While Smythe types away, I make myself a cup of hot tea. Once the microwave dings, I grab the cup and sit at the table, wondering if my justitia wanted to chat. Judging by its lack of reaction, it doesn’t.
Three sips later and I close my eyes, delving deep into my mind, until the pulsing, purple energy of the justitia appears shimmering around my nerves.
I close my eyes, focusing on the justitia’s energy, hoping it deigns to answer me.
Was it a demon in my mind talking to me? Asking me to come to him?
After a long pause, silver links shift around my wrist. Energy flares along my nerves. The eerie voice of the justitia echoes in my mind.
Demon not have body.
Relief rushes through my system. Yes! My justitia is going to give me insight into what demonic entity caused all these suicides.
Is that a yes?
Demon not have body.
Okay. “Yes” might be a simple word, but apparently my justitia can’t say it.
I rub the bridge of my nose, trying to think like a justitia, a single-minded focus on killing demons coupled with an amazing ability to avoid answering questions. My forehead aches with the effort.
If the demon doesn’t have a body, then how did he get into my mind? Provided he actually got in there. Maybe Smythe and T read the situation wrong.
Powerful demon.
If he was so powerful, why didn’t you form a sword? Why did you stay in bracelet form?
Demon not have body.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose. Hold it for a count of ten. So, you only turn into a sword in the physical presence of a demon? A virtual demon doesn’t count?
Only change for demon. No demon. No sword.
And because this demon appears in my mind, then you stay as a bracelet?
Only change for demon. No demon. No sword.
But the demon was in my mind? Right?
Demon not have body.
I purse my lips together, unable to throttle the thing. You keep saying that.
Listen.
I am! I want to know if it was really a demon and if so, which one?
Powerful demon.
Is that all you can say about him? No name? Nothing else?
I get the impression the thing huffs. Surely it’s not as aggravated at me as I am at it?
Demon offers. Uses mind. Human dies. Demon feeds.
You’re telling me the demon feeds off dying humans?
Feeds off sad humans. Sad humans die. Demon happy.
Good thing telepathy doesn’t require me to open my tense jaw to speak. Then why didn’t you say something when the demon appeared to me? I almost took him up on his offer.
The justitia pauses. Demon not have body.
I know that! He was in my mind. But why didn’t you say something?
You sad. No listen.
Now it’s my turn to pause, mulling over its words. No listen? You mean, you tried to talk to me and I wouldn’t listen?
You no listen.
But you tried?
Yes. You block. No listen.
Being hungover prohibits the justitia from talking to me? What a stupid thing to do.
I’m sorry.
The bracelet shakes, acknowledgement and forgiveness rolled into one. At least someone currently in this house forgives me.
Unlike Smythe, who won’t even listen to my explanation. Something I need to rectify. As soon as I finish talking with my justitia.
I promise to listen to you from now on.
Another rattle of the silver links. Another acceptance of my words.
How do you kill this demon?
Sword.
Duh. I mean, where do we find him? How close does he have to be to project himself into a victim’s mind? How does he choose his victims?
Human sad. Demon feed.
He can feed from wherever he is? Or does he have to appear physically?
Close. Not touch human to feed.
So how do we catch him?
No catch demon. Demon catch you.
Wonderful. Just what I needed to hear.
Since my justitia seems to be in a sharing mood, I continue with other questions. The ones I’ve wanted an answer to for some time.
What happened to you after the last Justitian who wore you died? I know you were locked in a safe at the Agency, but how did you escape? How did you get from Will’s possession to my scrub pocket?
It waits long enough for me to think it refuses to answer. Again. Right when I’m about to give up, its eerie voice drifts into my mind, soft and scared.
Dark vault.
Whoo-hoo! It decided to answer. Then what happened?
Light. Voices. No Justitian. Mages. Other.
Other? What do you mean, other?
Other. No mage. No demon. No human. Other.
Makes perfect sense. I pinch the bridge of my nose. Can’t complain, though. I’m the one who wanted answers.
As an exercise in frustration, I continue my line of questioning.
How did you get from Will’s possession into my scrub pocket?
I get the distinct impression the thing chuckles.
Wish.
Yours or his?
Both. Sense Justitian. Want away from minion. Not safe.
Wasn’t that the understatement of the year?
He wanted you safe, so he put you in my pocket without me realizing what he’d done?
Another chuckle. Me wish. He wish. Me obey. You wear. All good.
I suppose Will slipped the justitia into my scrub pocket without me realizing it. Which wouldn’t have been hard to do since I was a little distracted watching him bleed out from where a minion shot him. Although I’d swear he never touched my pocket, never slipped the silver-linked bracelet inside.
Why were you taken out of the vault?
It speaks after a long pause. Why no.
You mean you don’t know why?
Yes. Why no.
Apparently, I wasn’t the only one clueless to the goings on at the Agency.
Thank you for talking with me.
Me like you.
I like you too. Warmth spreads through my limbs as if the entity in my bracelet gives me a full-body hug.
It likes me. After all that’s happened the last few days, its words make the heavy weight on my chest lessen. Drawing in a deep breath, I open my eyes.
My tea sits cold on the table in front of me. How long had I been carrying on a conversation? The clock on the wall states thirty minutes. Huh. I could have sworn we only talked for a couple of minutes. I wonder what Smythe found on his computer.
After putting the mug on the counter, I walk into the living room. Smythe sits in his usual position, feet propped on the coffee table, laptop up and running on his thighs. Unlike usual, his fingers rest against his legs.
“You find something?”
At my words, he startles, turning to me, eyebrows raised. “Yeah, you?”
What was he thinking while staring at the screen? Pondering the case? Wondering about our relationship? Dreaming of ways to apologize to me?
I wish. Swallowing the urge to pick an argument, I offer him a quick half-grin. I’ll ask him later. After we solve this case.
“Yeah. You first.”
“According to the Agency records, there have been a couple of instances of despair demons causing despair instead of feeding off what was already there.”
“No surprise. They are despair demons, after all. I’d think they’d cause it as well as be attracted to it. Was there any mention of a demon invading minds? Or dreams? And influencing a person while inside their head?”
He shakes his head. “Not any I found. The Agency hasn’t digitalized all its scrolls though, so it’s possible there’s more about it in the Agency library. What did you find out?”
I know something Smythe doesn’t. For once. A grin creeps across my lips. “My justitia said a powerful demon could invade the minds of sad people and feed off them when they die. The man in what I thoug
ht a dream was really a demon.”
Smythe’s eyes widen for a second. “So you have been haunted by a despair demon. That might help us find him.”
“Always good to be of service.” My grin turns brittle. Who wants a despair demon haunting them? Definitely not me. Especially since the thing is in my mind and not appearing physically where I can off its ass.
“Did you learn anything else?”
I shrug. “Yeah. I asked how it got in my scrub pocket and it said it wished to be with the Justitian. I’m a little shaky on the how. I mean, Will had to have put it in my pocket, right?
“The justitia might have wished to be with me, but it couldn’t just poof and appear so Will must’ve slipped it into my pocket without realizing it.” Yep, that sounded ridiculous to my ears and I’m the one speaking.
“Interesting. It doesn’t explain how it got out of the vault.”
“Nope. Just said others helped it. As in not a mage, not a human, not a demon. An ‘other.’”
Smythe cocks a brow. “An other?”
“No clue. It wouldn’t say.” I offer him a half-shrug and get back to the more pressing topics of a demon invading peoples’ minds and my growling stomach. “So are we interviewing any other families? Are you hungry? It’s lunchtime.”
Smythe looks at the time on his laptop. “So it is. Why don’t we grab something, then talk to the most recent victim’s family?”
“You think they wrote Get away from me Satan on every piece of paper they could find?”
“Probably not. But you never know. We need to check it out. Come on.” He closes his laptop and stands.
Chapter Seven
Lunch turns out to be a win, an all-you-can-eat buffet at a Mediterranean restaurant. A perfect place to stuff yourself with food while mostly ignoring your tablemate. No sense in causing a scene in public that gets me labeled “crazy woman with a grudge.” Thank you, too much food, for keeping my mouth shut. The restaurant makes up for trying to meet with the family of the last victim, Trisha Fluke. When we get to her house, no one is home. A quick Internet check on my phone shows the funeral starts in an hour.
“Let’s go to the funeral home.”
Opening my car door, I give Smythe a raised-brow glare. “Seriously? You really expect the husband to talk to us at his wife’s funeral?”
After a two second pause, during which time he peers at me over the roof of my car as if I’m the odd one, he nods once. “Yes, I do.”
“Why?” I raise a brow. “Going to use the compulsion spell? That’s not nice on a good day.”
He shrugs. “It’s effective. We could wait until tomorrow, but if we hurry, we can get there before the funeral starts and talk with the husband.”
I shake my head at his audacity, yet slide into the car and start the engine. Yeah, it’s crass to accost a grieving family member at their loved one’s funeral, but at the same time, Smythe has a point. Waiting even another day will allow the demon to strike more victims, to take more lives. The quicker we can solve this mystery, the quicker we can take another demon off the streets.
Provided I can kill this one.
I’m no longer confident in my abilities.
What if the demon invades my mind again? What if this time it convinces me to follow him? Worse, what if the only way to stop him is to do what he wants? What would happen to me then? Maybe letting him give me eternal rest wasn’t as bad as it sounded.
Oh, hell, who am I fooling? Of course it’s as bad as it sounded. One, I’d be dead. Two, I’m not convinced the demon wouldn’t haul my ass to Hell. On the other hand, it would eliminate the guilt I feel about Donny.
Assuming one doesn’t feel guilt in the afterlife.
“Gin?” At the sound of my name on Smythe’s tongue, I snap back to reality. “You gonna drive or sit there?”
“Right. Sorry.” Way to look smart, Gin. I shift the car into drive. “Just getting the path to the funeral home in my mind.”
“Really?” I don’t need to take my eyes off the road to know he shoots me a what-the-hell glare. “Because the route is on my GPS.”
Busted. I clear my throat. “It could be in my mind.”
“Uh-huh.” He shakes his head. “Turn left here at the light.”
I do as he says, following his directions until we reach the funeral home. A parking lot full of cars greets us. As soon as I step out of my car, I stop, turning to Smythe.
“I can’t go in there. I’m not dressed for a funeral.”
I’m in tan slacks and heels and look damn professional, but a funeral in Dallas was a completely different thing. Black clothing was the only way to go. Smythe isn’t any better, dressed in jeans and long-sleeved navy T-shirt combo. “You aren’t dressed for it either. Maybe we should try again tomorrow.”
He stares at me long enough for me to wonder if I sprouted a third eye. “What?”
“Oh, ye of little faith.” Whispered words roll off his tongue, a spell of shimmering light surrounding me.
Like a transparent bubble, light shimmers around my body. But I’m still in my tan slacks and heels. I glance at Smythe, noting the shimmering light surrounding him, a pale gleam easily missed if you weren’t observant, and do a double take. Instead of jeans and a navy tee, he’s in a dark suit complete with a tie, black dress shoes replacing his shitkickers.
What the heck?
“You changed.” Nothing like pointing out the obvious in a holy-heck situation.
“You did too.” He gestures at me.
“Into what?”
“Black dress and heels. Like you wore to Blake’s funeral.”
I stiffen at the memory of Blake’s death. Losing Blake left a hole in my heart, a hole slowly being filled in by Smythe.
Until he misread the scene with Donny and thought the football star and I had something going on.
As if I could leave Smythe for some gigolo. Clearly my mentor had issues. And I had an oversized ache in my chest coupled with guilt and depression.
No wonder the despair demon haunted my dreams. I probably tasted like ambrosia.
“Thanks.” I swallow, shoving all thoughts of Blake to the black shadows in my mind. “What’s the game plan?”
“I’ll do the talking. Don’t worry. He won’t remember us.”
“Seriously? You can wipe his mind?”
“The power of suggestion.”
Like Smythe’s father, David, the Agency’s Head Mage-In-Charge, did with me after minions attacked the Agency. He wiped several minutes of my mind clean trying to get me to admit how I managed to blast the attackers. Luckily, I didn’t spill my secret of Zagan giving me his demonic power. Something tells me the knowledge wouldn’t go over so well with David.
Smythe is already several steps ahead of me, clearly under the impression I’m right behind him instead of lost in my thoughts. I lengthen my stride, catching him as he opens the door to the funeral home.
A crowd of people stands inside, milling around, speaking in hushed voices. Smythe looks both ways before walking down the hall to the left. To the right are a set of double doors opening into the chapel, rows of pews filled with friends and family of the deceased. I give the chapel a quick glance before following Smythe.
We pass the restrooms and the offices before arriving at the family mourning room. Smythe walks in like he knew the deceased woman. Which causes all attention to land on us.
All the better to work the spell.
Smythe holds up his hand, mutters words I don’t catch, and all eyes glaze over except for one. A dark-haired, medium height, overweight man in his thirties focuses his gaze on us. I assume it’s Trisha’s husband, Chris (I know his name from the Internet search of her funeral) since he’s our person of interest. His eyes widen with shock or surprise. Smythe walks toward him while talking.
“We need to ask you some questions. What happened the night your wife died?”
“Who are—”
Smythe gives a sharp command in a language not related
to English and Chris stands still, mouth agape, face slack. Second spell accomplished.
“What happened the night your wife died?”
“We watched TV.” The monotone quality of the man’s voice is almost hypnotic. “She was upset because she’d gotten laid off. For whatever reason, she thought it was her fault upper management were dicks. She looks at me, says she loves me, then she leaves the room.
“I thought she was going to bed, but when I went to bed, she was underwater in the bathtub. An empty wine bottle was on the floor along with medicine bottles. She’d taken the rest of my epilepsy medicine as well as the rest of our pain pills. I called the ambulance, but it was too late.” He sniffs, tears streaming down his face.
“I’m sorry for your loss.” Smythe grabs a tissue from the box on a conveniently located table and hands it to Chris. “Was she suicidal?”
Chris sniffs, wiping his eyes and nose with the tissue. “Never been depressed a day in her life. Always happy. I mean, she got sad on occasion, but nothing long-lasting. Her getting laid off was a bump in the road, you know? She would’ve gotten another job and we would’ve been fine. Why did she have to kill herself?” His words end on a sob.
Smythe pats him on the shoulder. “Did she talk about Satan or the Devil?”
“Like how?”
“Did she think they were trying to talk to her?”
Chris’s dark brows furrow over disbelieving eyes. “You think she was crazy?”
“Didn’t say that. I want to know if she thought someone was talking to her.”
“Not that I know of. She wasn’t nuts.”
Smythe gives Chris another pat on the shoulder, whispers words next to the grieving man’s cheek. Chris visibly relaxes, his shoulders dropping away from his ears.
“Forget you saw us. Forget you talked to us. And if someone tries to talk to you in your dreams, ignore him.”
After one last pat on the shoulder, Smythe steps away from the man. We step out of the room before Smythe waves his hand, releasing the family from his compulsion spell. Sorrow hangs in the air, a fog of melancholy and grief. We walk out of the funeral home, ignoring as best as possible the mourning friends and family. When we get into the car and shut the doors, I turn to Smythe.
“What did you tell him there at the end? To make him relax?”
Devil Take Me Page 6
