But my twin’s strained posture isn’t nearly as bad as my mentor’s. Smythe resembles a cross between a man sucking on a persimmon and a glowering thunderhead. As if he can’t decide between being pissed off or bitter. Neither of which bodes well for me.
But since he and T play the stare-and-glare game, I decide to be nice and start our long overdue conversation.
“Hey. Thanks for coming.”
Smythe’s eyes narrow, focusing on me again instead of my twin. “Still drinking coffee, I see.”
His tone is a cross between humor and annoyance, as if I should be ashamed for drinking so much coffee.
I’m not. Shame fail.
I shrug, forcing my hands to unclench. “It’s better than other things.”
Before Smythe can answer, T shoves back his chair, the legs squeaking across the floor, and points a finger at Smythe.
I hop to my feet, ready to throw myself between the two and save T from being annihilated. My twin might be a badass, but Smythe has a little something called magic on his side.
“Listen, asshat,” T drops his finger as he moves to stand nose to chin with Smythe. “You hurt my sister again and mage or not, you’ll have me to deal with.”
Smythe’s jaw tenses. His fingers flex. He stares at T long enough for the temperature in the room to drop a few degrees. I rub my goosebump-covered arms, wondering if I should intervene. Right when I’m about to put my life at risk by coming between the two, T takes a step back. Smythe continues to stare at my twin, his eyes the shade of glacial ice.
T seems to grow, his aura expanding until the room warms, the earlier chill evaporating under the onslaught of his rage. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe T could take on Smythe and win. After another couple of stare-and-glare seconds, T turns his back on Smythe in an either brave or foolhardy move. A moment later his arms wrap around me, holding me close.
Don’t worry about him, Gin, he got the message. See you tonight.
I return his hug, breathing in a deep, relieved breath. Thank you. But don’t do it again. I don’t want him to hurt you.
T snorts. Like he could.
But—
No buts about it. I’m fine. Make sure you’ve kicked his ass to Oklahoma by the time I get back.
I bite off a chuckle. If you insist.
He gives me a peck on the cheek. “See ya later.”
“Have fun at work.”
On his way to the front door, T bumps into Smythe shoulder-to-shoulder, the male equivalent of don’t mess with me, bitch.
Smythe turns with his fists clenched, his gaze following T’s exit. He blows out a heavy breath when the door closes behind my twin and crosses his arms.
“Your brother has an anger problem.”
And in under a second, I go from wary and concerned to hot-cheeked bitchzilla. Want to see anger, buster? Just watch. “Oh? He has an anger problem? He’s not the one who’s been ignoring my calls. Who left me alone to deal with a demon. Who—”
His eyes snap blue fire. “We don’t have time for your tirade. You made your choice—”
“Are you freaking kidding me?” I take a step toward him, my voice rising an octave. “Have you not read the papers? Did the cleanup crew not report back to you? Donny is dead!”
Smythe jerks as if slapped. “Dead? When did that happen?”
“Geez, Smythe! Have you not seen the news?”
He rolls his hand in a circular motion, Smythe talk for nope so get on with it.
I draw in a deep breath, trying to return my voice to a normal, non-screeching level. So much for that attempt. At least when my jaw clenches, I don’t sound so shrill. “When you misread the situation at the club and stormed out, Rahab stormed in, before I could chase after you. You left me to deal with a demon and his minion. You left me.” So much for not sounding shrill. I’m surprised the light bulb remains in one piece after I shrieked that last sentence.
“You kissed him.” The growling undertone of his voice holds betrayal and hurt, along with a good deal of jealousy and ire.
I’m not swayed.
“Grow eyes! He planted one on me. You walked in right as I was about to kick him in the nuts. And then left without letting me explain.” Does Smythe really think I kissed Donny?
Smythe blinks twice, red dotting his cheeks, his eyes gleaming with barely concealed ire. “I don’t want to discuss this right now. I came to hunt demons.”
“What do you mean, you don’t want to discuss it?” My breath comes in small bursts, pained and uneven, as my voice lowers to a level usually indicative of an impending thunderstorm. My fists clench. I swear my head is about to explode.
He draws in a noisy breath through his nose. “I mean, not now. I don’t want to deal with this now.” His pained gaze implores me to shut the hell up.
Yeah, right. As if that’s going to happen.
“You had to know this would come up. We need―”
“What we need to do is hunt this demon. Then maybe we can discuss what went on.”
Maybe? Maybe? The man is nuts if he thinks maybe is an option. Definitely is more like it.
I swallow the thought. I’m not ready to forgive him. Yell at him, yes. Make him hurt like he made me hurt, sure. But forgive him? Not yet. And standing in front of him, I realize he feels the same. He thinks, truly thinks, I owe him an apology. He mistakenly believes I betrayed him. That it’s me who needs to ask for forgiveness.
He is so freaking wrong, I don’t even know where to start.
So I do as he asks, shove the anger aside and focus on the demon problem. Or try to shove the anger aside. I really, really, really want to slap him upside the head.
More than once.
Deep breaths, Gin, deep breaths.
My chest aches, my head pounds with the rhythm of my speeding heart, but I manage to unclench my fists while attempting to speak in a normal, not-going-to-kill-you voice.
“I’m pretty sure a demon is behind all these suicides. That’s why I asked you to come.” See, I can talk in a normal tone while suppressing homicidal tendencies.
Despite this accomplishment, hot tears press against my eyes. Damn it. No way am I going to cry in front of him.
“I agree.” Smythe slows his speech, as if dragging out his words helps keep him calm. “Several demons feed off suicides. The most prominent ones are the despair demons, but I’ve never known them to cause suicidal tendencies. They show up once the deed has been done.”
The memory of lying in the bathtub, hungover and depressed while some dream man beckoned me to him, flashes to the front of my mind. He called me. He wanted me. If not for T, he would have taken me. Goosebumps snake across my skin. I cross my arms in a failed attempt not to shake.
“Maybe something changed. Maybe it’s not the normal herd of demons feeding off the depressed. Maybe there’s one who urges a depressed person to come to them. Maybe that demon’s hungry.”
Smythe raises a brow. “Let’s say you’re right. Why now?”
“And which demon?”
He places his backpack on the floor and leans against the wall while he talks. “We already covered it. One of the despair demons.”
“Yeah, I know, but which one? Do they have leaders? Like groups or something?”
His look lets me know he thinks I’m one sandwich short of a picnic. “Of course. For instance, you fought Agramon, the fear demon.”
A shiver courses through me at the mention of the demon’s name, a cold remembrance of almost dying. Agramon was one scary-ass demon, the likes of which I hope to never see again.
“He was the leader of all fear demons.”
“You mean there are more of them?” My breath hitches. Please say no.
Turns out, I’m disappointed.
“Yep. You killed the leader, which means another, less powerful fear demon now leads them.”
My justitia jiggles. It feared Agramon almost as much as I did. Something tickles my memory, a distant fog obscuring the landscape. What was it? What abo
ut Agramon’s death brought an ancient memory of the justitia bubbling to the surface?
The justitia’s memory appears in my mind. Multi-hued demons stand around a fire, lips turned in macabre grins as they stare at weeping women draping the ground before them.
And now I shall rule all. Zagan’s voice zips through my mind, my justitia’s memory, threat and desire rolled into one.
But what does the bracelets’ beginning have to do with Agramon’s death?
“Gin?”
I startle at the sound of Smythe’s voice, blinking a couple of times for good measure. He shoots me a worried look rimmed with anger.
“Sorry. You ever have a memory try to come out of hiding but not make it?”
“Yeah. Let me know when you think of it.”
I nod, resuming our conversation prior to my trip down the justitia’s memory lane. “I hope never to see another fear demon again. Ever. Agramon was one scary mother.”
Smythe cracks a grin. “Yep. But you killed him.” His eyes narrow, grin fading. “With Zagan’s help.”
I cross my arms at the jab as I remember using red energy given to me by Zagan to kill the fear demon. “I’ll take all the help I can get.”
“And therein lies your problem, Gin.”
A spike of anger floods my system. I draw in a deep breath. Okay, I get it. He was raised with the belief demons are slimebags who should never be talked to or trusted. Anyone who disobeys those rules has a problem.
Just because I understand him doesn’t mean I have to like him judging me. I’m not the only one with issues. For once my reasoning fails to make me feel better.
“Yeah? Well, at least I killed the thing. The other Justitians who wore my bracelet and fought Agramon lost.”
“Because they didn’t let a demon give them special powers. None of them allowed a demon to fill them with its energy.” Low and ominous, the tone of his voice rolls across my skin.
“Don’t worry, Smythe. Zagan’s pissed at me too so I no longer have those special powers. I’m back to being plain ol' me.”
Which bothers me way more than it should. I should be grateful Zagan, the demon of deceit, no longer wants me around. Instead, his absence is yet another thing making me tear up.
I will not cry, I will not cry, I will not cry.
The tears vanish, but the ache in my chest is an empty cave of sorrow threatening to smother me. Part of me wants to crawl under my bed, curl in the fetal position, and hide from the world.
Whispered words fill my mind. Come to me. I will give you rest.
Is the whispering voice in my head a return of the dream man or a memory?
Strong hands wrap around my upper arms, give me a shake. I blink several times. Smythe stands in front of me, a line curving his brow, his features stamped with concern. How could I not realize he moved?
“What just happened, Gin?”
“Nothing. Just lost in space.” Like I’m going to tell him about the dream man, who may or may not be real.
My justitia shakes, as a warning or trying to give advice?
“Bullshit. You got a distant expression on your face and then something was in your mind.”
Straightening my coffee mug before the liquid gold spills to a wasted puddle on the floor, I ignore how his warm hands still grip my arms, how his closeness wraps me in warmth, how his concern touches me. Yeah, none of those things matter. What the hell does he mean something was in my mind? T said the same thing when he found me in the bathtub, hungover and wanting to die.
To die. Like the suicides.
No way. Could there be a connection? Nausea roils through my suddenly freezing body.
“What do you mean, something was in my mind? What were you doing in my mind?”
He ignores the second question, focusing on the first, more important question.
“Something was definitely in your mind. Like a spirit or something. I’ve never felt anything like it. You aren’t possessed—”
“How can you tell?” I don’t think I’m possessed, but the more I know, the smarter a demon huntress I’ll be.
And, in theory, the better I’ll be at fighting the dream man. Fight him I will. I don’t want what he’s offering.
Really. I don’t.
Lying has always been my forte.
Unaware of my internal dialogue, Smythe answers my question. “You’d have another aura shadowing yours. A black or gray one. You don’t. But something was there, talking to you. I didn’t catch what it said.”
“Come to me, I’ll give you rest. Those are its words.” I swallow, trying to rid my throat of its sudden dryness.
“Who?”
“Don’t know.” Should I tell him about the dream man? I take a breath. Yes, I should. Hearing strange voices is not a route I wish to travel. Maybe he can help. “I first heard him the other day. After”—I swallow—“after I killed Donny. The next morning. I was”—yeah, not going there about how effed-up I was—“um, I was taking a bath, and it was like I was in a dream world. There was this man sitting on my toilet lid and he reached out a hand and told me to come to him. Said he could give me peace. Then T stormed in because, like you, he heard the man in my head. The man disappeared.” I snap my fingers. “Poof. Gone. Clearly a disturbing waking dream.”
“And your justitia didn’t do anything?” He slides his hand down my arm to finger the silver links.
Right. He’s still standing close to me, close enough to kiss. Like that’s going to happen.
I glance at his hand, then to his eyes, then back to his hand. He drops his grip and takes a step back, light red tingeing his cheeks.
“No. Which means this can’t be a demon, right? I thought it might be, when T said he could hear the voice in my mind, but the justitia would turn into a sword, right?” Relief sweeps through me. Not a demon. Although it presented a problem. If not a demon and not a dream, then what was the man in my mind?
“If the demon appeared in front of you, then yes, the justitia would morph into a sword.”
“Sounds like there’s a ‘but’ in there.”
“No ‘but’; just a thought.”
He pauses, forehead furrowed into deep thought lines.
“Go on.”
“What if the demon can project himself to you? The justitia must have a demon in its sights. The distance varies from justitia to justitia so it’s possible a demon could be a couple of houses over and the justitia not turn. If a demon can project itself to a victim, then it could be hiding anywhere and not be picked up by the justitia.”
Oh great. Something far scarier than Agramon. A demon projecting himself to victims. So much for the sense of relief. My skin prickles into goosebumps. I take a sip of lukewarm coffee to try to warm up.
No such luck.
“That’s damn scary.”
“Yeah. I’ll do some research when we get back from demon hunting.”
“While you’re at it, why don’t you tell me what you were doing in my mind.”
His lips flatten. “I wasn’t in your mind. Not at first. I felt a presence inside you. It was easy to hop in; your defenses were down.”
Heat slaps my cheeks. The last thing I want is for him to know how awful I felt, still feel. I want to project a tough image. I don’t want him to forgive me because he pities me. I’m not ready to show a soft side with Smythe. One day, but not now. The pain is too fresh, too much of a never-ending ache to share with one of its main causes.
Which means I need to pretend like there’s only one thing on my mind.
I place the mug on the counter. “Let’s go hunt a demon.”
Chapter Five
Smythe portals us to the first victim’s house, the Sunday school teacher, a deacon in the large, downtown Baptist church. We land along the side of a house two doors down, hidden behind an overgrown photinia bush. My heels sink into the soft dirt. Why, oh why, did I decide to look business casual by wearing slacks and nice shoes? Now I have to clean the muddy things.
; My professional look marred by dirt.
Once we step onto the sidewalk, Smythe flicks a finger at my shoes, removing the dirt and saving me from a muddy cleaning job.
Maybe he’s not so bad after all.
Which doesn’t make me any less mad at him.
Smythe strides to the door and rings the bell. A couple of seconds later, the creak of footsteps against hardwood floors draws closer. A middle-aged, average height woman with red-rimmed eyes and a fading bruise on one cheek opens the door. Her short brown hair sticks out in different directions.
“Janet Luckey?”
“Yes?”
Smythe pulls out his magic badge, flips it open and closed and the woman’s eyes glaze. An absurd thought pops into my head as I watch her fall under his Agent-Smythe-and-Consultant-Crawford spell. Does she see him in a typical FBI suit and tie, or does she seem him dressed as he is in jeans and a long-sleeved navy shirt?
The only time I’ve ever seen Smythe in a suit—albeit one minus the tie—was the first night he took me to Club Monster to see if a demon used the club as a hidey-hole. Memories tumble faster than I can bring them into focus—Smythe and me in bed, me fighting Rahab and killing Donny instead, Smythe walking out mad, Zagan calling me worthless—each leaving behind an impression of loss, of emptiness.
An invisible hand reaches inside my chest, squeezes my heart until my breath catches, until tears spring to my eyes.
Depression, an overwhelming sadness, surrounds me, burrows deep inside.
Come to me.
The voice floats through my mind as Smythe introduces us as our fake FBI personas.
The woman steps back, holding the door for us to enter, but Smythe grabs my wrist, touching my justitia. A jolt of white light rockets through me, exorcising the voice from my mind, leaving me reeling.
Good thing Smythe takes a grip on my elbow. Falling on the floor while on a mission would be embarrassing. More so than crying in front of Smythe. Luckily the streak of white light banishes the tears.
Devil Take Me Page 4
