How apropos.
Lesson in Demon Decorating Tips 101: how to look gaudy and disgusting while still maintaining a sense of awe.
“Wow.” Are bespelled demon servants supposed to speak? Who knows? I decide to act like they can. The justitia—while telling me to act subservient—nonetheless treads away from the whole demon-servant thing. Maybe it doesn’t know anything about it. Or maybe it knows and doesn’t want me to know.
Deep thoughts for another time.
“You like? I decorated it myself.” Pride drips from his voice.
“It’s...” Awful? Gaudy? Frightening? “...wow.”
“You will be comfortable here.”
“Where’s here?”
Okay, so servants can speak but not ask questions, judging by the expression on his face.
Thank god he relaxes after giving me a squinty-eyed look.
“My home.”
Oh, right. That tells me a whole heck of a lot. I swallow the repeat question and opt for a nod.
“Come, come. Have a seat.” He gestures to a modern looking overstuffed sofa in avocado and yellow plaid, a 70s flashback of bad decorating taste. I sit, watching as he removes his back sheath, fingers the hilt of his sword. “You will throw a kink in their plans. They will not expect you to work for me. They believe I am bound to their agreement.” He slaps the sheath against the coffee table, lip pulled into a snarl. “I will tell you what to say, and then you will go to the Agency. You will tell them you are well, but since you are mine, you will gather all the information you can about the other justitians and report back to me. Understand?”
“Information on the others and report back to you. Check. How will I do that?”
“You do not know how to gather information?”
“How do I return?”
“I will find you. I wish I could see the surprise on their faces. They told me to take you, they made me promise.”
“They made you promise?” The Agency made you promise?
“Shocking, is it not?” Zagan sits beside me, close enough for the heat from his leg to caress mine. One arm stretches across the back of the sofa like a lover on a date. I keep his hand in my peripheral vision. Hoping he won’t touch me. Wishing he would. “They discovered how to make me promise and hold me to that promise. It has been many millennia since that has happened.” He looks at my justitia and damn me if the bracelet doesn’t do the invisible equivalent of a pride dance.
“How did they learn?”
“Curious little human aren’t you?” Uh-oh. Maybe curiosity really does kill the cat. Or in this instance the human. “I do not know how they learned. You will find that out so I can prevent it from happening again.”
“Yes, Master.” Right after I stab your spiky-tongued hottie ass into oblivion.
“Good girl.” He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear with his gloved finger. Does he know I’m an empath? Does he care?
“Why did they want me?”
One eyebrow rises, sliding a mask of cold smugness across his features. His hand drops to the back of the sofa. “Silly human. They don’t want you. They want your justitia.”
Chapter 24
Now I’m confused. With a capital C. Zagan claims the Agency wants my bracelet. Did Samantha do the supernatural equivalent of hiring the demon in order to take my justitia to give to someone she thinks more worthy?
Is that why she hired the minions to kill me? I thought that was because she was jealous of me and Smythe.
Although there is no me and Smythe. But still. Crazy bitches don’t need a reason to go all crazy, now do they?
And while I wouldn’t put it past her to try to kill me again, I also have a hard time believing she could bind a demon to her to do her bidding.
My memory replays the warehouse scene, right before the demon portaled me here. I see Samantha and her ward leaping out of a portal, fear in her eyes as she looks at me.
Fear.
If she asked the demon to capture me, why would she show fear? No, if she had supernatural demon binding abilities, she would have had the demon kill me, not capture me.
Unless she has something else planned.
If not her, who else? I don’t really know anyone beside David, Smythe’s father, and he seems to be in charge of things. Just because he took Samantha’s side, doesn’t mean he wants me dead.
I’m not such a fool to realize the only way to remove the justitia from my arm is by my death.
So who at the Agency wants me dead?
Smythe?
I discard him as soon as his name pops into my mind. He’s spent too much time saving my ass to want to kill me.
Unless he’s sick and tired of playing white knight to my damsel in distress.
Who else? I don’t know anyone else, but apparently knowing me is not a prerequisite for wanting me dead.
“They want my justitia?” I can’t sound anymore shocked if I tried. And trust me, I’m not trying.
“It’s the most powerful one, you know. Or maybe you don’t, being new and all.”
“I didn’t realize that.”
“Oh, yes. Most powerful. Given to the least powerful.” His eyes gleam, mirth crackling the corners with spider webs of glee. “You are a mystery to them.”
“Yeah, I know.”
“How you came to have the justitia is a mystery. Where it disappeared to is a mystery.”
“It disappeared?” Smythe mentioned this before, but as Zagan seems to have a penchant for sharing information the Agency won’t, maybe he will be more forthcoming if I play ignorant.
At the moment, playing ignorant is not hard.
And my justitia refuses to mention where it disappeared to or how it came to be in Will’s possession. Which means I can’t be choosey about gathering intel from the demon.
Zagan shakes his head. “I cannot believe the poor quality of training the esteemed Agency has done for its newest recruit. Have they not taught you anything besides killing with the pointy end of your sword?”
“Of course, Master. I’ve been learning defense moves and some basic history of the justitias.” Along with a dose of smartass and a sprinkle of making-demon-believe-you’re-his-servant for good measure.
He waves his hand as if my words emitted a foul odor. “It disappeared. They wanted it found, of course, but searching high and low did not find it. Then you appear with it on your wrist. How was that?”
“It appeared in my pocket one day at work.”
“How? Who had it?”
“I don’t know, Master.” Looky there, I can tell the truth. I have no freaking idea how the bracelet appeared in my pocket.
He sighs a whiff of blood-tinged air. My blood. A shudder starts at my nape and performs the shimmy through my body. I kissed Zagan?
Gads, what was I thinking? Oh, wait. I wasn’t.
A wave of disgust roils through my gut. I kissed a demon. Did more than kiss him. If T hadn’t chosen that moment to invade my being, I would’ve stripped and fucked the thing.
Whore! You are nothing but a worthless whore!
I hear his voice as if I stand before him, cowed, my head hung in fearful obedience. Memories slam into my mind, old memories overlaid with newer ones from the minion fight. Shivering racks my limbs as the memory squeezes me in its grip.
“...cold?”
Yes, it’s cold in my memories, cold in death. Cold skin on my lover’s face.
“...you cold?”
Yes, cold runs like ice inside my veins, turning me purple with chill. I don’t want Blake to be dead. I need him.
“Are you cold?”
A touch accompanies the words, words I realize Zagan spoke several times. My gaze meets his black-souled one. And something sparks between us.
It’s not me who looks at my lap. It’s the justitia, but I’m glad it broke the connection. Glad too Zagan broke the trance of memories.
I swallow. Getting lost in memories while trying to pump a demon for information and figure out how t
o get away from here was not good policy.
Mind in the game, Gin. Mind in the game.
I need all the brainpower I possess to escape.
Along with a dose of luck.
“I’m sorry.” I rub my hands along my arms in hope the friction would chase away memories.
“Sorry does not answer the question. Are you cold?”
“No, Master.” Just wallowing in marrow-chilling memories.
“As you wish. Now, I will prepare you for your trip to the Agency.”
“No you won’t.” Smythe’s voice booms from behind us, from the door where we entered the room. Both Zagan and I turn to face my rescuer.
Yes, I’m saved! I do a mental victory dance while forcing my body to remain still, ever the obedient servant.
“Step away from her.”
He came for me! He really came for me! And then I see Samantha standing behind him.
Fucking bitch.
Who also jumped into a demon’s lair with Smythe to save my ass.
What’s wrong with this picture?
Who cares? Not I. For the moment anyway.
Zagan stands, a snarl written on his face like grooves in sand. “Ah, little whelp. You are too late. She is mine.”
He grabs my arm, yanking me to my feet, his ungloved palm tight against my flesh. And ohgodohgodohgod the tangles of evil slam into my mind, a bursting agony. I can’t move. I can’t think.
Like before, the justitia slams my empath connection shut, locking the demon’s emotions and thoughts out. I sag. System overload. But the pain in my head fades, my vision returns. Thank god.
Zagan still holds my arm, remaining in the same place he was before I blacked out. Smythe, though, has moved into the room, Samantha and her ward behind him, playing sheep to his shepherd.
Footsteps sound behind me and I turn, watch as a regiment of minions steps into the room, lining the dais like a row of needles. When I look back to the trio, Samantha’s ward wears a pale but determined face, her eyes wide as she stares at the row of minions. Smythe and Samantha only have eyes for Zagan.
“One last chance. Let her go.”
“Or you’ll what? Get upset and burn me? You can try, but you won’t succeed. Demon flesh is impervious to flames.”
But not to a stab from a justitia.
“Gin, step away from the demon. Remember what I showed you.”
Oh yeah. He had taught me how to escape from someone holding my upper arm. The problem was I failed to remember it. Think, Gin, think.
Zagan barks a nerve-grating laugh. “Little whelp, you failed to listen to me. She. Belongs. To me. Kill the guardians, Justinian.”
And he releases my arm right when I remember what to do. Oh well. “No.”
“Excuse me?” Surprise and anger fight a war across his face.
“It’s a simple word. Two letters.” I hold up two fingers. “N and O. No.” Which apparently no one ever said to him.
Anger wins the battle, the air dropping several degrees. “You dare to say no to your lord and master?”
“You’re not my lord and master.” I swallow a lump into my churning stomach. “I faked it.”
“Impossible.”
“Believe it.” I swing my sword as a warning to step back, aiming for his stomach.
But Zagan moves faster than I do, leaping out of the way before I track his movement. The minions run into the fight as do the Agency trio. Within seconds swords sing as metal crashes together.
The demon glares at me, eyes narrowing. “You have given me your blood, your food. You cannot disobey me.”
His words give me pause. So that’s what the warning lights in his eyes meant when I handed him the crackers. Clearly the justitia blocks the demon influence, allowing me to think on my own.
“My apologies, Zagan.” He reaches for me and I slash the air in front of him. Like my justitia, I find it hard to want to kill him. I should want to rid the world of his presence and yet, I don’t.
Conflicted much?
“This is not the way it works. You are mine!” He throws a wave of energy at me, a red ball of Hell’s power. Without thinking about it, my arm comes up, blade blocking the pitch. Correction: absorbing the pitch.
Well, whatdaya know? I’m a poster child for a glow stick. Licks of color stream up my arm, cover my torso, before being sucked inside as a sponge absorbs blood. It takes my breath away. The power. The energy.
The evil.
What does that say about me? That I can absorb a demon’s power? Turn that power into my own?
I flick the sword like I’m shaking water off my hands. Power slams into Zagan, driving him back a foot. Talk about giving someone a dose of their own medicine.
Except my shot acts like a red shirt to a stampeding bull, turning it into a raging madman. Or mad-demon in this case.
The justitia fails to block the next shot, and I rug-burn my way across the red shag carpet like a go-go dancer’s boot. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Before I have time to recover, or assume a defensive posture, Zagan leaps on me, hips straddling mine.
And sex is not on his mind.
Murder, however, rises to the top of the list.
“You are mine!” His screech echoes off the stones, fading the fight around us into the background.
Note to self: do not make demons mad.
The thought barely registers before sharp pain claws my nape. His talons gouge stripes down my neck, over my collarbone, slicing through the cotton of my tank until his palm rests over my heart. My breath catches, refusing to move past my larynx.
He’s going to rip out my heart and eat it for a snack. He’s going to kill me. He’s going to...have me stab him through the neck.
What the hell?
The justitia moves my arm, drives the tip of the sword through Zagan’s neck all the way to the other side. What happened to not wanting him dead? I don’t want him dead. What the hell did I just do?
The sword hisses a searing burn as I yank it free. Zagan screams, shuffling off me like a crab, while I roll to a sit. On a minion that would’ve been a killing blow. The demon just howls, hands clasped against either side of his neck. Blood trickles through his fingers, but his screams shake the mortar loose between the stones. Dust coats the room in a fine silt.
The other justitian runs toward Zagan, sword drawn back for a killing blow. Keeping his gaze locked to mine he slams his hand against the shag carpet hard enough to ripple the floor like waves from an earthquake. Mid-swing, the justitian flies backward, landing hard on her ass, head smacking against an uncarpeted area of the marble floor with a meaty thunk. She lays immobile, the sword disappearing into the bracelet. Was she dead?
Instinct honed over years in the ER has me jumping to my feet, taking a step toward her. Zagan staggers into my path. The exit wound on his neck holds clotted blood, diminishing even as I stare. He holds a hand over the entrance wound, a look like a wounded puppy shining from his eyes.
“You hurt me.”
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was an accident.” Why am I apologizing to a demon? Especially since it’s my job to destroy them. “I thought you were going to kill me.”
His head cocks to the side. “Silly human. I cannot kill you. But I can try to turn you.” He pulls his hand away from his neck, looks at the blood, returns it to the wound. “You are mine. Even if you have managed to avoid being ensorcelled.”
A portal forms around Zagan, warm air rushing out in a fake greeting. He raises his gloved hand, palm toward me.
“Until we meet again, Justitian.”
With a burst of colors, Zagan disappears.
I sag, my breath sawing in and out like I ran a marathon.
Or almost lost my life.
But the fight with the minions rages on and the other justitian lies injured.
A minion runs toward my downed sister-in-fighting, sword extended, clearly seeing an easy kill. Not on my watch he doesn’t.
I dash toward the justitian, hoping to reach her in t
ime to block the minion’s blow. The minion sees me, narrows his eyes as he puts on a burst of speed. I arrive first, almost tripping over my feet to avoid stepping on her.
And then I’m flying through the air, crashing into a table with handcuffs and chains. Pain explodes in my ribs, my breath refusing to enter bruised lungs. I slump against the table, a chain narrowly missing my head as it falls to the floor.
What the hell just happened?
Tears blur my vision. I’m pretty certain the chain lies immobile against the floor, but I’d never know it by looking at the steel links. Which seem to sway in and out with every thump of my heart. A couple of blinks later and my vision clears. Please not another head injury. I’ve had enough of those in one day to last a lifetime.
Samantha strides toward her ward, hand glowing with energy. The minion sprawls several yards from the justitian, an obvious victim of Samantha’s energy ball.
My brain turns over with all the speed of a winter-chilled engine. Samantha holds her ward in her arms by the time I realize the bitch tried to kill me. Again.
She really shouldn’t move her ward. Possible spinal injury. But my lungs continue their protest against breathing, which makes speech a bit difficult.
Right when I swear I’m going to pass out, the lungs remember their purpose, expanding with a wheeze. No wonder they didn’t want to work, breathing is freaking painful.
Samantha screams, a frustrated cry of grief that slams against the stone walls with the force of a tornado. It looks like she’s trying to form a portal, holding her hand palm out away from her body. Or maybe she just missed hitting a minion.
“Aidan, it’s a trap! We can’t get out!” Uh-oh. That doesn’t sound good.
How can they not get out? Why can’t she form a portal and leave?
I push to my feet, using the table as leverage. Dizziness slaps me across the face, turning the room into a swimming tableau of sounds and colors. I draw in a breath. Whimper. Try another breath. Let out another whimper. Lurch toward Samantha like a drunk zombie with a broken ankle.
Demon Lore Page 22
