Devil Take Me

by Karilyn Bentley

  He shrugs. “The point here is someone wants you dead.”

  Good point. Maybe I should get off my tirade and focus on the more pressing issue of the Agency gunning for my death.

  “Why? What did I do to piss someone off that much?” I shake my wrist, rattling the silver links of my justitia. “Is this the reason? You’d think they’d be happy someone was wearing the bracelet instead of letting it sit in a magical vault gathering dust.”

  “You’d think. I don’t know. The routing number on the deposit was the same as all her paychecks.”

  “Who has access to tell finance to pay her extra?”

  Smythe’s jaw tenses. Yeah. I don’t need him to speak the words. His father has access. But David’s not who he says.

  “Chuck Tweedy.”

  The head of the Agency. The big boss. I’ve only met him once, seen him twice, and neither time was enjoyable. But both times were after Samantha put a hit on me.

  “Why would he want me dead?”

  “I’ll do some more research on your justitia. I thought Samantha acted alone and hired the minions because she thought you weren’t worthy of wearing a justitia. I didn’t realize the Agency was behind it.” He drums his fingers against the table, his face a mask of concentration. “If they wanted you dead badly enough to hire minions to kill you, then why haven’t they struck again?”

  “Maybe they realized I was tougher than I looked? Or I could actually perform as a Justitian and live up to the name?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe they’re biding their time for another opportunity.”

  Great. Just what I needed. A horde of mages out for blood. My blood. Heat electrifies my skin while turning my marrow to ice. I wrap my arms around my waist in an effort to stop shaking.

  Smythe snaps his laptop closed. “I want to talk to Dad about this. I have proof of what Samantha did and proof the Agency was behind it. He would know who could have put her up to it.”

  I swallow and tense my annoying quivering muscles to speak without a tremor in my voice. “Not to be upsetting, but are you sure your dad isn’t in on it? I mean, he hates my guts and refused to believe you when you told him of Samantha’s duplicity.”

  Smythe negates my theory with a head shake. “He can be an ass. But why would he want you dead? There’re plenty of people he doesn’t like—”

  No big surprise there. Plenty of people who don’t like him either, I imagine.

  “—but it doesn’t mean he wants them dead. Or would go to the trouble of killing them. No, Dad doesn’t have anything to do with this. If we want to learn who could, then we need to talk to him.”

  “We?” My voice escapes in a high-pitched tone.

  “You should be there. You’re the one she tried to kill.”

  I shoot him a go-to-hell glare. He raises a brow. I hate it when he makes a good point. Especially when his good point involves me making a trip to the Agency.

  “Fine.”

  Just what I wanted to do. Take a trip to the Agency and talk to David. What started off as a great day gets worse by the minute.

  Chapter Twelve

  We portal into the white landing room of the Agency. The scent of lavender tickles my nose, eliciting a sneeze. A row of teenage mages-in-training glance up from where they sit staring at computer screens, monitoring demon appearances on Earth. Or trying to. In theory, this line of young mages can stop a demon from invading the Agency’s building. In reality, I doubt they can do much more than wear a shocked expression when an incoming demon pounds them into dust.

  One of them offers me a tissue, a change from their usual ignore the mage and Justitian arrivals. I take the proffered tissue, offer my thanks, and follow Smythe into the hall.

  The golden chandeliered hall. Clearly the Agency has no problem bringing in the big bucks. Wait. Why do they have so much money? Good investments? Or shady dealings?

  I knew they were filthy rich, but until now failed to ask myself, Smythe, or anyone else who’d listen, how they came to roll in the dough.

  Smythe leads us to the elevator and hits the UP button.

  In the privacy of the elevator, I ask him the question I should’ve asked when I first started working this gig.

  “How does the Agency get its money?”

  “Investments.” He shrugs in a no big deal way. “We’ve been around for almost as long as the justitias. Plenty of time to invest in a wide variety of things. Save a couple of antiquities, sell them off in the future and you have a super-sized bank account.”

  Makes sense. Then why do I doubt it’s the reason behind the wealth?

  “You sure about that?”

  “Of course. What else could it be?”

  The elevator arrives at the top floor, its gentle ding interrupting my brow-raised say-what expression. Once the doors slide open, I turn to Smythe.

  “I’m learning my original suspicion of the Agency was correct: things are shady as hell around here.”

  Smythe stares at me, silence gathering around us as we step out of the elevator into the anteroom leading to the penthouse suit.

  “Things might be shady now, but there’s no way the money came from anything but investments or selling off antiques kept for that specific purpose. I’ve seen their investment accounts.” His tone expresses a confidence I fail to feel. “If it makes you feel better, we can ask Dad about it.”

  Yeah, like David’s going to reveal the truth. But “mmm” is all I say as I trail behind my mentor to David’s door.

  Smythe knocks on the door. “Dad? You home?”

  Footsteps, dulled through the door, draw near. Locks click. I draw in a breath. David opens the door. A grin starts to turn his lips as he looks at his son. Until he sees me. All remnants of happiness disappear.

  “What is it?” The gruffness of his voice raises my hackles.

  “May we come in? We need to talk.”

  David steps back, pulling the door wide. His icy glare burns a hole between my shoulder blades as I walk past him.

  Always nice to know people enjoy my company.

  Snark aside, did he dislike me enough to hire Samantha to kill me?

  The door clicks into place, sealing us inside the posh penthouse. Tension swirls around the room, thick as congealing blood.

  My justitia shoots a round of puzzlement along my nerves, the silver links rattling with confusion.

  Demon?

  Don’t be ridiculous. We’re at the Agency.

  Demon. This time its tone conveys conviction. But it remains in bracelet form.

  Thank goodness.

  Puzzlement while in the Agency appears to be the thing’s emotion of choice. I blame it on the low-buzzing white noise, a side effect of spells coating the building from nosy outsiders. White noise makes me nervous, why wouldn’t it my bracelet?

  David gestures for us to sit on an overstuffed leather sofa, while he perches on the edge of an arm chair.

  “You were wrong.” Smythe starts the conversation in a way guaranteed to put his father on the defensive. Way to go, my guardian.

  David raises a brow, his tone dry. “Really?”

  “Samantha hired Jezebeth’s minions to kill Gin.” Smythe drops that revelation in the same manner most people state the weather is nice: calm and collected. “Remember how we told you about it right after it happened? Right after Gin became a Justitian? I traced the money. She’s guilty.”

  David flinches. Not much, but enough for me to notice. His eyes flare for a second before he freezes, the rise and fall of his chest as he breathes the only indication he lives.

  Then he clears his throat. “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.” Smythe nods. “A large payment hit her account a day before she transferred it out. It took me a while, but I found the account she transferred it to was owned by Jezebeth. Jezebeth’s minions attacked Gin. Samantha’s guilty.”

  Small white lines bracket David’s mouth. “I need to see the proof.”

  “No problem.” Smythe pulls out his ever
-present laptop and boots it up. Once it comes on, he pulls up a document and turns the screen to his father.

  David looks at the screen, his glacial blue eyes narrowing as he scrolls down the page.

  “You’ve done a lot of work on this.”

  “She tried to kill Gin.” The low tone of Smythe’s voice rubs across my skin as his anger twines around the room. “Mages should not work with demons and minions. We fight them. Not hire them to kill Justitians.”

  David continues to stare at the screen. I keep my mouth shut. Telling him what needs to be done to Samantha tends to only make him mad. Or madder than he already is on a normal day. And there was the whole incidence of me using Zagan’s demonic energy to fight the minions who attacked an Agency meeting.

  I can guaran-damn-tee David hasn’t forgotten about me shooting the demon’s red energy from my palms. Or how I evaded his compulsion spell to tell him the truth about my new “ability.” Of course, he doesn’t know I evaded his spell; he thinks I told him the truth when I said I had no idea where the red energy came from or how I was able to use it.

  Oh, who am I fooling? He knows I didn’t tell the truth. He just can’t figure out how I managed to lie or what I’m hiding.

  All good reasons for me to sit quiet as a church mouse and take in the view of the Boston cityscape outside the wall of windows.

  The man might be a dick, but you gotta give him credit for having a great view of the city.

  David drums his fingers against his slate-gray pants, flicks his gaze from me to his son. “Who paid her?”

  “The Agency. Same routing number as her paycheck.”

  “Fuck.” David pinches the bridge of his nose.

  “What are you going to do about it?”

  A long pause ensues, long enough for the thought to cross my mind that David knew about Samantha’s scheme to obliterate me and tried to cover it up. Maybe he was the one who paid her. Although he seems smarter than to send the payment from the Agency’s finance department.

  Now is definitely not the time to mention how I’d like in on a little Agency paycheck action.

  Maybe another day.

  “I’ll talk to her.”

  “Talk to her?” So much for keeping my mouth shut. Both sets of male eyes focus on me. Who cares? David can’t be serious. “What do you mean, talk to her? Shouldn’t you be arresting her? She. Tried. To. Kill. Me!”

  Smythe pats my leg, non-verbal language for shut-the-hell-up-and-lower-your-voice.

  I ignore him.

  Red scorches a path across David’s cheeks. “I said I’d take care of it.”

  “You said you’d talk to her. Not the same thing.”

  Smythe continues to pat my leg. Hate to tell him, but his attempt at calming me is not working.

  “Dad, there’s a problem in the Agency. Mages don’t hire demons or minions. Ever. And yet a payment went out from the Agency finance to a mage to kill a Justitian. That’s unheard of. You need to find out what’s going on and put a stop to it. Before something worse happens.”

  Smythe shouldn’t need to tell his father how to do his job. It’s evident the Agency has issues. Major issues. David’s attitude reinforces my belief he’s behind it.

  On the flip side, what would the boss of the mages gain by eliminating a Justitian? Especially one who’s the last of her ancestral line? Unless that was the whole goal. But why would they want that to happen? Nothing about this makes sense.

  Except Samantha truly is a bitch.

  “Samantha’s a good mage. One of our best. I want to hear her side of the story before we”—David shoots me a glare, while clearing his throat—“arrest her.”

  “You did that once.” I return his glare with one of my own. “And sided with her. What’s changed?”

  “Proof.” He waves a hand at the laptop. “What you told me before was only hearsay.”

  Only Smythe’s palm on my thigh stops me from leaping off the sofa. Hearsay? Clearly the man is bonkers.

  “You both are missing the bigger picture.” David raises a brow as his son speaks. “Samantha paid off the minions, but it’s obvious she was told to do so by someone at the Agency. Someone not smart enough to hide the cash trail, but someone higher up.” He swallows, glances down before meeting David’s gaze. “Was it you?”

  David blinks, his mouth sliding open before closing. “Goddamn it son, I can’t believe you’d ask that question.”

  Okay, neither can I. I always thought Smythe trusted his father to be one of the good guys, despite all my evidence to the contrary. Shows me what I know.

  Red tinges Smythe’s cheeks. “It’s a fair question. Few people have access to finance.”

  “Do you really think if I paid her off I’d use our own finance department to do so? Give me a little credit.”

  “Sorry. I had to ask.” Smythe shrugs.

  David runs a hand through his short, gray hair. “I did not pay her off. I believed her side of the story is all.”

  “Then who could pay her off?”

  David repeats the hand through hair motion. “Several of us. But, why would they? Give me a reason.”

  “They hate me” is on the tip of my tongue, but I press my lips together to keep the comment inside. While I could pull the poor-poor-me card, this was bigger than me alone. Samantha barely knew me before trying to off me. Jealousy might go a long way in explaining her attitude toward me, but it wasn’t everything. And since she was paid by the Agency, it means someone else wanted me dead.

  David was the logical choice. But why would he want me dead? He acted like he didn’t do it. Which didn’t mean anything. I still don’t trust the man. He doesn’t like me. Would his dislike make him want to put me six feet under?

  I’m beginning to lean toward no for the answer.

  “Could it have something to do with her justitia and how it managed to escape from the security vault?” Smythe asks, lines of concentration etched across his face.

  Could it? Could the entire reason the Agency hates my guts have nothing to do with me and everything to do with my justitia?

  “It might sound like a good explanation, but still doesn’t make sense.” I glance at my guardian. “If you’re in a demon war, why would you try to off one of the few people who can actually kill them? The justitia won’t work for anyone but me, since the rest of my line is dead. Doesn’t make sense.” A thought hops to the front of my mind. “Unless you want the demons to win.”

  And not even the Agency—

  David shifts before I finish my thought, drawing my attention to his wide-eyed, pale face. As if he was guilty. As if I hit a nerve.

  As if I was correct.

  His father’s weight shift fails to pass Smythe’s notice. He leans forward. “Something you want to tell us, Dad?”

  Tension wraps the room at Smythe’s cold tone. Could everything be explained by stating the Agency wants the demons to win this war? Was it really so simple?

  Still doesn’t explain why. After all, I can’t imagine having demons in charge of Earth would be an improvement.

  “Don’t be ridiculous, son. Why would we want the damn demons to win? Do you know what would happen if they won? Do you know the havoc they’d wreak on Earth? Do you think we’re fucking idiots?”

  Good points. None of which erase the fact David’s guilty as hell.

  “You look like you know something.” Give Smythe a proverbial bone and he’ll gnaw at it until it cracks.

  David glares while managing not to shift his weight. “Of course I know things. But not what you are implying. Why would you even think I’m guilty?”

  Smythe raises a brow as I glance between the two men. What’s gotten into him? This is the first indication I’ve seen he thinks his father deals in guilt and lies. I’m not complaining. Believing David guilty of something puts Smythe firmly in my corner. Stranger things have happened.

  Silence descends as a round of stare-and-glare takes place. My gaze bounces from Smythe to his father, watching
for a sign of who gives first. Neither does. Clearly, stubbornness runs in their family.

  Red creeps across David’s face, a sign of guilt or raw anger. Hard to tell which one.

  “As I said, Dad, you look like you know more than you’re letting on about Gin, her justitia, and who hired Samantha to kill her.”

  “I’m not and you know it.” David stands. “I’ve heard enough. I refuse to listen to these accusations. If you have nothing else to say, you can leave.”

  Smythe rises to his feet with the speed of stalking lion, his gaze remaining on his father. I shrink into the sofa as anger thickens the air.

  “What did you do, Dad?”

  Instead of an answer, David points at the door. “I said leave. I won’t listen to your accusations.”

  Air buzzes around Smythe, around David, an impending storm full of energy flashes and crackles of ire. After what feels like an eternity while waiting for the shitstorm to dump on our heads, Smythe speaks.

  “See you later, Dad. Come on, Gin.”

  He snaps shut his laptop, sticking it into his backpack before heading to the door.

  David’s glare sends shivers across my skin, making it crawl as if small ants march over my flesh. Smythe doesn’t have to ask me twice to move my ass off the couch. I’m halfway to the door when David grabs my arm, flesh on flesh.

  I let loose with a little squeak, unable to stop myself from jumping as his emotions flood my mind. Did he touch me skin-to-skin on purpose? He knows I’m an empath and usually avoids contact. Before I can do more than jump in surprise, Smythe stops, turns, and glares at David’s hand on my arm. Instead of dropping my arm, like any sane person would do when faced with Smythe’s glare, David pulls me toward him.

  “I didn’t say you could go.”

  Smythe steps toward his father, placing his hand on my shoulder. His voice rumbles in a low growl. “She comes with me.”

  “She’s not telling me the truth.”

  It takes a liar to know a liar, eh David? But I keep the thought to myself, while twisting out of his grasp. I saw enough from his touch to know what he means.

  “I already told you, David.” I plant my feet, hands by my side, and give him my best nurse’s glare. The one I use for ornery patients. “I don’t know how I shot energy at those minions in the helicopter. It just happened.”