Devil Take Me

by Karilyn Bentley

  The good thing is we only had two more suicides today, if that could be called good. Definitely an improvement over last night but zero would have been better. Unless the city of Dallas decided to waft some sort of a “kill me now” drug through the air, the sheer volume of suicides in a single day lent credence to demonic involvement.

  Which means I need to drag my tired and drained ass out to patrol the streets and see what I can find.

  Although how I’m supposed to hunt without a guardian mage is beyond me.

  Instead, I clock out and drive home.

  Once the garage door closes behind me, I yank my phone out of my purse and place yet another call to my missing mentor.

  Why am I not surprised the call drops into voice mail?

  “Look here, Smythe. You are acting like a PMS’ing woman. Okay, whatever. That’s your biz, but there is something going on in Dallas. There've been a ton of suicides since Friday night and that’s not normal. I suspect demonic involvement. You should too. So get over yourself, man up, and call me back. You can be as mad at me as you want but you need to do your job and get your ass to my place so we can hunt down whatever is causing this epidemic. Okay? Bye.”

  If my voice mail doesn’t get a response, I’m calling the Agency hotline and requesting another mentor. The thought of which causes the low-level ache in my chest to bloom into a full-blown maybe-I’m-having-a-heart-attack sensation. I don’t want it to be over between us. I want Smythe to remain as my mentor. And my lover, although getting him back is looking less likely by the second. Even if he never crawls into my bed again, I still want to work with him.

  I also want to kick his ass around the block for leaving me alone to handle a fight with a demon.

  For ignoring my calls.

  Jackass.

  As soon as I step into the kitchen, T yells from the living room.

  “Hey! I cooked you dinner.”

  I stand by the door blinking for a two count. Who or what replaced my brother with a cook?

  “Are you okay?” I set my purse on the table and head toward T, stopping in the doorway between the kitchen and the living room.

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I’m not trying to be ungrateful, but since when do you cook me dinner?”

  He shrugs, turns back to the baseball game on TV. “I was hungry so I cooked you some too.”

  I don’t need to read his mind to know he’s worried about me. Cooking dinner is his way of trying to make me feel better. For the first time in a while, a smile crosses my lips.

  “I appreciate it. Not trying to be a bitch.”

  “I know.” He looks at me, one side of his mouth turning in a crooked grin. “Your plate is in the microwave.”

  I open the microwave to find a plate containing a grilled steak, grilled asparagus, and formerly frozen steak fries. Yummy.

  “I’m going to change, then I’ll be right in.”

  A few minutes later I’m back in the kitchen dressed in a pair of PJs and house slippers. After nuking my plate, I march it and myself into the living room, kick off my slippers and flop on the couch beside my brother, the awesome cook.

  “How was your day?” I stuff a fry into my mouth, talking around it.

  “Same ol’, same ol’. You?”

  I chew a bite while he curses at the TV when his player strikes out. Once he eases back onto the couch, I speak.

  “Bunch of suicides. I suspect a demon.”

  “Ah, shit. Don’t tell me you have to go hunt it?”

  My ringing phone postpones our usual argument. I glance at the caller ID. “Hang on.”

  I set my plate on the coffee table and run-walk to the kitchen, swiping the talk button.

  “Hello?”

  “You’re right.” The tight tone of Smythe’s voice lets me know he’s not happy about the matter. “Despite the Agency not reporting any demon appearances, the likelihood of a demon outbreak in Dallas is high. The number of suicides is abnormal. I checked.”

  “Nice to talk to you too. So what are we going to do about it?” About the demon. About the suicides. About us. Pick one.

  Of course he avoids the tutu-wearing elephant sitting between us, choosing the safer territory of demons. Then again, I asked about the demon and suicides, not us.

  “You working tomorrow?”

  “Not tomorrow. But I am the next day.”

  “I’ll be at your house at seven in the morning. Be ready to go.”

  With those words, he ends the call.

  Not a bad start. At least he talked. More like growled. Beggars can’t be choosers, can they?

  “Who was that?” T asks as I walk back to the couch.

  I pick up my plate and cram a bite of steak into my mouth. “Smythe.”

  “Son of a bitch. Did you let him play all nicey-nicey?”

  “It wasn’t like that.”

  “Aw man,” he points at the TV with his beer bottle, “did you see what just happened? Rogers struck out. Damn it. So, what was it like?”

  “Smythe or the strike out?”

  “We’re talking about your mentor.”

  “Right.” I swallow, replacing the piece of steak with a fry. “He apparently listened to my latest voice mail and decided I had a point about the suicides being demon involvement. He’s coming over tomorrow morning.”

  “Damn. I don’t like it.”

  “We’ve been over this before.”

  “I still don’t like it. Why did the bracelet have to pick you?”

  “Jealous?”

  He snorts. “Right. Couldn’t it have picked someone else?”

  “There is no one else. I’m the last of the line.”

  “So Smythe’s coming over in the morning. Whatcha going to do about him being an ass?” T takes a sip of beer, peering at me as he swallows.

  I shrug. “Don’t know yet.”

  “Want me to talk him?”

  Oh, like that would go over well. “Thanks, but no thanks.”

  “It’s not a problem.”

  “It’s appreciated, but no. I can handle him on my own.”

  “Give him hell before you forgive him.”

  “Who says I’ll forgive him?”

  T takes a sip. “Uh-huh.”

  “I thought you took his side.”

  “Haven’t you heard of the Devil’s advocate?”

  I roll my eyes. “Thanks.”

  “Any time sis, any time.” He pats my arm with one hand, jostling my plate.

  “Thanks again for dinner.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  When I slip into my bedroom hours later to go to bed—after our team wins and the kitchen is clean—I glance in the corners, half expecting Zagan to appear. No such luck. Until faced with a room empty of all but the furniture, I never realized how much the demon meant to me. In some twisted way, we’ve become friends.

  Gah. Did I actually have that thought?

  A dull shake from my bracelet confirms I did. And the entity in the thing agrees.

  Double gah.

  Not sure what it says about me when I miss a demon lurking in the shadows of my room.

  Pain throbs in my chest. Zagan called me worthless. A loser. Despite my kickass skills in the ER, my skills to rid the world of demons clearly sucks. Along with the ability to keep a man and avoid killing humans.

  It’s a sad day when a demon makes a good point about your personality.

  A sharp sting pierces my wrist as the silver links of the justitia shake against skin. Memories flit through my mind, too fast to see, the speed causing a dizzy spell.

  Closing my eyes, I slide down the closed door, until my butt hits the floor. The memories slow, settle, focus on an ancient scene. Zagan playing blacksmith, hammering a mass of silver, sweat beading across his brow. The scene changes to him linking small silver plates into bracelets. Thirteen bracelets. Thirteen bracelets that look a lot like the thirteen justitias worn by my fellow sword-sisters.

  Not look like, are. I know this
as sure as I know my name. I’m watching the beginnings of the bracelets.

  The scene shifts again. This time thirteen multihued demons stand in a circle around a fire, each clutching a bracelet in their clawed hands. Before each demon stands a small, gnome-like creature, minus the typical pointed hats. Human cries for help, wails of terror and fear, sound in the background, close but hidden in shadows. The stench of sulfur hangs in the air, a pleasing scent of home. The scene appears as if I’m looking out of one of the gnome-like creatures’ eyes.

  The demons start chanting, wicked words flowing in a spine-tingling rhythm, a forceful spell brushing against my—the gnome creature’s—skin.

  Freely given blood of servants, blood of power

  Silver strong, others will cower

  Weld the two, strength doubled into one

  Form an entity stoppable by none

  With the links, the weak will be made strong

  Let them strive to right a wrong

  When we complete this spell

  We will be rulers of Hell

  Firelight flashes off silver knives as the demons slash their palms. Black blood drips onto the dirt floor, the sweet scent of copper and sulfur filling the air. Fear and anticipation ripple through my veins as the demons smear their blood over the silver links of the bracelets. The crackle of magic shakes my marrow as the spell takes hold.

  Excitement turns into shock as each demon slits the throat of my fellow servants before them, as the sharp sting of a knife slices through my own throat. A shot of panic ricochets through my limbs as I fight not to struggle. My knees give out and I fall onto the ground, hands clasped against my severed neck, my blood a spreading crimson stain on the dirt.

  Pain fills my body as blood spills onto the ground, as my life pumps toward death. But it is only death of the body. Because of the spell, my soul streams into the silver bracelet, joins the metal, merges into one being.

  My new home is tight, small, binding. I am, and yet, I cannot move. I see, and yet I no longer reside in a body. My body, limp and lifeless, a vessel no longer needed.

  The touch of a finger stroking the metal links of the bracelet, of me, halts the budding panic. Zagan holds me, no, no longer my body, but the bracelet. I am a silver linked bracelet. I am changed.

  “Hello, lovely. You did good. Just a little longer.”

  I settle at his words, at the kindness in his voice. He means so much to me. I’d do anything for him. Anything. I am his faithful servant. He needs my help. Only I can help my master. Yes, there are others like me, twelve others, but they do not serve my master. They serve their masters. My master is better. My master has a plan.

  And I am created to help him achieve it.

  Human females are brought forward, their annoying cries echoing through the chamber, tears soaking their cheeks. Fear creases their faces, stinks their sweat. They fear my master. I reveal in the pleasure he derives from their sobs.

  He selects the largest female, the one standing in the front, her eyes flashing a warning despite her fear. The strongest. The one best suited for his purpose. He drags her resisting body into a circle drawn onto the floor. She tries to run, the spell powering the circle stopping her short. Only demons can pass through the circle; humans stand caught by the magic within.

  One by one, each demon selects the female who shall wear their bracelet, dragging the woman into the middle of the circle. Chosen prior to the ritual, our female knows not how special she is, knows not why she was selected.

  The demons stay on the outside of the circle, whispered words drawing their chosen female to stand before them, captivated, quiet, unable to resist. Tension runs through my master’s fingers into my new body as he clutches me in his palm.

  He glances around the circle, eyeing each demon-female pair, ensuring all is in order. The chamber fills with the crackle of burning oak. One minute passes, then another, as each demon prepares to perform the difficult spell.

  My master lifts his hand, dropping it in a slashing motion. The signal to begin. Again, the demons chant. Blue and purple tendrils wrap me and the female in magic, draw us together, bind our souls. The female’s eyes widen. Even through the compulsion laid upon her, she senses the change, knows she is powerless to stop the spell from joining her body to my soul. Energy fills the air, fills the female, fills my soul. I am one. I am chosen. I am needed.

  My silver links surround the thin wrist of human flesh, clasp and seal shut. The spell binds us, transforming our separate destinies into one. I feel her trembling pulse race against me. Sense her nerves tingling beneath my metal. I take my place along her nerves, throughout her body, binding us together, holding her to the demon through me. I race through her body until I find her mind.

  Her scared mind.

  Then I introduce myself.

  And nothing will ever be the same.

  ****

  With a gasp, my lids fly open. A quick glance at my arms proves I am Gin, not some freshly-killed gnome creature in a chamber full of spell-chanting demons. I sit on the floor of my bedroom, alone with the light and the air conditioner rattling the vent. My limbs tremble as if dunked in freezing water.

  A dream? A memory? What the hell? If the justitia can show me memories that vivid, why can’t it answer my questions? Like how the heck it hopped from Will’s scrub pocket into mine?

  Laughter trails along my nerves, courtesy of the justitia. You see. You know. You are me.

  My justitia talks! Before, I’d gotten glimpses of its past along with short one-word responses, but full sentences never seemed within its abilities. Until now. I close my eyes, focusing on the purple light of the entity along my nerves.

  You were killed to create my justitia. Why?

  A long pause, then an eerie voice sounds in my mind.

  My master needed power.

  Okay. Finally. I’m having a conversation, in the loosest sense of the word, with my justitia.

  Zagan was your master, right?

  Sparks of purple drift through my mind as the entity answers. Yes. Good master.

  If you belonged to Zagan, how did you end up at the Agency? What happened to the woman who first wore you?

  Scenes flash through my mind, swirling, circling, a plug pulled on a drain. A gray mist fuzzes the scenes, obliterating the memory.

  No.

  My eyes pop open in surprise, but I quickly shut them to concentrate on our conversation. No? What do you mean, no?

  Not yet. Not ready. Soon.

  So much for talking with my justitia. But at least I learned some things. Which is more than the esteemed Agency taught me. If the demons created the justitias, then how did they fall into Agency hands? How could a demonic spell be broken? And why? More importantly, if the demons created the bracelets, why do the bracelets now kill their creators?

  With a wheeze, the AC cuts off, but chills continue to wrack my limbs. Chills of knowledge. Chills of shock. Sometimes ignorance really is bliss.

  Chapter Four

  A buzzing alarm yanks me from a dark dream, memories scattering into oblivion as I open my eyes. Unease creeps across my skin as I slap a hand on the alarm’s off button. Six o’clock? Why am I up so early on my day off?

  The reason pops to the front of my mind. Smythe. Here. At 7:00 a.m. I need enough caffeine in me by the time he arrives to make sense and not be grumpy.

  Wait. A little grumpy might be needed. I might want to work with him but I sure as hell am not ready to forgive him.

  Not yet anyway.

  Twenty minutes later I walk into the kitchen, following the scent of fresh-brewed coffee. T stands at the counter dressed in black trousers and his gray auto shop work shirt, watching the pot do its drip-drip thing.

  “Hey.” At my voice, he turns, one brow raised.

  “Whatcha doing up so early? Aren’t you off?”

  “Smythe’s coming over.”

  His jaw clenches. “Right. I forgot.”

  I pull the cereal box out of the pantry, dum
ping the off-brand shredded wheat into a bowl. “We’re going to discuss the possible demon activity, remember?”

  “Then you’re gonna chew out his ass, right?”

  “Maybe.” I shrug.

  “Maybe? No maybe about it. The man’s behaving like a jerk.”

  Now it’s my turn for a raised brow. “Thought you understood why he wouldn’t return my calls.”

  “Sure, but it’s my sister who’s upset, so he’s being a jerk.”

  I smile. “I like your reasoning.”

  He pours a cup of coffee, pulls out my extra-large mug and fills it with the wonderful black liquid.

  I take a sip. “Mmm. Thanks.”

  “Never say I don’t understand you.”

  I point the mug at him. “Never say I don’t understand you.”

  One corner of his mouth turns up. He doesn’t need to say it, I know what sparks through his mind.

  I hold his gaze for a moment longer, a silent way of saying how glad I am to have him as my brother.

  He yanks the cereal box out of my hand, gives the opening a sniff followed by a nose wrinkle. “Don’t know how you can eat this stuff.”

  “It’s not so bad.” I take my bowl, spoon, and mug to the table, T following with his mug and the box of sugary bad-for-you cereal he loves.

  By the time we finish eating, the coffee has worked a miracle, firing my brain cells into action. I pour another cup and open the paper, sipping as I read. The feel of the paper, the smell of the ink, usually puts me in my happy place. Sure, I could pull up the paper on my phone, but reading digitally isn’t quite the same experience.

  Call me old fashioned.

  Two-thirds of the way through the paper, a portal forms in my kitchen, deceptively warm air gushing into the room. Smythe steps out, dressed in a navy blue long-sleeved shirt and jeans, his black laptop backpack thrown over one shoulder. At six-foot-five with short black hair and blue eyes, he commands attention.

  And despite his current asshat behavior, an invisible pull focuses my gaze on him to the extent everything else in the room fades away.

  I swear my heart stops along with my breath. Smythe’s gaze hits me with the force of a tsunami, drowning me in its depths, its regrets, its anger. The silent communication of longing and ire between Smythe and me breaks when T turns to see why I’m staring over his shoulder. With a thud, my heart resumes a staccato beat and I suck in a shaky breath. T stiffens. Tension flows through the room, thick as spilled sewage.