“It’s a bit unusual for a minion to go after a justitian’s friend.”
I clear my throat. Bye-bye rasp. “Like how unusual?”
“I’ve never heard of it before.”
“Then how do you know that’s who has him?”
“Because of the symbol on the corner of the card. See?” He points to the barely-there symbol. “Your average kidnapper wouldn’t know that symbol. And you’re unlikely to be the one who gets the ransom note in a normal kidnapping.”
True. But the fact that a minion—or worse, a demon—kidnapped Blake makes the situation more horrific than when I thought some mobster grabbed him.
“Okay, I believe you. So why wait? Form a portal and let’s go get him.”
“First off—” he stands, puts the card on top of the newspaper “—I don’t know where this address is.” Both his hands turn palm up. “You can’t just go portaling into someplace you have no idea where it is. Who knows where you’d land.”
“But that’s what you did with the minion when you portaled us into his car.”
“No, my spell tracked the minion. I knew exactly where he was. I wouldn’t have formed a portal if I didn’t know.” He offers a hand to me, pulling me to my feet when I grasp it.
Huh. Spells as GPS. Who knew? “Then why don’t you form a spell now?”
“Too many unknown variables. We need to go to the address and see what’s there.”
“Google it then. Hurry up.” Why is he just standing there holding my hand?
“And I doubt he’s there.”
“What? Where else would he be?”
“Think about it. Why would they give us the address where he is being held in advance? They’d expect us to come get him. But if they give us the meet address, then even if we show up early, we can’t find the package.”
I drop his hand as my back teeth snap together hard enough to knock off enamel. “Blake is more than a package.”
His brows jerk up, hands raise chest-level in a classic back-off gesture. “It’s a figure of speech. Don’t you watch TV?”
“TV shows are fiction! This is real!” I point at the card, tapping it with my index finger.
“Okay. Okay.” He spreads his hands in that gesture men give to calm down a hysterical woman. “The real issue is what they want in exchange.”
Nope, not calm. Not yet. I draw in a deep breath, hold it, hold it, release the air on a long sigh. Still not calm, but at least I can talk without screeching. “The note doesn’t say anything about an exchange.”
“Well, they didn’t snag him for shits and giggles. While demons usually use people with deviant tendencies to turn into minions, that doesn’t mean they choose idiots to do their bidding. Most minions posses intelligence. They just don’t use it for the betterment of mankind.”
“Then why would they take Blake?”
“It has to be something with you, but I’m not sure what. As I said, minions don’t normally mess with the friends of justitians.”
“So what changed?”
“I don’t know!” His palms crack against the table and I jump, heart cracking against my ribs.
He’s not mad at me. Really. He’s not.
“No cops.” One finger points at me, before he strides out of the kitchen.
My breath releases on an exhale. I wipe my palms down the front of my shorts, trying not to glance at the card, trying not to remember the terror in Blake’s eyes, the blood streaked on his face.
Not looking at the card means not reading the paper for distraction since the card lays on top of the paper, so I pour a cup of coffee and stare out the window. Watching the sun bake the grass into shriveled tendrils allows my mind to churn. Rather like my stomach. A burning no amount of hot, bitter coffee can soothe.
Shitkickers tap a rhythm down the hall until Smythe appears in the kitchen fully dressed in jeans and a tight black tee that highlights the muscles of his chest and arms. I’m beginning to think the man needs a serious wardrobe overhaul.
I take a swallow of coffee, letting it burn my already raw throat, hoping the heat burns away the damp taste of death clogging my throat.
Smythe places his laptop on the table, yanks out a chair, and smacks his butt into the seat. The computer whirs to life as he raises the lid, images flashing across the screen as the familiar start-up music plays.
I continue to stare at the window, gathering my thoughts, stuffing my emotions into a hiding place deep within my mind. I need all the clarity I can get for the upcoming rescue mission. No wayward emotions allowed.
My heart pounds a nervous rhythm. Good thing I don’t have a stress test today. I’d probably flunk it. Unless having a stress level off the charts counts as a winner.
Thoughts are another matter. A barrage hits me, questions popping as fast into my mind as they leave, a constant stream of queries bringing on another round of heart pounding.
Xanax anyone?
“Okay,” Smythe says, oblivious to my climbing stress level. “I found where the address is.”
“Yeah? Where?” Cradling my mug, I walk to his chair, peer over his shoulder at the online map.
“Empty warehouse in Dallas.” He points at the screen, drawing my attention to the little bubble marking the location of the address.
“That’s not a good area of town.”
“We’ll portal in. Behind the building. Then we’ll check it out before they arrive. You ready to go?” He snaps the laptop closed, pushes his chair back.
I step to the side as his chair misses my leg by inches. Coffee jostles over the rim, its heat stinging my fingers. “Watch it!”
“Sorry. Are you ready to go? We can go check out the lay of the land.”
“Yeah. Just need my shoes. And something to eat.” I put the mug on the counter. Rinse the coffee off my hands. Then it’s off to the bedroom where I pull on a pair of socks and my sneakers. Back to the kitchen. Open the pantry. Grab a package of peanut butter and crackers, which I stick into my pocket.
Smythe holds out his hand to me, palm up, and I pitch him a package of snack crackers, too. Like me, he stuffs them into his pocket.
He speaks his portal-forming words, one hand held before him, the other reaching for my hand. As soon as my palm clasps his, I’m pulled into the iciness of the in-between, only to be spit out onto pavement half a second later.
I suck in a breath. Bad idea. Apparently abandoned means the city trash collectors refuse to come close to the building.
Or the city morgue dumps unclaimed bodies in this alley.
Smythe joins me in the hide-nose-behind-hand routine.
“Can’t you wave a hand and get rid of the smell?” I fan a hand in front of my nose. I’m no longer hungry. Trying not to gag tends to make that happen.
“Magic doesn’t work like that.”
“Why not?”
“You really want to get into that now?”
“Point taken. Open the damn door. Hopefully the stench isn’t inside, too.”
Pulling something from his pocket, he walks to the alley door, keeping a hand over his mouth and nose. I follow behind him, holding my hand over my face. Isn’t one supposed to get used to an odor, thereby rendering it less smelly?
Apparently my nose never got the memo.
Smythe drops his hand from his face so he can use both hands to work the tool. Excuse me, lockpick. A real lockpick. Just like they use in the movies when the thief wants to get into the locked building.
Bitchin’.
“So why aren’t you using magic to poof open the door?”
“Wastes the magic.”
“Huh?”
“I’ll explain later.”
Okay then. Later. One lesson on magic coming up. Once we rescue Blake and kill all the minions.
Provided I can kill one. What if they all talk to each other and learn about my weaknesses? What if they all speak the same words as that minion in San Antonio? What if they’re right? Maybe I am worthless. After all, I did nothi
ng to stop Blake from being kidnapped.
I didn’t even find the damn ransom note until this morning. Twenty-four hours of reconnaissance wasted.
I am a worthless friend.
The door squeaks open, interrupting my wallow into the swamp of self-loathing.
“I’m in.” Smythe’s voice comes as a whisper, a breath of air spoken for only my ears. “Stay close.”
Close. Check. As if there’s another option.
Surely he doesn’t think I want to continue standing in the smells-like-death alley.
I walk close enough for his body heat to warm my chest.
“I said stick close, not become one with me.”
“Keep walking. I’m almost out of that alley.” Once I cross the threshold, I swing the door shut, underused hinges squawking a protest.
The snap of the latch lessens the odor from the alley. Lessens, but not extinguishes. We stand in semi-darkness, surrounded by looming shadows. Dim light filters through high windows coated in a layer of grime.
Smythe exchanges the lockpick for a penlight similar to the one used at the hospital. Click-click. A beam of light stronger than any penlight I’ve ever used streams through the building’s twilight, turning the shadows into large pieces of forgotten machinery.
“You sure this building’s not one of those dump sites the EPA needs to cleanup?”
Smythe peers over his shoulder, shakes his head. Faces forward, walks toward the closest metal object. “It’s an old metal shop.” The beam of light dances across the metal contraption. “Company moved to a newer building.”
“They apparently left their trash behind.” I gesture toward the alley as I drop the protective shield of my nose-covering hand.
“They moved over twenty years ago. Anything they left behind shouldn’t smell like that. It’s probably dead rats.”
“That’s a lot of dead rats to produce that kind of stench.”
“We can either find the stench or find your friend.”
When put like that...”Good point. Lead on, fearless leader.”
He snorts, a grin playing against his lips. The expression fades as he focuses on bouncing the light beam across the floor. Over the walls. Up to the ceiling.
We stand inside a large room, graffiti covering the walls, dirt and a chalk-like powdery substance coloring the floor dusty white. A set of wooden stairs ventures upward toward the ceiling. No, not the ceiling, a room hidden in the corner of the warehouse. Probably at one time a supervisor’s office.
Now it’s an accident waiting to happen.
Not walking up those stairs.
“We need to see what’s up there.” Smythe’s light-beam hits the rickety stairs. I half expect them to collapse under the light’s weight.
“Have at, buddy. Those things look too dangerous. Besides, that white powder covers the stairs.”
“Good observation. Doesn’t look like they’ve been used.”
“Yep. Not even by the spray-can-wielding gangster.” The wall of the upper room gleams with a distinct lack of graffiti.
Goes to show even a vandal possesses a sense of safety.
Walking through the building doesn’t take long. One story, with the exception of the upstairs supervisor’s office and a destroyed restroom, the oversized room lies deserted of human activity.
“Activate the justitia. See if there’re any minion trails around.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” I stare at my bracelet, trying to remember how I saw the minion trails before. Did I ask it?
Minion trails activate!
Nothing.
Please, please, please?
Okay. So asking and begging don’t help.
The answer slams into my mind, the memory a plea for release. Asking and begging don’t help because the justitia wants a joining. It wants me to allow its abilities to fuse with mine. To allow an entity control of my body.
I’m not worthy. I can’t do this. I can’t.
But you can, floats through my mind. My thought? The bracelet’s? Some other entity’s?
Just when I think I’m not going crazy I realize it’s all an illusion.
“Gin? You see anything yet?”
“Not yet.”
“Try harder.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. I can do this. I can save Blake. I can prove I’m not a worthless creature.
Shifting my consciousness to my wrist, I focus on the weight of the bracelet, imagining tendrils from the silver fusing to my nerves. A sharp bite of electricity zings up my arm igniting a kaleidoscope of colors in my mind. The justitia explodes with a song of joy.
It’s ecstatic I want to work with it. Thrilled to once again be used. To be needed.
All the nerves in my body spring to life, a super-shot of energy pumping through my system ready for a fight. A fight with no minions, apparently. Instead of running loose like an uncontrolled infection, maybe the adrenaline rush should wait for the appearance of an actual minion.
And like a blast of dry air the energy evaporates.
Freaky. The damn bracelet actually heard my thought and responded.
Opening my eyes, I take a peek at the dusty room, expecting to see bands of red ribbons dotting the room. I know the justitia has activated the minion trail sensors in my eyes—oh my god, did I actually say that? I’m effing losing it—but there’s nothing outside of a faint glow around the graffiti art.
Despite the obvious, I walk around the room, looking for the ribbons indicating a minion stood here.
Apparently minions avoid abandoned buildings like the rest of the human race.
It’s not until I walk to the alley door, the one Smythe picked, that I see the trails. They remain by the door, venturing only a foot or so into the warehouse.
“The only trail in here is by the alley door.” I point and Smythe shines his light over the door. “Do you see them?”
“Yeah, but I didn’t earlier.”
“You mean you looked?”
“Of course. You think I’d just walk on in without checking it out?”
“Maybe.”
His brows slam into a vee. “What do you take me for? A fool?”
“So why didn’t you see them when we came in?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the lighting was wrong. Or my eyes hadn’t adjusted.”
“Or they came in while we were looking around.”
“We would’ve heard the door squeak.” But he runs the penlight around the door and surrounding wall. Even then I don’t see the trails heading into the warehouse. Nope, they stay by the door.
Bam!
The door jumps, shaking in its frame like a seizing patient. Where’s a spare pair of panties when you need them?
We stare transfixed and unmoving at the door as if it’s the entrance for the second coming of Christ. Metal groans, the center of the door bending into the shape of a hand. A hand reaching toward us.
And then it starts to glow Hellfire red.
Chapter 22
A faint pulsing blush tints the door, gathering strength as wood feeds a fire, until the metal hinges crackle from the heat.
“Fucking shit! Get back, Gin!” Smythe clicks off the penlight, throwing his arm out as if to push me behind him.
The justitia springs to life. A burst of adrenaline surges through my veins with the roar of an engine opened full-throttle. And this time I welcome it, embracing the energy like a long lost friend, absorbing its strength until I’m filled with its power.
Vibrations rattle the door, a subsonic blast echoing inside my bones. A stench of heated sulfur slams into the room, singeing the hairs off my nose when I make the mistake of breathing.
What the holy hell is out there?
But I know the answer even if my mind refuses to believe it.
A soul-deep answer. One imbedded in every human since the dawn of time. An instinct geared toward survival. A nervous system response guaranteed to make you flee, not stick around and fight.
Some things need no explaining.
Some things are known deep inside even if we modern humans refuse to believe such things exist.
They exist all right.
And one of them comes for me.
Bam! The door flies open, the squeaking hinges protesting the movement with a dying scream as they pop, leaving the door hanging like a human with a broken neck. Three minions walk inside, swords strapped to their backs, eyes scouting the perimeter of the room.
Guards.
A long, coal-black shadow precedes the demon into the warehouse. I’m so focused on the shadow I fail to see its entrance. Blood runs like a winter waterfall through my veins as I try to swallow with a tongue made from sand. Air, thick with sulfur and smelling like death, slams into the room, filling the warehouse with an indescribable stench.
God in heaven. How am I supposed to fight this...thing? I can’t breathe. I can’t tear my gaze from the shadow, let alone bother to look at the damn demon. How many of my fellow justitians fought one of these things and won?
Anyone? Anyone?
Or is it only me dumb enough to try?
No, that’s not true. My first night wearing the bracelet, when Smythe took me to the Agency, a demon appeared in Austin, and Samantha the bitch was sent with her ward to kill it. Since I saw Samantha afterward, it’s a pretty good assumption one can survive a demon attack.
Provided the blonde bitch didn’t ditch her ward like she did me.
No doubt about it. I have to survive this fight because I owe that bitch some payback. And I never renege on a promise.
Besides, I want Blake back. Demon has Blake, I’ll fight the demon.
Enough said.
Even if the air clogs my throat with the damp taste of loam.
Despite a sword thrusting from my bracelet, Smythe stands in front of me, a six-foot-five muscular wall of protection. At least I like to think of him as protection. Frankly, I’m not sure how much protection he offers against three minions and a full-fledged demon.
“You’re early.” The minion’s voice snaps my gaze off the demon’s shadow and onto the walking evil in human flesh.
I only see the minions. The three virtually identical minions who look like a cross between ex-military and Viking. Short blonde hair, tatted muscular arms and, I’m assuming, blue eyes, although it’s hard to tell in this light. A shadow, a long, dark, gotta-be-evil shadow, stretches across the white-coated floor, but the creature stands back several feet from the door, out of my line of vision. I don’t see Blake or his shadow. Where is he?
Demon Lore Page 19
