Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “How do you explain the dog to the vet?”

  “It was hurt, and they found it.”

  “Then what?”

  “They’ll pay the bill and leave it with the vet.”

  “So who picks her up?”

  He stops and stares at me. “You’re really caught up on this dog.”

  “I’m an animal lover. Who picks her up?”

  “It’s up to the vet to find a shelter.”

  “Which vet?”

  “Pecan Grove Animal Hospital.”

  I make a mental note and nod. “Okay. Lead on oh fearless one.”

  He cocks a brow and continues into the laundry room off the kitchen. Dingy brown and yellow linoleum, fashionable in the 70s, downright scary now, hugs the floor. An ancient avocado green washer and dryer set rests against one wall. Haven’t the owners heard of energy efficient appliances?

  Apparently minions take going green to a whole new level.

  “What do you see?” Smythe asks.

  “A bunch of bad fashion.”

  “No. Over here.” I turn. Smythe points toward the doorknob as if it holds a secret treasure and it’s my job to find it.

  “A doorknob.”

  He huffs. “Quit being a smartass.”

  “Fine. I’m assuming the door leads to the garage?”

  “Yep.”

  I open the door and peek inside. A whole lot of muggy Texas heat slaps me upside the head. An oil stain bleeds into the concrete floor, the space around it free with room to park a car. Shelves filled with decaying cardboard boxes line the walls. Various pieces of lawn equipment and a table holding an assortment of tools invades the other side of the garage.

  “Unless he’s hiding out there,” I jump as Smythe’s voice brushes like chocolate syrup across my skin, “which the team’s already looked and he’s not, he jumped in a car and got away. They’re next to impossible to track in a car.”

  “Okay.” I shut the door and face him. “So now what?”

  The turn of his lips reminds me of a psychopath proud of his kill. “I work a spell to track him.”

  “You can use a spell to track him?”

  “Yep.”

  “So if you can track him this way, why didn’t we just do that from the start?” I throw up my hands. “Why follow colored strands around in the heat?”

  “It uses a bunch of energy. Why waste energy when you can use the easy way of following the minion’s trail instead?”

  Why indeed. Let’s see. Sunscreen and hotter than hell heat come to mind.

  Smythe ignores my get-real glare. “And you needed to learn how to use your justitia since you can’t work spells. Following the minion strands is how you track.”

  I suck in a breath. Close my eyes. Exhale on a sigh. Okay. Smythe makes sense. If I’m to kill minions, I need to know how to find the suckers.

  “Step back, Gin. I need to cast the spell, and it will take a minute.”

  Swallowing my last remnants of heat-induced irritation, I step to the side while he reaches around me to open the door. So much for staying inside the air conditioning. But like a mirage over asphalt, the thought vanishes when Smythe uses a finger to draw a circle about three feet across on the concrete garage floor. Curious, I lean against the doorframe, watching as he draws the circle around where he squats. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the invisible circle, hands resting palms up on his knees, eyes closed.

  Focusing on seeing the minion lines, I bring into view the red ribbon of evil. The strand runs through Smythe’s circle, through Smythe, to a spot a couple of feet back from the oil stain. Right where a car door would be if the car was still parked in the garage. No lines run out the garage door, and a quick peek around the garage shows Smythe’s cleanup crew spoke true. No minion in the garage.

  Smythe mutters words under his breath, each syllable strengthening a glowing green/gold aura around his upper body. The glow overlays the minion trail, fusing the colors together, absorbing the red ribbon into itself. He jerks like a body does when drifting off to sleep.

  But unless he’s mastered the art of sleeping while spell-casting, I doubt he’s dozing.

  One hand sweeps across the floor next to his leg, crossing the invisible line of his circle, then lifts toward me.

  “Come, Gin.”

  Swallowing, I take his offered hand, allowing him to pull me down into his lap. His eyes remain closed, but a bead of sweat bands across his forehead. A reaction to the heat or the spell?

  I’m happy to note my lack of sexual tension despite the large quantity of his body touching mine. Thank god for small miracles.

  “Hold on. No matter what, don’t let go.”

  Now don’t those words give a girl confidence?

  Uh-huh, right.

  I wrap one arm under his, the other arm around his shoulders, my hands clasping the opposite wrists, my chest flush against his. One of his arms snugs around my waist, locking me against him tight enough for his bicep to tremor from the tension. He holds his other arm bent at the elbow, palm facing out. Like he’s going to form a portal.

  But he’s never gripped me this tight to go through a portal. And don’t we have to walk through one?

  Apparently not.

  A rush of warmth surrounds me as a portal opens. I tilt my head back to stare into the sickening entrance of the in-between. The thing’s not beside us, in front of us or behind us. Damn portal has formed on top of us. On. Top. Of. Us.

  What the hell?

  My eyes expand hard enough to hurt and before I can snap them closed, the portal swallows us into its frigid depths. Kaleidoscopes of color swirl around, nauseating, blinding.

  Unlike our usual trips—if one can call using portals usual—winds buffet our bodies, gusts of ice-shards scraping across our skin like talons. No wonder Smythe clutches me to him like diamonds in a heist. What happens if we blow away in here?

  Whoever said, there is nothing to fear but fear itself, had clearly never traveled through a portal.

  A brush of warmth caresses my arm. The other side of the wormhole.

  And where we arrive makes me wish we’d stayed in the portal.

  Chapter 12

  The roar of an engine growls into the frigid light show, my first warning of trouble. Air gusts against my arm, a blast of what should be cold appears warm after the colder than outer space of the portal. My vision kicks in at the same moment the portal dissipates.

  Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit.

  My muscles tense from fear or adrenaline, I’m not sure which. Smythe has lost his ever-lovin’ mind.

  I notice the minion the same time he notices us.

  “Fucking hell!” he screeches, swerving the car to the left, as if to get away from his newest passengers. The left tires bounce across the shoulder, skid on the grass of the median.

  Yep. We’ve materialized inside the minion’s car, Smythe sitting on the front seat, me sideways in his lap facing the driving evil. Good thing Smythe still has a death-grip on me as the next yank the minion gives the steering wheel propels the wheels back onto what looks like 75 North, halfway to Oklahoma. But instead of evening out, we cross the two lanes of highway to veer onto the shoulder.

  Holy shit.

  Smythe releases me with a push. “Wheel!”

  Time slows as small details come into focus. We’re in a 70s muscle car. 70s muscle cars don’t have airbags. If the minion slams on the brakes, my ass will be splattered on the highway in a nice shatter of windshield glass.

  The minion’s eyes narrow. His leg twitches as if he read my mind.

  All that happens in a blink of an eye.

  And then I move, grabbing the steering wheel, jerking us back onto the lightly-trafficked highway. The minion elbows me, but I hang on to the wheel. I need to get the car to stop, but the nasty minion stomps on the accelerator. Using the wheel as leverage, I shift and throw my left leg across the console, shoe reaching toward the brake.

  The minion releases the gas pedal, sl
amming his jean-clad knee upward, trapping my bare shin between minion leg and the dashboard. Ouch, ouch, ouch! I glare at the minion. His shit-eating grin causes the spit to dry in my mouth. I read my death in his eyes, and shivers cascade down my spine like a waterfall of ice.

  A flash of skin to my left, and Smythe’s fist slams into the minion’s head, rocking it against the driver’s side window, hard enough to break the glass. Anyone else would be unconscious. The minion just shakes his head.

  Shit.

  Lucky for me, Smythe’s hit distracts him so he no longer focuses on me. Instead, he unfastens his seat belt, lunges across the seat and slams his fist into Smythe’s face.

  Somehow I manage to swing my right leg over the console, but before I can put my foot on the brake, the minion kicks me in the arm and ribs. The air explodes from my lungs. Pain bursts red-hot. He does it again, one foot in my aching ribs, one against my head right over my temple.

  Black spots dart across my vision.

  Movement seems sluggish.

  Shallow breaths hurt.

  I stomp on the brake too hard and bump against the steering wheel. We’re on the shoulder, but I have no memory of driving us there. I need to help Smythe, but the inside of the car spins, flickering dots flooding my vision.

  “Gin!” Smythe’s yell startles me, I need to...

  Do what?

  I can’t think straight.

  I need to...

  What?

  Fight! The silent yell screams through my veins, driving away the black spots of my vision, filling me with a healthy dose of anger.

  Adrenaline spikes through my system, making me forget about my bruised ribs, my flickering vision, allowing me to focus on the fight next to me.

  Smythe has one arm around the minion’s neck, another around his chest, both legs pinning the minion’s against the seat and console. Eyes wide, the minion faces me, staring at my right hand. No, he stares at the sword jutting from the bracelet, the silver gleaming in the glare of sunlight. A snarl splits his lips. Laughter, interspersed with garbled words, bubbles out his mouth.

  “The thirteenth! I’ll be damned. You have no idea what they want. No idea.”

  “Who’s they?” And what do they want with me?

  “Gin.” Smythe growls my name, the urgency in his tone vibrating my hair follicles to attention.

  Or maybe those prickles were from the maniacal laughter of the minion.

  The noise fills the car, turning the bright space chill with malice. He’s still laughing when I slam the sword under his ribs, into his heart. His eyes widen as the sword strikes home, the snarl permanently etched on his lips. A gray mist floats out of the wound, hissing into steam where it touches the sword. Smythe relaxes his hold, shoving the body onto the floorboard.

  The sword disappears, reforming into the bracelet, taking with it the anger flooding my veins. And my vision.

  “Oh, shit,” Smythe reaches for me, but unconsciousness embraces me first, and I fall headfirst into its soft depths.

  ****

  Warmth surrounds me, comforting, healing. Beckoning me to wake. Pulling me from the darkness. My eyes open and I suck in air, trying to calm my heartbeat’s pounding dance.

  Red eyes, surrounded by gold frames, peer down at me, unfocused, the sightless stare of the blind. White-blonde bangs brush the thin eyebrows of a pale face. A light touch brushes against my hair on both sides of my head where her hands hover above my skin. Pulses of healing energy spread down my body. Relaxing. Soothing.

  “She’s awake, Aidan.” Her voice reminds me of a child, high-pitched and vulnerable.

  She shifts to the side, keeping her hands in place, and Smythe’s head appears beside hers. I lay in the backseat of the minion’s car, staring at the ceiling, head by the open door, while the woman and Smythe squat outside. His hand touches my shoulder, squeezes.

  “How you feel, Gin?”

  “Pretty relaxed, all things considered.” The woman’s lips turn for a second, her eyes crinkle at the corners. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Eloise, one of the Agency’s healers. You were hurt.”

  Really? Never knew cracked ribs and a head shot caused injury.

  But as he noticed and did something about it, I need to be polite. “Thank you.”

  “Eloise came with the cleanup crew.”

  Why did it take me until now to notice the stench of the minion’s car? It smells like dried blood and baked death despite the car door standing open. I swallow.

  I will not puke. I will not puke. I will not puke.

  “You did really good today, Gin. Two minions. And on your first day, too.” His tone implies enthusiasm for a job well done.

  So why did he look so nervous?

  His hand squeezes my shoulder before he steps out of my line of vision.

  “I’m almost done,” Eloise says, “and then you can try to stand. Okay?”

  “Sure.”

  I close my eyes and try not to breath. Less chance of puking that way. I hope.

  Despite the violence, the injuries and the scent of death, I like this new venture. Not many of us can rid the world of evil doers and knowing I’m helping to make the world a better place gives me a shot of pride. I’m still not down with killing minions. Yes, I understand it must be done. Evil must be fought. But after having some violence done to me in my younger years, I’m not so eager to turn around and perpetrate the pattern.

  “There you go.” Eloise slides her hands to the edge of the seat. “Your head is healed. Nasty concussion. Ribs are mostly healed and will be sore until tomorrow. Aidan says you heal quickly.”

  “Thank you. Do I need to go to the hospital?” Because nothing says emergency care like a set of cracked ribs.

  Her lips flatten. Oops. I think I’ve insulted her. “I’m a healer. Who needs a hospital?”

  “I’m sorry.” I sit up, thankful my vision stays steady and my ribs barely hurt. Eloise is better than a shot of morphine. “I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m new at this.”

  Her hand touches my arm with a pat, and I’m sucked into her emotions, her thoughts.

  Blurry shapes form a landscape devoid of color. I’ve never peeked into a blind person’s mind before and the lack of visual shocks.

  Her hand jerks away and she wipes it on her thigh as if it’s dirty. “You’re an empath.”

  “How did you know that?” No one has ever known without me telling them.

  Except for Smythe.

  One hand waves in the air between us. “Never mind.” She squints her eyes, sucks in her bottom lip. “Does Aidan know?”

  “You mean Smythe?”

  One sculpted white brow rises. “He has not told you to address him by his first name?”

  “Should he?”

  “Hmm. Interesting. Does he know?”

  “About the empathetic abilities? Yes.” About other things? Hopefully not.

  “Very interesting.”

  “You mentioned that.”

  “It’s been a long time since a justitian has been an empath. Not in my lifetime.”

  As she appears to be the same age as me, I’m not sure what to make of her statement. “Oh?”

  “Come along now. The crew needs to work their magic on this vehicle.” She stands, a willowy figure dressed in a gossamer blue flowing dress.

  I climb out of the backseat, onto long brown grass waving beside the highway. Sure enough, another Agency cleanup crew mills around the car. Four men talk in hushed tones a few feet from us, two women stand at the hood and trunk, hands turned palms up. Traffic speeds by on 75, not paying attention to the group clustered around the car.

  As if they didn’t see us.

  It dawns on me the two women cast a spell to prevent prying eyes from observing the cleanup crew tampering with a crime scene.

  As my DNA litters the crime scene, more power to the two women. Magic on.

  “You no longer require my assistance?”

  At the sound of Elois
e’s voice, I turn to see her standing by Smythe. He shakes his head.

  “No. Thank you for coming.”

  “Any time. Good-bye, Gin.”

  “Thank you.”

  A smile crosses her lips as she bows her head. One hand faces up, makes a circle in the air chest high. I barely make out a portal before it swallows her and disappears.

  I blink a couple of times for good measure, but she doesn’t reappear. Smythe takes one look at my face, and his eyes start twinkling.

  “She’s more advanced at portal forming than I am.”

  You don’t say. “Was she the better student or something? She looks about our age.”

  “Remember, in my...I mean our line of work, looks can be deceiving.”

  I swallow. “So how old is she?”

  “Let’s get you home. It’s been a rough day for you.”

  So much for learning Eloise’s age. “Understate things much, Smythe?”

  He forms a portal in front of us, a riot of colors exploding in the deceptively warm breeze. His hand closes around mine, tightens. “Nah. Not me.” With a grin, he leads me into the portal.

  I think he just showed a sense of humor, while simultaneously avoiding the question of Eloise’s age. Impossible. Men can’t multi-task.

  And then the coldness of the portal sweeps away all thoughts not pertaining to survival.

  Chapter 13

  When we arrive in my living room, my hands are blanched, aching like I stuck them in snow. Hopping distances in the portal rocks, but the chill of the experience makes it difficult to get on board with the new mode of travel. How long does it take to get used to traveling in the equivalent of a deep freeze?

  Smythe strides into the kitchen as if the cold doesn’t bother him. As if he likes freezing almost to death.

  Maybe he does.

  Rubbing my crossed arms, I follow. By the time he pops open his laptop and drops into the table chair, the portal’s lingering effect on my hands disappears.

  “Whatcha looking for?” I stand behind him, peering over his shoulder. It’s not Google dancing across the screen. I shift to see better and he moves with me, blocking the screen from view.

  “Don’t you need to go grocery shop?”

  “Don’t you need to tell me what you’re doing and how old Eloise is?”