Demon Cursed

by Karilyn Bentley

  Donny’s jaw clenches. “I thought we were friends.”

  “That’s what you get for thinking.”

  Rahab chuckles. “Boys, boys. Don’t fight over the women. There are plenty to choose from. Like this lovely example.” He points to me. Just what I wanted. To be singled out by a demon.

  Wait a minute. Why am I standing around staring at said demon and its minion instead of blasting their asses back to Hell? Clearly, Smythe is not coming back. I’m on my own.

  No problem. I’ve fought them once. I can fight them again. And win this time.

  I drop my purse and step out of my shoes. Walking in the things was difficult enough. No way I could send this demon to Hell while wearing the pointy-toed heels.

  “She doesn’t want me.” Donny shrugs. “Nothing I tried worked. Not much you can do about that, no matter what you say.”

  I lower my partially raised sword arm. What does he mean, “no matter what you say”? Has he spoken to Rahab before?

  Well, duh, you idjit. Of course he has. Why else would he have demon essence clinging to his skin like a rash? He might have gotten that reaction from Damian, but his surprise at seeing his old “friend” rang true.

  What does Rahab want with Donny? Maybe I should find out before annihilating his ass.

  Or not.

  The demon smiles, all chills and shivers. “I say join me. Or I’ll give your lady love to him.” He points to Damian, who eyes me like I’m a tasty peach.

  Oh, hell no.

  Donny glances at me. “And if I join? Do I get her?”

  “Of course.”

  “Hey, hate to tell you, but I have some say so here.” Do they actually think I’m on board with their crazy plan?

  “So you think.” Straight, white teeth flash in Rahab’s mouth.

  “So I know.” Enough talking. Time for some slicing and dicing.

  I draw back my sword arm at the same moment Donny answers the demon.

  “I accept your offer.”

  Shit. So much for killing the minion first. If I want to save Donny from minion-hood, I need to wipe this demon off the face of the earth.

  No problem.

  Sword raised, I let loose a yell, taking a step toward the demon. Damian leaps in my way, pushing my arm to the side as he slams a fist into my jaw.

  Ouch! My head snaps to the side, but the justitia overrules my nervous system, obliterating the pain. I use my body’s momentum to continue into a twist and duck, bringing my sword up to stab at the minion’s stomach.

  My justitia slips through flesh like a knife through gelatin. The minion drops to the ground, clutching his stomach, blood leaking between his fingers. Wasting no time, I draw my arm back, my opposite hand grasping my sword wrist as the justitia slices through the minion’s neck. Gray mist, the demon’s essence, tries to return to its host, streaming out of Damian’s neck and stomach.

  But I catch it on the side of my blade, smiling as it hisses, as it dies. That part of the demon will never return to its host. Kill enough minions with a justitia, and the demon will die.

  I glance at the stiffened demon. Yep, hurt him a bit. Score one for the demon huntress. So not sorry to kill his sustenance-giving minion.

  A blow to my head has me falling forward. Double ouch. Again, my justitia earns its keep by shutting down my pain receptors. Unfortunately, it can’t do a damn thing for the room spinning a crazed dance.

  Hearing a rush of air, I roll, bringing up my sword. Bad Dye Job stands over me, shaking his fist. Ignoring the black dots dancing in my periphery, I stand, backhanding him. He drops, and I kick him in the side. Hard. Bastard.

  But despite his accomplice-to-murder status, because he’s human I can’t kill him.

  After another kick ensures me he’s going nowhere, I turn my attention to Donny and the demon. Rahab’s essence floats in the air between them, slowly going toward a wide-eyed Donny. The man’s attention isn’t on the demon or the essence about to give him minion status, but instead his full attention rests on me and the bodies scattered amongst the rose petals.

  He might be an ass, but he doesn’t deserve to become a minion. Not if I can help it. Which, lucky for him, I can.

  Circling to the side, I rush the pair, aiming for the demon essence. If I can slice my justitia through it, then I can stop the transfer of evil to Donny.

  But the demon catches on to my plan, moving to block me. As I swing my sword at him, he ducks, slamming a fist into my stomach. I double over, bringing my arms down to stop his upward kick.

  “What is she?” Donny asks.

  “A fucking Justitian.” Rahab growls, stepping back as if to regroup.

  “A what?”

  The demon ignores the question, preferring to aim a punch at my jaw. I avoid him, twisting around, using my ears to locate where the demon stands. As soon as I complete the turn, I stab the justitia where the demon stands, only to come to a wide-eyed, frozen stance stop.

  It’s not the demon I stabbed. It’s Donny.

  Who is still a human.

  Oh fucking shit.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Air gurgles in the back of Donny’s throat, his hands wrap around the justitia with a weak effort to remove the sword from his chest. Blood gushes around the wound. I can’t breathe, can’t talk, can’t disengage my sword. I stare at Donny, my wide-eyed expression mirroring his. We drop to our knees at the same time. His lips move. His eyes close. He topples to the side.

  I don’t need a nursing degree to tell me he’s dead.

  I killed him.

  Oh God. What do I do?

  “You fucking bitch!” Rahab steps into my line of view, hands cranked into fists. “You killed my best chance at power. Both of them!”

  The demon wavers, as if shaking with rage. Or tears blur my vision. I swipe a hand under my eyes as I free Donny from my justitia and stand. I’d rather face demon wrath on my feet than cowering on the ground.

  “Sorry?”

  He growls, low and rumbling, a warning of an impending avalanche of death. “You killed two of my best minions.”

  Fact check, demon. I only killed one.

  “Donny wasn’t a minion.”

  “He would’ve been if you hadn’t killed him, you worthless piece of shit. Prepare to die.”

  Borrow movie lines much, demon? Maybe he learned conversation bits at Cheesy-Lines-R-Us.

  I barely have time to fall into a fighting stance. His fist flies from the right, smacking me on the shoulder when I move to avoid being hit. I swing my justitia, but he jumps out of the way. Side-stepping to avoid Donny’s body, I drop my guard, receiving a bruising blow to the ribs for my inattention.

  I drop. Roll. Pull my feet under me. But he’s on top of me quicker than an alligator on fresh meat. My head jerks to the side when his fist smashes into my jaw. Damn that hurt. Rahab might throw cheesy lines, but he knows how to punch.

  Lucky for me, my justitia continues to block the pain, allowing me to remain upright, if a bit off balance. I strike his arm, a dark line forming along the slice. He draws in a breath through his nose, one hand slapping over the cut.

  “Bitch. That hurt.”

  I smile. “Really?”

  “Where’s your guardian? Shouldn’t he be here?”

  My smile falters, wanes.

  “Oh wait—” Rahab’s lips curl in a spine-shaking smile. “He thought you cheated on him and stormed off. How quaint.”

  “How did you know that?”

  “I have my ways.”

  “Fine. Don’t share.”

  I try to draw on the power Zagan gave me, but nothing happens. Oh shit. By saving the Agency from the minion helicopter attack, I depleted my special-action red energy. No problem, though. I can do this on my own the old-fashioned way.

  I rush Rahab, but he waves his hand, sending me airborne sans one of Smythe’s invisi-mats. My arms and legs windmill, as if hoping the movement will slow my momentum. Fat chance.

  Right before I crash into
the wall above the row of sofas, Rahab freezes me with another flick of his wrist.

  “Tell your master, Rahab won.”

  Master? But before I can complete that thought, he flicks his wrist again, and my head slams into the wall with a sickening thud.

  The room vanishes as my vision goes dark.

  ****

  Softness cradles my body. My head throbs in time with my heart. Where am I? Why does my head hurt so badly?

  And then memories assail me. T storming out, blaming me for Jackie’s death. Smythe abandoning me, believing I betrayed him. Donny dying by my sword. Oh God, I killed a human. He might have been a step away from a minion, but he was still human when he died. Pain, like a ball of ice, pings around my chest, a loose bullet bent on destruction.

  Memories of fighting Rahab cause my lids to snap open. Donny’s private room lies in shambles, tables knocked over, bodies lying at odd angles. No demon.

  The only good thing in this SNAFU.

  I lie on a sofa, sword retracted into bracelet form, limbs crooked and aching. A quick body check complete with finger and toe wiggles proves nothing is broken, only bruised. I touch the back of my head, wincing as my fingers encounter a wet lump the approximate size of a small boulder. Damn demons.

  No wonder Justitians have mage guardians. I would have won that fight if Smythe had been here. Another mess to fix. What do I do without Smythe?

  Get a grip, Gin. Call him.

  My purse and shoes lie near the door, by the minion’s helper. The room spins as I sit, walls moving when they should remain still. Music pounds, the bass rhythm amplifying the pounding in my skull. Vertical is not my friend. Instead of standing, I roll off the couch and crawl toward my purse.

  My fingers touch the strap right as the door opens. Music floods the room. Donny’s bodyguard stares at me, takes in the destruction, returns his wide-eyed gaze to me.

  Oh, shit. I forgot all about him.

  Don’t see me, don’t see me, don’t see me.

  He blinks, brows furrowing as he stares at me, through me. Cha-ching. The power of the justitia. Mention “don’t see me” three times, and somehow I vanish from view. A skill I’ve used before to escape Smythe when we first met.

  The bodyguard’s gaze lands on Donny, and with a shout, he rushes to the downed football star, the door swinging shut when he releases his grip on the knob. I use the distraction to grab my purse and stuff my feet into my shoes. Slipping through the door takes only a moment despite being on my hands and knees. I no longer care if the bodyguard notices the door opening on its own.

  The flashing lights blind me for a second, the strobes hurting my eyes, my head. Damn demon and his toss-the-Justitian power. Using the wall as a support, I manage to pull upright. The room swims, but only for a second, thanks to the healing power of the justitia. After a moment of using the wall as a prop, I hobble to the private restrooms, avoiding the clubbers. The third door opens, and I lock myself inside.

  Once more I try to telepathically call Smythe, but again, he ignores me. Nothing left but to call him. I pull out my phone and scroll through my contacts until I find Smythe’s number. A quick touch on his name and the call goes through. Only to be rerouted to voicemail. I try it again. Still voicemail on the second ring. Come on. Answer already. A third try gives the same result. Clearly he’s ignoring me, sending me to voicemail instead of answering.

  Well, fuck him. He once gave me the number of the Agency cleanup crew in case of an emergency. Him not picking up is an emergency. Especially since this club meets the definition of crime scene.

  I find the cleanup crew number and place the call. A gruff voice answers on the second ring.

  “Yes?”

  “This is Gin Crawford. I need to request the cleanup crew be dispatched to Club Monster in Dallas.”

  “Where’s your guardian?”

  “Can’t reach him.”

  “Any humans involved?”

  “Yeah. One noticed, one’s dead, and one’s unconscious.”

  Gruff Voice curses. “We’ll be right there. Don’t move.”

  I push the end button. The wall cushions my backside as I sag against it, using it for support. My knees threaten to give out, but I stiffen them, refusing to allow my butt to touch the bathroom floor.

  What seems like an hour passes before several kaleidoscopes of color appear, portals of the incoming cleanup crew. Four men and two women stride from the portals, glancing around the bathroom in confusion.

  “We were told a cleanup is needed?” the tall brunette woman asks.

  I straighten. “Yeah. Follow me.”

  We generate stares as we leave the restroom along with a couple of smiles and nods. Ignoring the gawks, I lead the crew to the private suite. A security team meets us at the door.

  “You can’t go in.” Security’s palm faces us.

  A dark-skinned mage pushes past me. “Stumbling drunks are fools, huh?”

  The security guard blinks. “Drunks?”

  The mage peers behind the guard into the room. All the recessed lights shine on high, transforming the room from its normal sexy dimness to shadowed light. Despite the lights being on, not enough light bulbs exist to obliterate all the shadows. More security mingles with the freaked-out bodyguard. The minion’s helper sits at the table, a bruise forming beneath his eye.

  Rage spikes through me when he glances my direction. Rage followed by a dose of I-showed-you-up. I tamp down both emotions, focusing on the mage/security guard interaction.

  “Drunks messing up your place are an annoyance, huh?”

  “Yeah, man. Drunks are an annoyance.” The glazed eyes and flat tone clue me in that the guard fell under the compulsion spell.

  “An annoyance, but not a reason to keep us out.”

  “You’re right.” He steps to the side, waving us into the room.

  “Remember, you saw nothing but annoying drunks. Nothing different than any other night.”

  “Yeah, man. Nothing different.”

  “Go back to your normal post.”

  “’Night.” The guard walks away to raised brows from his fellow security.

  “Hey!” Another security runs forward, only to be stopped by Compulsion Spell Mage.

  “Drunks are an annoyance.”

  This time, the remaining guards along with Donny’s bodyguard, fall under the spell, nodding their heads to the tale of the annoying drunks. Security leaves, but the bodyguard remains.

  The cleanup crew gives the dark-skinned mage a puzzled look as if he’s slacking on the spell. I pitch my voice low.

  “He’s the bodyguard for Donny Merryweather. Donny is the dead human.”

  “The football star?” The mage’s eyes flare.

  “Yeah.” I swallow while rubbing my chest.

  “Why didn’t you say so?”

  I shrug.

  He curses. The other mages look troubled. I doubt they’re as troubled as I am by this whole mess. My good deed of stopping the demon from making a minion out of Donny while saving women from a serial killer turned into a hot mess of epic proportions. What kind of Justitian am I to kill a human?

  I shove those thoughts to a far corner of my mind. At the moment, I need to use all my concentration.

  “The minion’s a serial killer. Been preying on women at the club. The asshole sitting at the table is his helper, not a minion.”

  “That’s just wrong.” Compulsion Spell Mage shakes his head. “Hey, man.” He strides toward the bodyguard. “What happened?”

  What happened? Isn’t he supposed to suggest, not ask?

  “I heard a noise, came inside. They were all dead! Donny was dead! And this girl”—his eyes look at me—“that girl, that one!” He points a shaky finger. “She was here but disappeared! Now she’s back. What’s going on?”

  “You had too much to drink.”

  “I don’t drink on the job.”

  “Tonight you did.”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  The mage
’s fingers flex. “Okay, you weren’t drinking. You saw a pretty woman and got distracted.”

  The bodyguard nods, compulsion agreeing with his moral code. “Yeah. She was hot.”

  “When you came in, you saw that one,” the mage points to the minion’s sidekick, “getting into a fight with Donny. He’d already killed this one.” He points to the dead minion. “Stabbed him. Nothing you could do.”

  “What!” the sidekick, aka Bad Dye Job, tries to stand, bumps into the table, and flops back on the sofa. “I did not.”

  The tall brunette female mage walks to him, places a hand on his shoulder, and pulls a long, thin knife out of a holder strapped to her thigh. BDJ’s eyes widen as he tries to escape the sharp point.

  “You killed him. Don’t deny it.”

  BDJ’s mouth slackens, his eyes glazing. “I like to watch him kill.”

  “Yeah, you do, you sick fuck. Pick up the knife.”

  He does as told, twisting the blade back and forth, as if fascinated by the reflections of light on metal. The female mage keeps her gaze glued to the knife.

  “See—” Compulsion Spell Mage points at BDJ. “—he killed Donny.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” The bodyguard nods. “But why?”

  The mage looks at me, making a rolling gesture with his hand. I clear my throat.

  “The dead…guy”—I point to the minion—“stalked Donny. Was jealous of his fame, so he killed the women Donny slept with. He and the bastard over there”—I point to BDJ—“would drug the women, but tonight they confronted Donny. That guy”—another point to BDJ—“went crazy and stabbed the dead guy. Then he stabbed Donny.”

  The bodyguard nods, believing my story for the truth. Most of it was. And it caught the sick fuck who liked to watch the minion kill defenseless women. Why couldn’t I have killed him instead of Donny?

  I rub my head. No time for those thoughts. No time to ponder the what-ifs and whys. Or to glance at Donny’s body, to see the blood congealing in a pool leaking from under him. I squeeze my eyes closed.

  “Nothing you could have done, man. When the cops arrive, you can tell them what happened. This little fucker”—the mage points to BDJ—“killed Donny. And a bunch of women. And the dead guy, although he did everyone a favor there. You understand?”