Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel)

by Karilyn Bentley

  “No shit, Sherlock.”

  Ignoring me, he ducks under the gap into the garage. The door shakes as he pushes it. Shakes some more. “Try pushing the button.”

  I lean into my car and do as he asks. A metallic thud, thud, thud, rips through the evening. Smythe grunts. The door starts to rise.

  Hallelujah! “You fixed it!”

  “Nope.” The door clears his torso, his black t-shirt straining against flexed pecs, his biceps bulging as his arms stretch over his head, a nice muscle show to wrap up my day. “I found the release hook. The motor is fried. But you can manually open and close it. Do you want to park in the garage?”

  “Yes. Thanks. You rock.” A few seconds later, my car sits in its usual place. Every girl should have a handy mentor around. Now if he would give me the money to pay for the motor.

  Chance of that happening? Zippo.

  He pulls the door shut, snapping the locking bar in place. When he turns around, he does another open and close of his mouth, making me wonder what he’s hiding, what he’s refusing to say.

  My stomach uses that moment to whine about its lack of lunch. I slap a hand over my abdomen and shut the door.

  “Sorry.” I walk up the stairs onto my back porch, talking over my shoulder. “I’m hungry. And tired. Long day.”

  “Right. I made you dinner.”

  “You what?” Was dinner the reason he looked like he was hiding something?

  Smythe waves a hand at the back door. Is that aroma of baked bread coming from my kitchen?

  I yank open the door and step inside. Yep. Definitely coming from my kitchen. The place looks like pots and pans exploded out of cabinets and into the sink, complete with caked on food, but I’m not complaining.

  Smythe cooked me dinner. And made bread.

  The man can dirty my kitchen anytime he wants.

  I spin around to tell him thanks and slam against a muscular chest. How does he move so quietly?

  Who cares? He. Made. Me. Dinner.

  “You made me dinner. I think I’m falling in love.”

  A smile twitches his lips. “Glad to be of service.” The chocolate timbre of his voice strokes low, lodging deep inside.

  I step away from him before I do something stupid. Like run my hands under his shirt and rub against his skin. End my bad day with a bit of fun.

  Like I used to do with Blake.

  Sorrow sucker punches me in the solar plexus and I turn to the stove. Don’t let Smythe notice, don’t let Smythe notice, don’t let Smythe notice.

  “Gin?” A tinge of panic laces his tone.

  I rub a hand over my sternum. Inhale a deep breath. “What?”

  “What did you just do?”

  I turn and face him.

  His brows slash over narrowed eyes, his hands fisted at his sides as if about to throw a punch.

  I force myself to remain still, sorrow yielding to my stupid ingrained reaction to his anger.

  He won’t hurt me. Really. We’ve been through this before. Get a grip, Gin.

  “Turned to get a glass?” Thought of Blake and wanted to cry?

  “For a split second, you disappeared.”

  Was my theory correct on making a wish three times to the justitia? Did my words cause me to vanish from his view? Or did Smythe smoke crack while I wasn’t looking?

  “I’m not a mage.”

  “How did you disappear?”

  “It was really nice of you to cook my dinner. I really appreciate it.” I turn and grab a glass out of the cabinet.

  One large palm encircles my wrist, while his other hand removes the glass from my grip.

  My breath hitches, a flood of adrenaline hitting my system like a snort of cocaine. Try as I might I can’t stop the fine tremor jerking the muscles in my limbs.

  Smythe releases my wrist like I’m contagious. Then he wraps his hand around my bracelet, and a soothing wave of peace rocks through my body, lowering my heartbeat, calming my breathing. Yeah, I’m controlled by an entity living in my nervous system.

  At the moment, I don’t care.

  “The disappearing?” Remorse carves a path in the muscles of his face, fading into determination as he speaks. So much for redirecting him.

  Looks like I have to tell the truth. Or some semblance thereof.

  “I thought of Blake and didn’t want you to see the reaction. So I turned away. Since I didn’t leave the kitchen, I’m not sure why you think I disappeared.”

  “You vanished, and I had to concentrate to see you. What did you think right after you turned?”

  I don’t want to give away my newfound secret. I might need to use it one day. But as I look into his eyes, I’m sucked into their depths, a gentle wave of wanting to come clean washing over me. I want to tell him exactly what happened. No hiding. No lying.

  The next thing I know my lips form the words. “I repeated ‘don’t let him notice’ three times. I didn’t know that would make me vanish.”

  Damn it. Did he just use his magic compulsion mojo to make me admit what should be kept secret? One of these days I’m going to learn how to resist his allure. And his spill-all spell.

  Good luck with that one. His thought or mine?

  “Has that happened before?”

  “How should I know? I can’t tell if I vanish. Can I eat dinner now, or are you going to quiz me all night?”

  Indecision flashes through his eyes, but he steps back and gestures toward the oven. “I put your plate in the oven to keep warm.”

  “That was really nice of you.” What a shame he spelled me into telling the truth.

  I pull open the oven door and blink a couple of times. Smythe really made me dinner. Steak, a baked potato, and string beans with cut almond slices along with a thick slab of fresh baked bread decorate a stoneware plate.

  He. Made. Me. Dinner.

  Holding the plate like the precious thing it is, I straighten and head for the table, swallowing what feels like a ball of molten lava. Sure, T’s fixed me dinner. Blake’s brought something over. But neither of their dinners caused tears to form behind my lids.

  Must be PMS’ing.

  I’m no longer mad at Smythe. He’s my new BFF. If being spelled to tell the truth results in a free dinner, hey, spell away.

  With the first bite, I swear I’ve died and gone to heaven. “This is really good. Where’d you learn to cook?”

  “Taught myself. You’ve never had that reaction before?”

  I swallow. Stab a green bean with my fork. “Nope. It’s nice to have dinner on the table when I get home.”

  “Thank you, but that’s not what I meant.”

  “You’re like a dog with a bone.”

  “No other Justitian can disappear on command.”

  “How do you know? Maybe they all can and just keep it a secret.”

  “If that was true, after several millennia, the secret would’ve come out. Yet another enigma about you.”

  Dinner suddenly tastes like dried ash. The bond formed between the justitia and me is different, but so are other things having nothing to do with my shiny new bauble and everything to do with a past better left alone. How far will Smythe pry before realizing my life is a glossed over mess?

  I plaster a cheap smile on my lips and hope he thinks a full mouth causes the expression. “Can’t say I’m not unique.”

  Smythe sits across from me. “No one ever said I’d have an easy job.”

  “Thanks a lot. Love you too.”

  “Something needs to be done about your job situation.”

  “You know how I feel.” Pay me equal to my job and I’m theirs full time. Until then…

  “You’re too tired when you get home. If you were called to a minion attack, you wouldn’t be in prime condition.”

  “A girl’s gotta make money somehow. Preferably legally.”

  His lips twitch as he rubs the bridge of his nose. “How bad was it today?”

  “Why Smythe. First dinner and then concern. I’m beginning to think
you want something tonight.” I waggle my brows.

  He knows I’m teasing.

  I think.

  For a brief second the air tingles with tension as his gaze meets mine. A jumble of thoughts dance through my mind. Smythe and me in bed. Sweat beading on our skin. The scent of sex heavy in the air. And then the moment vanishes, snapped out of my mind like a door slamming shut.

  Smythe swallows.

  I stab another green bean and stuff it into my mouth. Definitely not acting on that thought. The eleventh commandment of Gin states: thou shalt not sleep with thy boss. Or mentor. No matter how sexy buff he is. Nope. Not happening.

  “I know you had a bad day, but something happened.” His raspy voice clues me in I’m not going to like what he’s going to tell me.

  I should’ve known dinner wasn’t out of the kindness of his heart. Whatever news he’s about to share must be bad. Really damn bad if it required a steak dinner and homemade bread to smooth over.

  “Blake’s father was shot and is in a coma. They aren’t sure he’s going to make it.”

  Chapter Eight

  My fork pauses halfway to my mouth. Someone shot Mr. Calder? No wonder Smythe looked like he wanted to tell me something when the garage door broke. “What happened?”

  “He went to visit his neighbor. Our good friend Dr. Sheevers. Police suspect Blake’s dad walked in on a robbery since he was shot in the entryway, but no one’s sure what exactly happened because Dr. Sheevers is dead. Said he died from blunt force trauma to the head. Found his body in the living room. Blake’s dad is in surgery at Dallas County Hospital.”

  A cold ball of ice slams into my middle, spreading to my limbs, confusion turning my mind to mush. Mr. Calder shot and Dr. Sheevers dead? Who would do that? Why?

  “Okay. I see why you cooked me dinner.” I shove the last green bean around the plate, no longer interested in eating. If I didn’t know better I’d think the shooting was related to Blake’s death.

  “I had planned on dinner. But I thought the bread might help.”

  “Smart man.”

  One side of his mouth kicks up, pride written in the crinkles around his eyes. “We probably should check it out. Since a demon paid Dr. Sheevers’s grad student a visit.”

  “Are you kidding? Not tonight.”

  His expression goes from proud to you-did-not-just-say-that in under a millisecond. Must be some sort of record. “We need to check it out before the trail goes cold.”

  “You’re assuming there is a trail. And minion trails can last for more than a day. As you said yourself, I’m not in top performance shape since I worked all day. We can go first thing tomorrow. Do you really want to share space with the police?”

  “The police don’t bother me.”

  “You don’t think they’re going to connect big hunky guy with false credentials with a string of recent murders and attempted murders?”

  “They don’t know my badge is false. They see it as real.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “No, I’m not. And no, they won’t connect the dots.” He points to his chest. “Mage.” Waggles his fingers on either side of his head. “Spell. No connecting the dots.”

  Okay then. “Look. Lying to the police aside. You just told me Blake’s father was shot and Dr. Sheevers is dead. And since I saw his dead body in a vision, that means I have a new freakin’ unwanted talent.” Damn it to hell. “I need some time to process this. I thought my new job description involved hunting minions and the occasional demon. Not horning in on a police investigation. Do I look like a frigging cop?” I point my fingers to either side of my head.

  “You know a good percentage of crimes are committed by minions. The sooner we check it out, the sooner we can continue to hunt the med school demon.”

  When put like that… “Sorry. But I’m not going anywhere tonight. Are you sure it was Mr. Calder?”

  His eyes close, a sigh leaving his lips, deflating his shoulders. “Yep. Positive. It was on the news and a police report. We’ll go first thing tomorrow. You look tired.”

  About time he noticed. “Yeah.” Grabbing my plate, I stand. “Thank you again for dinner. That was a nice surprise.”

  “Here.” He takes the plate from my hand. “I’ll clean up.”

  “Seriously? You don’t want help?”

  “You’re swaying on your feet.”

  Considering the room tilts back and forth and no liquor passed my lips today, he might have a point. “Guess so. Bright and early tomorrow then.”

  “Sleep well.”

  A tingling jolt of electricity passes into my palm as I squeeze his bare arm while walking past. Both of us freeze. No emotional reading despite my skin touching his, yet I know his desires. They echo mine. I drop my hand, severing the connection. He swallows.

  “Good night Smythe.”

  “Night.”

  My bedroom looms dark, twilight shadows chased away by me turning on the light. I shut the door, lean against it and try to recover from Smythe’s info bomb.

  Mr. Calder was always nice to me, something that couldn’t be said for his wife. And even though I didn’t know him well—Cecily hated me to come over—the knowledge he hung by a thin thread of life twisted my innards into a rock hard ball.

  He couldn’t be shot.

  And yet Smythe wouldn’t lie about something like that.

  I run a hand through my hair and release a pent up breath. I can’t let this affect me. Other things need more of my attention.

  Like will Zagan visit me tonight. I check the corners for moving shadows. No Zagan. The Big Guy upstairs must have my back.

  For once.

  No Blake in my room either. Which doesn’t surprise me. The surprise would be if he sat on the bed and I could see him without T’s help.

  Will Blake return? Weren’t ghosts supposed to follow the bright light and move on to another plane?

  You’d think I’d know the answer to that, seeing how T sees ghosts like the average person sees cars. But ever since what happened happened, he no longer likes to discuss ghosts.

  And I no longer ask him questions about the spirit world.

  Chillbumps pop across my skin, and I rub my arms. Nope. Not remembering the past. I have better things to do. Like sleep.

  Or work on finding Mr. Calder’s shooter and Dr. Sheevers’ murderer.

  As if I’m a cop. Never saw that one coming. The idea of Gin Crawford as a member of law enforcement falls into the ludicrous category.

  But I do make a good minion slayer.

  Provided a minion shot Blake’s father and killed the professor.

  I should feel sorry for the dead professor, instead my thoughts turn to Mr. Calder. Poor Mr. Calder. A better person would call Cecily and offer condolences. First her son dies, and now her husband might not make it through the night.

  I’m not a better person. And she wouldn’t believe I called to be considerate. I know her well enough to know she’d peg my concern as sarcasm.

  Maybe she’s right.

  Now look what I’ve done. Introspected myself into a funk.

  I lock the door—as if that will keep out a pissed off portal-forming mentor or a demon spouting advice—and head for the bathroom. A few minutes later, I’m ready for bed.

  The nice thing about working in the ER is rarely having to report for duty two days in a row. The downside is more time to hunt minions.

  A jolt of joy pings through my system. Definitely not my joy. The justitia enjoys hunting minions. And most demons. Sometimes it can convince me to enjoy it too.

  Tonight is not one of those times.

  I turn off the lights, crawl under the covers and am asleep two breathes after my head lands on the pillow.

  Only to awaken as an eerie scream echoes through my room. The sound raises the fine hairs on my arms. I sit straight, covers clutched to my chest as if the action keeps me safe. Upright I realize the source of the noise.

  My mouth.

  I stop
screaming and gulp down enough air to give a horse bloat. A dream. No, not a dream. A memory. The memory. The event that changed my life and T’s forever.

  How long has it been since the memory invaded my dreams? Since I relived the memory in vivid flashback?

  That night stays with me, with T, but not until I was set up by the mage Samantha and attacked by minions in a park in San Antonio did the memory become a constant reminder.

  Footsteps slap a fast rhythm against the wood floor—Smythe to the rescue—at the same time T pops into my head. The perk of being telepathic twins, we know when the other is disturbed even when we’re miles apart.

  Are you okay?

  Bad dream.

  Bam! Bam! Bam! “Gin!” Smythe stops pounding the hell out of my door and rattles the knob. “Are you okay?”

  I paste a picture of Blake on the front of my mind, shove T to the back and face the door. “Yeah. Just a bad dream.”

  A pause. “Want me to come in?”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay now. Sorry about that.”

  “Nothing to apologize for. I’ll be in the other room if you need me.”

  “Thanks, Smythe.”

  Heavy steps tread away from my door, fading as he returns to the living room. T pops out of his hiding place.

  Was it Blake or The Dream?

  The Dream. Same one.

  His sigh drifts around my mind. I’m sorry.

  Not your fault.

  I could’ve…

  We’ve been through this before. I shake my head for emphasis. What happened, happened. It’s not your fault. It was me, not you.

  A real man doesn’t let a woman do his dirty work.

  You almost did the dirty work. Just drop it. We have to move forward.

  Does Smythe suspect? Fear laces his angry words.

  I draw my knees to my chest and lower my head. Does Smythe know what happened all those years ago? What would he do if he discovered our secret? I don’t know.

  He’s more curious than a cat.

  He wouldn’t hurt me. He’s saved me too many times to want me dead.

  Saving you is his fucking job. That doesn’t mean, given the chance, he won’t turn you in.

  He won’t. I hope.

  Don’t stake our lives on it, Gin.