Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  A million and one shits.

  These thoughts shoot through my mind in the time it takes me to realize a guilty look sits on my face and I need to do something about it.

  Unfortunately Smythe notices.

  Shit.

  Smythe crosses his arms, his face a mask of you-did-what under a layer of smoldering rage. When he speaks, his voice growls a warning. “Tell me you didn’t give him a gift.”

  “Okay,” the curtain yanks back, showing the original medic and a couple of his friends, who push a portable X-Ray machine into my area. Original Medic closes the curtains. “We’re going to take some pictures of those ribs. See if they’re broken. Your potion is being mixed and will be here as soon as possible.”

  “Thank you.” And a special thanks for interrupting Smythe’s shocked growl.

  Maybe he’ll forget about our conversation by the time the medics finish with the X-Ray. It could happen.

  Yeah, right. Let’s face the facts here.

  I’m screwed.

  In more ways than one.

  They position the machine over my bed, which means Smythe moves to lean against the wall next to my head. He sways in my peripheral vision.

  Or vibrates with rage. Either way a chair would do him good.

  “Hey guys.” The medics pause in their machine set-up, look my way. “One of you needs to get him a chair before he falls over.” I gesture to Smythe.

  “I’m not going to fall over,” Mr. Over-confident growls.

  All three medics stop the machine set-up to take in Smythe’s exhausted face, tensing jaw and clenching fists and one of them darts out the curtain for a chair. Smythe takes the offered chair, swinging a leg over it so his arms rest against the back. His glare frosts my cheek, but I ignore him, focusing on the medics and their machine. What’s an icy cheek when demon poison courses through my veins?

  I have more to worry about than his glare. Apparently my bid to save my ass from becoming the next demon snack meant I set myself up to become Zagan’s servant.

  So why wasn’t I? If Smythe spoke true, how did I manage to stab Zagan? No wonder the demon looked so surprised.

  The answer sifts through guilt and panic. My justitia prevented Zagan’s mojo from enthralling me. So what will happen if the potion doesn’t work against his poison?

  Will I become his servant?

  The medics hit the bed with the machine, moving it enough to cause me to groan. Broken or bruised ribs scream a complaint against the movement. The pain fades. Not as much as before, but still a reduction.

  Does that mean Zagan’s poison isn’t working?

  I try to talk to the justitia and get hit with a whole lot of nothing. Is my connection to it dying? Or is it just silent?

  So many questions, not enough answers.

  But one thing I know. It’s a damn good thing OSHA doesn’t make an appearance. Apparently Agency folk aren’t too concerned about radiation safety. Neither the medics nor Smythe puts on a lead vest while they snap films of my ribs.

  Lying with my eyes closed against the pink blush of the humming florescent bulb gives time for another thought to rush through my brain. One I’ve been trying to avoid.

  How am I going to live without Blake?

  I see his bloated face as if he lies before me, the blood-red gap in his neck where Jezebeth clawed him a new mouth. Why? Why did it have to be him?

  All the tension of the day releases, an avalanche of sorrow held in check by instinctual survival mechanism. Now that I’m safe, the stress holding me together releases and tears leak from the corners of my eyes.

  “We’ll get these processed. Jason here’ll bandage up that scratch.” Original Medic wheels the machine away, taking one of his buddies with him.

  I sniff. Run a hand across my cheeks. Hope no one notices.

  Gin? T’s voice drifts into my head, the panic in his tone a slap to my psyche. Why didn’t I try to tell him I was okay before he had to ask?

  Blake’s dead.

  A long pause. I’m sorry. How are you?

  Banged up. But alive. I’ll be fine. Physically anyway.

  You sure? Because you’ve never thrown me out like that before. What the fuck did you do?

  I didn’t. The justitia—my bracelet—did. So if the justitia blocked T’s access, why is he talking to me now?

  A cold dread clogs my lungs. Demon poison. Obliterating the justitia’s influence. No, no, no. I want it back. I want to be one with my justitia, with the entity inside. I don’t want it to go away.

  Gin? What’s happening? What’s wrong?

  I open my mind, shove my memories into T, allowing him to see what happened. His shock, the rage belonging to him alone, slams into my conscious.

  You need to get rid of that thing. It’s dangerous.

  I can’t. I don’t want to.

  Gin. Take. It. Off.

  No.

  I don’t like you wearing it.

  It’s not your choice.

  What if you die? Have you thought of that?

  Death happens to all of us. You can’t stop living.

  I don’t want you to die.

  I don’t want to die either. Trust me.

  I feel him take a breath, run his hand over his head. How long until they let you go?

  I don’t know. They have to patch me up first. Maybe tomorrow?

  Jason touches my neck, throwing me out of the conversation. I feel T hovering in the back of my mind, a silent shadow of observation.

  “That’s a nasty cut, ma’am.” His southern drawl makes me feel right at home. Or as at home as one can feel lying in an infirmary ward.

  I hear the sound of paper tearing.

  “This is going to sting a bit, but we need to clean this up.” He’s right, it stings a bit. Make that a big bit.

  Ouch, ouch, ouch. At least he wears gloves. No wayward thoughts.

  “Hmm, looks like it’s healed. How long ago were you hurt?”

  I look at Smythe. I have no idea how long it’s been. Time flies when you’re having fun, or not having it as the case may be. He shrugs.

  “How healed are you talking about?” Standing, Smythe peers over my head at my neck. Lets out a low whistle. “That’s almost healed.”

  “Then why does it sting so badly?”

  “It’s still cut,” Jason says, running another round of the alcohol swab over my skin. “Great healing ability. Are you sure it was a demon’s claw?”

  “Yep. Why?”

  “Demon’s claws have poison which cuts off your connection to the justitia. The justitia is what causes you to heal quickly. So it seems like the demon had no effect on your justitia.”

  “That’s good, right?”

  “Yep. Just a little unusual. Never seen it before.”

  “How often do you see a justitian clawed by a demon?”

  “Happens whenever a justitian meets up with a demon. We’re quite efficient at preparing the potion. Luckily demons don’t like to appear on earth.”

  “Are you done here?” Smythe’s fingers tap a foxtrot against his leg.

  Jason pauses, swab resting against my skin. “Guess it doesn’t need a bandage after all.” He removes the swab, pitches it in what I hope is a biohazard bin by the bed. “There you go. All clean.”

  “Thank you.” I give him a grin as he gathers his things.

  “Anytime, ma’am.” With a nod, he slips out the curtain.

  “Did you give Zagan a gift?” Smythe all but growls the words, his voice a warped vibration.

  I swallow. I am not scared of him. Not scared. At all. He’s all bluster, no bite. At least toward me. “Um. About that. How was I supposed to know giving him my crackers bound me to him? I was trying to save my ass from being eaten by the big bad demon.”

  Smythe lets loose with enough f-bombs to sink a ship.

  I don’t like the way he’s talking to you. T interjects.

  What the hell? Get out of my head already! I give a shove and T disappears.

&nb
sp; The curtain yanks open, track balls screeching a metallic yelp at the force. David storms into my little area, the air around him crackling with anger.

  “What the fuck just happened, Aidan? We’ve got one justitian undergoing surgery to remove pressure on her brain and another one clawed by a goddamned demon. What the hell were you and Samantha doing? Day-fucking-dreaming?”

  Smythe’s out of his chair faster than a rocket liftoff, exhaustion disappearing under the smoke of rage. Why can’t men just say ‘I’m worried’ as opposed to getting all irate?

  Pesky Y chromosome.

  “Fighting our asses off is what. Don’t speak on matters you weren’t there for.”

  “I can speak on any matters I goddamned well please.” David’s hand smacks the footboard of the bed and I jump. “I’m on the board. That makes me your boss. Now what the fuck happened.”

  “It’s not his fault.” Both sets of glaring eyes turn to me as I push to a sitting position, gasping at the pain in my ribs. I suck in a breath through my nose.

  “Dammit, Gin, stop moving.” Smythe grabs the controller for the bed, raising the head until it supports my upper body. Then he props the pillow behind my head and helps lower me against the mattress. Nurse Smythe. Ahh. Discomfort taken care of, I can turn to more important matters.

  Like giving David a piece of my mind. “It’s not Smythe’s fault. I killed Jezebeth after Zagan stabbed her. Then he grabbed me and opened a portal before Smythe or Samantha could do anything about it. They tracked me to his lair and saved me.” Or Smythe tried to save me, Samantha blasted me across the room. But she did help me at the end so I decide to be magnanimous and not mention my flying act to David.

  “Zagan grabbed you?” For a second I wonder if a ghost stands behind me glaring at David. When he speaks Zagan’s name, his face pales, eyes frozen wide, a statue waiting for animation.

  “And stabbed Jezebeth,” Smythe interjects, his jaw a jutting line.

  “Zagan stabbed Jezebeth? What the fuck did you stumble into, son? A demon pissing contest?”

  “He said she’d outlived her usefulness. But she’d already killed Blake then.” I sniff. Look up at the ceiling. Close my eyes against the florescent light.

  “Blake?”

  “Her friend.”

  “Jezebeth captured and k...killed him.” Him breaks off on a sob, as a crushing pressure sits on my chest. Tears cut a path down my cheeks, returning as fast as I can dash them away.

  A tissue appears in front of my face, dangling from David’s fingers.

  “Thank you.” At least that’s what I try to say. It comes out garbled and nasally. When I grab the tissue from David, our fingers touch, electricity spilling up my arm.

  I drop the tissue. “Oops.” Pick it up.

  “Sorry.”

  What just happened? Why the electrical zing but no emotional thoughts? My justitia unfurls like a plant awakening in the spring, a subtle vibration under my skin, along my nerves. It’s alive! Zagan’s poison didn’t kill it after all.

  Now I’m sobbing happy tears.

  Until the feeling dissipates.

  “Care to tell me why Jezebeth killed your friend?” David’s tone holds none of the anger he showed earlier. Instead, it calms me, makes me want to confide in him.

  “Dad.” Smythe’s tone growls a warning, but to what? What’s so bad about me telling David what Jezebeth told me?

  I blow my nose. Dash my fingers across my cheeks. Sniff again for good measure. “Jezebeth was upset I killed her minions, so she killed Blake.” I clear my throat, blink as David’s outline blurs. “Then she tried to kill me. That’s when Zagan stabbed her and I killed her and you know the rest.”

  “Zagan released you?”

  “I stabbed him. He portaled away.”

  “But he scratched you? Or was that Jezebeth’s work?”

  “Zagan’s. Why?”

  “Jezebeth is, was, a lower level demon. Zagan is a commander of legions. The more power a demon has, the quicker the poison in their claws works.” Smythe taps his fingers against his leg, eyes narrowed as he stares at me. As if he’s trying to look inside, to see whether or not Zagan controls me.

  Damn. Guess our interrupted conversation isn’t over yet.

  “The healers are working on your potion. They’ve done this before. Don’t worry.” A muscle kinks between David’s brows. “Did Zagan tell you anything?”

  “He talked.” I shrug. “Not sure how important it was.” Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  His fingers drum against his leg for a five count. “Go on, now. Don’t keep me waiting. Spill it.”

  I don’t want to spill it. I don’t want him to know what Zagan told me. I want to keep it all to myself.

  But I’m not going to let the demon control me. Even from a distance.

  I feel like a traitor.

  “He said someone at the Agency bound him to capture me.”

  “He said what?” David’s eyes pop wide.

  I repeat it.

  “I heard you the first time. I’m having trouble believing he said that.”

  “Well, he did.” Along with a lot of other things I’m keeping to myself.

  “Well, now, don’t you believe a word that demon says. I’m sure my son here has told you all about him. The Deceiver. That’s what Zagan is. Lies. Can’t believe a word he says. You hear?”

  “Yeah, but shouldn’t the threat be assessed?” Smythe asks. “What if he told the truth?”

  A tic beats a rhythm in David’s jaw. “Why would we want her captured? She works for us.”

  “He said the Agency wanted my justitia.”

  “Oh, now that’s a load of horseshit. While I admit it’s a shock to have it bond to someone we knew nothing about, why would we want it off you? Doesn’t it make more sense to leave it where it is and train you?”

  When put like that...his logic made sense.

  But I still believe Zagan.

  “See? He’s lying to you. That’s what he does. Sometimes the justitias pick up demon’s lies. Did yours react to him?”

  “Nope, it was too excited over seeing him again.” I clasp both hands over my mouth. Why the heck did I say that? I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean to say anything more than I had to about my encounter with Zagan. What’s gotten into me?

  Mouth shut from here on out. No way in hell am I saying anything about kissing him. Or the potential for me to be his servant. At least not to David.

  I’m surprised Smythe hasn’t interjected that little tidbit of good news. Maybe he’s too embarrassed to admit his mentee gave a big bad demon a gift.

  Not that I’m complaining.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Excited?” Smythe and David speak a duet, both pairs of eyes wearing identical brow raises.

  No way out of this now. Me and my big mouth. Since when do I have a big mouth? “They seemed to know each other.”

  “Makes sense,” David says, “The justitias were made to fight demons. Zagan’s a demon. No worries.”

  “Why would I worry?”

  He waves a hand, a dismissive flip of the wrist. Opens his mouth. But before he can speak, Original Medic steps around him, a mug in his hands.

  “Good news. Your ribs are just bruised. They’ll be painful until they heal, but at least they aren’t broken. And your potion is ready.” He offers me the mug.

  A thick brown liquid swirls inside. Something tells me it’s not a chocolate milkshake.

  “Be sure to drink it down all at once.”

  With those words, I know it’s going to taste horrible. I stare at the brown sludge. Suck in a deep breath. Bring the cup to my lips. Maybe it’ll taste like a milkshake.

  It doesn’t. Thick, chalky paste slides across my tongue. Yuck, yuck, yuck. If the bond with my justitia wasn’t on the line, I’d spit the drink in Original Medic’s face. Instead I swallow. Gag. Swallow again. The potion tastes like dead vegetation, dirt covering a grave.

  A blurry grave solid
ifies in my mind, damp earth bowed outward, an image from the past. I shudder, swallowing away the remembrance.

  My stomach cramps and I double over in pain. Pain shoots through my limbs, fires my nerves into a jitterbug. The mug drops from my trembling fingers, caught by the medic before it hits the floor. Smythe and David act as if a seizing justitian is a common occurrence in the infirmary and nothing to worry about.

  Their attitude only slightly relieves my panic. Since when do seizures mean anything good?

  The justitia roars to life, the potion a rush of adrenaline to the entity residing along my nerves. I’m pretty sure I’ve stopped seizing, too enthralled by its race up my body into my brain.

  And then I’m lost in its memories. Lost in the past. Lost as it fuses its consciousness to mine, as it solidifies the bonds it started to build in Zagan’s lair. For a moment it’s an open book, a book with its pages flipping in the wind. Images and thoughts appear, only to disappear on a breath of air. I see but don’t understand. Its memories a vast ocean with currents moving through time.

  You’ll learn. I’ll help. Together we’ll overcome.

  Its thoughts echo a deep timbre through the recesses of my mind, a promise, a vow.

  Hands shake my shoulder, voices call my name. I hear, but don’t want to obey. I want to remain lost in memories, separated from reality.

  Go! The justitia commands.

  Its voice I obey.

  My lids pop open, focusing on the face in front of my mine. White lines bracket Smythe’s mouth, worry bleeding into the corners of his red-rimmed eyes. David stands behind him, eyes slits of icy blue. The medic holds my wrist in his gloved hand, fingers against my pulse.

  “What happened?” Smythe asks, propping a hip onto the bed.

  “That potion was god-awful is what. You ever heard of flavoring to make the medicine go down better?” A rasp thickens my voice.

  A corner of the medic’s lip turns. “Yeah, I’ve heard that before. How do you feel?”

  I clear my throat. “Full of bumps and bruises, but alive. The bond with my justitia is still alive. Thank you.”

  “You’re free to go home. Keep an eye on that gash. It’s healed enough to close but could give you some problems. Let us know if you need anything. And no strenuous lifting until your ribs heal. Nothing over ten pounds.”