“And then we’ll move in and take them out.”
Sounds easy in theory. I bet the actual taking out gets a lot more complicated.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Will leaves after dinner, upset over his parents, and the lack of our straight-shooting answers. I know this because I hug him good-bye, making sure I touch his skin for a foolproof empath reading. He’s yet to be told about my touch-and-see ability and I have no plans to clue him in.
Eloise hugs us good-bye, her arms lingering around T’s waist. And, yep, my twin wears a goofy grin on his face. Which makes a goofy grin appear on my lips, except mine is for a whole different reason.
He had feelings for the healer before Jackie’s untimely death. Despite the obvious rush into another’s arms, I’m happy for him. I can see him with Eloise in a way I never could with Jackie. T is a smart guy. Except when it comes to women. Maybe I should put that in the past tense since Eloise is a good catch.
Unless she’s using my brother for her own machinations.
My gaze narrows on the healer. I like her. A lot. She has saved my ass more times than I can count and has become somewhat of a friend. But if she ever hurts my brother, she’s dead.
Figuratively, speaking, that is. How the heck would I off a healer who can negate the Agency’s wards?
Things won’t come to that. I hope.
“I’ll come tomorrow morning around nine. Good night.” With a circular wave of her hand, she opens a portal, disappearing into its depths.
“I’m exhausted.” T yawns while scratching his stomach.
I give him a hug, feeling like an ass for not noticing the dark circles around his eyes, the sleepy expression in his eyes. Some nurse I am.
“Thank you for the assist. You did good today.”
“Yeah, I did, didn’t I?”
“Don’t get all puffed up about it.”
He gives me a kiss on my cheek. “I’m never puffed up. Sleep well.”
“You too.”
He walks into his room, shutting the door behind him, leaving Smythe and me standing in the living room. Alone. Needing to discuss the pink tutu-wearing relationship elephant.
No sense in putting off The Talk. Who knows when we’ll have another chance.
Smythe rubs the back of his neck. “Guess I should be going.”
I draw in a deep breath. No time like the present.
“We need to talk.”
Four words men hate. The dreaded talk.
He pales, but nods, perching on the edge of the couch, hands palm down on his knees, gaze focused on his feet. I sit beside him, tucking one foot under the opposite knee, facing him.
Touching his arm, drawing his attention to mine, I clear my throat. Women hate The Talk, too.
“I forgive you.”
His gaze jumps to mine, a fragile hope swimming in its depths. “Forgive and forget or just forgive?”
“Forgive. There’s not a way to forget that cluster fuck of a fight.” My tone hardens. Dammit. I didn’t want to sound accusatory. I’m tired of being accusatory.
The hope in his eyes morphs into regret as he nods. “I’m sorry. Where do we go from here?”
Another throat clear as I force my gaze to meet his. “Where do you want to go? Is it over between us or do you want to salvage things?”
“You know the answer.” He stares into my eyes, pausing a moment for emphasis, the truth of his coming words evident in his unwavering gaze. “You mean more to me than anyone else I’ve been with.”
Yes! I rank higher than Samantha the blonde bitch mage. Not that there’s a competition going on or anything. A smile creeps across my lips.
“I care about you too. Caring means trusting. Trusting the other not to run off.”
“Sometimes the other runs off.” His gaze grows distant.
A memory tickles my mind, an insight into why he acted like such an ass, a reason for his actions.
“What happened?” I know he had a girlfriend before we started working together, a Justitian girlfriend who died, but the details remain sketchy.
His gaze drops to his white-knuckled hands clutching his knees. After a long pause, he speaks, low and soft.
“Jennifer left me.”
“The Justitian?”
He nods. “She cheated on me with a fellow mage. I was her guardian. When I heard the news, I got shit-faced. I mean, I loved her and thought she felt the same about me, but I was wrong.” He draws in a deep breath. “I was so drunk I couldn’t help her when she needed me.” Another deep breath. “It was my fault she died fighting a minion. I wasn’t there for her.”
I rest my hand on top of his. “I’m sorry.”
He doesn’t say anything, his chest rising and falling, as if the rhythm alone keeps shame to a minimum.
The fact my insight was correct gives me no happiness.
“When you saw me and Donny, you thought the same thing happened again, didn’t you?”
He nods. “Yeah. But I didn’t realize there was a demon.”
Seriously? “You stormed right by it.”
“I was so upset, I wouldn’t have noticed a dinosaur dancing in front of me. I just wanted out of there.”
“That helps.” I squeeze his hand. “It upset me when you left since you wouldn’t listen to me.”
“And then you needed my help and I wasn’t there.”
“As I said, I forgive you. We can start over. Try to trust each other again.” Now it’s my turn to look at my lap while drawing in a deep breath. “I haven’t been the most trustworthy person either. I’ve broken your trust.” When I did what Zagan wanted. When I lied about it. When my actions told Smythe I’d turned to the side of the demons.
In all fairness to me, speaking out against the demon of lies and deceit proves harder than it sounds. I want to keep Zagan’s secrets, even when it means breaking trust with my guardian. My justitia’s friendship with the demon sends those vibes throughout our bond, making it impossible to differentiate between what the bracelet feels and my own emotions.
I need to jettison that reaction. I need to keep the trust with Smythe. I need to put my guardian above a demon.
Why is it so hard?
I swallow.
Smythe twists his palm until he holds my hand. “We can work on it together.” His gaze grabs mine, pulling me into his inner depths, washing away the pain keeping us separated.
Together. Not apart. Not alone. Together. Once we make the decision, once we know we belong with the other, nothing will pull us apart. And yet, the decision is the hardest thing I’ve admitted. Harder than telling Smythe I lied for Zagan when the demon asked. Smythe is the one person I can see myself with forever. Making a relationship decision affecting the rest of my life proves difficult.
Even when I know it’s the right one.
Woman up, Gin. Admit you want him the way he wants you. Forever.
I lean forward, meeting his lips halfway, speaking with an action destined to set me on a lifelong path. His lips move over mine, our tongues tangling with a preview of coming deeds, speaking in a language as old as time. His arms tighten around my waist, lifting, until I straddle his legs. But only for a moment and then he stands, carrying me with my legs wrapped around his waist to my bedroom where he kicks the door shut behind us.
*****
I wake with a warm arm draped across my waist, the heat from Smythe’s body better than a blanket. A sense of belonging sweeps through me, a promise of life with another. We fit well together, curled on my bed, warm from fucking. A lifetime with this man will never be enough.
Right this instance, though, I need water. My dry throat cries for relief. Not only does fighting a demon work up an appetite, it appears it also works up a delayed thirst.
Lifting Smythe’s arm, I roll away from his warmth, landing on my feet. The mattress squeaks, but he continues to sleep, his breath even. I want to kiss his brow, but doing so would lead to another sex-fest, thereby delaying my drink. At the moment I need
water more than I need sex.
Grabbing my robe off the chair, I shove my arms into the armholes, and tie the belt around my waist. I pull the door closed behind me, not wanting to disturb Smythe. T’s door is shut. Hopefully he didn’t hear my horizontal action session. Unlike him, who couldn’t care less who heard what, I prefer to keep things quiet from others in the house.
Except for tonight. Cementing a relationship can be a little loud.
I smile, remembering, as I walk into the dark kitchen. A glow from the streetlamp a door down illuminates the room, allowing me to grab a glass without turning on the light. After gulping down two glasses, I set the glass in the sink, and turn to go back to bed.
Only to come to a stop, hand over my pounding heart. My bracelet jitters a happy-happy dance on my wrist. Just who I wanted to see.
“Geez, Louise, scare a girl why don’t you.”
Zagan leans against the jamb between the living room and kitchen, arms crossed, his t-shirt stretched tight against thick muscles, the white fabric seeming to glow in the partial light. A smile twists his lips, teeth gleaming bright. Sharp teeth. A shiver courses down my spine.
I cross my arms, mimicking his stance, trying to look tough while wearing a robe over my birthday suit.
“Ah, little Justitian. I am glad to see you.”
“Cut the crap, Zagan. The last time you saw me you told me I was worthless.”
“Merely words spoken in anger. Nothing more.”
“Sounded like more to me.”
His head tilts, his gaze probing my soul. “You are hurt by those words.”
“Stupid, eh?” Why should a demon’s words hurt me? And yet, his words sliced through my heart like a knife through skin.
He takes a step forward, dropping his arms, but I hold out a hand and he stops.
“Not stupid. You belong to me.”
“Yeah. Right. Not happening.”
“Already happened. But that is neither here nor there.”
“Seriously?” Does he really mean it doesn’t matter? At his glare, I swallow the rest of my words, refuse to quake in fear.
“As. I. Said. Neither here nor there. What matters is you won the fight.”
“So what you’re saying is you only like me if I win against a demon? If I kill your brethren? Are you crazy?”
One brow raises. “I am not crazy. Focused. But you know that, don’t you? You understand focus. Focus brings you many things, does it not? When one remains focused, one achieves their wish. I am sorry my focus disturbed you.”
“The hell? It was your words that disturbed me, not your focus.” Dammit. Did I actually admit to a demon he upset me? What the hell is wrong with me?
“Words. Focus. Same—” His voice trails into silence. He sighs. “You are correct. They are not the same thing. My focus remains the same. You are part of the goal. The means to attain it. When you failed to kill Rahab, it was…difficult to accept.”
“What you’re saying is you only care about me if I help you reach your goal.”
He slaps a hand over his chest, his brows rising with fake surprise. “I am hurt.”
“Don’t bullshit me. You are not and you know it.”
He shrugs. “As you wish. Hurt might be a bit strong of a word. Know this, I care about you. As much as a demon can care about a human.”
Scary thought. A little voice tells me his idea of caring and my idea of caring are polar opposite. When I care, it’s because a person means something to me, a friend, a lover, and I hate to see them harmed. Zagan’s idea of caring is self-serving. He cares because caring makes him reach his goal faster.
Whatever his goal might be.
And yet, his words warm my heart, give me meaning.
I’m so screwed up.
“What is your goal?”
His eyes narrow as he pauses, his normal smartass remarks silenced as he clearly wages an internal debate of what to tell me. I wait.
“And what will you do with this information?”
I tilt my head. “Should I do something with it?”
“You might decide you should. You might try to harm my goal. I am close. So close. Setback now would prove…unlucky.”
Memories of the justitia assail my mind. Memories of multi-hued demons around a fire, plotting, scheming. I know his goal. His patience in achieving it. His scheme to see it through.
“You want control of Hell.”
His eyes widen. His body stills. My heart thuds against my ribs, echoes in my ears, a discordant beat. Did I piss him off enough to harm me? Would he, could he, harm me?
Those thoughts vanish as he smiles his best shit-eating grin.
“Want to help me win?”
“How?” What would be the advantage of Zagan in charge of Hell, instead of whoever reigned? Who did reign? Lucifer?
“Defeat the strongest demons. You have already killed two. There are two more left, one of which is the strongest of all demons. Only your help can assist me in overthrowing this demon.” His lips flatten.
Great. If the demon freaks Zagan, I can’t image what the thing is like. Worse than Agramon, the leader of the fear demons? That was one scary-ass mother, the likes of which I never wanted to meet again.
“Is the demon worse than Agramon?”
“Yes. But not in the way you believe.” Should I feel relieved? If so, I don’t.
“Is it Lucifer?”
He scoffs, waving a hand to negate my words. “Lucifer is a fallen angel, not a demon, and no, he is not the one we face.”
“I thought he ruled Hell.”
“Pride and Greed are more powerful. Lucifer rules, but not in the way I want.”
Okay. Clearly Hell politics fly over my head. But I understand enough to know what he wants. My help to overthrow Pride and Greed. Since chances were good Rahab was the Pride he referred to, it meant the demon scarier than Agramon was Greed.
A little hard to believe, but whatever. Clearly Greed spooked Zagan worse than Agramon.
“And if I help you win, what happens? Do you rule Earth? Subjugate humans to your wishes? Kill me?”
Another negating hand wave. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never kill you.”
“Just turn me into your servant.”
He smiles. “I will rule Hell, not Earth. Nothing would change on Earth. What difference would it matter to all these short-lived humans who the ruler of Hell is? Leadership changes. Rulers rise, rulers fall. Some rulers try too large of a power grab and need to be taken down. You would be helping clean up my home.”
“And this would be advantageous to me, how?”
“You would help me. Helping me helps you. Not as many strong demons to fight. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
I nod. Demons with lesser strength would make my job, the job of my fellow Justitians, easier. We could win more fights without dying, giving us more time to focus on minions who were more prominent on Earth than the demons, but did just as much, if not more, damage.
“Then you’ll join me?”
I swallow. Willpower vanishes in the face of Zagan’s persuasion. I want to do as he asks. I want him to be ruler of Hell. Through the justitia’s memories, I know he has waited millennia for this chance, first by creating the justitias, then when the demon’s control over the bracelets was broken, scheming to find a way to meet his goal. He needs me.
I want to help him.
“I will.”
The expression on his face causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand on end. Did I make a mistake? Was agreeing to kill demons a mistake?
Nope, no way.
Zagan steps closer. I step back, hitting the counter, freezing as he moves to my side. One finger touches the mark on my neck, the mark he gave me, the mark he insists makes me his servant. My justitia slams shut my empathic pathway, keeping my brain from hemorrhaging at the demon’s touch. Power flows from him into me, sinking deep, his red power I crave. The reservoir inside me fills, swelling with demonic power. The entity lying along
my nerves shivers with pleasure. When Zagan removes his finger, my knees sag, and I catch myself on the counter.
“Together we will fight and together we will win. You are mine. Never forget it.”
With a circular wave of his hand, he vanishes into a portal.
Breath flows from my lips in a whoosh of air. Nausea turns my stomach into a pit of fluttering flies. What did I agree to?
All good things. Help. Assistance. Aid. Killing demons.
Nothing wrong with any of those.
What would Smythe think of my promise to a demon? My agreeing to help with a major power shift in Hell? I can hear him already, a voice of disagreement despite the obvious “Less demons, more time to catch minions” benefits.
I tighten the robe’s belt, drop my hands to my sides, and look up at the ceiling, as if the expanse gave answers.
It doesn’t. I sigh. Helping Zagan was second nature. His plan made sense. Less powerful demons, more time to fight minions. Not to mention ridding the Agency of its demon.
All good things. Worthwhile goals.
Smythe would understand when I tell him.
Despite rationalizing my decision, despite knowing the hard choice I made benefited mankind the best, the heaviness in my chest coupled with my stomach turning into a sinking ball of lead only means one thing.
I sold my soul to the devil.
A word about the author…
Currently working on her urban fantasy series A Demon Huntress, Karilyn Bentley blends magic, dark fantasy, and romance mixed with a touch of funny that her readers expect and love.
Karilyn’s love of reading stories and preference of sitting in front of a computer at home instead of in a cube, drove her to pen her own works. Her paranormal romance novella, Werewolves in London, placed in the Got Wolf contest and started her writing career as an author of sexy heroes and lush fantasy worlds.
Karilyn lives in Colorado with her own hunky hero, a crazy dog (a.k.a The Kraken), a funny puppy, and a handful of colorful saltwater fish. Find out more about Karilyn at www.karilynbentley.com
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Devil Take Me Page 19
