David, want to beat him bloody, want to let him know I don’t appreciate being thrown to the demons to sink or swim, so to speak.

  I shove the anger back into T’s presence, shove until my body shakes with the effort. David’s eyes widen in a split second, his nose wrinkling, his lip twitching like it aches to snarl.

  Taking a deep breath, I glare at David, while talking to Smythe. “Take me home. Now.”

  Smythe doesn’t move so I turn the glare on him. He glances at me before focusing on David. “Do you disagree with how I’m treating my ward?” The chill in his words drops the temperature in the room another degree. Or ten. Unlike when he spoke to Samantha, where his anger ran hot as lava, this time the tone of his voice reminds me of steel, cold and unmoving.

  David must sense it too since his gaze narrows on Smythe. “I’m just saying, son. She needs to be taught, not coddled. Never does any good to coddle ’em.”

  Smythe relaxes, tension bleeding out of him like water exploding from a balloon. He nods. “I’ll start her training tomorrow. She’s hurt and needs her rest.”

  “Will you come back after you return her?”

  “No.” He walks over to the long desk, stepping behind the thing and squatting to pick something up. A black laptop backpack hangs over a shoulder when he rises.

  David watches his movements, jaw tensing and releasing, as if he needs to say something and can’t get the words out. Smythe grips the older man’s arm as he walks by, that guy gesture of support women don’t often give. David pats him on his back. As if they didn’t almost come to blows. Over me.

  The bracelet isn’t the only one puzzled by their exchange of words and underlying tension.

  You’ve really fallen down the rabbit hole, Gin.

  You need to get out of my head, T. That portal cuts off our contact, and I don’t want you hurt.

  Good point.

  A second later he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts. Okay, not entirely alone. The bracelet continues to give a puzzled outlook on the whole situation. Best I can tell, it doesn’t like this too-white room. I knew the thing possessed intelligence.

  Smythe grabs my hand, his other hand held outstretched toward the wall. Murmured words reach my hearing. Unlike Samantha, he needs to speak the spell words aloud. Does that mean she’s a more powerful mage?

  A slash of light appears in the wall before us, the glow almost blinding me. I squint as Smythe pulls me into the fissure. This time I’m prepared for the nausea-inducing swirls of color, the wintry air, the fear of breathing in this space between places. It’s still unsettling. I doubt if I’ll ever adjust to taking trips this way.

  And then we’re in my living room, three sets of eyes focused on our appearance.

  T stands before Jackie and Blake, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. He takes a deep breath and points a finger at Smythe. “Lucy, you got some ’splaining to do.”

  Chapter 7

  The reference to the old sitcom rolls right off Smythe, who cocks a brow and enters into one of those male glaring matches with my brother. A pale-faced Jackie stares at me like I grew an extra appendage. One hand points to the wall behind me and I turn, expecting something or someone to be there.

  Nothing.

  When I face her, her lips are moving, but no words escape. I really don’t blame her for being shocked. If I had seen someone appear out of thin air, I’d have the same what-the-fuck look on my face, too. Blake steps around Jackie, ignores the show of too much testosterone going on in the middle of the room and walks to my side.

  His arms grab me in a hug, pressing my face against his red Texas Rangers T-shirt, the shirt he always sleeps in. He’s got to be the only man alive who has sex with his woman t
hen puts on a shirt and undies and crawls back under the covers.

  Not that I’m complaining. He’s so damn hot in bed, if it makes him happy, he can wear my undies.

  “You had me worried.” The whisper of his breath brushes my cheek while his arms tighten, his touch eliciting his favorite mountain picture. Strands of fear and concern weave between the snow-covered peaks. For once the emotional images don’t bother me. It feels good to be missed.

  “It’s a long story.”

  He takes a step back, hands on my upper arms, his narrowed gaze meeting mine. “Did he,” his eyes flick to Smythe, return to me, “hurt you?”

  “No.” I shake my head for emphasis. “Just dragged me somewhere else.”

  “How? T said you were gone. Then there was this flash of light and you appeared?” He’s still whispering, apparently not wanting the others to hear.

  Speaking of, what were the guys doing? I glance over my shoulder and check out the glares and balled fists. The air reeks of aggression.

  Men.

  I focus back on Blake. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “It can’t be as bad as you touching me and getting inside my mind. I believe that. What’s worse?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  His gaze flicks to the testosterone saturated males and widens. “You might want to stop them.”

  I turn. Both guys have shifted positions, one foot back, fingers waggling at their sides, waiting for the other to strike. Geez Louise.

  “Hey, now. Let’s calm down.” I wade into the middle of the dominance pissing match and hold my hands out. As if that’s really going to stop them if they decide to throw a punch, but it makes me feel better. They’d at least think before swinging since I’m standing in their way.

  I hope.

  “You—” I point to T “—take Jackie to bed. She looks a little surprised to see me. And you—” I point to Smythe “—you can sleep on the couch. It makes out into a bed.”

  Neither man moves. Figures. They haven’t finished marking their territory. That territory apparently being me.

  “Are you deaf?” I look between the two of them, decide the answer is a yes and give T a little shove toward Jackie. I know he won’t lay a hand on me, which is why I push him.

  I can’t say the same about Smythe.

  For a second I fear I made the wrong decision. T’s eyes narrow on me, lip turned in a snarl, an about-to-explode-like-a-certain-green-comic-hero look written across his face. I swallow, but his anger dissipates as he glances over his shoulder at the still shell-shocked Jackie and then back to me. He points a finger at Smythe.

  “This isn’t over.”

  I don’t see Smythe’s expression, but I do catch the infinitesimal widening of T’s eyes, the tensing of his jaw. Air brushes my arm as Smythe walks by us, stopping in front of Jackie. His back blocks my view of her face, but I see his hand wave between them.

  “What are you doing?” T’s at her side, truce with Smythe forgotten.

  “Nothing.”

  “Why’s everyone in the living room?” Jackie looks at T, brows wrinkled. “It’s late.”

  Smythe wiped her memory? Maybe not, but it sure looks that way. Then why wasn’t he wiping out T’s? Or Blake’s?

  Jackie giggles as she notices everyone staring at her. “What? It’s late. Come on, honey.” She tugs T’s hand, walking backward in the direction of their room.

  T allows her to lead him a couple of paces, then stops, turns, points a finger at Smythe. “Tomorrow.” Jackie gives another yank, and he follows her into the room, clicking shut the bedroom door.

  “Let me get you some sheets.” I gesture to the couch while staring at Smythe. “Blake, I’ll meet you in bed in a minute.”

  Blake shrugs, passes Smythe, and pops me on the butt as he walks past. I can’t help watching his sexy black boxer brief covered ass stride into my bedroom. Maybe my jaw doesn’t hurt so badly after all.

  Smythe clears his throat, and my gaze snaps back to him. His arms are crossed, biceps bunched, one brow cocked as if he knows what I’m thinking.

  “Sheets. Right.” I scurry down the hall, out of his sight, and grab a spare set of sheets and pillow from the linen cabinet in the bathroom.

  Back to the living room, where I push by Smythe and flop the sheets and pillow on the couch. “What did you do to Jackie?”

  “Relaxed her.”

  “You mean you wiped her mind.”

  “I found that to be a little hard to do.”

  I might be wrong, but it seems like Smythe has a sense of humor. Although maybe he just had a moral twinge over blanking out Jackie’s mind. I’m betting on the humor.

  “Why not T and Blake?”

  He shrugs. “It didn’t seem to bother them.”

  By that I assume he means our sudden appearance through a slash of light and not the fact he kidnapped me out of my house. “Good. Leave them alone.”

  His head tilts to the side. “As you wish.”

  I take a step away from him. My traitorous hormones need the distance. “You know where to find me. But I hope you don’t need me.” I make it to the hall before he speaks.

  “Good night, Gin.”

  Not turning, I raise a hand and walk toward my room, running my tongue over my cut lip. It stings a bit, but the ibuprofen worked wonders on my no-longer-aching jaw. Which is a good thing, seeing how Blake lies on his side, head propped on his hand, facing the door wearing nothing but his birthday suit and a happy-to-see-you expression.

  My gaze sweeps over his chest, continues lower, then raises to meet his eyes. “Are you happy to see me or is that a potato in your pants?” I kick the door shut and put a bit of a swing in my hips as I saunter toward the bed.

  “I’m wearing pants?”

  “Ah. Silly me.”

  “Shut up and come here, Gin.” One hand reaches for me, palm up, fingers waggling, a beckon for pleasure.

  I don’t care if I see every bad thought he’s ever had. I crave his touch like a desert craves rain. Stepping forward, I place my palm in his outstretched hand and steel myself for his rush of emotions.

  A beach greets me, sand warm under my feet, the waves breaking in a relaxing rhythm. I’ve always wanted to have sex on the beach.

  Sometimes wishes really do come true.

  Chapter 8

  When I wake, Blake is gone. Sunlight slips into the room under small gaps in the slats, the victor in the blinds’ battle to keep it out. I shut my eyes against the intrusion, willing myself back to sleep. To no avail. I’m usually awake by now and despite the fact I pretty much got no sleep, my body still thinks it’s up and at ’em time.

  I sigh, eyes squeezed tight, and touch my jaw. It feels swollen, but not as much as I expected, and oddly enough doesn’t hurt. I run my tongue over my lip and touch a scab. No pain.

  How long did I sleep? My injuries should be painful, an aching throb worse than last night. Instead, it feels like they’ve had days to heal.

  The surprise sends me rolling over, meaning to get out of bed and take a peek in the mirror. Instead I gasp and sit straight up, sheet clutched to my bare chest. T leans against the door, arms crossed, lips flat.

  “What the hell are you doing in my room?” I hiss, clutching the sheet tighter.

  “The door is fixed.”

  “Huh?” What does that have to do with him watching me sleep?

  “The front door is fixed. No hole. And the blood splatter is gone.”

  I swallow. “And that requires you to lurk in my room?”

  “He did it.” A muscle tenses in his jaw, releases.

  “Again. Why. Are. You. In. My room?”

  He shrugs. “Thought you wanted to know.”

  “Sure. But you didn’t have to wake me.”

  “What if he does something else?”

  “Like what?” Form another portal and haul my resisting ass through it?

  “You don’t think he’s going to come in here? I’ve
seen the way he watches you.”

  “No, I don’t.” Because Smythe might be a lot of things, but I’d bet good money rapist isn’t on the list.

  “Really.”

  “Don’t you have someplace to be? Like work?”

  “You think I’m going to leave you alone in the house with him?”

  Sit him on the front porch if it worries you that much. I stop myself from saying the words. Knowing T, he’d throw Smythe out the door, or attempt to, and the ensuing fight would break some of my hard-earned furniture.

  “T. You need to go to work. You can’t hang around here all day and lose your job. I’m fine. Smythe won’t hurt me.”

  “I’m not so sure about that.”

  “Well, you can’t watch me all the time.” But it’s nice to know he tries.

  He runs a hand over his shaved head. “I know.”

  “Which isn’t to say I don’t appreciate the gesture.”

  He grins. “I know.”

  “I’ll be fine. Just lock my door when you leave and he won’t be able to get in here.” Right. Smythe can wave his hand and go anywhere in the world, my bedroom included, but maybe T will overlook that little fact.

  “If you’re sure.”

  “Yep. Sure as sugar’s sweet. Now get on with you.”

  He walks over to me, gives me a big hug and a kiss on the cheek. “I can’t help it.”

  “I know.”

  One hand gives me a noogie, and then he’s out the door, the lock turning with a click. Fancy trick he has there. I get the emotion/thought reading specialty, but T possesses the really cool abilities. Locks? No problem. Ghosts? Okay, that’s often a problem, but only because he refuses to speak to them anymore, and they refuse to leave him alone.

  We’re the poster children for why mothers shouldn’t drink during pregnancy.

  I listen to the A/C whine a complaint against the heat, the only noise echoing in the house. The smell of hot coffee wafts in through the rattling air vent. Either T left the coffeepot on again, or Smythe wanders around my house, spying.

  Guess I need to discover what’s going on. And I want to check out the ole jaw.

  Dropping the covers, I head for the robe pitched over the extra kitchen table chair sitting by the dresser and slip my arms into its sleeves. Then I peer at myself in the dresser mirror.