You know me better than that.
Long after T leaves my mind, returning to his, I sit with my knees drawn to my chest, my thoughts whirling a macabre dance. Closer and closer my memories creep to that day years ago, passing by before landing, much like a moth circles around a light. And like that moth I’m drawn in, fooled by the brightness, mistaking death for peace.
The memory spits me out in the past, fifteen years ago, in high school, from when terror filled my evenings, when I wore pancake makeup to cover bruises. Another ghost inhabits my mind, one with spittle on the sides of his mouth, his breath a fetid mixture of unbrushed teeth and too much whiskey, his right hook like unyielding steel capable of dropping me unconscious on a filthy shag carpet.
I shove at the memory, but it shoves harder and I’m back in that house, my father screaming his vile words—“You’re nothing but a split-tailed whore, you little bitch”—his fist knocking me to the ground, pain a dull throb along my jaw.
I hang onto consciousness by will alone. T can’t help me. Not this time. He’s crumpled on the floor, a knot the size of Alaska on his head from where he hit the nightstand.
Carpet fibers dig into the skin of my back as my father pounces. My father’s fists smack in time to the words tumbling off his tongue. Black spots rush across my vision. Unconsciousness beckons, the peace of death calling my name. I need to end this. It’s up to me. I will finish this.
My fingers scramble across the grimy carpet, seeking, searching for what I’d hidden, anticipating this moment. Cold metal meets my skin, rolls as my blood-slick fingers search for purchase. Blood, thick and coppery fills my mouth. My fingers finally clasp the tire iron.
A swing. A whoosh of air. A meaty thunk.
Silence.
My father's body lands on mine in a twisted mimicry of love.
My breath fills my ears, a rush of adrenaline fueling my movements. A shove, a roll, and I’m free. I crawl to T’s side.
He’s moving, arms and legs flexing. He takes one glance at our father’s body. His eyes flare. “You did it.”
I collapse beside him on the worn gray carpet, my blood a rush of cheering in my ears. We lived. We beat the old man. Never again will he hurt us, bruise us, make us watch as he hurt the ones we love. Just like we vowed. Never again.
T grabs my hand, his face tightening as he trails a finger through the air above my swollen jaw. Anger and guilt fire his thoughts, torpedo them through my mind. He wanted to kill the old man. His hands. Not mine. But he taps down the emotions, buries them under quick planning. Seals our fate. “Don’t worry, Gin. I know what to do. We won’t get caught.”
Only because a ghost told him what to do. The dead serial killer walked us through disposing the body. Helped us lie to the police.
I really don’t blame T for never wanting to speak to a spirit again. Talking to them until their thoughts permeated your waking moments was halfway to being possessed. And cozying up to evil stained your soul.
What does that make me?
The old man had sworn he'd never hurt any of us again. We'd all heard his weak promise. The fact I hid the tire iron obliterates any self-defense plea. Might even put his murder into the realm of pre-meditated.
Hell, yeah, it was planned. Maybe not that particular night, but we wanted him gone. Having a dead killer giving T advice just helped matters along.
Not that we could explain that one to the cops.
Yes, officer. That ghost in the corner gave us an idea.
Yeah, right. Yet another trip to a psych ward, this time minus the get-out-of-jail card.
No, we took care of the problem. All the way around. The police never suspected. Mom only cared that the beatings stopped and the liquor continued to flow. Sure, his drinking buddies came around but not for long.
But Smythe wanted to know my past. Smythe was able to read my mind. Smythe would find out one way or another.
And then what would happen?
Chapter Nine
The morning struck hard and fast, light popping around the blinds and smacking my face like grease on bacon. Mmm. Bacon. I smell bacon. Am I dreaming?
My eyes open with all the speed of an ice-cold engine, in starts and fits. Definitely morning. And the aroma of frying bacon leads to one conclusion.
Smythe woke early and wants to get the seek-a-minion party rolling. Good for him. I want to avoid contact with the man who might use a mind trick to discover my secret.
But that man is currently in the kitchen with a skillet of bacon. Not to mention coffee. I can’t hide under the covers all day.
Time to put all those mind-blocking sessions to good use. Provided I can remember the lessons.
I scrub a hand down my face and roll out of bed. Worrying about things outside my control never helped nothing. I didn’t get this far in life by spending my time worrying. It wouldn’t do to start now.
Pep talk finished, I dress and walk into the kitchen. Smythe stands at the stove, flipping bacon and scrambling eggs. Yum. Nothing like seeing a man cooking for you first thing in the morning.
Especially after he cooked for you the night before.
Yep, I could get used to this set-up. Clearly having him staying here wasn’t as bad as I feared.
“Hey.” I head toward the full coffee pot, the dark liquid a beacon call for the sleep deprived.
“No more bad dreams?”
Does he know? My hand pauses on the handle of my mug before I pull it out of the cabinet. “Nope. You?”
“Slept fine once I got back to sleep. Do you have those often?”
“Mmm.” Non-committal noises worked best. Hopefully he’ll think I’m not functioning well since I haven’t downed a cup of wake-me-up.
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” I take a sip of the hot brew. Perfect.
Now it’s his turn for the non-committal noise. Would he try to read my mind? At the start of our mind-reading lessons, he had emphasized how reading minds without permission was an invasion of privacy. You could send and receive thoughts, but to pry deeper was off limits.
Unless in the middle of a lesson.
Even then, to pry deeply, to forge past the surface thoughts into the dark recesses where memories lie like fragile filaments of gold, was dangerous. If you didn’t know what you were doing you could damage the person. Permanently. Unless I brought my secrets to the surface, unless I rehashed the memories, Smythe wouldn’t discover that which should remain buried. Time to think on something else.
“Gin? You okay?”
“What? Oh. Sorry. Still sleepy.” Was there such a thing as a gold star sticker for best liar?
“You looked lost in thought. Still remembering the dream?”
“Something like that.” I swallowed a gulp of coffee and let the heat burn away my thoughts. “So, what’s on the agenda today?”
“Slight change in plans. We’ll still drop by Dr. Sheevers’ house but won’t stay long. You’ll have to get a quick reading on whether or not it was a minion.”
“You’ll help, right?” Mages saw the minion trails as well as Justitians, if not better. But for whatever reason, they let us lead the minion hunting parties. From what I gather, the only reason mages need Justitians is for our shiny demon-killing bracelets. Despite Smythe’s assurances we are needed, it makes me wonder. How hard was it to devise a spell for activating the bracelet into a sword?
A topic for a different day.
He grins and flips a piece of bacon onto a paper towel. “As always. You’ll need to eat quickly though because we’re due in an hour at the Agency.”
The coffee goes down wrong, and I choke. “The Agency?”
“Yep. Samantha’s called an emergency meeting.”
“She can do that?”
“She’s one of the higher ranking mage guardians. So yes.”
“Shit.”
Samantha tried to kill me shortly after I became a Justitian. Portalled me into the middle of a horde of minions in a park
in San Antonio and gave them orders to off me. Before I could stop her, she opened a portal and disappeared, leaving me to my fate. Luckily for me, Smythe came to my rescue, but no one at the Agency believed Samantha capable of such a dastardly deed so she went unpunished.
On the other hand, she came with Smythe to rescue me from Zagan’s lair so I had to forgive her for the attempted murder. Somewhat forgive her. Okay, not really. She’s still on my hit list. I’m still on hers. She thinks I’m white trash and shouldn’t be allowed to wear the justitia. What do I have to say to that? Get over it, bitch.
Something tells me she won’t.
I need to be the bigger person here, need to suck it up and play nice with despised co-workers. Really. I can do it.
“She can’t hurt you at the Agency. And she’s smart enough not to try it again. She knows I’m watching you.”
“You were watching me before. She still tried to off me.”
“You’re better watched now. Want some bacon?”
Better watched? I know he can track my justitia somehow—that’s how he found me when Samantha took me and when Zagan captured me—but his words imply another meaning. What kind of metaphysical camera spies on my life?
Did I actually use the words metaphysical camera? Talk about living a screwed up life if I can pull those words out of my back pocket without blinking.
I grab a plate and shove it toward him. “What do you mean better watched?”
“I beefed up the spell on your justitia.” He plops two pieces of bacon on my plate and a scoop of eggs.
Some women get weak-kneed when a man gives them jewelry or flowers. Me? Tell me you can prevent my future capture by a blonde bitch mage, and I’ll love you for life.
“Aw, Smythe,” I grab the plate in one hand and my coffee mug in the other and head for the table. “You really know how to turn a girl on.”
He snorts. “Glad to be of service. Eat up.”
I don’t eat so fast as gulp coffee. Past experience with Smythe and minion hunting parties left me with little coffee and a bad attitude. I’m halfway through the first cup and have two more to go before we can leave.
“You can take the coffee. Just hurry it up.”
“Yes, captain.” Thank goodness for small miracles.
Ten minutes later I’ve finished eating, brushing my teeth and changing out of workout shorts into a button down shirt and khaki capris complete with white and gold sandals. At least I look better than the first time I appeared at the Agency, the time Smythe kidnapped me.
Embarrassing.
This time I look relaxed professional.
Smythe forms a portal in my kitchen, grabs my hand, and whisks me into the passage between space and time. We land along the side of a house in an upscale neighborhood, the landscape full of manicured grass and impeccable flowerbeds. Damn them all.
The scent of roses clings to the air, guaranteed to put a grin on your face, and a stab of jealousy everywhere else. Why can’t my yard look like this one?
Oh, yeah. My bootstraps didn’t yank me this far up the social chain.
“Gin? What are you doing?” Smythe stands at the corner of the house, hands on his hips, one brow raised.
“Checking out the view. Pretty, eh? I can’t even afford to fix the garage door.”
“Don’t worry about that. I took care of it.”
I blink. And again. “You did?” A swallow of coffee clears the lump in my throat connected to my tear glands.
“You didn’t think I’d leave it broken, did you? Come on. We need to get a quick glimpse of the murder scene. Time’s running out.”
He cooked me breakfast and fixed my garage door. The man needs a permanent spot in my house.
Or my bedroom.
Gah. What am I thinking? What the hell is wrong with me? I cannot make a pass at my mentor.
Taking a sip of coffee in hopes the hot liquid will pull my mind back into the action, I sweep those errant fantasies into a dark hole and follow Smythe to the front yard.
Yellow police tape strings around large oak trees two houses from where we appeared. I recognize Blake’s family’s home next to the crime scene. I’ve only been there once, but the stone mansion was hard to forget. Dr. Sheevers’ house was smaller, not as ostentatious, but expensive nonetheless. The man must’ve been pulling down some large grants to afford a home in this neighborhood. Or maybe professors made more money than I thought.
“Do you see anything?”
I close my eyes, reach deep inside where the entity in the justitia joins to my nerves and ask it to show me the minion trails. The bracelet responds with a subtle vibration, its answer to my request. Had it always answered this way, and I’d never noticed?
Probably. Focusing on learning a new skill meant overlooking small clues while understanding the larger picture. Now that I have the larger picture, I can focus on the small changes and hints the bracelet gives me.
When I open my eyes, nothing but yellow tape and landscaped yard greet my vision. No minion trails. And yet I know the justitia responded to my request.
Guess the person who shot Mr. Calder and killed Dr. Sheevers was a garden variety criminal.
“I don’t see minion trails.”
“Neither do I. But there’s a demon energy field leaking from the side of the house.”
“Say what?”
He points, and I draw in a sharp breath. My justitia trembles like a tail-tucked dog. If the thing could hop off my wrist and sprint down the street, it would. I don’t blame it either. What I see gives me the same reaction. Saliva freezes in my mouth as my limbs root to the ground.
A black blob of energy pulses, the twin to the demon appearance at the medical school. Judging from the reaction of my justitia, the same demon. The demon the bracelet fears. Yet no minion tracks dot the premises. Maybe the demon appeared too late. Maybe the thing wanted the perpetrator but arrived late for the party.
Who knows. If the justitia fears the demon, I sure as hell don’t want to run into the beast.
“That’s the same demon that appeared at the medical school.”
“Looks that way to me, too.” Smythe’s eyes narrow as he stares at the black blob of demon energy.
“Why? What’s it after? I thought you said demons didn’t like to appear on earth.” Although in my experience that wasn’t true. Take Zagan for instance. Earthly appearances seem like his daily pastime.
“They don’t normally. Looks to me like it’s after Dr. Sheevers.”
“Yeah, but why? Dr. Sheevers died. Doesn’t look like the demon went into the house. Wasn’t he found in his living room and Mr. Calder right inside the door?”
“Good point. We need to find out what Dr. Sheevers’ work involves. This demon seems to be targeting him.”
“It can’t target him anymore. He’s dead.”
“Whatever he worked on still exists.”
“Okay. So who killed him and tried to kill Mr. Calder?”
“It’s no longer our problem. It wasn’t a minion. The demon, though, we need to work on. But not now. We’re about to be late for our meeting at the Agency.”
Great. Just what I wanted to do. Show up at the Agency.
I get I’m supposed to kill demons and minions in this new gig. Ridding the world of evil makes me feel like a superhero. Most of the time. But the thought of meeting with Samantha and Smythe’s father, David, an Agency bigwig, tenses a muscle between my brows.
I’d rather face the bill for my A/C repair.
Smythe grabs my hand and pulls me to the side of the nearest house. No windows by where we stand, only manicured bushes, no one to watch as we jump into a portal. The last thing I see are the demon strands pulsing with a vile energy. I shiver, either from the nearness of evil or the Antarctic temperatures of the portal.
We arrive in the white landing room of the Agency, the only entrance into the building I’ve seen. Smythe strides to the door at the other end of the room, giving a brief nod to the row of teenagers m
anning the computer terminals. According to him, those teenagers are mages in training and can stop a demon from invading the Agency. I’m not convinced they can manage anything other than popping a zit on the arriving creature. But seeing as wards protect the Agency from demons and minions, my theory won’t be tested anytime soon.
“Coming, Gin?” Smythe holds open the door.
Time to get with the program and move. In theory movement warms a body. In this case, movement brings me closer to a meeting I want to avoid.
Decisions, decisions.
Smythe waves his fingers, hurry-it-up written across his face. I walk toward him, but stop halfway there as I pass by the row of computer terminals. The first time I came to this white room, a demon appearance in Austin occurred, catching the attention of the teenagers who initiated a call to action. Maybe they know which demon appeared at Dr. Sheevers’.
“Hey, did you guys note a demon appearance yesterday evening in Dallas?”
The nearest geek stops staring at the screen and meets my gaze. “Let me look.” He drops his gaze to the screen, fingers tapping a dance against the keyboard. “Huh. Looks like there was a blip but nothing substantial. Must’ve been a flock of birds.”
Right. Because flying birds resemble demons. Uh-huh.
“How long does a demon have to be on earth in order for your computer to pick it up as an appearance?”
Hot breath falls on my neck, Smythe’s nearness sending tingles down my spine. I glance over my shoulder.
My mentor stands beside me, clearly annoyed at getting nowhere with holding the door.
Geek boy replies, “I’m not sure.”
“Thirty seconds is the answer you’re looking for.” Annoyance seeds Smythe’s voice with a low growl.
The computer geek pales. Swallows. “Yes, sir. I’ll read up on it.”
“You do that.”
“So,” I poke Smythe in the ribs, forcing him to look at me instead of glaring a warning at the geek. “The demon didn’t stay long. Your computers need to get better at locating demons. Maybe they pop onto our plane more often than you thought.”
He places a hand on my lower back and propels me to the door. “Maybe. Good idea to ask if they saw it.”
Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 8
