He raises a brow. “I told him everything would be okay and pushed the thought into him.”
“But what if it’s not okay? His wife died.”
Some things never become okay. Livable, yes. Okay, no. And the number one item on the Things-Never-To-Tell-A-Grieving-Person list is “Everything will be okay.” Smythe should know that. It’s not like it’s a secret.
He shakes his head at my tone, a silent negation of my words.
“Eventually, if you stick around long enough, things even out. Become okay. It wasn’t a lie. And it helped him relax.”
Memories dart out of hiding as anger and heat run roughshod through my veins. “Bullshit.” I slap a hand against the steering wheel. “Things don’t always magically become okay. Sometimes they remain sucky and you learn to hide all the ugly behind a wall of glam and glitter. The underneath is still nasty and eats away at you.”
“What are you referring to?” Smythe shoots me brow-furrowed surprise. “Bad things happen to everyone. It’s how you deal with them that matters. If you don’t hold on to them, they smooth out.”
“Really?” I gesture between the two of us. “So we’re all smoothed out now? Because somehow I doubt it.” My glare obliterates the little voice in my mind telling me to shut the hell up. “You left me to defend myself against a demon!”
“Are you sure? Don’t you think I would’ve known if there was a demon in the club?”
“Obviously you didn’t! You clearly walked right by it since you were storming off in a huff of self-righteousness. And you wouldn’t—won’t—let me explain.”
“You led me on and then you kissed Donny!” Anger in his voice rattles the windows.
On any other day, I’d back down, maybe even act scared. But I’m pumped on my own anger, my own sense of betrayal. He can’t scare me.
“You won’t let me explain! I did not kiss him! He kissed me. There’s a difference. You walked in a split-second before I was about to kick him in the ’nads. Then you walked out without listening. I could have died and you were too busy planning your pity-party to notice!”
His jaw tenses. “I don’t want to do this right now.”
“What do you mean, not right now? If not now then when? We need to work this out.”
“Not now, Gin.”
“Why not?”
“Not now!” Giving me a glare, he holds his hand up, mutters his portal forming words and ends our conversation by disappearing from the car.
Damn it, damn it, damn it.
Since when did he learn to form an overhead portal? Who cares when or how he perfected his portal forming ability, the point being he poofed himself out of a conversation before I was finished yelling at him.
Damn mage.
Anger makes another trip across my already irritated system, leaving behind a pounding headache, a churning stomach and a thundering heart. I use deep breathing techniques to try and calm my racing pulse, which does nothing to ease the urge to slap the shit out of my mentor. If anything, it makes it worse.
So much for channeling my inner yogi.
After hitting the steering wheel a couple more times—smarting my palms, yet doing nothing for the Smythe problem—I throw the car into gear and head home. My thoughts whirl between our fight, how aggravating men are, and the demon causing all these suicides.
Can I stop the demon? I can’t even convince my mentor I didn’t betray him. Nor could I kill the last demon I fought. What were the chances of killing this one? What if this one defeated me too?
Was I really qualified to being a demon huntress?
Silver links rattle against my wrist, a reminder I wear a justitia, and therefore I’m supposed to be awesome.
I’m not. I’m a relapsed alcoholic with an empath problem and a prickly mage as my guardian and wanna-be lover. After today it’s doubtful we’ll ever get back together.
And that bothers me more than the rampaging demon of despair.
Some demon huntress I am.
Chapter Eight
As soon as I pull into the drive, T pulls in behind me. I park in the garage and wait until he catches up to me before shutting the garage door.
“You okay?” He greets me with a hug coupled with a quizzical look.
“Yeah, sure, why?”
“Your make-up is running down your face.”
I swipe my hands under my eyes, fingers coming away with black streaks. Lovely. “Smythe and I got into a fight while at the last victim’s funeral. Guess I got more upset than I thought.” And I thought I was pretty damn upset. Shows you what I know.
T wraps an arm around my shoulders. “I hope you gave him hell.”
“I guess. He portaled out of the car after telling me he didn’t want to discuss it.”
T cracks a grin, gives my shoulder a couple of pats. “It’s a start. Come on, let’s go inside and figure out dinner.”
He leads the way, pushing open the door from the garage to the back porch, then unlocking the kitchen door. I walk straight into the living room, leaving my twin in the kitchen to grab a cold beer.
I look at the coffee table, part of me hoping to see Smythe’s laptop. No such luck. Both the laptop and black backpack are gone, evidence my mentor portaled into my locked house and took his things.
This time all I feel is crushing sadness. He’s gone. What if he doesn’t return?
I really need to get a handle on my spiraling emotions. But knowing and doing are two separate things.
Drawing in a deep breath, I flip on the TV. Scenes from Donny’s funeral dance across the screen. I change channels, only to see another shot from a different angle.
“What’s on?” T says.
I jump, drop the remote onto the empty coffee table and slap a hand over my chest, as if the motion would calm my racing heart.
“Geez, T, you scared the crap out of me.”
“Sorry.” He grabs the remote, switching it to a cable news show. “Not the best, but better than what was on. Now, what do you want for dinner? I’ll cook.”
“You’ve cooked the last several nights. It’s my turn.”
“Whatever. I’m good.”
“I’ll help.”
He shrugs. “Why don’t you go clean up and I’ll pull out steaks?”
“Okay.” I shut the door to my bedroom behind me before heading to my bathroom. A quick glance in the mirror makes me suck in a breath. Mascara streaks down my cheeks, giving me the appearance of a creature from a horror movie.
I grab a washcloth and wipe off the streaks along with the rest of my makeup. At least my dull brown hair remains in its twist.
After I finish in the bathroom, I change out of my professional clothes into a baggy T-shirt and lounge-around-the-house pants. Ahhh. Nothing beats the feeling of comfy clothes at the end of a long day. Dinner, here I come.
I pull open my bedroom door, my shoulders back, boobs thrust forward like a model showing her wares. A niggling thought that I’ve done this before pings my mind, a sense of unease.
My justitia fires into a sword the moment I step into the hall. Was Zagan here? At a sharp intake of breath from the kitchen, I realize it wasn’t Zagan. First, my justitia always reacted with a happy dance to the demon of deceit, not a sword. Even when it was already in sword form, it couldn’t strike a killing blow to Zagan, its maker, its friend.
Which meant a demon or minion was in my house.
With T.
Shit.
I dart into the kitchen and come to a stop. Rahab, the demon of pride, the demon I fought and lost to the night I killed Donny, stands in the middle of my kitchen, holding a knife to T’s throat. T’s hands grip Rahab’s arm, keeping the knife from pricking his skin. Fear and anger light T’s eyes.
Memories play in my mind, in my twin’s mind, the same memories of our father threatening T to make me do degrading things. A shudder crawls down my spine. Our bastard of a father deserved to die. And unlike how I felt about killing Donny, with my father I didn’t feel a hint of g
rief, only fear of being caught.
But T and I were grown now, not teenagers, not children hiding in fear. We were adults. And one of us had a demon-killing sword.
Killing a demon the second time is a charm.
Hopefully.
“Gin, how nice to see you again.” Rahab’s voice curls against my skin.
“What are you doing in my house?” I raise my justitia diagonally in front of my chest, a warning of what is to come.
His gaze bounces from my face to the sword and back. Thin lips tighten, relax, as if he’s not impressed with my show of arms.
Why would he be? The last time he fought me he won.
“Paying a visit. You took something of mine so turnabout is fair play. And what a nice gift it is too.” He tilts his head toward my twin.
T’s eyes narrow as he tugs on the demon’s arm to no avail. If anything, the knife draws closer to his throat. A dark aura surrounds T, air warping from his anger deep inside threatening to explode.
My “gifts” consist of empathic ability coupled with a touch-and-see problem, but talking with ghosts isn’t the only trick in T’s repertoire.
If only his powers had manifested when we were children instead of in our late teens, our father wouldn’t have made our lives a living hell.
The fridge starts to vibrate, a low rumble rattling the beer bottles in the door, the clinking a nerve-grating noise. If the demon knew what was good for him, he’d release T now.
Since when are demons smart?
Rahab’s gaze flicks to the fridge, back to me. “Your appliance is not working correctly. A matter you’ll no longer need to deal with after I’m done with you. Revenge is mine.”
He tries to shove the knife into T’s throat, but I’m running the few steps between us, my justitia slicing through his arm, missing T’s fingers by millimeters. T ducks and turns, fist raised as if to nail the demon in the crotch, while I pull the sword back for another try, but Rahab disappears, leaving my sword singing through the air.
“Are you—” Before I can get out “okay” I’m grabbed by the hair, tossed into the wall face-first with a bone-cracking thud. My justitia shuts down the pain turning my nose into a throbbing ball of fire.
Damn it. How many times could I break my snout?
Shaking off the pain, I turn around right in time to see Rahab pitch T against the wall above the table. My twin bounces, landing on the table with a groan. Red dots my vision. This demon was going down.
I rush toward Rahab, only to be thrown across the room by a demonic energy burst. I land with a thud on top of T, who releases an ‘oomph’ on an expulsion of air. His eyes widen.
You okay?
He nods. Go kill the fucker.
On my way. Shoving myself off my twin, I slide to the floor, sword pointed at a shit-grinning Rahab.
“You are a slow learner, eh?” He takes a step toward me.
Ignoring his comment, I rush him, only to be thrown telekinetically into the doorframe leading to the living room, like some sort of sick game of pitch with me as the ball. Effing demons and their telekinetic powers.
Before I can get up, Rahab is on top of me, his heavy weight pushing my body against the cool linoleum floor. Large hands encircle my throat, squeezing. Black spots dart across my vision as I aim my sword at his neck.
Or try to.
My arm twitches on the ground. It takes my oxygen deprived brain a couple of seconds to realize my arm won’t move because his knee jams into my biceps. I struggle, trying to dislodge him, trying to get my sword in a position to slash at his leg, when a rumble shakes the floor.
I might not be able to move my head, but I know evidence of T’s anger when it rolls around a room. Lights flicker. Rahab eases his grip on my neck enough for me to draw in a deep breath of much needed air. He shifts, turning his attention from me to my twin, shifts enough for me to wiggle my arm out from under his knee.
I draw my arm back, ready to slice into his side, when he notices my movement. Too fast to track, he raises my head, slamming it onto the hard floor. Lights flicker, but I’m no longer sure if it’s due to T’s anger or a concussion.
Relax. Come to me. The despair demon’s voice floats through my mind, followed by a compulsion hard to resist. I want to come to him, to do what he wants, to lose this fight. Peace beckons, a promise only he gives.
But if I give in, T dies. While I can throw away my life, giving in to the hidden depression consuming me, knowingly ending my twin’s is a whole other matter.
My justitia tremors, snapping me out of the spell. Seriously? Was I actually considering listening to one demon while fighting another? Have I lost my mind?
Yeah, not going there. I’m afraid of the answer.
Fuck off, demon. I snap barriers around my mind. Or try to. Kind of hard to pull off while lying on my back with a throbbing head and possible concussion. Since the despair demon offers no further requests, I assume I’m successful.
Of course, we all know what happens when you assume.
The floor shakes, surprise loosens Rahab’s grip on me. Drawing in a deep breath, I blink away the spots edging my vision as he rises onto his knees, hands held toward T.
“What kind of freak are you?”
“One who won’t let you kill my sister.” Voice pitched in a low rumble, T takes a step forward, hands held out to his sides, palms facing us.
The next second T drops to his knees, fear erasing the confidence in his wide eyes.
“Humans. You forget with whom you are dealing.”
A flash of energy explodes from Rahab’s hands, flinging my twin against the wall with a bone crunching snap. T slumps to the ground, eyes closed, the shaking floor stilling.
I scream, twist, and manage to slice my sword into the demon’s leg. Rahab lets loose with a screech. He draws back his fist, but I slam my justitia into his side. With another screech, he rolls off me, clutching his bleeding injury, black blood seeping between his fingers. I scramble out of the way, scooting across the linoleum on my butt while pointing my sword at the irate demon.
The counter presses against my back, stops my movement, but gives me enough support to try standing upright. Two Rahabs stand before me snarling.
“Bitch.”
“Bastard.”
Blinking in a vain attempt to eradicate one of the demons, I focus on keeping the sword pointed at Rahab. The problem being which Rahab to point it at.
Iridescent lights sparkle behind him in my living room for a second before Smythe and a bunch of other mages step out of a portal. Or maybe it’s just Smythe. I squint. Nope, judging by the different clothing colors, it’s not just Smythe come to save me. I shake my head and the twin forms merge together. Ah-ha. Smythe brought three mages.
To kill one demon.
No wonder I’m losing.
Since I’m staring over his shoulder with a slight grin on my lips, Rahab jerks his head around, his eyes widening at the mages.
Way to give away their game, Gin. Although what could I expect with a concussion? Thinking straight is not a part of my current abilities.
“Fuck.” The demon takes a step away from the line of mages, proving his intelligence. At least in knowing when to run from the good guys.
Energy balls thrown by the arriving mages slam into the wall, missing Rahab, but exploding drywall into stinging pellets. Before I can move, he gives me a quick shit-eating grin. With a flick of his fingers, my body shoots up to the ceiling, slamming into the plaster hard enough to crack it. And then I’m dropping, gravity yanking me down, down, down as if I’ve been thrown from a much greater height. Crushing pain registers for a half second as my back slams against the floor, as breath explodes from injured lungs, as the cracking of bones ricochets around the room.
Oh, sh—
But darkness pulls me under before I can finish the thought.
Chapter Nine
I wake to softness under my back. Softness? Where am I? An effort to open my eyes proves futile, as i
f boulders sit on my lids. Okay, then. Breathing, deep and rhythmic, drifts into my ear.
Recent memories rush into my mind, banishing some of my confusion. A demon fight with me as the loser. Which means I should be lying on my kitchen floor instead of whatever softness cushions me. Unless I dreamed the whole demon fight. Maybe I’m asleep. Maybe it’s Smythe lying beside me in bed. Maybe I didn’t really kill Donny and we’re still together.
Somehow, I doubt it.
Which means I truly fought Rahab and lost. Again. So where am I?
The breathing hitches, a slight movement jostles me, followed by shuffling noises, like someone turning over in bed. I am in a bed.
One problem solved. Who was beside me?
Another deep inhale, this time to my right. Multiple people? In my room? At least I’m assuming it’s my room. I might have solved the original question of what surface lies beneath me, but clearly opened a whole other list of who, what, and how queries.
If only I could pry my eyelids open, I could answer a good deal of those questions.
No such luck. Maybe twitch a finger? Putting all my energy into moving my pointer finger, I tell my body to move. To no avail.
Panic shoots through my system, punching into my solar plexus with a one-two blow. I gasp, the motion popping open my lids. Trembling shakes my limbs, rattles my teeth. Cold. So very cold.
The ceiling stares down at me, little bumps in its textured surface seeming to laugh, to tease.
“Gin?” T’s voice is followed by a touch on my left arm.
“Gin?” A touch on my right follows Smythe’s voice.
I blink at the bluish-hued laughing ceiling. Ceilings don’t laugh, right? Right. No laughing ceilings. Except for mine. I want to ask why they don’t notice whatever is up there, but my teeth rattle in their sockets, my limbs tremoring like I’m seizing.
“Eloise!” T yells, but instead of reverberating in my ear, it sounds like he’s in a tunnel. Or maybe I’m in the tunnel. Maybe there’s a bed with a laughing ceiling in a concrete tunnel.
Maybe I’m tripping.
The ceiling continues its maniacal laughter, its bluish hue drawing closer until I no longer see anything except a sea of deep blue.
Devil Take Me Page 7
