Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “So are you.” Smythe responds by shifting his stance, his hands hanging loose against his legs.

  “And you’re trespassing.”

  “I can say the same for you.”

  “Yeah, but unlike you, we own this place.”

  “Then maybe you can figure out what smells.” I step to Smythe’s side, giving the minion my best glare.

  And the evil-looking shadow disappears like it never existed, taking with it the stench of sulfur. Did I imagine the thing?

  Maybe, but I’m definitely not imagining Smythe’s hand clasped around my wrist like a pair of handcuffs.

  Shut the fuck up! screams through my mind.

  Oh my god. Smythe knows telepathy. His words have their desired effect, speaking being a little hard to do with my mouth hanging open. Surprise masked as obedience. When did he learn telepathy? And how for that matter? Silly me, thinking T and I were the only ones with the ability.

  What other hidden talents does he possess?

  The lead minion laughs. “Hear that, boys? She thinks we don’t know what the smell is.” One finger points at the minion to his left, jerks to the open door. “Show her.”

  In the time it takes for the minion lackey to step out the door and return with a roll of carpet under his arm, a gamut of emotions dances the foxtrot through my system. Surely he doesn’t mean to bring the smell in here turns into why does he want me to see what the dead thing is which morphs into nonononono.

  It dawns on me I’m not breathing. I draw in a breath, but it refuses to move past the lump in my throat. Which means no help for the nausea building in my gut. I’m only vaguely aware of Smythe’s grip loosening. All my attention focuses on the door, on the minion’s shadow as it elongates in the slash of sunlight. On the lumpy roll of carpet he lays on the ground. On his boot-covered foot as it kicks the carpet. On the carpet as it rolls open, exposing the cause of the stench.

  Blake.

  I clasp my left hand over my mouth. But the cry escapes, rattles the grimy windows, finds an echo in the shaking of my heart. My chest explodes with an ache so encompassing it swallows me in pain. Nothing exists in the room. Not Smythe. Not the minions. Not the disappearing demon.

  Nothing but my friend, my lover, and me.

  I want to run to his side. To breathe life into his swollen, pale body. To let him know I came for him.

  But I remain where I stand, one hand clasped against my mouth. It’s too late to breath into his mouth, to perform chest compressions until he wakes. He will not wake. Ever.

  And he’ll never know I came for him.

  Blake’s body wavers in my sight as I blink.

  He lays stiff on the carpet, face-up, blood dried in rivulets across his face. A wide gap forms a wicked smile in his neck. The grin of death.

  Son of a bitch. They slit his neck.

  Next thing I know, I stand in front of the minion who carried in Blake’s body, my sword slicing a matching line across his throat. He drops to the ground, surprise written around his widened eyes. He’s not the only one surprised. I have no idea how I got from Smythe’s side to the minion’s.

  None.

  Maybe I portaled. Maybe I lost my mind with a potent mixture of grief and anger.

  Maybe I need to get out of my head and into the game seeing how Lead Minion’s sword points my direction.

  I let out a battle cry that would do a Kung Fu master proud and charge. My sword scrapes against LM’s, metal screeching a protest as our swords fight for dominance. Pain explodes against my cheek, a backhand that sends me flying like a speeding missile. Just like it did in my house the first night I wore the justitia.

  What is it with minions and backhands?

  And why can’t I remember not to fall for the trick?

  It dawns on me mid-flight this minion is stronger than the one who showed up at my house. Stronger. More determined. Hits harder too. And if I slam into the concrete floor after flying, I can kiss my life good-bye.

  Oh fuck.

  Instead of concrete, I smack against the soft cushion of an overstuffed gym mat. The kind used by stunt people jumping off buildings.

  Yet nothing lies between me and the floor outside of my clothes.

  Not like I’m complaining. Invisi-mat just saved my last thought from being a cuss word.

  I sit up, notice Smythe dropping his hand, relief etched across his face.

  “Nice work, man.” Lead Minion nods his head at Smythe. “But she’s still mine.”

  “I’m not yours.” A flash of ouch-ouch-ouch in my jaw dissipates the longer I talk. “You killed my friend, you bastard. You’re my kill.” Standing to my feet takes a bit of effort I hope the minion fails to notice. Despite nailing a landing on a non-existent cushiony mat, dizziness spins my vision. Best guess names backhand-to-cheek as most likely cause, but adrenaline fills me with such a rush the pain isn’t even a blip on my radar.

  The dizziness is a whole other matter.

  Gin! Shut your fucking mouth! Stop egging him on!

  Get out of my fucking head! I try to force Smythe out. To form the barriers learned over years of practicing with T.

  Apparently barriers mean nothing for the man. He remains in my mind like he owns the place.

  These aren’t your average minions. They’re Demon Guards.

  Demons need guards? WTF?

  Watch out!

  This time the cushiony mat doesn’t materialize and I smack the floor with a resounding thud. Shit, that hurt. Now both sides of my face throb in unity with my heart.

  But I’ve discovered how to forget about grief. At least for the moment.

  Anger rides my veins, a boost of energy needing an outlet.

  An outlet like a minion’s face.

  How convenient. I have two to choose from.

  Pushing to my feet, I run at Lead Minion, sword extended. He meets my thrust with one of his own, and it’s another round of screeching swords. The second minion jogs over, takes a swing, the flat of his sword whacking against my hamstrings.

  It stings and will undoubtedly leave a bruise, but doesn’t cut me. Smythe stands to the side. Why doesn’t he burn these fuckers like he did the ones at the park? Why doesn’t he lob a fireball or some other magic at them?

  Clearly he’s the reason a non-existent cushiony mat broke my fall. It’s not like I magicked one of those up, and the minions sure as hell didn’t. So why’s he just standing there?

  No time to think. Both minions engage me, and the moment becomes a blur of movement. Thrust. Evade. Kick. Duck. Gasp with pain as one of them gets in a hit.

  Thank god the justitia overrules my pain receptors.

  Unfortunately it can’t do a damn thing about swelling eyes.

  Even magical bracelets have limits.

  That still doesn’t explain Smythe’s reluctance to blow these minions to smithereens.

  I’m wearing out. Not much training will do that to a person. Even if their justitia controls their nervous system. I might be moving faster than the average human, but the kicks and punches don’t come naturally.

  Something to work on when I get out of this mess.

  Both minions use the flats of their swords to smack my legs, my arms. I’m covered in soon-to-be bruises. Why aren’t they using the pointy tip of their sword? That would cause some damage. It’s almost like they want me whole. Like they’re herding me toward something.

  The back of my ankle hits a step, and I fall backward, arms flailing. One arm slaps against railing and I grab on, preventing myself from landing on my ass. I recognize where I am. Up against the rickety stairs.

  Those stairs I refused to go up earlier.

  A stench of sulfur permeates the air, overpowering the decaying death odor. I glance toward the open door. See nothing but Blake’s body lying in a wedge of sunlight.

  “No!” Smythe yells, jumping forward, his hands moving as if signing to a deaf person.

  Sparks explode from his fingers, fly over my head. I duck, but arms band arou
nd my waist, lift. I try to kick the shins of my captor, but a putrid grunt in my ear is all I get for my effort.

  And then I’m airborne, once again giving my best flying-comic-book-hero impersonation. The minions duck and I sail over their heads, all loose limbs and broken strings. Right before I become one with the concrete, Smythe magicks another cushiony mat, breaking my free-fall.

  Thank god for guardians.

  I start to sit up only to have my head slam against the almost-deflated invisi-mat. Pinpoints of light blacken my vision. Something heavy crushes my legs. Smythe yells from a distance. Or what seems like a distance. He can’t really be that far away, right?

  Head injury. Probable concussion. Need a CT scan of the head to rule out bleeding on the brain.

  Instead I get a wave of sulphur-laden death-breath blown into my face. Which oddly enough banishes the lack of vision.

  Not like I’m calling that a good thing once my eyes start focusing.

  An olive-complexioned woman sits on my legs, her model-perfect features marred by the evil smirk consuming her face. She’s dressed in a charcoal gray long-sleeve pantsuit, white ruffled top poking out at the collar. Long hair parted to the side hangs down her back, not a strand falling in her face.

  Definite sign of the supernatural.

  Her outline blurs, courtesy of a mix of swollen eyes, concussion, and grief-driven rage.

  Or her eau-de-rotten-egg perfume.

  Yuck.

  “You killed my regiment of minions!” Her voice resonates like a petulant toddler on the verge of a tantrum. “And now you must pay!”

  Geez, how cliché. You’d think after millennia of stalking the earth a demon could come up with something cleverer before it annihilated my ass.

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah. That’s what they all say.” All the cookie-cutter bad guys that is.

  Smack! Her palm whacks against my cheek, snapping my head to the side. Ouch, ouch, ouch. I’m tired of playing punching bag for a demon.

  Especially one not smart enough to pin down my wrists. Her loss, my gain.

  Making a fist with my left hand, I punch her in the temple. She sags to the side enough for me to scramble out from underneath her deceptively lightweight-looking self. I squat beside her.

  Light flashes in my peripheral field, drawing my attention away from the demon. Smythe fights the two minions using magic bursts of energy to halt their attack. Despite light knocking against the upper windows, little makes it in, so it’s hard to see. And my eyes are swollen. But Smythe looks like he’s tiring out. Although how the man who incinerated a regiment of minions with the same effort as breathing can look tired is beyond my comprehension.

  All that I noticed in the time it took for my eyes to open and close. One blink. And my attention returns to the still pissed off and snarling demon.

  Who should command all my attention.

  “You dare hit me?”

  Note to self: demons have god complexes.

  “You got a problem with that?” The words hang in the air, droplets of a poisonous aerosol, as a jolt of oh-shit-what-did-I-just-do passes through me. I smarted off to a demon. A freakin’ I-live-in-Hell-and-eat-children-for-lunch demon. Smythe stomps around my kitchen yelling, and my gut response leaves me frozen with fear. But a demon says something I don’t like and I sass it.

  Clearly something is wrong with me.

  And it’s not my bracelet.

  She blinks a couple of times, and then again for good measure. And what do you know? Sass can stop a demon in its tracks.

  For all of five seconds.

  “You should bow before me!” She roars, her breath strong enough to stop a Mac truck, let alone a human. Apparently mouthwash is unheard of in Hell. “I am Jezebeth. I am powerful! I killed your friend, the one you love. And you’re next, you worthless whore.”

  I might be sick and tired of being called a worthless whore, but the barb hits its mark. I freeze, squatting in front of the kneeling, enraged demon. She’s right. I should be face-down in fright before her. I’m not worthy of this fight.

  “Look at him!” Her hand gestures toward Blake’s body. “You killed my men. I killed the one you love. Tit for tat. But I had more men so now you must pay.”

  “You killed him for revenge?”

  “Are you deaf? Yes. You killed my minions. Do you know how long it takes to train a regiment of minions? You killed them! You and your thrice-blessed guardian.”

  Her words snap me out of my pity party. All I needed was a reason to fight, and she just gave it to me. Another reason to live. Revenge on Samantha. Not only did the bitch try to have a regiment of minions kill me, but now those minions’ demon wanted me dead.

  Samantha is going down.

  I leap to my feet, arm drawn back for a blow. Only to perform another flight routine. My breath gushes out on an oomph as I smack against the floor. Bursting lights dim my vision at the same time the demon jumps on top of me. How can such a petite-looking woman weigh the same as a horse?

  This time her knees press against my forearms, trapping my wrists along with the justitia. Her nails on one hand extend into claws, her face a mask of insane glee. My heart trips, drumming against my ribcage hard enough to flutter my tank top. Move, move, move, move, move chants through my brain and I twist in vain.

  Her other hand grabs my tank, lifts, pulling my shoulders off the ground, then slams me back. Everything flickers to static as my head bounces. The justitia dulls the pain, tries to force my body to move, to escape. But I lay there, a broken doll teetering on the edge of unconsciousness.

  Fight, fight, fight! Like washing the grime off a window, my vision clears. Right in time to see death swinging forward in the shape of claws. I force myself to watch. To watch the demon Jezebeth take my life.

  To watch her eyes widen, her hands reach for her stomach as the tip of a sword pokes out. Faster than I can blink, she slips off the sword and leaps up, spinning mid-air to land at my feet. With a roar that shakes my bones, she jumps at the one who attacked her, claws extended. I haven’t a clue how she manages to fight after being stabbed in the stomach. Clearly stab wounds don’t affect demons the same way they do minions and humans.

  I try to see around her, to see her attacker, but my blurry vision coupled with the dim light of the warehouse makes that attempt useless. As long as I kill that bitch demon I don’t care who attacks her.

  Taking a breath, I roll to my side, pausing as dizziness spins my vision. Somehow I manage to draw my feet underneath my body, push upright. The room sways, nausea threatening an appearance. The taste of bitter acid fills my mouth and I swallow. My head throbs in time with my heart, a fast-paced dance of pain. Jezebeth continues to fight, back to me, her posture slumped forward as she protects her injured abdomen.

  I suck in a breath, ignore the spots flashing along the periphery of my vision. Grabbing my right wrist with my left hand for stability, I draw my arm back like I’m swinging a bat, the ball in this case being Jezebeth’s neck. The justitia slices through her neck in one stroke.

  Which is a good thing seeing how the blow uses all my energy and I crumple to the floor, a puppet with its strings cut.

  Black blood spurts in the opposite direction from where her head lands, covering me in spatter. Nausea presses against the back of my throat. With a flash of light her body and head turn to ash, coating the floor with a fine black silt.

  Unfortunately her blood spatter remains on my tank.

  A man stands before me, holding a sword dripping wet with black demon blood. Tall, Middle-Eastern in appearance with black, wavy, shoulder-length hair, he wears a blue polo shirt and jeans, both of which are tight enough to show off muscle definition even in the dim light.

  Who the heck is this?

  A smile brushes his lips and my skin prickles as if cold fingers squeeze my chest. The justitia stills its frantic plea for me to move as the man shifts his sword to his left hand and reaches out his right. His gloved right hand. As if he knows his touch will
bother me.

  Awareness fails to catch up to relief over still being alive. I grasp his hand, allowing him to pull me to my feet.

  Bad idea. My head swims with the position change. The bracelet fires a warning at the same time Smythe yells an incoherent string of words. My gaze jumps to Smythe. He leaps over the two prone—dead or unconscious—minions on his dash toward me.

  A breath of warm air caresses my back. A fear-laden jolt sprints a dash across my flesh, a warning of situation bad turning worse.

  Warm air in an abandoned warehouse baking in the morning Texas summer sun should not send me warning-danger signals.

  Time slows, the thought hanging in my mind like dust motes floating in the air. Smythe’s legs pump faster as his eyes widen to saucers of terror. A flash of light sparks on the opposite side of the room, a portal forming. Samantha steps through, followed by whom I assume to be her ward. Both wear identical looks of this-can’t-be-happening.

  High-pitched ringing screams along my nerves, in my ears. The justitia sounding a warning a bit too late. No, not a warning.

  A greeting.

  What the holy hell?

  Smythe stops several feet from us. “Gin, step away from him.” His voice holds an edge of panic. I try to move, but the man tightens his grip, locking my hand in his grasp.

  I twist. The man holds on, yanking me against him. His arm with the sword encircles my waist, pulling me flush to his body. Then he lifts so my feet dangle. My cheek presses against his chest facing Smythe.

  Who fires a round of colored lightning flashes from his fingers, aimed at the man’s head. The man leaps forward to avoid the blast. I hear a crackle as it hits the wall, feel small pings of plaster as the wall explodes. Samantha runs toward us, fingers colored in light like Smythe’s. Both of them release their balls of energy in synchronization.

  For a split second I believe all those colors hit us, swirling around like a drunken kaleidoscope. Then an icy blast of super-chilled air bites into my skin, stealing my breath, freezing my tears to my cheeks.