Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  Minions break away from where they cluster around a figure I assume to be Smythe, forming a semi-circle with one sword-wielding minion fighting my guardian. Smythe holds his own, his sword crashing against his opponent’s as the minion presses him backward. The entire semi-circle steps forward as Smythe steps back.

  Herding him toward us.

  The sword hangs limp at my side as I stumble toward Samantha. Part of me wants to beat the hell out of her, the other half wants to crawl back into bed. Both parts want to help the justitian. It’s not her fault her guardian is a bitch.

  I think.

  Smythe locks swords with his minion opponent. Bracing his hand against his arm, he shoves the minion into the semi-circle of walking evil. Then he turns and hauls ass straight for me, boots barely making a sound against the shag carpet.

  The pack of minions follow, running after him like a pack of wolves on a hunt. Smythe grabs my wrist, yanks my arm half out of the socket in his rush to get to Samantha.

  Pain swells, disappears like makeup covers a bruise thanks to the justitia blocking nerve endings. Somehow I manage to stumble faster. Probably in self-defense of my arm.

  Samantha grabs her ward under the arms. “I can’t lift her!” Her eyes pop wide in her face, whites rolling like a spooked horse.

  “I’ll take her.” Smythe hands his sword to Samantha and swings the downed justitian into his arms.

  “You need to stabilize her head. She might have hurt her neck.” I step toward her, but my justitia remains a sword, making it a bit hard to touch without slicing through her skin.

  Samantha glares a go-die wish, which I return with one of my own. Just you wait, bitch, just you wait.

  “They’re gaining on us.” Smythe’s words have me glancing at the minions.

  Who draw closer, boots thudding in unison. Why haven’t they attacked?

  “Don’t just stand there. Move.” Smythe shoves past Samantha, ignoring my warning about stabilizing the justitian’s neck. Okay then. Why listen to the ER nurse?

  Samantha’s eyes narrow, and she points a finger at me. I roll my eyes. Whatever. I can live with her attitude problems. The minions’ attitude of not attacking bothers me more.

  Which goes to show I clearly have a case of one too many whacks on the ole noggin today.

  “Move!” Samantha gestures toward Smythe, as if I’m supposed to walk in front of her.

  Fine. Hoping she won’t push me or send me flying across the room again, I do as she wants.

  Metal and leather jingle a funeral dirge behind us as the minions pick up their pace. Boots slap a rhythm against the marble. A grunt sounds behind me and I whirl, only to see a minion engage Samantha in a fight.

  She twirls Smythe’s sword like a baton, all flash and no contact. The minion steps back, raises his sword.

  Before I can blink, Smythe’s sword flies out of her grasp, spinning through the air to land with a metallic clatter against the floor.

  “No!” Smythe yells, but what can he do with his hands full?

  Dashing to her side, I raise my arm, block the minion’s blow. My ribs screech a protest. Broken or bruised? The justitia shuts down the pain, working overtime to keep me pain free.

  But I can still feel the injury.

  And my body reacts accordingly.

  I block the minion’s blow, but the force drops me to my knees. Yet another owie. His shadow falls over me, dark and ominous. Air whistles as he swings his sword toward my neck.

  Throwing myself to the side, I land on the marble floor. Owie number...what is the count now? Two? Yeah, two too many.

  A blast cracks above me, lightning flashes striking the minion in the chest, throwing him backward, his sword flying from his hand.

  Samantha stands with her glowing left hand held toward the minion. Her right stretches in my direction. The air vibrates around me, static forms along a path shooting from her fingertips. Metal scratches along the marble floor followed by a whoosh of air over my head.

  Smythe’s sword lands in her outstretched palm like a homing pigeon.

  I meet her gaze. “Thanks.”

  She nods.

  Teamwork. Putting aside your grievances to get the job done.

  “Go, go, go!” Samantha waves at Smythe, urging him into the room Zagan brought me to when we arrived, the two of us following at a run. Or in my case a lurch.

  It’s the same room Smythe, Samantha and the justitian landed in. Maybe they can form a portal in the smells-like-fire-and-brimstone room and get us out of here.

  Minions cluster around the open door like nuts on a chocolate bar. Samantha holds out her hand and—praise all that’s holy—a portal forms.

  “Where?” Smythe turns to her.

  “The Agency. Go!”

  Apparently guardians don’t need to touch the portal creator to enter. Since I trust Samantha about as far as I can throw her—and right now that wouldn’t be an inch—I grab Smythe’s arm hard enough to leave a bruise.

  “Omph.” He sucks in a breath at my grip, raising a brow as he looks down at me.

  I don’t trust her.

  He shrugs, steps into the portal. Maybe he read my mind, maybe not, but the end result is the same. Freedom.

  The cold steals my breath, freezes tears on my lashes, my cheeks. And then we land in the white room, stumbling forward as if pushed.

  Or I stumble. Smythe shakes free of my grip and strides across the room, places the injured justitian on the floor.

  “Call the medics!” He snaps at the young geeks sitting at the row of computers.

  One of them picks up a phone, rattles off the request into the mouthpiece. The other two act like injured justitians and battle-worn guardians popping into the room happens so often it’s not worth a second glance.

  I melt into the floor, legs refusing to hold my weight, collapsing into a boneless mass reminiscent of the wicked witch of the west. Samantha helps my descent into oblivion by shoving my kneeling self over in her rush to get to her ward. I should be mad, but the marble floor leaks a cooling salve across my bruised body. My justitia responds by disappearing the sword into the bracelet.

  Samantha drops to her knees beside her ward, dropping Smythe’s sword like it burned her hand. The sword clatters against the marble floor. Smythe gives her a go-to-hell glare as he picks up the sword, cradling it in his hands as if it were his beloved child. He runs a palm over the blade, across the hilt as a shudder shakes his shoulders. When he stands to sheath the sword in a back harness I’d never noticed before, he catches sight of my dissolved ice cube impersonation.

  His face morphs into lines of worry, lips part, eyes widen. “Gin?”

  I lift a hand off the floor, wave it back and forth. “Hey.”

  It takes him less than a second to reach my side. Another second and he kneels, fingers grasping mine, white lines forming around his lips like cracks in dry earth. “You’re hurt.”

  “Hello, Mr. Observant.”

  “But still a smartass. Guess it’s not as bad as it looks?” The white lines of his lips ease, although concern continues to bleed from his eyes.

  “I’ve been better.”

  Crash! I about jump out of my skin as the door leading out of the white room slams into the wall. White-clad personnel of what I assume to be the paramedic type dart into the room, swarming around Samantha and the justitian, ants surrounding a treat.

  “We need someone over here!” Smythe hollers, gesturing toward me.

  One of the medics leaves the swarm, lands by my side, rolls me onto my back. Pulling a penlight from a pouch, he shines it into my eyes in the classic check-the-injured-for-a-concussion move performed daily by thousands of medical providers.

  “Doesn’t look like you’ve lost a lot of blood. Minion sword catch you?” He rummages through his pouch on a search for who knows what.

  “Demon claw.” The medic and Smythe stiffen, hiss in a breath. My gaze darts between the two white-faced men. Surely they’ve seen a demon claw a justit
ian before. I doubt I’m the first in however many millennia this fight has been raging. And I doubt Zagan’s claw was poisoned. If that was the case, I’d be dead.

  But my heart-rate picks up speed, hammering against my ribs with breath-stealing accuracy. “What?”

  “Which demon, Gin? Jezebeth or the other one?” Smythe’s fingers tighten around mine.

  “The other one. Does—” I try to ask, does it make a difference, but Smythe drops the f-bomb like he wants to blow apart the room.

  Guess it makes a difference.

  Thud-thud! My heart smacks against my sternum, panicking in spite of my mental command to calm down.

  “We’re going to have to move her to the infirmary. I don’t carry the potion for a demon scratch in my pouch.”

  Way to be prepared, medic. “Why not?”

  “It needs to be made fresh.” The medic gestures to his buddies, who have moved Samantha’s ward to a stretcher, and are strapping her down for transport. “We need another stretcher.”

  “I can walk.”

  “I’ll carry her.” Smythe reaches an arm under my knees, behind my back, and lifts me. My ribs scream a protest as he shifts me in his arms. A fine tremor runs through him, into me, as the muscles in his face tense.

  “I can walk.” Because I’d rather lurch along as opposed to having him drop me. And did I mention the rib pain?

  Which vanishes at the thought, relegated to a corner like a child in timeout. Still there but being quiet. For the moment.

  “No.” His tone brooks no argument, the final say-so in the matter.

  Okey-dokie then. But if he drops me on my ass, I reserve the right to chew his to pieces.

  The medic walks a fast pace behind Smythe, trying to keep up with his long strides. We get to the elevator right when it arrives for the stretcher. Smythe crams us into a small sliver of space between the stretcher and the side of the elevator, turning sideways so my head doesn’t smack against the wall. Samantha holds her ward’s hand, her face as leached of color as her hair. She looks as if she pulled an all-nighter three nights in a row and then ran a marathon. Exhausted circles play raccoon around red-rimmed eyes. She strokes the back of her ward’s hand, a gentle gesture meant to calm, to show support.

  Her ward lays oblivious, face pale against the white sheets of the stretcher. The elevator rattles a hum as it rises, counting floors with a subdued ping. Sweat and blood overlaid with chemical cleansers form an odor unique to hospitals.

  I try not to gag. It’s completely different when it’s my sweat and blood as opposed to one of my patients’.

  The elevator glides to a stop, pinging our floor with a tone reminiscent of a funeral. When the doors swoosh open, the medics run the stretcher out, dashing to the area opposite from the elevator.

  The room reminds me of an old-fashioned infirmary. Beds line the sides like tired soldiers, forming an aisle to the opposite side of the room where a steel exam table sits like a beacon for blood.

  Or injured justitians.

  Medics rush the stretcher to the table, shielding the view with a privacy curtain that hangs from the ceiling on a track. White-coated professionals yank aside the curtain, pulling it closed behind them.

  Smythe carries me to one of the beds, sets me down with all the awkwardness of a large man holding a baby for the first time. My ribs squawk in pain, fade to background noise. The same medic who attended me in the white room steps to my bed, pulling a curtain around us.

  “We need to prep the demon antivenin potion to prevent the poison from spreading.”

  “What poison? Am I going to die?” I don’t feel poisoned. Injured, sure, but not poisoned. But not all poisons make you foam at the mouth or have convulsions or bleed out.

  Some are silent killers.

  No, no, no. Please God, don’t let me be poisoned.

  “I’ll be right back.” He leaves, the clack of the curtain’s track beads on the ceiling swallowed in a burst of noise from the opposite side of the room. From the sound of it, things aren’t going well for the other justitian.

  Or, apparently, for me.

  “Am I going to die?” I grab Smythe’s hand, squeeze for all I’m worth. A tremor starts in my chest, forcing my heart to gallop as if I ran a triathlon.

  He eases onto the edge of the bed, looking almost as bad as Samantha. Black circles form half-moons under red-rimmed eyes. Lines play etch-a-sketch in his pale face.

  No wonder his arms tremored when he lifted me. Why didn’t I notice how exhausted he looks when we were in the white room? How can I call myself a nurse and miss that level of tiredness?

  “Not die. Not exactly.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Used too much magic. It’s draining.”

  “I appreciate it.”

  His lips twitch. “You’re welcome. But I’m not sure I helped.” His free hand passes over the slice in my skin left by Zagan’s claws.

  “Lesson learned. Never piss off a demon.”

  “Yeah. Good luck with that. They come pissy.”

  “Get the elevator! We need to get her to surgery. Stat!” One voice yells directions, interrupting my about-to-be-asked question. Both Smythe and I focus on the action behind the curtain, holding our breaths as if that helped the justitian improve. A ding sounds as the requested elevator arrives.

  “It’s here! Hurry, hurry, hurry!”

  The squeak of rushed stretcher wheels hurries through the room, disappearing into elevator, doors swooshing shut behind it. I swallow. I could have been on that stretcher instead of her. Sobering thought.

  I take a deep breath. Nothing I can do to help her. Might as well learn what Smythe’s cryptic words mean. “So how do I not exactly die?”

  “When a demon scratches a justitian, the poison released can separate the bond the justitia has with the wearer. Permanently.”

  My gaze falls onto the justitia, onto the silver links of the bracelet. Was this my chance to get away from the thing? Do I even want away from it?

  While my nervous system leaps into a the-sky-is-falling-run-run-run mode, my mind remembers finding the bracelet in my pocket. The joy when it bonded. The fear my tentative grasp on normality ended with its discovery. Being possessed by an entity. Self-doubt over my skills as a justitian. Worry about whether or not I am worthy enough to wear the justitia. The rush of killing evil. The knowledge I can help others. The ecstasy when the justitia forged new pathways along my nerves, when it bonded with me in a way it hadn’t bonded in hundreds of years.

  When I knew it hadn’t truly bonded in hundreds of years.

  And in that panic-stricken moment I realize I don’t want to live without my justitia. Mine. I belong to it as much as it belongs to me. Oneness. Possession.

  “Where’s that potion?”

  Chapter 25

  “They have to mix it. But one of the medics should be back to tend the rest of your injuries. What happened?”

  I assume he means how I got hurt as opposed to how I let a demon capture me. “Samantha threw me.”

  “What?”

  “A minion was heading toward what’s-her-name? The justitian?”

  “Micah.”

  “Yeah. Zagan threw Micah—”

  “Wait a minute. Zagan?”

  “The demon who captured me. Anyway—”

  Smythe’s grip on my hand hurts. “Zagan was the one who captured you?”

  “Yes. Did you want to hear how Samantha blew my ass across the room for trying to help Micah or not?”

  “Zagan?”

  I take that as a negative on the flying act. “What part of his name do you not understand?”

  “The part where he captured you. Are you sure it was Zagan?”

  “That’s who he said he was. Why would he make up something like that?”

  “Zagan is a deceiver, a liar. And a demon. Who knows why he’d make up something like that.”

  “He explained the runes on my justitia.”

  “Runes?”


  I flop my wrist onto his leg, twisting it back and forth so he can look at the runes etched into the metal.

  “See? There’re three sets of them. The first set is the name of the original wearer. The second set is the name of the bracelet. Which, by the way, is completely unpronounceable. The last set is Zagan’s name. He said this justitia was made for him.”

  Smythe holds my hand, peers at the bracelet. “Are you sure he spoke the truth? I’ve never heard the runes meant anything.”

  “The justitia reacted like it was the truth. I believe him, Smythe. He said someone at the Agency hired him to take my justitia. Said the Agency wanted it.” I whisper, not wanting a prying set of ears to overhear our conversation.

  “You can’t hire a demon.” Smythe shakes his head. “You bind them to you, and it’s a stupid thing to do. Even if you’re stoked with magic.”

  “Well, that’s what he said.”

  Smythe rolls over my words like they don’t exist. “And why would the Agency want your justitia? It’s useless by itself, and we thought the line died out. Why would we want it?”

  “I don’t know! I’m just telling you what he said.” I yank my hand out of his grasp, giving him my best what-the-hell glare.

  “What else did he say?”

  I open my mouth, intent on telling every word from Zagan’s mouth, until I remember the light in Zagan’s eyes as I gave him my crackers. His kiss. How part of me enjoyed it and wanted more.

  No way in hell am I mentioning to anyone—with the exception of T since he was, in a way, there—Zagan’s kiss and my resulting whacked out feelings for him.

  “He wanted me to come back here and gather information for him about the Agency and the justitians. Figure out how whoever it was knew how to bind him.”

  Smythe’s eyes pop wide. “What the hell made him think you’d do that?”

  “He said I was his servant.”

  “What a bunch of shit. See what I mean about being a deceiver? You can’t become a demon’s servant unless you give them some of your blood and a gift in exchange.”

  Your gift is worthy. Oh, fuck. I gave the big bad demon a gift. And a bloody kiss. And let him heal me until I soaked in his power.