Armen sipped on the coffee Terry brought her while flipping through the book once more. Its pages refused to speak to her this day, and she finally closed it with a heavy sigh. Ashtoreth clouded her mind. It worried her that Terry had said the name aloud that day on the way to his father’s house. Just the mere gesture of a whisper could invoke a demon. On the other hand, it probably didn’t matter much; the demon would come no matter what, as foretold by the book. And the book was, after all, the book of God.
The oven buzzer went off, startling her to the point of jerking the cup in her hand and spilling coffee on the table, narrowly missing the book. “Fuck!”
Terry chuckled. “Sorry. A bit jumpy?”
“What the hell do you think?” She took another sip, the divine caffeinated beverage hitting her taste buds, warming her tongue for a millisecond. “It’s Friday, for the love of—” She cut herself off, not wanting to say the name she knew to be her Father’s, nor the one humans called him by.
“If it makes you feel better, I’m experiencing the same.” He opened the oven door and bent over to pull the bubbling mass of doughy goodness from within.
Armen shifted her eyes to ogle Terry and felt an overwhelming urgency to strip the man down and mount him. She slid her tongue over her lips and blinked, trying to expel the oncoming thoughts with a shake of her head, but the notions still lingered. Blinking again, she bit her lower lip, and shifted in the chair. Her breath staggered and heat overtook her body. Soon, she found herself pressing Terry against the counter, kissing him in a desperate attempt to subdue her desires.
Terry pushed her away at first, but soon gave in to her persuasive advances, letting her mouth attack his neck. “Armen,” he said, nearly breathless. “Wha—”
She shushed him and continued down his neck. She yanked his shirt up and pulled it off.
“But—”
She pressed her fingers against his lips, and slid one finger into his mouth.
He pulled back, releasing her finger. “Armen, no.”
She looked up at him and pouted. “It’s okay, Terry.”
“Are you sure? I thought you wanted to wait in case . . . you know, you get sent back.” He struggled against her to keep his pants on.
She laughed, her hands fighting with his. “Oh yes, I’m sure.”
Finally, he grabbed her by the wrists. “I don’t think you’re in the right frame of mind to be doing this.” He studied her eyes intently.
A tiny spark of flame reflected from her eyes to his.
“I’m in a perfect state of mind.” She moved her arms swiftly, twisting them down and outward to switch who had a grasp on whom. Surprise took over his face, and she pressed her body against his.
“Armen,” he whispered as her face drew closer.
Her mouth took his, and soon he freed his hands and wrapped his arms around her waist, lifting her from the floor. He turned her around and sat her on the counter, running his fingers up into her hair. Armen locked her legs around his waist. He ran his hands down her back to the hem of her shirt. She helped him pull it off and grabbed his face, pulling him in for another heated kiss.
He broke the connection, breathing hard. “This isn’t you.”
The book flipped open, and brilliant light flooded the kitchen. Armen yelped and quickly unlocked her legs from Terry’s waist, her hands over her mouth and her eyes wide. She pushed Terry aside and jumped off the counter, running for the table and dropping to her knees before the book.
“Father, please—” Her voice was a raspy whisper, hands clasped together, tears filling her eyes as she rocked on the floor. “Please don’t send me back there.”
Terry’s phone rang, and he moved to answer it. “Hello?” He hummed an answer, and then paused.
“Please, Father, don’t—”
“Yes, Dad,” Terry replied softly. “I’ll tell her.” He hung up the phone, and the light from the book died down as he moved over to Armen. Terry knelt beside her fallen form and touched her arm. “Armen, sweetie, it’s okay. He’s not mad at you.”
She sniffled and slowly opened her eyes. “He’s not?”
Terry shook his head and sat on the floor next to her. He leaned over and pulled her into his arms and partially onto his lap, and he ran his fingers through her hair. “No, He’s not.” He kissed the top of her head. “You weren’t yourself.”
Armen shook her head. “No, I wasn’t.” Her body trembled involuntarily.
“And I’m too close to you,” he added. “I didn’t have the strength to stop you. I’m . . . I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault. You’re only human.”
He chuckled. “Why does that sound like an insult coming from you?”
She met his eyes, anguish filling her. “I didn’t mean it to be.”
He smiled at her and slid his fingertips down the side of her face. “I know.” He kissed her forehead. “We’re going to have to be extremely careful the rest of the day.”
Armen nodded.
“I saw her in your eyes.”
She looked up again. “You did?”
“Your irises were rimmed with fire, but I couldn’t stop. And here I thought to dismiss the lust aspect of her.” He sighed and shook his head. “I should know better.”
“Yes, you should.” She curled up in his arms.
“I’m sorry.”
She ran her hand in a soft sweep up and down his forearm. “I wonder why me and not you.”
He chuckled. “Probably because I’m a man. Lust is a given. It would be too easy.”
Armen laughed at his attempt to joke, and he looked down at her with a smile.
“There’s my girl.”
She hid her face against his still bare chest.
“I still haven’t taken you to dinner, have I?”
“No.”
“Well then, how about Sunday night?”
“I’ll need to go shopping.”
“I’ve already bought it.”
She jerked her head up to see the smirk on his face. “You have? Shoes too?”
“Yep,” he said.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I don’t have to do anything, Armen. I do things because I want to.”
Armen lowered her gaze. “Aren’t you afraid of being this close to me now?”
He smiled at her and kissed her forehead again. “I’ve never been afraid of you, Armen, and I never will be.”
“Then why did it take you so long to talk to me?”
“That’s different. You’re talking about a different kind of fear.”
She sat up and turned to face him. “Have you had a serious relationship before? I mean, did something bad happen?”
He raised his eyes to hers, studied her a moment, and he gave her a weak smile. “I see my Aunt Bev has let the cat out of the bag. It explains the manicure thing, which I can’t picture you doing at all.”
“She didn’t mean to—”
He held a hand up to stop her. “It’s okay. It’s probably better that way. It’s difficult to talk about.”
“Even now?” After he confirmed her question with a nod, she drew in a deep breath and sighed. “Then we’ll discuss it when you’re ready.”
“Thank you.” He pulled her close again, wrapped his arms around her, and gently kissed her temple. “Armen, you’re not wearing a shirt.”
Armen chuckled. “Does that upset you?”
“Not at all. You can walk around shirtless anytime you want to.”
“You’re not wearing a shirt, either.”
“Nope.”
When she shivered, he helped her to her feet, grabbed her shirt from the countertop, and pulled it over her head. Once the shirt’s hem was at her waist, he sighed and slipped his arms around her, pulling her close again.
“They didn’t call the night Banshi attacked.”
“True.” He laughed. “I wonder what that’s about.”
“Ash . . . she’s very powerful.” She couldn’t
bring herself to say the demon’s full name. They’d already said it once, and Armen was certain it was the reason for what had just happened. She’d never been taken over by one of them before. Demons didn’t tend to possess their own kind . . . but Armen wasn’t one of them anymore. She was human now. She opened her eyes and smirked at Terry. “You’re still shirtless.”
“Yeah, but I’m a man, so I can get away with it.” He winked. “Come on, let’s eat.”
Three hours swept by, and they got ready for work and headed in. It was interesting riding to work with Terry, intriguing that they both wanted to listen to the same radio station, but what fascinated Armen most was when she pecked Terry on the cheek in the middle of the lobby in front of everybody. When she turned to look back at him, Terry had wandered off with a smile on his face. She quickly covered her mouth to hide her own, and stepped into the elevator.
“What was that?” a woman about Armen’s height said when she walked into the elevator behind her. Armen turned to find long black spirals, one lock of which hung right over a bright blue-green eye. Both the hair and eye color were striking against her olive skin.
“Hi, Jasmine.” Her face warmed with a blush. “What was what?”
Jasmine grinned, one crook of her mouth curving and signifying that Armen had been caught in something simply sinister. “Did I just see you kiss Terry Armstrong on the cheek?”
“Oh, that,” Armen replied. “It’s nothing.”
“Riiight. That smile of his sure said it was nothing. So, are you two dating now, or what?”
“Actually, I’m staying with him until I can find a new place to live.” She quickly looked at Jasmine. “I’m staying in his spare room.”
“Uh huh. Yeah, I heard your condo burned up.”
“How’d you hear about that?”
“Oh, you know, the grapevine, since you didn’t call me; news travels swiftly through these parts. Did you lose everything?”
Armen stared at the elevator doors, ashamed she hadn’t called. Wow. She was really getting the hang of this human thing. “Everything but one painting.”
“That’s gotta suck. Is there anything I can help you with?”
“Nah, I’m good. I’m just waiting on the insurance company. That may take a while.”
“No shit.” The elevator doors opened and they both stepped out and headed down the hall. “So which painting was it?”
“Goya.”
“Surreal, considering some of the gossip filtering through the vine.”
“What did you hear?”
“Something about demons.” She cocked a brow. “That true?”
Armen only gave a nod.
“Damn. Guess it’s looking like Armageddon these days.”
“You have no idea.”
Jasmine stopped and looked around like she was lost. “Oh shit, I passed my own damn office.”
Armen laughed and continued to walk. “Talk to ya later, Jazzy.”
“Oh, you’d better believe it,” Jasmine said and turned around. “Midnight snack?”
Armen waved a hand in the air. “Got a date.”
“Don’t start ignoring me for some man,” Jasmine shouted.
“I would do no such thing,” Armen shouted back and turned the corner to head to her office. She walked through the double doors and smiled. “Good evening, Art. How’s business?”
A short, balding man looked up from his desk and peered over the top of his wire-rimmed glasses. Her boss, Arthur Spisany, Forensic Section Supervisor straight from New York City, and damn good at his job. A half-eaten sandwich sat on top of a file and he looked at it as if he’d won a jackpot. “There you are.”
Armen wasn’t sure if he was talking to her or the sandwich.
He picked up the sandwich. After taking a bite, he looked at Armen again. “Business? Well, I keep getting some weird shit through here. Anything to do with your little spree lately?”
Armen frowned. “What spree?”
“The one you and that detective who looks like a goddamn Navy S.E.A.L. have been on. You know, with the demons.” He, of course, used his fingers to draw quotation marks around the last word.
Armen wrinkled her nose. “Funny, Art.” She walked over to her desk to look at messages and discovered quite a pile of them. “Well, that’s what I get for taking so much time off.”
“Yeah, thanks for that, by the way.” His sarcasm bit at the air. “I just love pulling double duty.”
She looked up at him wide-eyed. “They didn’t bring in someone else?”
Art shook his head. “City budget, or some shit. They’re starting to drop the axe. You might want to watch your neck.” He took a big bite from his sandwich and chewed slowly. “And that assistant of yours is a joke. He’ll be the first to go.”
She ignored the last comment and focused on the former pre-bite one. “They’re cutting people?” She sat down in her chair and stared at him.
Art nodded and took a big bite of sandwich again. “Left and right,” he said around a mouthful of food so that Armen could barely understand him. “But maybe you could become the city’s resident demon hunter, or some shit.”
“Ha, ha,” she replied.
He jumped to his feet so fast, it surprised her. “C’mere, you have to see this.” He opened the door to the “icebox,” the frigid medical examiners’ laboratory, and stepped inside. She quickly followed. Art stepped up to number seven and grabbed the handle, the sandwich still in his other hand. He pulled it open and reached for the tray. Armen looked down at the sheet-covered body and Art motioned for her to pull the cover back. She grabbed the top and pulled it down.
“What d’ya think of that?” He took another bite and chewed slowly, watching her.
Armen turned around and grabbed some gloves. “Tell me.” She pulled the gloves on and shook her head at Art’s atrocious habit of eating while in the lab. She never could understand it. Not that it bothered her to eat in the lab herself. It was just that food and dead bodies did not go together well.
“Well, obviously murder.” He pointed to the now sewn up slit throat—a slit that was not made during an autopsy. “Cut him right open, but”—he pointed again, telling her to pull the sheet down more—“looks like he’s missing a couple of things.”
When Armen pulled the sheet down further, the man’s hands were missing. The left and right comment must have reminded Art about the body. She took one arm and lifted it to view the wrist. “That’s a clean slice.”
Art nodded. “Not only clean, but hot enough to cauterize it. He was still alive when it happened. Weren’t you looking at some torture cases?”
Armen nodded, recalling the man nailed to the wall. “When did this one come in?”
“Last night,” Art replied.
She looked up from the body as Art finished off his sandwich. “Was he dead when they found him?”
“Yep. He’s been dead about two days. He wasn’t alive for long after his hands were removed. He’d only been missing for twenty-four hours then.”
The demon’s name jumped into her mind again, and she dropped the arm and stepped back. Ash had a specific sword she liked to use, one that would sear through the flesh of man or demon or angel. After all, she was the demoness of war. That sword just happened to be a fire sword.
“You all right there, Armen?” Art pulled the sheet up to re-cover the body. He pushed the tray back inside and shut the door.
“Yeah, I’m fine,” she replied, not very convincing.
“Uh huh,” he responded. “You’ve seen a lot of shit this last week, haven’t you?”
She pulled the gloves off and turned toward the door. “You have no idea.” She tossed the gloves into the trash on the way out.
Art followed her back into the office and gathered his things. “I can’t say that I’m not happy you’re back, but damn, Armen, what the hell is going on around town?”
Armen looked up at him and smiled. She shifted her eyes to his desk and the multitude of fami
ly photos and knick-knacks cluttering up the space. He even had little origami figures scattered about that he’d made. “Art, go home to your wife and kiss her, and be happy.”
He quirked a brow at her and then grabbed his jacket. “Have a good night, Armen.” He headed for the doors. “Be safe.”
She found that last bit odd coming from Art, especially with his demon cracks, but no matter how much he made it sound like the current state of the city wasn’t a big deal, she knew Art was concerned. At the very least, he didn’t want to pull double duty again for a while.
Armen stared at the phone for a long time after Art had gone, trying to decide whether she should call Terry about the body that sat in number seven. She chose to wait until he came to get her for their midnight snack, also known as lunch to the graveyard crew. Graveyard shift was usually quiet and sometimes boring as hell. It was why she didn’t mind going into the field . . . until recently. Right now, she’d really dread getting one of those calls. From the looks of Mr. Jones in number seven, Ash had been a very busy little demoness of war from the moment Terry uttered her name. Armen wondered when the next body would turn up.
A tap on the lab door’s window caught Armen’s attention, and she turned away from the body to find Terry peering through the glass. She held up a finger, telling him to give her a minute, and turned around to finish up her work. When Armen stepped through the doors, Terry sat at her computer, getting ready to do a criminal record search on Mr. Jones, whose file was open in front of him, the pictures from the crime scene all laid out.
“I’ve already looked.”
He turned his head up to her. “What’s it say?”
“Thief. It would explain why his hands are missing.” She closed the file, pushed it aside, and then sat on the desk. “Common practice in ancient traditions; still used in some countries today. Demons love it because it ties the soul to them.”
Terry’s wide eyes met hers. “How?”
Dusk of Death: an Armen Leza, Demon Hunter novel (Armageddon Trilogy Book 1) Page 17
