Getting mad at a man for speaking the truth makes no sense. The knowledge fails to stop a dose of pissiness.
“Yeah, yeah. The white trash Justitian not worthy of the title. Hey, maybe I’ll just change it to demon huntress. That has a better sound.”
“Except that you don’t just hunt demons. You hunt minions more often than not.”
“And the minions are infected by a demon. Which this fancy bracelet kills and then prohibits that piece of the demon from returning to its host. Which then hurts the demon. See? A demon huntress. You’ve gotta admit it sounds better.”
Smythe tsks. “Ah, young padiwan. No one cares how it sounds since you can’t tell anyone what you do.”
Padiwan? My inner geek is falling in love. Which is beyond ridiculous. One should never, and I do mean never, ever fall in love with their boss. It makes the workplace environment uncomfortable.
Not to mention making you look like you’re only sleeping with the boss to get a promotion.
Smythe’s lips continue to move. Which I assume indicates he continues to talk, and I need to pull my head out of my fantasies and drop back into reality.
Damn it.
“…concerned about your visions.”
“What?”
“I’m more concerned about your vision than what you call yourself.”
“Right. Maybe we should have told him?”
“A bit late for that now.”
I look in the direction he’s staring. The only thing left of the professor is the exhaust from his tailpipe and the fading purr of his car’s engine. So much for letting him in on his impending death.
Learning about new abilities I don’t want, sucks.
“Besides,” Smythe continues, “Maybe you got a wrong reading.”
“Yeah, because that happens so often.” I roll my eyes and shake my head.
“And telling people about your abilities gets you a one way ticket to Blue Shores.”
I shudder. Been there. Done that when I was a teenager. Not at Blue Shores, the psychiatric unit attached to the hospital where I work, but one stay in a psych ward was one stay too many for me. As much as it pains me to admit, Smythe is right. The less people know about my talents, the better.
Even if it results in losing a life.
Smythe’s phone buzzes, a loud vibration heard over the hushed distant voices of the funeral attendees. He pulls it from his front pocket and slams it against his ear hard enough to give a normal person a headache.
“What?”
Normal people say ‘hello.’ Smythe seems to take someone reaching out and touching him as a personal insult.
A tinny voice escapes the earpiece, words indecipherable. I reach into my purse, pull out the key fob, and unlock my car. I’m halfway to the cool bliss of air conditioning when Smythe drops the f-bomb. I start the car and crank up the A/C while he walks around the hood to the passenger side door. By the time he slides into the seat, the phone’s back in his pocket.
“There’s been a shooting at the medical school. In the graduate department, not in the area where they treat patients, thank God. You need to determine if it’s a minion attack.”
“What makes you think it is?”
“The Agency IT picked up a demon blip on the radar minutes before calls to 911 began. The demon didn’t stay long, but its appearance, along with the calls, are worrisome. It could be nothing.”
“I thought you said demons didn’t like to come to earth.” I should know “not like to” didn’t translate into “never ever.” But I feel compelled to check. Just in case something changed from the last time we discussed this topic.
“They don’t.” So much for a change. “But as you know, that doesn’t mean they won’t. Especially if they can commit a crime or perpetrate evil.”
“A blip doesn’t sound like he stayed here long.”
“Right. That’s why it’s probably nothing, but we’ll check it out anyway.”
The bracelet vibrates, a thrill of joy escaping into my nerves, fueling a rush of adrenaline. Which makes part of me excited, purpose-filled. The other part wants nothing more than to let the mascara run down my cheeks in the privacy of my home.
Who knew a funeral could be the day’s high point?
Chapter Two
After a thirty minute drive, various spicy language and a close encounter with a driver who mistook the Dallas North Tollway for the Texas Motor Speedway racetrack, we pull into the visitor parking garage at Dallas Medical School.
Driving in Dallas, even during the middle of the day, resembles an adult version of dodge ball. Or, more accurately, dodge car.
I take a deep relaxing breath and step out of the car. Only to pause at Smythe’s growl.
So much for relaxing.
“Ditch the hat.” He uses the slam of the car door as punctuation, end of sentence.
As if he’s never heard of hat hair.
Men.
Without waiting for me to comply, he strides toward the walkway into the medical school, his long legs carrying him farther away from me with each step.
I engage the lock and try to catch him, but heels and I have never been best friends. “Hey! Slow down. I can’t walk fast in these shoes.”
His shoulders rise, fall, but he stops, his eyes widening as he turns to look over his shoulder. “I told you to ditch the hat.”
“Ever heard of hat hair?” I yank the hat off to demonstrate and point at my head. “Not to mention the ugly line on my forehead. Unless you have some magic spell to wipe that away?”
“Magic should not be used so trivially.”
“Well, then. The hat stays. Besides, it matches the outfit.” I shoot him an I-win grin as I adjust the hat to cover my sweaty hair.
He shakes his head. “Detectives don’t appear in hats.”
“They don’t appear in a black t-shirt and jeans either.” I gesture at his outfit. “Tell them I’m a consultant for the department.”
One side of his mouth twitches as he checks out his clothes. “I forgot I had this on.”
“Smythe, Smythe, Smythe. You always have that on. Whatcha talking about?”
“I do not always wear this outfit.”
“Smythe. You have an entire closet full of black shirts, jeans, and shitkickers.”
“And a suit.” The lip twitch spreads into a grin. “Don’t forget the suit.”
Smythe’s smile sends a shot of arousal straight to my core. What’s wrong with me? I just attended my lover’s funeral. Am I some sick freak or what?
If he notices my red cheeks, he pretends nothing’s wrong. He starts walking, slower this time, and I fall into step beside him, a companionable distance apart.
“Don’t speak,” his footsteps emphasize the warning. “Let me do the talking. Your job is to locate minion trails. If there are any.”
“And you’ll work your magic and make the cops think we’re detectives. Like you did when Will was shot.” Dr. Will Wunderliech, an acquaintance since high school, who now works with me in the ER at Blue Forest, was shot by a minion during our shift at the hospital. Luckily he lived. I discovered his bleeding body in one of the exam rooms and the justitia in my scrub pocket. When I touched him as he lay bleeding out, I saw into his memories and knew his mother gave him the bracelet, tasking him to keep it safe, before a minion killed her.
Which fails to explain how it mysteriously appeared in my pocket and remains the mystery of the month. Will’s excuse: he wanted me to have it.
I want plenty of things too. Like winning the lottery.
So much for wishes coming true.
“Always.” Smythe gestures at the crowd gathered in the hall. “We’re at the crime scene. Look smart.”
“Right. Because I made it through nursing school by failing all the classes.”
He closes his eyes. Draws in a breath. Releases it, opens his eyes, and gives me The Look.
What? If he doesn’t like my attitude, he shouldn’t have signed up for the mentoring job
.
Although in all fairness, I don’t think he had any more choice in the matter than I did.
Ain’t life grand?
Smythe ducks under yellow crime scene tape strung across the hallway, and I follow. People huddle in small groups on both ends of the hall, eyes facing the crime scene. Cops with CSI jackets form a barrier around a person I assume to be the victim. Make that victims. All I can see are shoe-clad feet. I’m hoping all those feet are attached to bodies. I swallow. A potent aromatic mix of blood and fear saturates the hallway. Blood spatter arcs across beige walls like a macabre Jackson Pollock painting.
Seeing patients in the ER has not prepared me for visiting a crime scene. Stabilizing a patient focuses on compartmentalizing the injury, treating the life threatening problems first before moving to the minor cuts and bruises. Being present at a crime scene is too close to the event. Fear, a palpable tremor in the air, roots my feet to the floor. The coppery scent of blood hangs in the air, thick enough to taste.
I swallow.
It’s my job to determine if a minion created this scene.
I focus on my justitia, on how to see minion trails and ask it to allow me to see those trails.
Nothing happens.
Smythe pulls an ID out of his back pocket and flips it open to the nearest cop. “Special Agent Smythe, and this is the department’s consultant.” He touches my back and a thrill of power slips beneath my skin.
Has he spelled the cop or me?
Probably the cop since the man nods his head and gives us a rundown of what happened. A grad student walked down the hall, yelling about demon infestations, pulled out a knife and started stabbing people, then turned the knife on himself. Two dead, three wounded.
And the justitia refuses to show me minion trails.
Why am I not surprised?
While Smythe chats with the cop, I get busy focusing on my troublesome justitia. How did I do this before?
Sex and riding a bike might fall into the category of things one never forgets how to do, but clearly seeing minion trails is not part of that listing.
C’mon, c’mon, come on. Time is of the essence.
I take a deep breath. Close my eyes. Shake my arms. Release my pent-up air on a whoosh. With my eyes closed, I can see the entity in the justitia attached to my nervous system. Tamping down the natural reaction to run screaming, I offer the thing a chance to help kill a minion.
When I open my eyes, the tactical grid otherwise known as minion trails appears across my vision. Deep red mingled with black appears like a bomb at the opposite end of the hall from where I stand. Tendrils snake outward from the tangles of color, red and pulsing, slithering into the room closest to the burst, then out toward one of the victims. Presumably the grad student.
Or should I say minion.
Red streaks bounce around the hall, punctuated by bloodstains. I’m both fascinated and sickened. Or maybe that’s the justitia. The bracelet vibrates like a pulsing homing beacon headed straight for the explosion of deep red that started this crime.
Unfortunately, the CSI unit frowns at my walking through a crime scene. At least I assume they don’t want my dirt and grass covered heels stepping into congealing pools of blood.
Okay, I don’t want that either.
I give Smythe’s shirt a tug. Offer a smile when his eyes narrow on me.
“Excuse me.” The cop nods at Smythe’s words, turns and tries to act like he’s not listening in.
Telepathy time.
Smythe let on a few days ago he was able to read my mind. Unlike my twin brother T, whom I can converse with telepathically and then form a barrier to kick him out of my mind, Smythe smashes through my wall like it’s formed from pebbles cobbled together with mud. Rather scary.
Which meant I need a way to block him without him discovering my motive. No problem. My mentor wants to help me learn to keep those pesky demons out of my head. So what if I place him in the pesky demon category of mind readers? Little white lies never hurt anyone.
And I learn how to strengthen my defenses.
I need to get to the other end of the hall.
Did you want a better look at that odd burst? Any idea what it is?
For a brief moment, I’m stunned. He sees the red explosion. Then I remember. Mages see minion trails too.
Which begs the question of why they even need Justitians if they can see trails left by the walking evil.
I’ve explained that to you before. Smythe crosses his arms.
So much for learning mind barriers.
But I remember the lesson. A mage can only kill the minion, allowing the life force to return to the demon. A justitia destroys the demon’s life force that animates a minion, which weakens the demon.
We are needed.
I think.
You need to stop reading my mind.
Say what? Both of his brows try to touch his hairline. You’re the one who invited me in.
To carry on a conversation, not read random thoughts.
Keep the random thoughts behind a barrier. Like I taught you.
Yeah, yeah, yeah. You gonna help me get to the other end of the hall or keep chewing my ass out?
First off, I’m not chewing your ass out. I’m clarifying a lesson. Learn the difference. One last punctuating glare and he turns to the cop. “Officer, my colleague and I need to get to the other end of the hall. What’s the best way? We don’t want to disturb the scene.”
The cop gives detailed directions to walk down a different hall, hang two lefts, and presto, the end of this hall. A minute later we stand by the red and black burst, the colors hanging in the air, drops of acid rain on a pristine lake.
A full body shiver shimmies down my spine, spreading chill bumps across my flesh. The scent of sulfur hangs in the air like a demonic stink bomb. I want to slap a hand over my nose, but no one else seems affected by the stench.
Must be a demon huntress thing.
“Justitian,” Smythe mutters. “Not demon huntress.”
“If you don’t like my new title, then stay out of my mind.”
He glares. I swallow. Cross my arms. Refuse to take a step back. I’m learning not to be intimidated by his anger. Go me.
My justitia vibrates, throwing me out of my internal battle, pulling me back to the land of death and minions. The blob of colors pulsates, a glowing reminder of a moment of terror.
The moment the demon appeared to the grad student.
Granted, I’m still taking Demons 101, but I thought demons formed minions in private. Usually after the human committed a crime, not before. A tryout, so to speak. And maybe that happened, but it sure seems to me like the black blob of demon force appeared to the grad student smack in the middle of the hallway.
Or maybe that always happens and I just now noticed it.
The justitia’s vibration grows stronger, trembling my arm, my veins. Not its normal excited tremor upon seeing a minion or demon. A rush of images spikes through my mind, scenes of terror coupled with blood and death, memories of the justitia’s former wearers captured in time by the entity in the bracelet.
I’m not the only one freaked out by the colored blob. How bad was this demon to scare a justitia?
Chapter Three
Smythe lets loose a low whistle. “Haven’t seen that before.”
Words to give a girl heart palpitations. “Does it look to you like the demon just appeared to the grad student? Or am I imagining things?”
“No, you’re not. That’s the way it looks to me. I’ve never seen that before. Making a minion is usually done in private.”
Nice to know I retained my lesson. Not so nice to know this demon doesn’t fit the normal profile.
“What does it mean?”
“Hell broke loose.”
If I’m not mistaken, Smythe made a joke. His weak attempt at humor makes me groan.
“Be serious.”
“I am serious. If I’m not mistaken, and I rarely am, that demon made a minion o
f an unwilling human. That’s just not done.”
“Clearly it is done, or we wouldn’t be looking at it.”
He shoots me a get-real look. “It’s so rare as to be not done. A footnote in a textbook, not an occurrence in real life. Demons prefer to choose those with threads of evil. Giving a part of themselves to an unwilling victim in hopes of creating a lasting minion is stupid. Demons are many things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”
“Then explain what we’re seeing.”
“I can’t. There must be something we’re missing.”
I take another glance at the pulsing blob and shiver. Or maybe that shiver is from the justitia. The bracelet vibrates to the tune of escape.
A little more insight into this badass demon would be nice. Something besides the justitia’s faded memories of past emotions and crimes. Something like a name.
The justitia remains silent, choosing to tremble instead of speak.
Figures.
“Maybe we need to look at the other victim.” I gesture to team CSI cataloguing evidence on the dead student the minion killed.
“I need my laptop.”
Right. The magical laptop. Never get between a guardian mage and his computer. “What does your laptop have to do with the dead guy?”
“How do you know it’s a guy?”
I raise a brow. “I don’t. But most women don’t wear shoes that size.”
He ignores my comment. “Best guess is the grad student went crazy when the demon placed a part of itself in his body. The victim has nothing to do with it. He was in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“What if you’re wrong?”
“I suspect we’ll learn soon enough. Is there anything else you need from the scene?”
“This is my first active crime scene. You tell me.”
He stares at the hall, at team CSI circled around the victims like vultures picking at a carcass. “We’ve seen enough. I need my laptop to continue the investigation.”
“You mean hack the Dallas Police Department’s server.”
“Same thing. Come on, let’s go.”
After a last glimpse at the colored blob, which I swear has grown and now mocks me, I follow Smythe back the way we came. He nods and does some silent male ritual with the cop and then we’re on our way to the car.
Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 2
