Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  Instead of looking to where he points at the screen, I look at him. At the line of his jaw. At the way he exudes confidence. Opening my senses to him, I lean against his arm, soaking in his calm confidence. I could fall for this man. Hard. Harder than I fell for Blake.

  T was right. Aidan Smythe had the potential to be my downfall.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  “They found Jackie in the parking lot of the Armadillo’s practice facility. She was in the same position Jenny was, rose and all.” Smythe taps the screen, ensuring I see the details of how Jackie’s body was found.

  Rage snakes through me, shaking my limbs. Jackie didn’t deserve to die. Hiding behind the door when the good Lord passed out brains was no reason to be targeted by a serial killer.

  That bastard was going down. Vengeance is mine, thus sayeth the demon huntress.

  “Let’s go. I’m going to hunt down that damn minion and show him the pointy end of my justitia.” I give my wrist a shake, rattling the silver links of my bracelet.

  Smythe taps a couple of keys, bringing up an aerial view of the practice facility, obviously scoping out the place for a good portal entry. After a few seconds of staring at the screen, he nods. Landing point obtained.

  He snaps closed his laptop. “Ready?”

  Without waiting for my reply, he stands, one hand facing away from his body. Muttering his portal-forming words, he opens a passage to the practice facility using the in-between. A few chilly seconds later, we step into the shadow of the building, along a side hidden from where Jackie was found.

  Smythe strides around the corner, his body language telling all he belongs at the scene. I scramble behind him, mimicking his posture. I will catch this minion before he strikes again.

  Activating the minion sensors in my eyes, I glance around the parking lot. Fire-engine red minion trails circle an area of concrete, thick enough to turn the ground blood red.

  Or maybe that really was blood.

  I swallow.

  Yellow crime-scene tape rings the minion trails, hung on orange and white construction barriers, the notification of death a screaming warning. No body remains, but CSI folks wander the periphery of the circle, taking notes and collecting evidence. Detectives and blue-uniformed cops hover in the background as if waiting for the perfect time to strike.

  Smythe strides to the sergeant in charge, flipping his magic badge open and closed.

  “Special Agent Smythe and my consultant, Ms. Crawford. What happened?”

  The sergeant blinks as do the detectives. Spell accomplished.

  One of the detectives recovers first. “Woman by the name of Jackie Henderson found deceased in a spot reserved for one Donald Merryweather. Multiple stab wounds but very few defensive wounds. The body was laid out like she belonged in a coffin, flat on her back and holding a rose.”

  “Sounds like the Jenny O’Connor case from last week.”

  “Yep.” The detective nods. “Several similarities between the two.”

  “Do you think the killer is trying to frame Mr. Merryweather?”

  I’m pretty certain Smythe is one of the few people to refer to Donny as Mr. Merryweather. A strange urge to chuckle nails me, but I cover it with a cough everyone ignores.

  “Could be. Or he’s shitting in his own playground, if you know what I mean. Witnesses link him to both women. We could have a killer who’s trying to frame the star, or we could have a star killing women and trying to make it look like he’s innocent and being framed. I haven’t decided which way to bet.”

  Smythe nods, while making a noncommittal noise. But I know better: he thinks Donny is as guilty as homemade sin.

  Even if the minion trails prove otherwise.

  Donny might be a lot of things, but my money’s on him being innocent. Which begs the question of who killed Jenny and Jackie? Who wants Donny to pay for the crime?

  I foresee another session of Smythe and his laptop tonight.

  My thoughts trail down the rabbit path of other things he and I can do tonight, only to be yanked back to the present by the gravity of the situation.

  Jackie was dead. Sleeping with my mentor should not be anywhere on my mind.

  Color me a bad person.

  “Was she dressed?” Smythe’s words snap my attention back to the moment and off the rabbit trail of fantasies.

  “Yep. Dressed to kill, no pun intended. Meant dressed up. Like she was out on a date. Her panties were missing so the ME will run a rape kit.” He shrugs.

  I hate to tell him, but the missing panties were about par for ditzy Jackie. I would say she left them off on purpose, but knowing her, she might have forgotten to wear them.

  Smythe offers another one of his short nods, before shaking the detective’s hand. “Thank you for your time.”

  “Sure. Always happy to help catch a killer.”

  I follow Smythe back to the side of the building where we appeared. Without saying anything, he mutters his portal-forming words and pulls me through the passage in-between. We land in my living room. My quiet, no-one-else-around living room.

  The lack of T’s presence sits heavy in my heart. But as Smythe said, he’ll be back.

  Eventually.

  I hope.

  “Did you see those minion trails?” Smythe stalks around the couch as if he holds a grudge against the cushions. “Are you sure Donny’s not a minion?”

  “Yes, I did, and yes, I am.”

  “Damn it. He’s guilty of something. I know it.”

  “You just don’t like him. He’s a playah, but he’s not a killer. We’ve been over this.”

  “You’re too swayed by his charm to see him for what he is.”

  “Jealous much, Aidan?”

  At his name, he stops, turns to me with narrowed eyes. Suspicion and surprise flit across his face. I should call him by his first name more often. I like the way it feels on my tongue.

  Hell, I like the way he feels on my tongue.

  Heat splashes my cheeks as I wipe that thought from my mind. Or try to. A little hard to wipe any thoughts when said fantasy stalks toward me.

  I refuse to take a step back. I’m not afraid. I’m hot as hell.

  He stops before he runs into me, close enough where I have to crane my head to look him in the eye.

  “Always.” His arms band around my waist, his lips press against mine, branding me his.

  He needn’t worry. Whatever this is between us encases me in a fragile hope, strings of peace binding us together. I want him with a ferociousness rarely felt, a twining of our souls, to believe we’ll never part.

  ****

  Hours later, we lie on my bed, contemplating another round. Our limbs entwined, my head resting on his shoulder, his hand stroking my upper arm, I realize this is what I’ve craved my whole life. This odd feeling of a fragile peace. Not even the bond with T relaxes me this way. Like a drug. The ultimate high.

  But with none of the unwanted side effects.

  I’m almost asleep when Smythe’s phone buzzes, an annoying disturbance. He stiffens for a second before removing his arm from around my shoulder, twisting to reach for his phone. The twist fails to obtain the phone, which continues to buzz a warning from its resting spot on the floor.

  Smythe leans off the bed, grabs the phone, swipes the talk button, and slams the thing against his ear.

  “What?”

  I roll to my side as he swings his legs off the bed to sit.

  “What about Gin?” A long pause. “Okay. I’ll be right there.”

  My peace bubble bursts like a balloon on a rosebush. “Who was that?”

  “The Agency.” He leans over, giving me a peck on the cheek. “That minion from the attack finally cracked. All the mages are being called in to discuss our next move.”

  “What about the Justitians? Shouldn’t we be there too?”

  “They said not yet. Game plan before attack force.” Pulling on his clothes, he gives me a wink. “Don’t leave. I’ll be back.”

&nbs
p; “When?”

  His brow furrows. “Don’t know. As soon as I can.”

  “And you expect me to stay here naked and waiting for who knows how long?” I tack a smile on my face, my effort to keep the disappointment out of my voice an epic fail.

  “I expect you not to get into trouble while I’m gone.”

  “Do I ever?”

  He raises a brow, silent talk for, Do I really need to answer that question?

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stay out of trouble. Oh master.”

  “That’s mentor.” He grins. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Don’t try to track Jackie’s killer without me.”

  “Don’t be long. I’m missing you already.”

  After a lingering kiss, he portals to the Agency. I sigh, flopping onto my back. Memories of us drift through my mind, starting with our afternoon pleasantries to when we first met. Right after I stabbed my first minion. In my house. T ran out of his room with a shotgun, firing a round into the already-dead evil, a totally confused Jackie following.

  Jackie. Poor, ditzy Jackie.

  A shot of adrenaline sits me upright. How can I lie in bed, daydreaming about Smythe fantasies when her killer remains free? I’m a Justitian. The murderer is a minion. A stab, a slash, and that bastard goes home to its maker via the Hell express.

  How can I do as Smythe asks and sit here waiting for his return? Time is of the essence. What if the killer strikes again? God only knows Donny can’t keep his junk in his pants with a club full of women.

  What if another woman dies because I’m unwilling to go it alone? Nothing wrong with going it alone. I’m a Justitian. A kickass Justitian. I can take that minion down.

  Despite Smythe’s request.

  Some things need to be done sooner rather than later.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  An hour and a half later, I park outside Club Monster in an already crowded parking lot. Don’t these people have something better to do than get drunk and/or laid at a club? Like a hobby? Laundry?

  Geez Louise. The things I do to keep the world safe from minions.

  I shut the car door, engage the lock, straighten my long-sleeved blue blouse and short black skirt, and stride to the already-forming line in my toe-pinching expensive shoes. Why did I not insist Smythe teach me his nifty compulsion trick? That would come in handy to bypass this line.

  A breeze howls down the street causing me to cross my arms in an effort to stay warm. Top on the to-do list: learn the compulsion spell.

  The pounding bass from inside the club pours out into the street every time the door opens. An echo beats inside my bones. I inch forward as the person at the front of the line gains entrance.

  A big burly man steps around the bouncer, heading my way. Donny’s bodyguard. I’m saved.

  He points a finger at me. “Follow me.”

  Ignoring the jealous glares of the line-standers, I do as the man says. The bouncer steps out of our way, allowing us entrance into the bass-thumping club.

  Hearing loss, here I come.

  “How did you know I was in line?” I raise my voice to be heard over the music.

  His shoulders roll. “Cameras.”

  Oh yeah. Donny must have cameras in his room that overlook the club entrance. Does he use them to determine which club-goer he wants to hit on for the evening?

  Not that I care. At least not care on a personal level. But it makes me wonder how the mind of a man touched by a minion or demon works. Who does Donny know that is a minion? How close does one have to get to a minion in order for the demon essence to rub off?

  Perhaps another lesson in Demonology 101 is in order.

  The bodyguard opens the door to Donny’s private room, stepping back to usher me inside. He closes the door behind me, reducing the sound level enough to hear speech without yelling. But he stays outside the room.

  A quick glance around shows why. No one except for Donny is present. None of his friends. No wanna-be fuck-bunnies. No servers. Only Donny, who stands behind a table where a huge-ass bouquet of red roses sits. The sweet perfume of roses blankets the room. No wonder. Not only is there a bouquet of the flowers, red and white petals litter the floor like confetti at a New Year’s Eve party.

  What. The. Hell?

  “What’s up, Donny? Where is everyone?” I walk into the room, one slow step at a time, my gaze never leaving his face. My justitia shakes a warning. Donny’s not a minion, but demon essence clings to the football star like dandruff.

  He smiles, a knowing confirmation I performed exactly as he planned. So much for surprising him.

  “You came back to me. I knew you would.”

  Good lord. Does he actually think I came here for him? Judging by the roses and petals, the answer would be yes. Through an application of willpower, I manage not to roll my eyes. “I came back to ask you some questions.”

  “Not more of being the investigator. You know you’re here for me. Stop playing around.” He picks up the bouquet and heads my way.

  “Not playing.” I point a finger at him. “You are the one link to two dead women. Why is that?”

  He thrusts the bouquet toward me, giving me no choice but to grab it or let it drop onto my feet. Like most women, I’m a sucker for roses. Despite them implying acceptance of his advance.

  “You don’t believe I killed those two women. You wouldn’t be here if you did.”

  Okay, so he’s right on the first part of that speech. Not that I’ll tell him.

  “Donny. My job is an investigator.” More like minion killer, but investigator sounds more appropriate in this situation. “You are under suspicion.”

  “Not by the police.” He shakes his head. “They cleared me. I have an alibi.”

  “You’re still a link between Jenny and Jackie. My partner—”

  “You left him at home tonight. Which means I’m right.” One side of his lips kicks up. “You want me. You know you can’t resist Donny Football, babe.” He rubs a hand along my arm, his eyes full of lust.

  I thrust the bouquet against his chest. Now it’s his turn to grab it or drop the roses on his shoes. Anger flashes in the depths of his eyes, a cold ire that spreads into my bones even though he’s not touching my flesh.

  The man clearly has never been told no.

  “You aren’t who I want. I’m here to discuss the case. Nothing more.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “What’s the matter, Donny? Can’t take no for an answer?”

  Oops. That might not have been the smartest thing to poke the proverbial bear. The flash of anger seen earlier in his gaze morphs into a full-fledged forest fire complete with exploding trees and a raging wall of burning underbrush.

  I was wrong. So wrong. Donny is capable of killing a person.

  He shoves the bouquet into my chest, gripping my arms when I grab the roses.

  “I want you. He said this would ensure I had you.”

  “Who—” But the rest of my sentence dies on my lips as he yanks me into a crushing kiss, complete with tongue thrust.

  His thoughts of taking me against the wall slam into my mind. Yuck. Trying to pull away fails to work. I shove at his shoulder with one hand, raising my foot to stomp in his instep.

  Loud music from the club sounds as the door bounces against the wall.

  “What the hell?”

  At the sound of Smythe’s voice, Donny releases me. Thank God. I’m saved.

  I turn to my mage, my lover, but his eyes hold nothing except steely contempt. Surely he doesn’t think I wanted Donny to kiss me?

  “Smythe?”

  “When I got to your place and found you gone, I thought I’d find you here but was afraid you’d run into trouble.” His eyes narrow. A tic twitches the muscle in his jaw. “I guess not.” He starts to leave.

  Shit.

  “Smythe, wait!” I take a step toward him as he pauses, one hand on the door. “It’s not what you think. I came here to question him.”

  “Looks like you chose a different
way of extracting answers.”

  “He came on to me! I told you how I felt. Nothing has changed. You’re the one for me.”

  “Stop.” He raises a hand. “Just stop. You’re an adult. If you want Donny, you can have him.” With those words, he steps into the club, slamming the door behind him.

  Donny laughs as I stand frozen, staring at the last place Smythe stood, the air in my lungs balling into shards of ice. How can Smythe believe I want the laughing perv? Why did he not believe me? What can I say to stop him from leaving?

  Say? More like demonstrate. I need to show him what he means to me. I am not letting Smythe walk out of this club. No way. He’s mine.

  Ignoring the expanding pressure in my chest, I pitch the roses on the nearest table and stride to the door. My hand reaches for the knob, but the door opens, almost hitting me in the face. A shaking of links against my wrist indicates my justitia turned into a sword. Holy shit.

  Rahab, the demon I fought in the parking garage at work, stands before me now, dressed in an expensive black suit. Not that his appearance matters in a fight. I will take him down. I’m better than him.

  And yet I stand frozen as if under a demonic compulsion spell when he walks into the room. The same minion who attacked me in the hospital parking garage and the guy with the bad dye job follow him inside.

  Triple shit.

  Smythe! I shout using telepathy. Come back! There’s a demon!

  But he’s blocking me. Or ignoring me. Damn it.

  The door closes, locking me in with the trio from Hell and Donny.

  Who dies first?

  “I know you.” Donny points at the minion. “You kept trying to talk to me last week. Like you knew me.”

  “That’s because I do know you, asshole. Don’t you remember me, Damian Spohn, from college?” Anger wraps the minion like a cloak of trembling rage.

  “Damian?” The football star stares at the minion as if he saw a long-lost friend.

  “Yeah…” Minion, aka Damian, points to Donny. “…you always one-upped me in college. Got all the girls. Guess what, asshole? I found me a way to take them back from you.”

  A flash of rage melts the ball of ice in my chest. Jackie was killed because some jackwagon was jealous of Donny’s penis? At least he helped settle the issue of who I kill first.