The sound of an engine interrupts my thought. An unmarked black Tahoe followed by a white van with CDC written on the side drives past the police cars at the end of the street and parks behind the fire truck.
Good thing most of the neighbors are at work.
Two FBI agents—one male and one female—dressed in black suits and sporting the latest style in sunglasses, step out of the car. After a quick glance around my yard, they head toward one of the white-suited firemen. The fireman points to the porch and starts talking, but I can’t hear what he says.
Before I can inch closer to eavesdrop, T pulls me out of the way of the two CDC women who wear hooded coveralls and respirators and march up the sidewalk carrying oversized metal briefcases. The FBI and the fireman they talked with meet them halfway. A discussion ensues, none of which I hear.
The CDC women get to work, snapping on gloves and shoe booties. The white-suited firemen retreat and let the women decontaminate the scene.
The women bag the envelope with more care than first time parents buckling a baby into a car seat. After they place the bag in their van, they scrub the porch with some type of solution.
I take this time to inch my way to Smythe, who stands on the other side of T’s car. More like uses T’s car as a prop to keep him upright. His coloring looks better, but a fine sheen of sweat covers his face. Fever? Or the heat?
“You okay?”
“I’ve been better.”
T sidesteps to us while staring at the CDC women. “I wouldn’t want their job.”
“Me, either.” Even with the hazard suits, cozying up to pathogens creeps me out.
“One brush with anthrax is enough for me.”
“Maybe they enjoy the adrenaline rush,” Smythe says.
T shrugs. “Maybe.”
There is not enough adrenaline in the world to make me enjoy putting my life on the line to be part of a clean-up crew.
A few minutes later, the CDC finishes disinfecting the concrete. One of them speaks with the FBI and firemen before walking to the van.
“Your front porch is cleaned.” The cop we talked to earlier waves at the porch as if I need a reminder where it’s located. “They need to decontaminate your brother.”
“Decontaminate? How?”
The how turns out to be in a tent set up in my front yard. T’s clothes are bagged and he’s given a shower and a pair of scrubs to wear. The CDC determine minimal exposure, so his lawn bath is more for caution than actual need. And despite the fact the envelope sat on the porch, they don’t decontaminate inside my house.
I would be worried, but Smythe insists the Agency cleaning crew will be around later. Good thing the emergency responders can’t hear him speaking in my mind. They might think we’ve been smoking something funny.
Once T’s showered and changed, the CDC and firemen leave. The female FBI agent heads our way, while the male agent talks to the cop.
“Hi. I’m Agent Dean with the FBI. Tell me what happened.”
T explains how he found the envelope, leaving out any mention of salt and iron filings or how he planned on using them.
“And you?” Her gaze focuses on me, sharp and piercing. Despite the heat I shiver.
“She came home to this. She doesn’t know anything.”
Agent Dean’s attention snaps to Smythe. Her brow furrows for a second then she nods. Mage mind trick to the rescue.
“Of course. Do you have any reason for someone to threaten your life?”
Besides a demon or Samantha? “No.”
“Do you do any political work?”
“Nope. I’m the farthest thing from a politician.” What a strange question.
“Any accidents? Run-ins with disgruntled people?”
“No and no. I’m an ER nurse. I go to work and come home. And I get along with my co-workers.” We might not be best buds but I can’t imagine anyone from work wanting me dead.
“If you think of anything, and I do mean anything, give me a call.” She hands me her card. “We’ll find out who did this.”
She shakes my hand, nods to T and Smythe, and walks to the Tahoe. Her partner shakes hands with the cop, joins her at the car and they leave.
“Finally.” T mutters. “I can go inside and get out of these scratchy scrubs. Don’t see how you can wear them every day.”
I grab his arm as the cop walks over. “You can’t leave. You have to be treated at the hospital.”
T’s eyes widen as the cop confirms my words. “We have to take you to the hospital for antibiotics.”
“The hospital?” T pales. No wonder. Ghosts walk at the hospital and flock around my twin like ants on a birthday cake. Used to be he enjoyed their visits.
Right up until our sperm donor died.
Now? He’d rather dance naked in front of a jeering crowd.
“Just the ER.” The cop pats him on the arm. “They have to check you out and give antibiotics.”
“Which hospital?” Please don’t say Blue Forest. I can’t show up after calling in sick.
“Dallas County. They’re set up to handle these types of cases.”
Whew. Saved. Unfortunately Smythe will be left behind if I go with T.
What other choice do I have?
Chapter Seventeen
We’re processed through the ER faster than a visiting dignitary. Could be because of the police escort or the call ahead letting them know we were coming. Whatever the reason, the hospital visit only lasts a couple of hours, during which time they run IV antibiotics and check T over for any illness. Three hours later, the cop drops us off in front of my house.
“Nice of him to wait.” T watches the taillights grow dimmer as the cruiser drives down the street.
“Yeah. Are you okay?” It’s a rhetorical question. Through the bond connecting us, I know he’s not. A deep-seated fear rides his emotions, clouding his thoughts. I share the same feeling of powerlessness. Of being controlled by that which frightens me.
“It’s like when we were kids. When we never knew what would happen.”
A shudder runs through me as I stick the key in the front door and twist. “We took care of it. You’ll win this one, too.”
“Will I?”
“Never give up hope.” What would I do without him? How would I live?
I shove the door open, step into the living room and freeze. Almost literally. For the first time in years, the house is cold during the summer and the A/C sounds normal, none of its usual whining death cadence. Smythe sits on the couch, head resting on the back of the seat, feet propped on the coffee table. Eloise sits beside him, staring at a closing portal. I can guarantee T’s day just took an upturn. The first time they met, after I’d been injured in a minion attack, he couldn’t stop staring at her, his attraction a tangible thread in the air. Looks like he still feels the same.
“Hey.”
She starts at my voice, turning our direction. T hisses in a breath as he walks into the house, his gaze focused on Eloise, just as I predicted. Fear no longer runs through his veins as the dominant emotion.
Wonder how Jackie would feel about his little crush.
Stay out of my head.
Quit broadcasting to the world.
T snaps shut the barrier between us, walking toward Eloise as if drawn by invisible strings. Smythe speaks without turning.
“The cleaning crew just left. They didn’t find any spores inside. Or outside. But they fixed the air conditioner.”
“That was nice of them.” Beyond nice, actually.
“It was self-preservation.” Smythe gestures to the woman beside him. “Eloise offered to check out T.” He manages that last sentence with a straight face. He either fails to see the irony or is too tired to care.
I close the front door, locking it with a quick twist. The Agency cleaning crew rocks. I now have cold air blowing out of vents like a normal North Texan.
When I turn, Eloise stands facing our direction, clearly waiting for us to come to her.
T stops at the back of the couch. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”
I walk to Smythe and stand by his side as Eloise motions for T to sit on the couch. Ignoring them, I focus on a pale Smythe. Not as pale as before, but I wouldn’t call him healthy either.
“How—”
“Shh.” Eloise interrupts me, her hand hovering above T’s head.
Heat splashes my cheeks as I kneel by Smythe. How do you feel?
Better. Not as tired. I slept some.
Did Eloise help?
She can’t heal depleted magic. Only time and rituals.
Should you return to your apartment and do your ritual?
Probably.
I pause, waiting for him to continue. His eyes drift closed.
Then why aren’t you?
You’re in trouble.
Forget about me! Heal yourself.
Blue orbs snap wide, the heat within firing a response deep within my core. A burned out mage is better than nothing. A little sleep, and I’ll be fine by morning.
His eyes draw me in, pulling me under, until I swim in the depths of his desire. I’m uncertain if he’s spelled me or showed me a glimpse into his inner emotions. The thought no sooner goes through my mind than his gaze shutters, locking the desire behind steel bars of iron will.
What the hell? Smythe finds me hot?
My traitorous hormones tango through my blood. Down girls, down. Not happening.
Not sure the couch is comfortable enough for recharging. Want to share my bed? Wait. Did those words actually transmit to him? Judging by the flare of his eyes and dilated pupils, I violated my own damn rule.
Fidiot.
Too late to take it back. Heat slaps my face as I try to backtrack. You can sleep on one side, and I’ll take the other. No hanky-panky.
“You are clear.” Eloise interrupts Smythe’s response. If there even was a response. Maybe he was as embarrassed as I was.
It could happen.
My attention snaps from blue eyes to T and Eloise. Her hand remains on his arm, a touch unnecessary for a healing but pleasing to T all the same. Good thing the couch sits between them. His pole-axed expression masks a roil of tension gathering within, spreading outward to her and back, wrapping them in tendrils of desire.
Gah. While a definite improvement from the Double D Wonder, the thought of Eloise in T’s bed creeps me out. I guess when it comes to my twin no one is good enough. Not even the healer.
Not sure what that says about me.
“I’m anthrax free?”
“Yes. Have you considered my request to become a ghost talker?”
T yanks his arm back faster than a striking snake, his expression morphing into narrowed eyes and a stiff spine. “I do not talk to them.”
“Why?” Smythe twists around to look at my twin. “You can’t have gone this long without trying.”
“Bad experience.”
“Just leave him alone about it, okay?” I give the offending parties a glare.
But when Smythe peers over his shoulder, I realize I should’ve kept my mouth shut. His gaze turns speculative. I wonder if he knows. If he guessed our secret. If he realizes his new mentee is a murderer.
The air saturates with a strange tension, a twisting of molecules into small spheres of anger. As if the room holds its breath, waiting, watching.
“They scare me, okay?” With T’s words, the tension rolls into the corners, waiting for another chance at an attack. T stalks into the kitchen. Cabinet doors slam, clinks of glass on the counter making me cringe. The tension wrapped around the room slithers behind him, a trailing cape of anger. Anger at himself for admitting a fear. Anger at Eloise for asking. Anger for hoping she wanted him for a different reason.
My poor twin. “Excuse me.” I follow him into the kitchen, heated gazes tagging my back like lasers.
T leans against the counter, hands flat, head bent forward. Empty glasses sit before him as if he plays a game of tic-tac-toe in the scratches on the laminate countertop. I reach into the fridge and pull out a beer.
Setting the beer in front of him, I place a hand on his shoulder and wrap him in tendrils of peace. Or try to. Peace is not my state of mind.
The bond between us solidifies, energizes, relaxes. Tension bleeds from his shoulders, releases on a sigh.
“It’ll be okay, T. Unless you snap on a bracelet, they can’t make you do anything.”
He picks up the bottle and chugs it in one fluid motion. “Goddamn ghosts. Why don’t they leave me the fuck alone?”
“Maybe you’re supposed to see them.”
He shoots me a go to hell look. “Yeah. Right.” His gaze focuses over my shoulder and his jaw tightens. “Well, shit. Your fucking ghost lover is back.”
I spin around so fast I make myself dizzy. Nothing. No Blake. Then I remember. I let go of T’s shoulder to turn. In order to see ghosts I have to touch my twin.
Once I put my hand back on T’s shoulder, Blake snaps into view.
And my heart feels like it breaks into small pieces. He needs to leave, to pass into the light, not stay on this plane.
Wanting him to remain here is selfish. I need to let him go. No matter how much it hurts.
I swallow the lump lodged in my throat and offer Blake a smile.
Are you okay? Blake’s lips move, but his voice echoes in my head.
T points his empty bottle at Blake. “I have iron filings. Say what you have to say because this is your last visit, fucker.”
Blake flips him off. Always nice to know relationships continue after death.
Gin wasn’t home this afternoon when I tried to warn her. You don’t know what you’re dealing with.
Understatement of the day. Lately I rarely know what I’m dealing with, so perhaps lack of knowledge is the new norm for me.
“What’s going on in there?” Smythe shouts from his resting spot on the couch.
“Nothing.” T and I speak simultaneously.
“Why don’t I believe you?”
“I don’t know. You tell me.” I should poke my head into the living room, but I can’t let Blake out of my sight.
Talk about issues.
The couch squeaks as he stands. Blake looks to the living room as the sound of shitkickers striking wood floors grows closer.
Why is he always around?
“He’s my mentor.”
“Are you talking to a ghost?” Smythe crosses his arms and leans against the wall, a pale block of formidable man with a curiosity streak.
Not that I blame him. If I caught him talking to a ghost, I’d want to know what it said too.
Eloise steps behind him as if she wasn’t blind. “As much as you want to deny it, T, ghosts always find a ghost talker. You must learn to control your talent before it controls you.”
Yeah. Been there. Done that. Experience taught my twin to fear. The less they know about the experience, the better.
T’s jaw tightens to a hard ball of muscle, his eyes snapping black fire. He white-knuckles the beer bottle, tension spreading to his shoulders despite my touch.
Intervention needed, stat.
“Blake’s back.” I gesture to his ghost while mouthing ‘sorry.’ Blake shrugs, a silent whatever.
“Ask him who we’re dealing with.”
“I told you what you’re dealing with.” Eloise answers Smythe, her eyes narrowing, aggravation coloring her tone.
“I said who, not what.”
Okaaaay. Wonder what happened between those two to set off the stare and glare game?
Gin, Blake’s voice snaps my attention away from the wonder factor back to reality. I can only tell you that who you’re looking for is not who he appeared to be.
“Appeared?”
You’ve already met him.
“Then who is it?”
I’ve said all I can say.
“What do you mean by that?”
Blake shakes his head. It’s all I was told. Please don’t let T pour iron filings. I won’t be ab
le to see you.
“Okay.”
“Bullshit.” T crosses his arms, almost dislodging my grasp. “You are outta here.”
“It’s my house.”
Tonight must be stare and glare game night. Someone forgot to send me the memo.
No.
Is so.
What if he pops in like some fuckin’ peeping Tom?
T, he was my lover. What hasn’t he seen?
T draws in slow breaths until the anger disappears from his gaze. Fine.
Thanks.
I turn to Blake, but he’s gone. And just like that my chest aches, a soul deep pain turning my insides into mush. I stare for a moment where he stood, using the time to collect myself. I refuse to fall apart in front of Smythe.
“He’s gone.” Yay, me. Strong voice without a hitch.
“What did he say? Did he tell you anything regarding the demon?”
“It’s a fear demon, Aidan.”
“I know that, Eloise.” Gritted teeth warp his voice.
What the hell happened between them? They seemed happy when we first walked into the kitchen.
“Will they leave me alone if I do what you want?” T leans back against the counter, eyes narrow, the muscle in his jaw twitching.
“Say what?” Was he really considering using his ability?
Eloise smiles a devious smile worse than any expression David ever wore. What the hell? “They are more likely to leave you alone if you attend to their needs.”
T pauses, the muscle twitch beating in time with his heart. “Fine. I’ll think on it. I’m going to bed.”
He takes the hall route, bypassing Eloise and an about to fall down Smythe, the weight of their stares a physical punch.
Eloise recovers first, her lips turning with a secret glee. “I bid you good-night, Gin. I will return tomorrow. Aidan.” Her hand waves a circle in front of her face. A second later, a portal swallows her head first, leaving Smythe leaning against the wall and me wondering what the fuck went on with T.
I try to hop into his head, but he’s formed mental barriers thicker than ten feet of stone. Not getting through those things.
Smythe takes a step toward me, stumbles, and grabs the wall. Thoughts of T vanish as I rush to my mentor, throw an arm around his waist, and head him toward my bedroom. He lets me without saying a word. Not a good sign. Normally he’d insist upon walking himself. That nothing was wrong. That he was fine.
Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 18
