Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel)

by Karilyn Bentley

  Instead, he leans into me, allowing me to absorb his weight like a human support stick. After a stumble he doesn’t seem to notice, I manage to help him into my bedroom, where I deposit him on the bed. He falls onto the pillows, legs hanging off the edge, as if unable to decide upon standing or lying.

  Or maybe he’s being polite and refuses to put his boots on my bed.

  More likely, he used what little energy he regained to stand like a tough guy and grill us about Blake’s ghost.

  Since he lies still as a sleeping lion, I check his pulse—slow but steady—remove his boots and lift his legs onto the bed. Even with the working A/C it’s too warm for covers, so I flip on the lamp on the nightstand, before walking into the bathroom.

  I shut the door and lean against it. Smythe is in my bed.

  A thrill lights a fire inside, invisible flames rushing through my veins straight to my core. I’m a sad case. Sad, sad, sad. I see my dead lover and promptly lust after another man.

  Freud would have a field day with me.

  A round of Blake-is-dead-you-can-find-another-man battles with Blake-is-dead-you-should-be-mourning-him. I sink to the cool tile and let the voices in my head duke it out. Guilt warring with lust.

  Not like lust is going to win. Not tonight anyway. Smythe can’t even open his mouth to say, ‘thanks.’ Little chance of his dick hopping up and waving do-me.

  Guilt assuaged—but in no way vanquished—I do my business in the bathroom, change into a loose pair of shorts and an oversized t-shirt and return to the bedroom. Smythe snores like a battery-operated car, quiet and with little noise. Just enough to let me know someone else sleeps in my bed.

  As if I could forget.

  He looks peaceful sleeping. Pale, but peaceful. As if a demon didn’t attack him. As if he didn’t have to expend all his magic to protect me. As if an anthrax filled envelope didn’t find its way to my front porch.

  That thought punches me in the chest with the force of a Mac truck. Someone tried to kill me. Who? Samantha? No, not her style. Why use anthrax when she could call up a regiment of minions to do her dirty work?

  Speaking of, Smythe still hadn’t linked her to that attack. David refused to believe me, taking little miss bleached blonde at her word. Damn bitch.

  Yeah, she hated me. But she wouldn’t leave me anthrax. Which circles me around to who did it.

  The butler in the pantry?

  I wish.

  I click off the lamp, crawl on top of the covers, and stare at the ceiling.

  Who tried to kill me? Who wants me dead? Who stole the anthrax?

  Gah. I need a drink.

  Cranking my fingers into fists and holding them as they shake helps center me. I really don’t need a drink. Or T’s stash of weed. Or anything stronger. I need to solve the mystery of who wants me dead. Mind-altering pharmaceuticals won’t help me there.

  My nails press into my palms, the bite of pain a reminder of how far I’ve come. How I’ve turned my life around. How I’ve made more of myself than I thought possible.

  I’m good. Now. I won’t slip into destructive patterns. Again.

  Nope. I won’t. Really. I think.

  To take my mind off my internal monster scratching for release, I replay the day’s events. Missing anthrax. Scary-ass demon. Blonde minion woman. Saved that one. File away how I saved her for more thinking. Exhausted Smythe. Letter containing anthrax.

  Not a stretch of the imagination to connect the dots from the missing anthrax to the stuff showing up on my porch. But why? And who?

  A little niggling thought jostles the back of my mind. I reach for it, but it dissipates like steam rising from a lake in winter. What was it? Will Blake come back?

  I see his smile, the look in his eyes as we make love. The slash on his neck from Jezebeth’s claws.

  I turn onto my side. Squeeze my eyes shut. A wave of emotional exhaustion drags me under, drowning me in a riptide of sleep.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Blake kisses me, his lips hot on mine, his hand slipping under my shirt. Why am I wearing a shirt? I break the kiss to yank off the offending item, then press against him, chest to chest, skin to skin, his heat warming mine. His kiss feels different, less loving and more demanding as if he brands me a possession.

  I don’t mind.

  His hands slide up my ribs, over my breasts, his mouth drawing my nipple into its moist depths. Sparks explode through my veins, a cataclysm of fire he swallows as if water to a dying man.

  Red-hot energy wells from a spring deep inside me, searing flesh, branding me a beast of desire.

  I’ve never felt like this with Blake.

  Blake. My lover. My dead lover.

  Dead. Stiff. Blood staining his shirt, his skin, from the gash in his neck.

  What the fuck?

  “Mmm, Jennifer,” he moans. “You taste good.”

  My eyes snap open. Smythe lays on top of me, eyes shut, his jean-clad package pressing against my core, hips rocking against mine.

  It feels…good.

  What the hell is wrong with me? I shove his shoulder. “Smythe. Smythe.”

  He pauses, lips against my neck. But only for a second and then he’s back to playing vampire on my neck. Except instead of blood, he’s draining my energy. I pop him upside his head. “Wake the fuck up!”

  Smythe raises his head, brows stitched together in clear confusion. I give him another smack. “Wake up.”

  When his eyes flare, mouth forming an O, I shove his shoulder. He scrambles off me so fast he lands ass first on the floor. Part of me wants to help him. The other part tingles with an unholy fire, an orgasm three licks away from rocking my world.

  I shove my head into the pillow and stare at the ceiling, my heart pounding a racing rhythm, exhaustion coupled with desire riding my bones. What the hell did he do to me?

  Besides the obvious. And damn me for a hypocrite, but when can I invite him back to my bed for real? Or was it all a dream?

  “I’m so sorry, Gin.” Smythe sits on the floor next to me. “I was dreaming. No excuse though. I’m so sorry. I’ll go sleep on the couch.”

  “You called me Jennifer.” Okay, Gin, jealous much?

  “I’m sorry.”

  “She was your mentee before me, right?”

  A long pause. “Yeah.”

  “She was to you like Blake was to me.”

  He scrubs a hand down his face. “It was wrong.”

  “Yeah. Messing work with pleasure never ends well.”

  “It wasn’t that. She…” he trails off. Enough light creeps through the blinds to show his jaw clenched. So much for learning why the relationship was wrong.

  Or why I’m jealous of a dead woman.

  I roll on my side, facing him. “And what was with the energy thing? Was I dreaming, or were you really being an energy vamp?”

  “Oh shit.” He reaches out a hand, draws it back. I grab his palm, watch as his eyes widen. “I’m sorry.”

  “I get that. Energy, Smythe, energy. What the hell were you doing?”

  His fingers tighten on mine, his eyes dropping to the floor. Bitterness creeps into my skin, a rare read into his emotions.

  “A ritual with herbal tea isn’t the only way to replenish a mage’s energy when they’ve burned through magic.”

  “Oh.” Disappointment kills the zipping tingles. I’m a means to an end, not the cherry topping.

  Really, I shouldn’t be so disappointed. Really. I should not.

  “I’m sorry. I—”

  “I know. You were dreaming, and you needed more help than a good night’s sleep. I understand.” Understanding did not make me feel better.

  Gah. Hormones are stupid things designed to make a reasonable woman crazy.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I get it. Now what?”

  “I go sleep on the couch.”

  I sigh. Sleeping on the couch did not make for a restful night. Waking in the morning to a grouchy Smythe was in no one’s benefit. And kee
ping him in bed with me was the right thing to do.

  “You can finish the night in here with me. Just stay on your side of the bed.” I give his hand a squeeze as his gaze snaps to mine.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “Thank you?”

  “Yeah.” One side of his mouth turns up. “Thank you.” He stands, pitches me my shirt, grabs his t-shirt off the floor and yanks it on.

  I pull on my shirt while he slides back into bed. The A/C vent crackles like a static-y radio, but blows cool air. Thank goodness. I’m already hot and bothered. Cool air might help.

  Smythe touches my shoulder. A simple touch, not sexual, and yet my core fires heat, tingling with anticipation. Down, hormones, down.

  “Thanks, Gin. I owe you.”

  “Sure, whatever. Good night.” I take his promise as a sign he trusts me again.

  I really should stop fooling myself.

  *****

  The gentle touch of morning light wakes me, stroking my cheek with the softness of a lover’s touch. I want to slap it silly. Instead, I crack a lid and leap out of bed. I’m late for work. Adrenaline pounds a race and I’m halfway to the bathroom before I remember that today is my scheduled day off.

  I hate it when I do this. But since I’m awake, I might as well get going.

  Smythe lays curled on his side, facing away from me. I leave him alone, letting him recharge his batteries before he tries to drain mine again.

  I don’t feel drained. I feel energized. Which should not be the case after yesterday. Clearly I have issues.

  None of which can be solved without a dose of coffee. Or several doses. After a quick run through the shower, I face the already steaming coffeepot, pour myself a cup, and think.

  T either overslept or already left. Mug in hand, I walk to his room and open the door. No T. Already left then. His window sits cracked open a couple of inches, hot, humid air circling his room like a miasma of pollution. I pause, staring at the open window, while a mixture of emotions twist a jagged path inside my chest. Then I sigh and close it.

  T, you okay?

  Ouch! A sharp pain whacks the top of my head as T bumps his head on the underside of a car hood. Oops.

  Sorry. Just wanted to know how you were.

  I was fine. I can almost see him rubbing his head, easing the pain in mine.

  You still feel okay?

  Yeah. Someone from the health department is supposed to call but this is the best I’ve felt in awhile. I’ll have to tell Eloise thanks personally.

  You already did.

  It never hurts to be nice.

  Or to flirt with a woman he finds attractive.

  I heard that.

  Oops. Just admit the attraction and move on.

  Whatever. Work needs my full attention. See you later? I'll be home early.

  Sure.

  He snaps our mental connection closed, leaving me chuckling. Him and Eloise? That’s funnier than imagining Jackie as a genius in disguise.

  Instead of completing my morning ritual of coffee and newspaper, I walk my mug into the living room and open Smythe’s laptop. For a man who clutches the thing like it’s about to be stolen, you’d think he would bother to password protect it.

  A couple of button pushes later and a sharp sting bites my fingers. Ouch, ouch, ouch. What was that?

  I touch the mousepad, intending to open a browser, and get a shock that blows my fingers off the keyboard and numbs my arm. A high-pitched squeak passes my lips, unrecognizable as my voice, a clear result of an almost electrocution.

  No wonder the laptop wasn’t password protected. A spelled keyboard protects better than any password in existence. And hurts like a son of a bitch too.

  Footsteps pound a rhythm toward me, a barefoot Smythe stops feet away, his gaze roaming between me and the laptop. A shit-eating grin spreads across his face.

  “I see you’ve met the spell.”

  “Yeah, thanks for telling me about it.” I set the computer on the coffee table and pick up my mug with tingling fingers.

  “It’s funnier to watch you try.”

  “Glad you find humor in my tingling fingers.”

  His mouth opens like he’s going to make a smartass remark, when his face clouds, all traces of his smile vanishing. “Are you okay? I feel unusually good this morning. You must be drained.”

  “I’m fine.” As his brows snap together, I amend the sentence. “Really. Fine. Woke with a ton of energy, which is strange.” I almost didn’t need the second cup of coffee, but not drinking another meant throwing out a whole pot and that’s a waste of good coffee.

  And money.

  He runs a hand through his hair and takes a step back. Away from me. As if he’s afraid. Or ashamed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but your energy tasted different than anything I’ve had.”

  “Good thing you’re not a vamp. I vant to suck your blood.” I use my best Dracula voice as I stand to get more coffee.

  “Seriously, Gin. Why?”

  “How the hell am I supposed to know? Maybe because I’m an empath?”

  His expression speaks his doubt. I leave him alone with his thoughts and go pour myself another cup.

  “It’s something else.”

  Coffee splashes over the edge of the mug as I jump. Smythe stands behind me. Not where I expect him to be since I didn’t hear him follow me.

  “Sorry.”

  “You’ve said that enough to last a lifetime.” I grab a paper towel and clean up the spilled mess. “Why don’t we figure out this demon instead of discussing last night? It happened. It’s over. We can forget about it.”

  He blinks. Right. Not over for him. But I can see the gears switching to another mode as he considers what I said. I pitch the paper towel into the trash and walk back into the living room. Smythe can heat his own drink of English breakfast tea. He’s been staying here so often I no longer need to play the gracious hostess.

  But this morning he follows me sans tea. “It’s not the demon.” He beats me to the couch and grabs his laptop. One side of his lip kicks up as he winks at me while opening a browser. “The anthrax is more worrisome than the demon.”

  “Especially since it showed up at my place. Who the hell wants me dead?”

  “The real question is why.”

  I take a swallow of coffee and let its heat wend through my frozen veins. Why does someone want me dead? Besides Samantha? That bitch might have thrown a party if I’d breathed in anthrax spores, but that didn’t mean she left the envelope. Not her style.

  I flop on the couch and peer at the laptop. The Department of Defense flashes across the screen from their internal website. I have no idea what he’s looking for. Names and numbers scroll across the screen in an eye twitching, nausea inducing dance.

  “Ah-ha.” He plops the laptop on the coffee table and stands. “I’ll be right back.”

  A couple of seconds later the bathroom door shuts. I pick up the laptop, but avoid touching the keys. I’m a quick study.

  The page is open to a bio on Dr. Sheevers. No mention of a wife. Maybe he was divorced?

  Smythe walks back into the room. “Thought you learned not to touch it.”

  “I learned not to touch the keyboard. I can pick the thing up just fine.”

  He takes the computer from me, sets it in his lap as he sits. “There’s nothing about a wife.”

  “Just what I was thinking. Maybe he’s divorced.”

  “Or has never been married.”

  “Then who’s the woman in the wedding picture on his office desk?”

  Smythe shrugs and opens another browser. A few clicks later and Dallas county records scroll across the screen. He pauses the cursor over a name.

  “Huh. Look at that. A Dr. Stan Sheevers sues the Dallas City Council for seizing his property under imminent domain. He lost.”

  “Stan? I thought Dr. Sheevers first name was Dan.”

  He clicks back onto the DOD page. “Yep. Dan. Maybe a brother?”
<
br />   “See if you can find a picture of this Stan.”

  The words no sooner leave my lips than Stan’s picture appears on the screen. We both lean forward as if our eyes stopped working.

  “Stan looks enough like Dan to be his twin.”

  A few more clicks and Smythe nods. “Stan is his twin.”

  “What happened to him?”

  He flips to the other browser window. “Says Stan’s wife died of a heart attack after their home was seized. Then the lawsuit. Then nothing. That was almost a year ago.”

  A thought niggles at the back of mind, just like it did last night. “When was Dan Sheevers killed?”

  “A couple of days—”

  “No. I mean the time of death. What does the police report say?”

  “Oh. Let’s see.” Hacking skills rule. The Dallas Police Department flashes across the screen. He pulls up the case file and starts reading. “Looks like the time of death was in the morning.” His brows furrow. “The morning of Blake’s funeral.”

  “Oh my God. Remember how I touched Dr. Sheevers and thought I saw a vision of him dying? It wasn’t a vision. It was me being an empath and seeing his thoughts. That was Stan at the funeral. Why the hell would he show up to a funeral after murdering his brother?”

  “Who said anything about him killing his brother? He might have walked in after the murder.”

  “And let him lay there without calling the police and then masquerading as his twin at a funeral for someone he probably didn’t know? Trust me, as a twin, that would not happen.”

  “You’re close to T. Maybe he wasn’t close to his brother.”

  “Clearly, if he killed him. I know not all twins are close, but still. Even if you didn’t get along, that’s some bizarre-ass behavior. I think we’re looking at Dr. Dan Sheevers’ murderer.”

  Smythe pokes a few more buttons before leaning back. “Okay, let’s say you’re right. Why would Stan kill his brother? Why would he pretend to be his brother? What would he gain?”

  “Money? Aren’t most crimes for passion or money?”

  “I guess. If you were to commit a murder, why would you do it?”