“Thank you Samantha. Sorry to bother you.”
“I’m happy to help, David.”
Lying bitch. Sure, she returned to the scene of the crime, but only to try to find my dead body. But why? Was she that big of a purist that she’d want me dead?
“See?” David taps his phone screen before slipping it into his pocket. “I told you she wouldn’t set you up. It was a misunderstanding.”
He’s got to be kidding. He believes her? Of course he does. He knows her. He doesn’t know me.
Righteous anger trumps helpful self-talk. “I think I know when I’ve been set up, and it was no misunderstanding. She meant for the minion to kill me!” Smythe steps to my side, puts a hand on my shoulder, tugs. Yeah, yeah, he’s probably right, I shouldn’t be yelling at my new big boss.
I step back. David’s lip twitches as he sighs.
“Let’s say you’re right. Why?”
“I don’t know! She’s crazy?”
“She’s not crazy. If you come up with a valid reason, come back and speak with me. Until then, I bid you good-bye.” He gestures toward the front door.
He can’t throw me out! He hasn’t even taken me seriously. Whether good or bad, I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “She’s jealous. She wants Smythe and thinks I’m in the way.”
David looks at me, blinks, then starts laughing. “You have got to be kidding me! She’s the one that broke it off with him. I doubt she’s jealous. Now run along. And son, practice on your training. And hers. Good night.”
“Sorry to bother you, Dad.”
“Stay out of trouble, son.”
He didn’t believe me. Not at all. Thinks I’m a liar. An ache stabs into my chest, a serrated knife wound. I know I speak the truth. I know she set me up.
Didn’t she? Did I misunderstand her?
I did not misunderstand. David doesn’t want to believe me. A sense of frustration like a foreboding slams into me, spreading the chest ache across my torso, burying it deep into my soul.
Injustice. He’s never going to discover the truth. Doesn’t care to know. Would rather believe a lie.
Smythe grabs my arm. I look over my shoulder at David, glare at the man. His blue eyes narrow, start to submerse me in their depths, control my reactions, my thoughts. But Smythe yanks my arm, breaking the connection, forcing me to follow him as he pulls me out the door.
Did David really try to get into my mind, or was it a case of overactive imagination? Normally I’d side with the imagination, but Smythe had once before pulled me into the depths of his gaze, controlled my reactions. Who’s to say his father can’t do the same.
My favorite mentor hits the elevator button as if he’s trying to push it off the wall. Tension rolls off him, a palpable wave of anger. When the elevator doors open, he shoves me inside, pushing the lobby button.
“I believe you,” he growls.
“I thought you couldn’t imagine her setting me up.”
“I couldn’t. But she lied. I can always tell when she lies. I want to know why.”
“Stop at her floor. We’ll settle this once and for all.”
He shakes his head. “Fighting is not the way. We’ll discover what she’s doing, collect evidence, and put a stop to it.” His smile looks every bit as evil as his father’s do the Devil proud expression. Except his doesn’t make me wary. “Then we’ll show that evidence to Dad and let him choke on it.”
Chapter 18
“A little aggressive, there, huh?”
“I wouldn’t really hurt him. He just pisses me off sometimes.”
“I understand.” He has a normal relationship with his father.
Unlike me.
“You do? Your old man made you crazy, too?”
In more ways than one, sits on the tip of my tongue, but the words fade into nothing as the minion’s face floats in my mind’s eye, his voice a flaying whip to my soul.
You’re nothing but a whore! A wasted piece of human flesh. You’ll never amount to nothing. Useless tramp!
Whose voice spoke in my memories? The minion’s from tonight? Or my father’s? Past and present melds together, erasing Smythe and the wooden paneling of the elevator. Forcing me into the past with all the speed and gentleness of a tornado.
Sounds of flesh smacking against flesh splat against my ears, each noise bringing a burst of pain. The pungent odor of under-bathed man mixed with cheap whiskey assaults my nostrils as spittle beads on the sides of his lips. The coppery taste of blood fills my mouth as I lay on my back, carpet fibers burning into my skin.
My hand reaches to the side, fingers scrabbling until they grasp cold metal.
A brush of air. A meaty thunk.
Quiet.
The chirp of insects. The feel of grass beneath my battered body.
The sound of Smythe screaming unholy rage at my attackers.
Past swims into present swims into past.
I reach my hand out, smack it into wooden paneling. Wooden paneling of an elevator. An elevator with Smythe.
Present. Not past.
“Gin?” A touch on my arm. A concerned voice.
My eyes open. I’m slumped against the side of the elevator, mostly upright, totally embarrassed.
No one can know what happened. It’s a secret T and I promised to share forever.
Ding! The elevator sinks into place, doors opening to a hallway.
“I’m sorry. I’m tired, worn out, hyped up, and frustrated. I must’ve blacked out.” My voice sounds weak, so I paste on what I hope is a happy grin. Fake it until you make it.
Smythe’s brows slam down as his gaze pierces through my lie. He knows. He just doesn’t realize the reason.
Damn it. I used to be a much better liar.
Or maybe I never met anyone who saw through my defenses.
Freaking scary.
I step into the hallway, looking both ways. Which way to the white room, or as Smythe likes to call it, the landing area?
Doors snap close on a whoosh behind me as Smythe steps to my side.
“You should go home.”
“Great idea. Thank you.”
I’m silent as we walk down the hallway, push through a door into the white room. Silent as Smythe opens a portal, grasps my hand, pulls me into frigid coldness.
What can I say? I completely freaked out on him back there. He asked an innocuous question. One I’ve answered in some form or fashion before.
Doesn’t everyone want to know about your family? Your parents? Of course they do. Of course I’ve answered his question before.
So why the hell did I freak out on him this time?
And of all people to lose it on, I chose Smythe. Smythe. I mean, why couldn’t I chose someone like Jackie who wouldn’t think anything’s out of the ordinary if non-ordinary smacked her on the ass?
Instead I freak out on Mr. I-can-hack-into-the-police-internal-website-and-find-out-anything-about-anyone.
Good going, Gin.
I’m so caught up in my own drama, the outcome of our little trip through the land of freeze doesn’t hit until we arrive in my living room. Until T’s curious gaze lands on me.
Until he speaks.
“How was it? Did they arrest that bitch?”
My emotions snap from freaked out to frustrated in under a millisecond. Must be some sort of a record. And I have two of the three F’s covered.
If Blake shows up I’ll have all three.
Just not in the way the saying meant.
“He didn’t believe me.”
“Why not?” T’s fingers curl as he faces Smythe.
“He’s known Samantha longer and is more likely to believe her side of the story.”
“What about you?” T challenges Smythe with a glare.
Smythe’s lips flatten. “She’s lying. And I’m going to find out why.”
“Just not tonight,” I interject. “I’m tired.” And emotionally drained after my journey through the land of the past. And frustrated. And let’s not
forget disappointed that Blake forgot to show.
“You work tomorrow?” Smythe asks.
“I work from three to eleven.”
“We’ll train before you go to work.”
“What kind of training?” T asks.
“Learning fighting stances. How to access her powers. That type of thing.”
“Can I watch?”
“No.” No way. I could just see it now, T landing a punch to the side of Smythe’s head for some fighting move he tried on me.
If I wanted to learn, T needed to be nowhere around.
“Why not?”
“She needs to learn without any interference.”
As usual Smythe has a point. But do I want to learn? What good am I really? My bracelet was forged to have the advantage over minions. And how did I show that advantage?
By getting my ass kicked.
But you’re just learning, my inner voice notes.
Doesn’t matter if I’m a newbie. Why am I even bothering fighting? Not to say the minion was right—I know I’m not worthless—but why have I bought into this super-slayer gig?
Do I really want to save the world?
Do I really care?
What do I want?
For once, the bracelet remains silent, as if it knows I need to grasp things on my own without its help.
A smart nerve-joining entity. Just what a girl needs.
“I’m going to bed.” The male testosterone contest comes to an abrupt stop as both men stare at me. “What? It’s after midnight. It was a long day at work and it doesn’t help knowing someone wants me dead and the big boss doesn’t care to find out who. See you tomorrow.”
Ignoring the stunned looks, I give them my back. Two good-nights follow me down the hall as I make my way to my bedroom and close the door.
Emotionally drained barely touches the surface of how I feel. Where is Blake when I need him? It’s not as bad as seeing Will lying in a pool of blood, but knowing Samantha wants me dead and the Agency’s top man chooses her side evokes the same reaction as watching bullies pick on a kid and being unable to help.
Memories replay in my mind of the fight tonight. Of losing. Of remembrances conjured from the minion’s words.
All of which make me itch for a slip out of reality. To become dependent upon things I’ve learned to do without. Which is why I need Blake. Since he said he’d try to come over tonight, calling him was out of the question. No use in guilting him for not doing something he hadn’t planned on doing.
Maybe T was right. Maybe I’ve put too much stock in a relationship that’s going nowhere fast. Or not going at all.
Being friends with benefits was not a relationship.
So why do I feel like I’ve fallen hard for him?
My life is such a mess.
I want things I can’t have. I have things I don’t want. Itches bite.
I drop my clothes over the chair, pull on my nightshirt, and turn out the light.
Footsteps thud against wooden floorboards before T’s door squeaks closed. I imagine Smythe sitting on the couch, laptop in hand, pouring through the internet, trying to figure out why Samantha wants me dead.
At least he believes me. Even if he disregards the reason I gave.
I walk to the bed, sit on the edge. Memories loom in my mind, a rash of poison ivy, an endless itch threatening my sanity.
When younger I controlled them the only way I knew how, through drugs and alcohol, both of which in large enough quantities counteract my empathic abilities. Give me the ability to forget, if only for a moment.
I swallow, a memory forming, this one more pleasant. Another way of applying anti-itch lotion for the addict.
A deeper, darker, more powerful hit.
Forbidden pleasures.
My fingers stroke across the silver links of my bracelet. It also possesses the power to shut down my emotions, to render me powerless, a slave to its bliss.
But it remains quiet. Respectful of my decision.
If I even have one.
Darkness beckons, a pull I’ve never been able to resist. My feet slide cool against waxed wood as they walk to the window. One hand pulls the cord, raises the blinds, the other unlocks the window.
I stare at the pane, swallow. Yes, I can conqueror the inner demons by opening the window. But do I want Smythe to know my secret?
Letting loose a sigh, I lock the window, lower the blinds. Walk back to the bed and remove my nightshirt. Cool sheets brush against my back as a knot forms in my stomach. Air from the vent above the door blows across my bare skin, puckering my nipples with a lover’s caress. My breath hitches.
I roll to my side, reach into the nightstand drawer, pull out my vibrator. The darkness inside howls, wanting the better fix, the one that soothes my soul. But I can’t always get what I crave when I crave it. Past experience proves my battery-operated BFF eases tension.
And I don’t mind explaining its noise to Smythe.
Giving the window a last glance, I flip a girl’s best friend on and allow it to drown me in a wave of fake bliss.
Chapter 19
Light creeps through the blinds, mixes with the heady scent of fresh coffee and frying bacon in a wakeup call to my senses. I lay tangled in sheets, naked as the day I was born, reaching for something on the other side of the bed that eludes my grasp.
Probably because nothing is over there but the other half of the mattress.
The previous night’s frustration disappears in a rush of sunbeams, conquered by a magic deeper than time. I feel relaxed. Whole. Ready to meet the world.
Curious as to why Blake never called.
I’m not sure what it says about me when I’m more concerned over him than Samantha plotting to kill me.
Coffee beckons. No use in thinking until I’ve had a cup. Or three.
One shower and some clothes later and I leave the bedroom, walk into the kitchen.
Smythe sits at the table, laptop open and running, a plate of bacon and eggs to one side, a steaming cup of tea on the other. A full pot of coffee sits on the coffeepot, steam circling a dance around the lid. The clock on the wall ticks off the seconds of my life. Nine in the morning.
Which means T has already left for work.
So has Blake for that matter.
I need to stop fixating on my friend with benefits.
“Oh, hey.” Smythe turns, cracks a grin. “I made extras if you want it.” One hand gestures toward the stove. Sure enough a couple of strips of bacon and a scrambled egg sit in a skillet. “Did you sleep well?”
My gaze snaps from the stove to him. Does he realize how I almost fed the beast clawing gouges in my veins? It’s not a secret I’m willing to share.
Along with other things best left dead and buried.
Things are only suspicious if you make them appear that way. Quit gaping and start talking, Gin. “I did, thanks. You?”
Like a homing beacon, I head toward the coffee. Grab my extra-large mug out of the cabinet and pour a cup. Two sips later and I’m ready for some of that food. My stomach lets loose with a growl and I realize it’s been since yesterday lunch that I’ve eaten.
It’s a wonder I don’t feel faint from lack of food.
After making my plate, I sit at the table across from Smythe.
“So, what’s on the agenda today?” Sticking a bite of bacon in my mouth, I chomp down, release a moan of delight. Just the way I like it. Cooked through but not crispy.
Apparently Smythe knows his way around the kitchen.
At least as far as bacon and eggs are concerned.
“A bit of training before you go to work.”
“This tastes good.” I wave the half-eaten strip of bacon his way. “Where’d you learn to cook?”
He shrugs. “Got tired of eating takeout when I moved into my apartment so I taught myself. Glad you like it.”
“What else can you do? Hack into the police website, save my ass, cook. Pretty talented there, Smythe.”
“Y
eah? I’m pretty good with my hands, too.” He waggles his fingers, eyes crinkling at the corners.
And before I can blink, my libido fires off, locked and loaded, ready for action. I just bet he’s good with his hands. I can imagine a dozen places those talented fingers can dance across my skin before he drops them back to the keyboard.
Gulp. “Nice to know. I’ll keep it in mind.”
“I’ve been trying to learn why Samantha set you up. It’s not going well.”
“Oh?” I speak around a mouthful of food. Nothing like demonstrating good home-learned manners.
“She didn’t leave a traceable trail. No emails, texts or calls. Probably contacted the minion on a prepaid cell phone.”
Swallow. Food always tastes better cooked by someone else. “Can you trace that?”
“Not unless I find the phone. Since I haven’t been able to find evidence she set you up, I’ve started to look at why.”
“She’s a bitch and hates my guts.”
“Lots of people hate others and do nothing about it.”
“Most people aren’t able to call up minions and have them do their bidding.”
“She shouldn’t be able to either.” His fingers drum a word-punctuating rhythm against the table. “Guardians don’t talk to minions. We help our wards kill them.”
“So how did she manage it?”
“I don’t know. But I’ll figure it out.” The drumming morphs into a single tap, a wordless promise.
“I’m telling you. She thinks I’m white trash and shouldn’t be wearing the justitia.”
“The justitia has a right to choose who it wants to wear it. It chose you. At that point it ceases to matter what she thinks of your...background. You and it are one. She knows that.”
Maybe not. But arguing the point with him seems like a lesson in futility, so I let it drop.
“So why is burning minions bad? David mentioned it last night.”
Smythe pauses. Swallows. “You don’t harm the demon. Only the swords can hurt a demon. Burning minions just roasts flesh.”
My nose wrinkles, an involuntary reaction to the thought of burned minion. Good thing I’m finished eating.
Demon Lore Page 16
