I stare at the ribbon, which does indeed hurdle the fence. “Do we hurdle the fence?”
“Do you want to?”
“Someone might spot us.”
“Good thinking. We’ll need to go around.” Pivoting like a military cadet, he starts back the direction we came.
I still refuse to look in its direction. It is a hunk of stone buried in the ground. It cannot hurt me. Really. It. Cannot. Hurt. Me.
I’m such a good little liar.
Putting some speed in my stride, I pass Smythe, hurrying out of the graveyard, telling the memories to stay put. Not that they obey. Not that they ever did.
“You really don’t like graveyards, do you?”
Only that one. “I have nothing against them. Just want to track the minion.”
He makes a non-committal noise in the back of his throat, something between a grunt and a yeah-right. Whatever. As long as he doesn’t fire up his computer and pry into my life.
Distraction is the key to forgetting.
We follow the iron fence around the periphery of the cemetery, picking up the colored strand on the east side, only to come to a stop. The strand crosses a busy street, forcing us to wait for the light. Unlike the minion, who from the look of things jaywalked, having the possibility of a car crashing into me did not sound like a good time.
Sweat beads along my hairline, little drops spiraling down my cheeks. My eyes squint against the sun. Note to self. Next time Smythe suggests hunting minions bring sunglasses and sunscreen.
“I’m going to burn.”
“Walk.” He gestures, striding in front to cross the six-lane street before the light turns green. As it gets me further away from my past, I choose not to complain.
A block from the intersection, the trail ends against the side of a house.
“This must be where the bloodhounds lost the scent.” Smythe points at the house.
“Does that mean the minion is inside?”
“No. Look up.”
I blink. “How did he get up there?” The trail jumped from the ground to the top of the two-story house. What was this minion? Spiderman?
“Remember how I said minions have super-strength and speed?” I nod. “He jumped.”
Lucky for me, Smythe magnanimously decides our feet should remain on the ground. The minion jumped from rooftop to rooftop the entire length of the street. But instead of dropping to the ground, his trail vanishes.
“Do you see where it went?” As I can see the trail we followed, I assume the lack of continuation has nothing to do with my emotional instability and everything to do with the minion vanishing into nothing.
“Inside the last house.”
“How do you know that?”
“Looks like the trail goes through a window upstairs.” He points and then I see it. A colored ribbon of evil straight through a window.
Bingo.
“Do I need to climb through the window?” I point, letting the tone of my voice speak for my lack of joy at the prospect.
“I find the doorbell works well.”
Whew. Scaling bricks is not my idea of a good time. Neither is walking around in this heat, but I won’t complain about it. At least not now.
“What if he doesn’t open?”
“We’ll see when we get there.”
Okay. It could be worse. I could be role-playing a spider and crawling up the waterspout. Maybe the guy won’t answer the door, and we can go home.
And what are the chances of that happening?
Chapter 11
Smythe strides to the door, me following like a lost puppy anxious to get home. Rose bushes stand sentry on either side of the barely-room-for-two porch, their scent a sweet perfume in the humid heat. Bermuda grass grows in fits and starts, fighting a battle against crabgrass encroaching on its territory. The shade of the porch’s meager overhang feels like an oasis in a desert.
I cram my body into the recesses of the shade as Smythe rings the doorbell and shift from one foot to the other, wondering how this is going to go down. Am I supposed to stab the guy as soon as he opens the door? Wait until he confesses? Force him to say why he did it?
Why did he do it? I got the impression from Smythe minions turned over their freewill when they became minions. Maybe he doesn’t know what he did. Maybe he’s as surprised by the crime as the city was.
Maybe he’ll confess and ask for forgiveness.
It could happen.
Since the chances rank someplace between slim and not likely, I need to know how to get the sword to come out of the bracelet.
I could ask Smythe. But since he was ever so helpful with the colored ribbons, I decide not to bother.
How do I get the sword to appear?
Appear sword.
Nothing. Why am I not surprised.
Footsteps sound from inside the house, dull beats against wood. The door creaks open. A middle-aged man stands before us smoking a cigarette, dull brown hair plastered against his head as if he forgot the purpose of shampoo. Red-brown splotches stain his white tee-shirt in a splatter pattern which can come from exploding tomato sauce.
Or blood.
I swallow to keep from gagging.
His boxer shorts hang halfway down his thighs, exposing white hairy legs. Black tennis shoes and white socks complete his ensemble.
GQ he is not.
Yanking the cigarette out of his mouth, he narrows his eyes and a slide of unease prickles my skin.
“Whatcha want?”
Colored red-orange strands surround his body, ribbons indicating his minion status. It’s so obvious now how to tell a minion from a normal person it makes me wonder why I didn’t notice colored strands on the minion who broke into my house last evening.
Maybe because I didn’t know how to use the bracelet then?
I swallow. What exactly am I supposed to do? Okay, I know I’m supposed to kill him, but the thought forms a cold ball of slithering snakes in my stomach. What if this guy wants a way out? What if he doesn’t want to be controlled by the minion? What if Smythe is wrong?
Can I really kill another human just because he’s covered in the colored strands of a minion?
The man drops his cigarette onto the wooden floor, grinding it with his foot. “You gonna say something?” His fingers flex.
Whimpering sounds from inside the house, high-pitched and painful, the cry of a wounded animal.
“What’s the matter with your pet?”
The man’s gaze shifts from Smythe to me, and I swallow the lump of bile lodging in my throat. Flat brown eyes regard me with the same attention an exterminator pays to roaches.
My heartbeat echoes in my ears as I fight to get my rapid breathing under control. Freaking out before the minion is not an option.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
The crying continues, loud, insistent.
“What do you call that?” I point behind him, aiming for the noise.
He shrugs. “She wants out. You’re prohibiting it. That’s what she does.”
Smythe glances at me. Thoughts move behind his eyes. A silent lesson in minion killing?
Since he leaves the next move up to me...
“I’d like to give you the chance to repent or whatever it is you need to do to get rid of the demon.”
I’m not sure who’s more surprised by my words, Smythe or the minion. Both wear identical popped-eyes, slack-jaw expressions. But the minion recovers first.
“What the fuck are you? Some sort of religious nut?”
“In a matter of speaking, yes. I’m here to save you or send you to your maker.” Okay sword, anytime you wanted to make an appearance would be good.
The man laughs. Smythe’s gaze focuses on a spot behind the minion and his jaw tenses. A second later Smythe shoves his way inside the home. The man shoves back, but we’re inside, being smothered by blessedly cool air tinged with the metallic scent of fresh blood.
“Gin!” Smythe screams my name as he wrestles with the minion. Above t
he noise of their scuffle cries the animal.
I hear a door slam and take a step forward only to come a complete stop as my gaze drops to the living room floor.
A medium-sized coal-black dog lies on the floor, covered in blood. My jaw locks.
“What did you do to your dog?” My yell freezes the fight, both sets of eyes turning to me.
“Fucking bitch.” Does he mean me or the dog? “You don’t know nothing. Nothing!” His yell snaps the hesitant part of me in half, freeing a healthy dose of anger.
It’s like I’m possessed, as if the demon in the minion hopped into my body and filled me with its anger, its rage. I become aggravated as much as the next person, but this all-consuming rage startles me with its intensity.
A wordless yell barrels from my lips as I rush toward the minion. Midway through my punch aimed at the underside of his jaw, the bracelet transforms into the sword.
“No!” Smythe yells, but the momentum of my swing carries my fist forward. The sword stabs through the flesh under the minion’s chin straight up into his brain.
Lights out, sucka.
I yank the sword out of his head, watching as he drops to the ground, dead.
“Damn it, Gin. That was the wrong minion. You let the other one get away.” Smythe’s eyes flash a disturbing snap of ice.
Wrong minion? Anger pulses through my veins, followed by surprise. “There was more than one?”
“I tried to tell you.” His jaw tenses. “Didn’t you hear him run out the back door?”
Yeah, sure, but rage at seeing the poor dog consumed me, and all thoughts focused on killing the one responsible. It seemed like a good plan at the time.
My breathing hiccups, small bursts of panic, as my gaze fastens on the dead minion.
I killed the wrong person.
As soon as the sword disappears, I drop to my hands and knees, retching.
The rush of anger dissipates as I empty my stomach onto the wood floor. How could I be so angry that I killed a man without checking it was the correct one? That my body acted without my mind weighing in?
Smythe rests his hand on my back. “Gin?”
Dry heaves shudder through my stomach, the scent of blood and death and puke mix with the pain-filled cries of the dog, and I can’t stop retching.
Tremors shake my body, the scene replaying in my mind. I’m no better than the minion. A demon might not control me, at least not one who preys on innocents, but I’m controlled by a power not my own.
I don’t like it.
I still crave it.
“Gin! Look at me!”
Smythe’s command snaps my head up. I put a hand across my mouth. I will not puke on my mentor. I will not. I swallow.
He kneels beside me, avoiding the messes staining the floor. “It’s okay. We’ll chase the escaped minion later. We need to call in the cleanup crew.”
“The dog?”
“We’ll take it to the vet.”
I nod, making sure my gaze stays trained on him and not the minion. Holding my gaze, he pulls out his cell and makes the call for the cleanup crew to come. After pocketing his phone, he grabs my arm and gives it a little shake.
“How do you treat the dog?”
Why does he expect me to know? I’m a nurse, not a vet. Then I realize he’s trying to force me to think of something besides blood and puke and minions.
Wrap an injured animal in a blanket to prevent it from biting you. Right? “Maybe a blanket? So it won’t bite you?”
He nods. Go me. I gave the correct answer. His gaze pulls me in, focuses me on him and him alone. The whimpering of the dog fades into the background hum of air conditioning, the scents of vomit and blood disappear. Nothing matters. Nothing but him and me and the blue depths of his gaze.
A piece of me screams he’s casting a spell. Screams to look away, to forget about the enthralling blue of irises flicked with yellow, the way his pupils dilate as they stare at me.
Warm air blows against my arm, unnatural, lights dance in my periphery. Portal. I should turn to see who is on the cleanup crew, but Smythe’s eyes beckon and my gaze remains fastened on his.
I’m floating in a blue-green sea, drifting in calm, my subconscious flat-lining in bliss. I hear noises, but not the rush of the ocean, the crash of waves over sand. No, these sounds fail to keep me in my calm bliss, instead, they remind me of fear, of pain, of powerlessness.
“She’s coming out of it, Aiden.”
“Fuck.” This voice I recognize. This voice is the reason for the fear. Along with the calming bliss.
A gentle touch against my cheek and I’m drifting in my sea of peace. Voices and noises don’t belong here. Wherever here is.
They fade. It’s only me and the ocean and the waves.
And the cold.
Cold?
The bliss of the ocean disappears as my conscious snaps back to reality. I’m in Smythe’s arms, held against his chest, and we’ve just come out of a death-cold portal.
I blink and look around. My living room stares back at me. “Put me down!” I smack his chest, but the effort is feeble, weak.
“Not yet.” He walks to my couch and lays me down, placing a hand over my chest when I try to rise. “Stay still. I had to put you in a trance and you’ll be a little groggy.”
Do I say thanks? Do I curse him? Do I care? “A trance?”
“You freaked out. Why?” Obviously content I’ll stay put, he picks up my legs, sits, and rests them in his lap. Aw, how sweet.
I want to bitch-slap him. Now, not only do I feel groggy, nauseous and disgusted, but since one of my body parts touches one of his, I’m horny.
Dammit.
“I killed the wrong person.”
“Any minion kill is a good kill.” He pats one of my legs. “We just needed to interrogate that one. Find out where the other one went.”
“How do you know it’s the wrong one?”
“The colors were different. Didn’t you notice?”
“Not by much, they weren’t. Red and red-orange? Good thing I’m not colorblind.”
“Most women aren’t.”
“Yeehaw.”
He huffs. “We still don’t know where the other minion is. Or what he looks like. Security camera caught him, but his face was mostly hidden.”
“So, go back to the house and look at the pictures. Maybe he’s in one of them.”
“Hey, that’s a good idea. Let’s go.” He picks up my legs and rises.
I remain in my comfy place. “Have at it. I’m not so sure I can go back over there.”
An urge to fight, to conquer, slams through me, the bracelet’s attempt to tell me to get the lead out. This time it doesn’t control me. I control it.
I think.
“It wasn’t the blood and death was it?” He squats next to me, forearms resting on his knees.
I close my eyes, see the scene again in my mind and pop the suckers open. Smythe’s blue irises hold more appeal than my minion killing. And more insight. He sees me. Into me. And understands.
Freaking scary.
“No.”
Nothing moves but the tick of the kitchen clock, a steady beat counting away seconds of my life. Smythe waits on my answer, close enough for his breath to caress the hairs on my arm. Close enough for the heat of his body to warm my skin. I should tell him what went wrong.
It’s doubtful he’ll move until I do.
“The bracelet controlled me. I couldn’t stop the anger inside when I saw the dog. I just wanted to kill the one who did that to her.” My voice drops to a whisper as I stare at his lips. “I didn’t think.”
“And not being in control scared you.”
My gaze snaps back to his, tethered to his insight. “If it controls me, then I’m no better than the minion. I’m possessed, too.”
“No, you’re not. The justitia can amplify your emotions. It can give you suggestions. But it cannot control you.”
“Then why did I become so overwhelmed with anger tha
t I couldn’t stop myself even when you yelled at me?”
“For one, it’s harder to pull back a strike than movies make it. And two, you were angry and wanted to kill the guy. The justitia merely amplified that feeling.”
“Are you sure? It felt like a possession.”
“Anger can do that sometimes. Control the person.” His gaze cuts away, as he stares at some point over my head. Remembering.
I don’t need to touch him to know what that far away look in his eyes means.
Someone else has an anger issue.
He clears his throat. “You can’t let it control you.” Who’s he talking to now? Me or himself? “So, you up for going back over there?”
The bracelet fires a yes through my veins, its excitement a palpable throb. I’m not so sure. But I’m also the one who fastened the bracelet around her wrist. Who didn’t wait to see what the damn thing was before clasping it on and letting it take over.
Guess that means I’m going back.
“You gonna spell me again?”
“You gonna freak out again?”
Was that a smile curving my lips? “I’ll try not to.”
“Still feel groggy?”
I try vertical while he watches my attempt. Instead of a crazed rave dance, the room remains still. Nausea no longer presses against the back of my throat. Both signs I interpret as a lack of grogginess. Go me. “Nope.”
“Good.” He holds out a hand and I grasp it, the warmth of his palm sinking into my soul.
You can say a lot of things about Smythe.
Unexciting was not one of them.
The portal belches us out in the living room of the minion house, smack in the middle of a “cleaning.” Interpretation: staging a scene.
“Don’t touch anything!” A white coated man yells, eyes wide, hands shaking a negative. I freeze, surprise grounding my feet to the floor. The last thing I ever thought to be involved in was staging another crime scene.
Where’s a portal when I need one?
The dog no longer lies in the living room, which I assume means someone took her to the vet. Although how they would explain her injuries to the veterinary staff boggles my mind.
“This way.” Smythe obviously has his minion-vision running as he leads the way into the kitchen, which is separated from the living room by a wall with a cutout over the sink.
Demon Lore Page 10
