Yeah, it’s not just our names, Gin Champagne and Tonic Scotch, that make us the poster children for not drinking during pregnancy.
“Think you can talk to the dead woman’s ghost?” Smythe asks the question with all sincerity, as if he forgot T refuses to use his ghost-talking abilities. Ever since that time when we were teenagers and used a ghost’s help to get rid of our abusive father, T does everything in his power to avoid ghosts. Including any mention of the see-through buggers.
T’s jaw tenses hard enough to pop as he takes a step away from me. “I. Don’t. Talk. To. Them.”
“You said you’d think about it.”
“I had a weak moment.”
The weak moment named Eloise.
“Have another one. See if you can talk to her ghost.” Smythe tilts his head in the direction of the door.
T’s fingers flex open and closed, open and closed, as his nostrils flare. Air thickens around him as if his anger coalesces into matter.
Then he shakes his head and draws in a deep breath. A heavy sigh later and he steps to the door, shoves it open, and pauses. His shoulders sag as he pulls the door shut.
“Ain’t no ghost out there. Either it’s already fled, or she didn’t die here.”
“Didn’t take you long to look.”
I glare at Smythe. “If he said there was no ghost, then there’s no ghost. No ghost means no talking to it. Your hacking skills are up next.”
Defending T is second nature. Believing him is an entirely different matter. I don’t have to hop into his head to know he lied.
He’d kept his eyes closed when he opened the door.
“He’s right about one thing,” Smythe says. “She didn’t die here.”
Chapter Three
Say what? But then my mind wanders back to scene, to the lack of blood under the woman, despite multiple stab wounds. She’d clearly been arranged; most people don’t grasp flowers as they die.
Why? What kind of freak were we dealing with?
Well, duh, a minion. Demons picked their minions well. Most of the walking evil flunked out of law-abiding school. Selling their soul to a demon in exchange for super strength and the ability not to age appealed to a lot of people. Why bank on an eternal life floating around in the clouds with a harp when you can have everything now?
“How do you know that?” T’s brows draw together, snapping my attention to the conversation.
“Lack of blood.” Smythe fists his hand over his heart. “And did you see how she held that rose?”
“She was holding a rose?” Surprise laces my twin’s voice as his eyes flare. “That’s creep-ass weird.”
“The killer arranged the scene.” Check me out, all down with proper terms and shit.
“I agree.” Smythe nods. “People don’t tend to lie down, let someone stab them, then pick up a rose before dying. I’ll check the police database once we get back to the house.”
“Where’s Jackie?” Luckily she’s not in the hall overhearing a conversation about Donny Football’s dead booty call. Might kill her enthusiasm for the wide receiver.
No pun intended.
“Still at the party.” T’s jaw clenches. “Going crazy over meeting the guys and getting autographs.”
“Why’d you leave?” Smythe starts walking toward the party suite, T and I following.
“Got tired of watching Jackie ogle the players. Thought y’all might be having more fun.” T yanks open the door, releasing music and conversation at a volume pitched more for a rock concert than a meet-and-greet. “That’ll teach me for thinking.”
He strides into the middle of the party, leaving Smythe and me on the periphery. After seeing Jenny stabbed, being all perky and awestruck isn’t in my playbook. Her death reminds me of Blake’s, killed by one of Hell’s denizens. But unlike my lover, she died from a minion’s hand, not a demon’s.
Heaviness settles in my chest, a remembrance of what was, a knowledge of what could have been, what will never be. Grief pulls around me like a cloak, and I shrug it off. I no longer cry myself to sleep, guilt creeping across my skin like spiders, but Blake’s loss sticks with me, striking at unexpected moments.
Smythe places a hand on my shoulder, gives a little squeeze.
How did he know? I don’t notice him in my mind. Maybe it’s some sort of mage trick. Or he’s good at reading body language.
I draw in a deep breath and straighten my spine. Appearances are everything. I can tear up in the privacy of my bedroom.
Provided T manages to remove an inebriated, star-struck Jackie from the party.
****
Jackie talks the entire way home, a play-by-play of who signed an autograph for her, what they looked like, and how she wouldn’t mind fucking Donny Football, no offense T.
I don’t have to take my eyes off the road to know my twin is offended. His anger strokes against my skin, but the most he’d do to the clueless blonde is break up with her. In the morning. Because he might as well have one last hoorah before jumping on the not-getting-any wagon.
The power of double-D’s. They turn an otherwise intelligent man into a simpering, sex-crazed idiot.
By the time I pull into the garage, I’m ready for some shut eye, STAT. It’s late, past midnight, but at least I’m working a swing shift and don’t have to report to the ER until 3 p.m. tomorrow, make that today. T stalks Jackie into the house, Smythe and I following. The snap of his bedroom door shuts off her incessant chattering.
Thank God.
I grab a glass of water as Smythe strides to the living room. Squeaking couch springs announce his landing place.
I swallow the water in one long gulp, put the glass on the counter, and turn to face him. “I’m going to bed.”
“I’m going to see if there’s any info on the department’s website.” He pulls his laptop out of the backpack and pops it open, speaking to the screen. “Won’t take long. They probably don’t have much up yet.”
“Enjoy.” I waggle my fingers good night, and he returns the wave without glancing away from his computer.
Finally. I can relax, push the night’s activity out of my head, and go to sleep. Plenty of time to track down the minion tomorrow.
I step into my room, close the door, and flip on the light. And come to a heart-pounding stop. Sweat shimmies down my spine. A sinking heaviness settles in my lower belly.
Zagan, the demon of lies and deceit, sprawls on my bed, jean-clad legs crossed at the ankles, head resting on his hands, his biceps bunching in a mouth-watering manner. A tight, white t-shirt frames his muscular chest and abs, pulls tight around his arms. Hot as hell and just as freaking scary.
Instead of turning into a sword and showing the demon who’s boss, my stupid justitia jitters the happy-happy joy-joy dance on my wrist. The malfunctioning bracelet considers Zagan a friend.
And what does my esteemed employer, the Agency, have to say about that? My favorite line: justitias don’t have friends.
Uh-huh. Tell that to my bracelet.
I have my suspicions of how their friendship started: Zagan created the bracelet. But why? And how was it turned into a demon-killing entity? One day I’ll figure out the whole story of their relationship. When the sexy demon isn’t lying on my bed.
He props on one elbow as he turns to face me, a smile breaking across his face as his gaze rakes me from head to toe and back. Straight white teeth gleam in an olive-toned face, no evidence of his abnormally sharp tongue seen behind his firm lips. I shiver away the memory of his tongue slicing through mine when we shared a kiss. Soulless black eyes twinkle as he stretches out a hand toward me. “Hello, Gin.”
My name rolls off his tongue in that ancient Middle Eastern accent of his, and it’s not a shiver of fear skating across my skin. Damn it.
I ignore his hand. Last time I touched him skin-on-skin my brain almost hemorrhaged. “What are you doing in my room, Zagan?”
“Why this”—he waves his hand between us—“animosity? Can friends not s
it around and talk?”
“Sure. But we’re not friends.”
He drops his hand and pushes to a sit. “Nonsense. I help you. You help me. That is the human definition of friendship, yes?”
“Not exactly.” I refuse to debate the intricacies of friendship with one of Hell’s denizens. “Want to tell me why you’re here?”
He clucks his tongue. “Patience, little Justitian, patience.”
I lean against the door, cross my arms, and try to look nonchalant. Or as nonchalant as one can be when faced with a demon. I’m pretty sure he won’t eat me, kill me, or flambé my ass. Which still leaves a wide range of other harmful possibilities.
Along with some not-so-harmful ones.
I will not look frightened. I do not fear the big, bad, sexy demon. I definitely don’t want him to realize he simultaneously terrifies and turns me on. Each time he appears, my emotional response confuses the hell out of me. Which results in me acting nonchalant so he won’t catch on. Fake it ’til you make it.
One side of his lips kicks up, as if he reads my thoughts. Which he can’t do. Right? God, I hope that’s right. His ability to port into my room unannounced is bad enough.
“Nasty murder tonight, was it not?”
Nonchalant no longer, I push away from my relaxed pose, eyes wide. “How did you know about that?”
“Hell is full of gossips. And observers. Perhaps I can help you.”
“Let me get this straight. You, a demon, would help me, a Justitian, catch a killer?”
“You sound surprised.” His eyebrows rise in fake shock as if he actually thinks I wouldn’t question his aid.
As a rule, demons and Justitians fight each other, not hold hands and join a crime-stopping brigade. Although, in the past, Zagan gave me a clue about how to defeat a demon. It took me awhile to understand his cryptic message, but in the end I killed the demon of fear. Sent its scaly ass to Hell where the creature can rot for all eternity.
Go me.
“Damn straight. I thought demons were all about killing and maiming and creating minions.”
“Killing is passé—”
“And yet you killed Jezebeth.” Right before the crazy bitch demon tried to kill me. Right after she killed Blake. I shove the memories aside and focus on the present.
He shrugs. “I said passé, not unnecessary. Sometimes killing is the only option. But resolving differences through debate and persuasion is much less bloody, yes?”
“Isn’t killing a type of persuasion?”
He chuckles. “I believe the word you want is torture, not killing. But we could argue the point all night. See, debate. Works well, does it not?”
“Your point?” One thing I’ve learned about Zagan, he always has a point. Discovering that point is a whole other matter.
“Patience. I will give you what you need, but you might already have the answers.”
A thought niggles my brain. He knows. Gossip in Hell, my foot. “You know who killed that woman we found tonight, don’t you?”
“Ah-ha. There’s my Justitian. Yes.”
“Who?”
“A jealous minion.”
“Okay. Can you be a little more specific?”
His eyes narrow. “That is specific.”
Right. “Okay, then. Thank you.”
He nods. “Remember our friendship. Remember I gave you a part of me, a part of my power.”
A power he buried deep inside me without telling me. Not that I’m complaining. I killed the fear demon Agramon with the red energy Zagan gave me. But why would a demon give a Justitian power to slay another demon?
Something to think on later. I need all my faculties to deal with Zagan.
“Why did you give it to me?”
One brow raises as he ignores my question. “Use it wisely. Soon a time will come when you will need it again. Be prepared. And remember, I am here. If you need me. But you already know that, don’t you?” He stands, steps toward me until he stands inches from my refusing-to-move body. He places the palm of his hand against my chest, over my heart. He leans forward, lips inches away from my ear, his breath warm against my skin. “I am always with you, always a part of you. Friends.”
His words send chills racing across my skin, through my veins, equal doses of fear and arousal. He steps back, lifts his palm to the ceiling, circles his hand, and winks as a portal swallows him.
I sag against the door, knees unwilling to support me, my body sinking to the floor. On the plus side, he didn’t kill me. On the minus side, he thinks we’re friends.
It could be worse. I could be his human servant.
Only by a trick of my justitia did I manage to avoid that fate. How was I supposed to know that giving a demon food and some of my blood meant I was bound to them as their servant? In my defense, I figured giving the big bad demon crackers to snack on instead of me was the way to go. Faulty thinking there.
Zagan somehow left his mark on me. A rune denoting his name tattooed into my neck behind my ear. He claims I belong to him, always have, always will.
I say whatever, demon. I’m not going down the human servant route without a fight. Bring. It. On.
Then he appears in my bedroom, and all that bravado disappears like water vapor. Part of me wants him, most of me fears him.
Friendship, my ass.
His visit means I need to tell my mentor. After screwing things up between us by tricking an Agency attack force into believing I killed Zagan, which violated our tender thread of trust, I promised Smythe I’d let him know when Zagan visited me. For the most part, I’ve stuck to that promise.
Even if it means a long conversation when I really want to go to sleep.
The things I do to keep evil at bay.
Chapter Four
I shove to a stand and open the door. A dull clack of fingers typing on a keyboard echoes through the house punctuated by the age-old rhythm of T’s headboard thumping against the living room wall. How Smythe works with that racket, I’ll never understand.
Maybe he conjured up a pair of noise-dampening earplugs.
I cut through the kitchen to avoid walking past T’s door.
“Hey, Smythe.”
Thump, thump, thump.
Smythe looks at me, his fingers taking a break from the laptop. He glances to the rattling wall and shakes his head at the sounds turning my living room into a soundtrack from a porno set.
“Thought you were going to bed.”
“Something happened.”
He sets his laptop on the coffee table and walks into the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
This time the touch of his hand on my arm elicits a tingling response, lightning firing low and spreading outward. I swallow.
“Zagan paid me a visit.”
“What?” His hand drops, but the lightning continues to fire through my veins.
Damn hormones.
“He was waiting in my room.”
“This whole time you’ve been talking to him?”
“Pretty much. Yes.”
His eyes narrow before he strides to the couch. He picks up his cell phone, carrying it back to the kitchen, each step punctuated by a wall-rattling thump, thump, thump.
T really needs to move out.
I stand beside Smythe as he dials a number and slams the phone against his ear hard enough to give a normal person a headache.
“Do you have a record of a demon appearance in Peterstown, Texas?…No? Are you sure the program is working correctly?…Uh-huh…Yes, I know it doesn’t always work, but this demon keeps appearing and it never verifies him. Uh-huh…Well, maybe someone should work harder to fix the problem.” His finger stabs the end button, and he slaps the phone against his thigh. “Same problem. The program picked up a demon appearance in the Middle East earlier this evening so in their eyes, the damn thing works just fine. Clearly it’s malfunctioning.”
I shrug. Do computers ever work right all the time? I’m still impressed a program exists to track demon appearances
on Earth. Past experience with the demon identification program doesn’t surprise me it failed to pick up Zagan. Come to think of it, has the thing ever picked up my visiting demon? Do I want it to?
“Okay.” Smythe slaps the phone twice against his leg as if that makes him think better. “We need to learn how Zagan avoids the program. He’s here for longer than the thirty seconds required to log a demon’s presence, so what’s he doing to escape notice?”
Clearly I’m not catching my zzz’s until Smythe reaches a solution. Which means I need to offer a possibility, STAT. I rub my forehead, hoping the motion releases an answer. “The program only tracks when demons appear from Hell, since their appearance causes a rupture in the space-time continuum. Maybe he’s not going back to Hell. Maybe he stays on Earth. Maybe he still lives in his lair.”
“Too many maybes.” Smythe shakes his head and slams a hand against the counter. “We need answers. Why are you important to him?”
“Hello.” Talk about an easy answer. I point at my neck, at the rune symbolizing Zagan. “Because of this, he thinks I’m his servant.”
“But you’re not.” The slight inflection at the end of the sentence sounds like he’s questioning my loyalty.
A twinge squeezes my chest. I don’t blame Smythe for questioning where my loyalties lie, but it hurts nonetheless. Two months ago, I helped Zagan with an illusion, allowing him to escape while the Agency thought he died. Needless to say, my actions angered Smythe and caused a rift between us, a rift filled with broken trust.
A bit of that trust was restored when I saved Smythe’s life during a fight with a badass demon. A little hard to doubt my loyalties then. I’d do almost anything for my mentor. The Agency? Well, that’s a whole other matter. Trust for my employer wavers between nonexistent and barely there.
I force myself to look Smythe in the eye, to not flinch from the anger drifting in the depths of his gaze, to let him see the truth behind my words. “He does not control me.”
Smythe nods, relief flashing across his face before he slips on his mask of resolve. Nope, definitely not going to bed anytime soon.
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