Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

“No problem. Thanks.”

  He nods, leaves my area, closing the curtain behind him.

  “You heard him. Portal me out of here so we can go get Blake.” A lump builds in my throat and I swallow. “He deserves a decent burial.”

  “The cleaners are taking care of your friend,” David drums his fingers against his leg. “Aidan’s staying right where he is. He’s burned through magic today like a rich bitch on a shopping spree.”

  “Yeah, well at least I got Gin back.”

  “So you did, son, so you did. Now rest up.” He points at the bed next to mine, the bed hidden by the privacy curtain.

  “What are the cleaners going to do with Blake?” I catch David’s gaze. “He deserves a proper burial.”

  “I’m sure they know that.”

  “So what are they going to do?”

  David sighs. “I don’t know exactly. My guess is make it look like a mugging. That’s what they usually do to bystanders caught in the crossfire of our war.”

  “How often does that happen?”

  “Too often. Now if you’ll excuse me. I have some matters to attend to. I expect to see you rested and healed, Aidan.”

  Smythe jerks his chin at his father, one of those male nods of affirmation. David shuts the curtain as he leaves.

  “You gave a gift to Zagan?” Smythe hisses. Damn. And here I thought he forgot.

  “I didn’t know what it meant! I was trying to discourage him from eating me.”

  “Dammit Gin.” He shoves a shaking hand through his hair. “I assume he took some of your blood too? You had cuts when he captured you.”

  Heat slaps my cheeks. Hopefully Smythe will think Zagan licked the blood off my skin. Which is gross, but not as bad as him knowing what really happened.

  “Yeah. I was out of it when he first took me, but I’m pretty sure he took blood.” Like a hundred percent sure, but hey, what Smythe doesn’t know, doesn’t hurt. Right?

  Smythe’s brows slam together. “Out of it? You mean worse than when I found you?”

  Uh-oh. Me and my big mouth. I thought I swore to keep it zipped close. “I think I was dying. He healed me.”

  “Goddamn it!” Smythe throws his hands in the air, stalks to the foot of the bed. Oversized hands slam against the footboard as he leans forward, lips flattened. “You exchanged blood and a gift with a demon and then let him heal you?”

  Not in that order, but yeah. My gaze slips to the cotton sheets covering the bed. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize what I was doing.”

  He runs a hand across his head, stares at the ceiling, chest heaving deep breaths. I pull my legs toward my chest. The movement sends pain through my ribs, but it makes me feel a bit safer.

  I’m no longer so sure Smythe won’t smack me upside the head.

  The hum of the pink-hued florescent bulb echoes in the silence, punctuated by Smythe’s deep breathing exercises. His head lowers, eyes piercing me with the heat of his ire.

  “Okay. You swapped blood and a gift. Technically that makes you his to control. Although I’ve never heard of a justitian being controlled by a demon. I don’t sense the demon inside you and you fought him off. Servants can’t do that. Maybe the gift and blood exchange don’t work on justitians.”

  “I don’t feel controlled by him.” Although I want to see him again. Geez Louise. Talk about having issues. I store the thoughts away in case Smythe tries his telepathy talents again. “And my justitia is alive and well. And I just swallowed the worst tasting potion ever, which guarantees no demon poison in my veins. I think I’m clear.” I can only hope.

  Smythe’s nostrils flare. His eyes narrow to slits. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  I look at my hands. Meet his gaze. “Don’t worry. I know better now.”

  He nods, anger leaking from his pores like a punctured balloon. “I don’t want to lose you.”

  “Yeah. I don’t want to lose me either.”

  His lips twitch. “You’re going to be the death of me.”

  “It’s not like I’m trying. I just...don’t know things.”

  “I know. I’ll do a better job of teaching you. Starting with what not to do with a demon.”

  Something tells me I have that lesson down pat. But I nod anyway.

  What if I’m wrong? What if I’m really controlled by Zagan? I don’t feel controlled by anything but the justitia. And I took an antivenin potion. And I’m almost certain Smythe performed some sort of super secret guardian scan on me to verify the lack of demon presence in my body.

  All of which means I’m demon free.

  Hopefully.

  Smythe appears to need a change of topic. He’s not the only one. Questions pop into my mind. Questions having nothing to do with Zagan and everything to do with Blake.

  “What is the cleaning crew going to do with Blake?”

  He blinks a couple of times, clearly thrown by the topic change. “Want me to find out for you?”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Nope.”

  “Do you need to rest first?” The circles under his eyes seem deeper, darker, threatening.

  “Nope.” He grabs his phone from his pocket, punches a number. After a brief question and answer session, he pushes a button on the screen, replaces the phone in his pocket. “It’s as Dad said. They’re making it look like a mugging. The police have been alerted to the location of the body so he’ll be found. I’m sorry, Gin.”

  I nod. Close my eyes against the press of tears. Smythe walks to the side of the bed, rests his hand against my forearm, a warm comfort soothing to my soul. The justitia hovers in the background, its presence a buzz of energy watching, recording my thoughts, my actions.

  Having the justitia hiding out seems...natural. As if I’ve found my place in the world. As if nothing else matters but our relationship.

  Which is a lie.

  Other people matter. A lot. Or did.

  I dash a hand under my eyes. I want to go home. I want to be comforted by holding T’s hand. But I’m stuck here until Smythe recovers.

  Unless I trust another to portal me home.

  Which I don’t.

  “I’m going to my apartment.”

  “Didn’t your dad say for you to rest in the bed next to mine?”

  “I’ll heal faster in my place. Not here.”

  “Why? They can’t make you a magic potion?”

  “You don’t replenish drained magic by drinking more magic.” He shakes his head, a smile edging up his lip.

  “Then what do you do? Because, no offense, but you look worse than a stoned drunk.”

  “Gee, thanks.” He runs a hand over his eyes. “Rest helps. But there are certain...rituals I need to perform.”

  “Oh? What kind of rituals?”

  “Magical ones.” His lips twitch. I think he’s trying to be funny, but his grin fails to reach his eyes.

  “No shit, Sherlock. Elaborate.”

  “Secret magical rituals.”

  I roll my eyes. “Really? So how can you perform magical rituals when you’re drained of magic?”

  “Carefully.”

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  He pats my leg. “Let me take care of things. Rest here and I’ll come get you when I’m ready to take you home.”

  “Can I walk around?”

  “I suppose. Why?”

  “Don’t want to stay here.” Samantha being in the vicinity and all. I don’t think she’ll try anything but don’t want to risk my life on that assumption. You know what you get when you assume. “Are you sure I can’t come with you?”

  He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. “All right, but you’ll need to stay where I tell you to. You can’t disturb my ritual or it might not work right.”

  “Okay. Promise no disturbing.”

  “Can you walk?”

  “Sure.” And even if I can’t, I’m not asking him to carry me. This is an infirmary. A wheelchair is bound to be lying around somewhere.

  I swing my legs over the
side of the bed, stand. The room spins a whirling dervish. For a moment I fear I’ve been inadvertently portaled, but the motion calms after a couple of deep breaths. By the time I regain my balance, Smythe has the curtain pulled open, one hand held toward me. I grasp it and together we make our way toward the elevator.

  Chapter 26

  I snap awake, the footrest of the recliner clicking into place, propelling me upright. My heart trips an unsteady rhythm, pounding through the fog of sleep. What woke me?

  A fan hums a whirl of air, the only noise in Smythe’s apartment. The dim light over the stove casts its glow into the living room allowing me to see furniture and shadows. Nothing scary.

  The apartment consists of a living room/kitchen combo with a door to the bedroom and another door to the bathroom. Not big enough to hide a person. A quick glimpse at the front door shows it locked, the deadbolt in the same position as when Smythe turned it. For all appearances it’s only me and Smythe in the apartment.

  No light shines from under his bedroom door. None has the entire time I’ve been here. Or at least it hadn’t before I fell asleep. According to the cable box clock I slept three hours.

  Maybe a dream woke me. My dreams scattered to the corners of my mind when I woke, shadows visible but unremembered, settling with the cold touch of a shroud.

  Pulsing brushes along my nerves, the justitia watching, waiting. The flatscreen TV shows my reflection, one hand clamped over my heart, head tilted to the side, listening for all I’m worth.

  Beneath my hand my heart slows its frantic beat, relaxing as my tension subsides. A dream. A dream must have wakened me.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I lean the recliner back and close my eyes. A heavy pressure sits on my chest, the knowledge I failed Blake. I should have checked the paper earlier. Should have listened to my instincts and looked for him when I noticed him missing instead of assuming he didn’t intend to stop by. What kind of a friend am I?

  Why did he have to die? Why did he have to suffer? Alone, with no one to offer him comfort? I roll onto my side, not bothering to stop the flow of tears. If history repeats itself, I’ll fall asleep to the sound of my grief, tasting the salt of my tears.

  Sleep coats me in a tattered blanket, coming to me in fits and snatches. Dreams, ever elusive, disturb before drifting away on a wave of unease.

  And then I wake, eyes snapping open, ears listening for a threat. Light from the bulb above the stove blankets the room in a dim glow, elongating chair shadows into fingers. The hair on my arms stands at attention. Intuition as old as time freezes my lungs, sends my senses into hyperawareness.

  Something, or someone, shares the room with me. Watching. Waiting. Prickles tingle my nape. I shoot out of the recliner, swaying until a bout of dizziness passes.

  No one is in the room. Nothing but me and the flatscreen TV. And the furniture. A quick peek at the front door shows the bolt locked.

  So what’s up with the prickles?

  Light flickers under Smythe’s door, a rhythmic pulsing that pushes against my flesh. Magic, whispers along my nerves as the justitia recognizes the source.

  Magic woke me? Is that even possible?

  I take a step toward his bedroom door. He told me to stay out of his room while he performed some ritual to restore his power. Curiosity killed the cat might be an overused cliché, but it describes my current stopped-in-the-middle-of-the-living-room situation.

  What would he do if I opened the door? What if the ritual goes astray like some wayward bolt of lightning, striking me dead?

  Lights flicker under his bedroom door, thin fingers dancing to a silent rhythm. Beckoning. Warning. Pulsing streams over my body, warm hands stroking fire through my veins.

  I take a step back. Curiosity be damned. He can tell me tomorrow what this ritual involves. At least I know what’s waking me.

  The recliner welcomes me back like a long lost friend, its soft cushions pillowing my body. It takes longer this time to fall into sleep, my mind twisting a dance of torments.

  Unconsciousness beckons, a dark pull of anxiety, and I grab hold, letting it drown me in its depths.

  “Gin!” Someone shakes my shoulder, but I fight him off. He can’t have me. I won’t let him.

  “Gin!” He’s still there, persistent.

  I cry out, try to escape. Zagan can’t have me, I need to rescue Blake. But hands grab me, shake me.

  My lids flip open, optic pathways try to make sense of the face before mine. What is Smythe doing here? Oh, yeah. I’m in his apartment. No one chases me—at least not now. A dream. Only a dream.

  Tell that to my running-a-marathon heartbeat.

  “You were having a bad dream.”

  Ya think? I suck in a breath, release it on a sigh. “One of those chase ones where you never get the target.”

  “I hate those. How are you feeling?”

  I take another deep breath. A deep breath. So much for bruised ribs. “Really good. My ribs don’t hurt.”

  “That’s good. You heal fast now that you wear the justitia.”

  “I know. But it’s still weird. My ribs should be sore for some time. I should have a concussion. And a big open gash on my neck.”

  “That’s healed, too.” One finger follows the path of Zagan’s claw-mark, the warmth of his touch a pleasing distraction from the lingering dream shadows. “Only a red line. It might not even scar.”

  “That would be nice. Scars are much hotter on men than women.”

  He chuckles. “Would you like some breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” I glance at the digital display on the cable box. Eight in the morning? I slept all night on a recliner? No wonder everything feels stiff.

  Oh, wait. That has to do with used-to-be bruised ribs and a minion fight. And demon scratch.

  “I have eggs and bacon if you want.” He gestures toward the kitchen and the aroma of fried bacon smacks me in the face. Yummy.

  When we got back to his apartment last night, he fed me a frozen dinner, which was my only meal of the day. Needless to say, I’m hungry. Stomach growling starving.

  “Let me do the bathroom thing, and I’ll be right there.”

  After my bathroom trip and unsuccessful attempt at ridding myself of bed-head, a plate of food sits at the bar. I grab the accompanying fork, plop down on the barstool, and dig in. Smythe is a great cook.

  At least with bacon and eggs.

  When I finish stuffing my mouth, Smythe has the kitchen spotless, dishes in the dishwasher, cabinets wiped down. Wow, a man who can cook and clean.

  What are the chances?

  “Thank you for breakfast.” I rinse my plate, add it to the dishwasher. “So, what did that super-secret ritual last night involve?”

  “Secrets.” A grin teases his lips. I roll my eyes, cross my arms. Give him my best spill-it look. “It’s not that glamorous. I draw energy from the surrounding area and drink an herbal tonic to help replenish my strength. Then I go to sleep. Sleep’s the best thing for it.”

  “I saw flickering lights from under your door. Felt something drawing on my energy. So I got back in the recliner and the pull went away.”

  “Lights?” He cocks a brow. “What time was this?”

  “Around midnight.”

  “You must’ve been dreaming. I was asleep then.”

  “I wasn’t dreaming. Something kept waking me, and the last time I got up to see what it was, but that weird pulling feeling made me decide not to open your door.”

  A muscle knots between his brows. “I was asleep, Gin. I didn’t even use candles for the ritual. You sure you weren’t dreaming?”

  “Yeah, I am.” Right? I did wake up in the middle of the night, didn’t I?

  “Well, I don’t know what to say. I’d tell you if I did some sort of midnight voodoo.” His grin returns, but his eyes seem wary. “I bet you want to go home. Change clothes.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.” I took a shower last night, wiped the blood off my skin, but had to borrow one of
Smythe’s tee-shirts and a pair of scrub pants from the infirmary. The shirt hangs to mid-thigh, and the only good thing about the pants is the drawstring that keeps them from bunching around my ankles.

  And carrying my underwear instead of wearing it puts me in the same trend-setting class as certain celebrities.

  Smythe opens the door, lets me walk through first. A real gent. He probably just wants to stare at my ass as I walk in front.

  “Did you hear how Micah’s doing?” I face him while he locks the door behind us.

  “She’s recovering from surgery.” He walks toward the elevator and I fall into step beside him. “Since she hasn’t wakened, they’re not sure how she’s going to be.”

  “Why didn’t you call Eloise? Isn’t she the Agency healer?”

  Red flushes his neck, tinges his cheeks. “Eloise doesn’t always come when called.”

  “She always came when you asked her. Maybe you should’ve called.”

  “Micah’s not my ward. Me calling her wouldn’t have had any more effect than whoever tried calling her. She does what she wants, when she wants.”

  “So why has she healed me twice? Micah’s been with the Agency for longer than I have.”

  He pushes the call button for the elevator. Clears his throat. “She likes me.”

  “Geez, Smythe, did you sleep with her, too?”

  “We’re friends.”

  Ding! The elevator doors slide open and we step inside.

  “Friends? I know how that goes.” Intimately. Or I used to. Pressure crushes my chest, a soul deep pain leaving me sobbing. I slap both hands over my face, trying to hold back the tears.

  A heavy weight slips around my shoulders as Smythe draws me into the warmth of his embrace. One hand strokes my hair, offering comfort. In return, I blubber all over his shirt, dampening it with my tears.

  Until I have the absurd thought that if he wore a ring, it would get caught in the tangles of my hair. Then I’m laughing, snorting tears like a lunatic.

  Ding! The elevator doors open. Good thing no one but Smythe hears me laughing my head off. He probably thinks I’m crazy.

  He’s not far from the mark.

  “You okay?”

  I dash fingers under my eyes, as try to calm the laughter. “I had a silly thought.”