The bodyguard nods. “Awful night.”
“That it is, my man, that it is. Now sit next to that crazyass fucker with the knife and forget what you’re about to see.”
With a shrug, the bodyguard sits next to the minion’s helper, both men staring unseeing as the cleanup crew starts working.
“What do I need to do?” I ask the Compulsion Spell Mage.
“Nothing. You’ve already done enough.” He points to the door. “Leave.”
Good idea. I want to get the hell away from this club.
“Thanks for helping.”
His piercing stare stabs me. “That’s our job. Now leave.”
Sound fuzzes by, voices calling, an annoying background noise. My hand touches the handle of my car door, its lack of opening motion snapping me into the present.
I stand in the crowded parking lot by my car, purse clutched in one hand, keys in the other. My head throbs, despite the justitia’s healing influence. How did I get here?
Oh, right. Compulsion spell. Not only am I clearly not consistent with thwarting it, but Smythe needs to teach me that nifty trick.
Provided he talks to me again. Damn man. Wouldn’t even let me explain. And refuses to answer my calls. Maybe he’ll respond to a text.
Pushing the key fob, I unlock the door, slide into my seat, and engage the locks. I send a quick text to Smythe.
It’s not what you think. Call me. Something happened.
I put the phone in the cup holder, so I can hear it ping when he returns a response. Which he doesn’t do in the thirty-five minutes it takes me to get home.
My house sits dark, abandoned. No cars are out front, which means T found someplace else to bunk tonight.
T? I try calling him telepathically, but like Smythe, he refuses to respond. My shoulders quiver, my stomach turns into a ball of stones. I open the garage door, pulling into my spot, tears trailing down my cheeks.
I killed Donny. I killed a human, a human who did not deserve to die. Perhaps Smythe and T’s lack of response is punishment for my crime.
How do I atone for a crime when no one knows what I did? The cleanup crew doesn’t count. How do I make things right?
I can’t. I can never make things right. It’s like when I was a child, nothing I did stopped the beatings. Nothing I did stopped my father from hurting us. Nothing I can do will help.
Dashing the tears off my face, I get out of the car, walk to the back door. I unlock the kitchen door, step inside, and throw the deadbolt. As soon as I flip on the lights, I freeze. Unlike my limbs, my justitia vibrates its happy-to-see-you dance, which only means one thing.
Or one demon.
Zagan stands in my kitchen, arms crossed, legs shoulder-width apart, an avenging demon out for blood. Light gleams off his olive skin, his muscular forearms accentuated by the rolled sleeves of his white button-down shirt. Black trousers complete with loafers round out his outfit as if he came from a date. The thought of which almost, but not quite, makes a grin tease my lips.
I wipe the expression from my face as soon as it appears, but not soon enough. His eyes narrow, his lips twitch as if he fights a snarl.
“You lost.”
My eyes flare. How did he know? And why would he be this upset over it? Shouldn’t he be happy I failed to kill a demon, one of his kin?
At least, I’m assuming they’re kin. Yep. Definitely need to pull out the Demonology 101 textbook for another read-through.
“What? Nothing to say? I gave you the ability to win, and you wasted it.”
Anger loosens my lips. “It wasn’t a waste. I saved lives with your energy.”
“Mage lives.” He slices a hand through the air.
“What? Have a problem with mages?”
He takes a step closer. Of course he has problems with mages. They keep trying to kill him. Stupid, stupid, stupid to egg on a demon.
Even if he is a demon I like.
“You”—he points a finger at me, eradicating any doubt he refers to another—“fail to understand what is at stake.”
“Enlighten me.”
“Why? You. Failed. Me!”
I take a step back, run into the door. My justitia stops happy dancing on my wrist, but refuses to turn into a sword.
Not that I could kill Zagan even if it did.
“I didn’t realize you’d be upset over me not killing a demon.”
“I didn’t realize you would waste my gift.”
“It wasn’t wasted.”
“You wasted it on minions.”
“Then why do you give me demonic power if not to kill demonic entities?”
He takes a step back, eyes narrowing on me as if testing my intelligence and finding it lacking. “You would not understand.”
“Try me.”
“No. You wasted my gift.”
“You’re starting to sound like a broken record.”
“A broken record?”
“You’re repeating yourself.”
He takes a step closer, then another, until he stands close enough I can feel his heat. I shrink against the door, trying to get as far away from his touch as possible. Empathic abilities plus demon touch equals brain hemorrhage. The last time he touched me, my justitia had to work overtime to block the tangles of evil demon thoughts from rupturing my brain. Thoughts too twisted for human comprehension.
And yet I crave his touch. Crave him like an addict does a bottle. I crave him like the addict I am.
I put my hands on his chest. His heart pounds beneath the pads of my fingers. He looks at my hands, raising his gaze to my eyes as he grips my wrists over my sleeves in a bone-crushing grasp, pulling my hands away from his body.
“You. Failed. Me. Worthless human. You are like the others, not unique as I hoped. Worthless. You do not deserve my gift. You do not deserve this bracelet.”
Power leaches from his hand, coursing into my justitia. The bracelet quivers, the entity along my nerves flaring to life as it draws on my energy to stop Zagan’s spell. The silver links shift, transforming into a sword.
Zagan drops my wrists, leaping back to avoid the blade. Red stains his white shirt from a line slashed across his chest. His lip curls. My breath rushes in short pants as he rubs a hand across the shallow cut on his chest.
“You ruined my shirt.”
“You tried to spell my justitia into something it didn’t like.”
“I am tired of dealing with you and your lack of obedience.” He slashes a hand through the air. “I am done.”
With those words, he forms a portal, disappearing into a kaleidoscope of colors.
I slump against the door, my heart pounding, my eyes stinging. My knees forget their job, and I butt plant on the floor. With a pop, the justitia returns to bracelet form, the entity along my nerves performing the virtual equivalent of an irate pacing human.
Placing a hand over the silver links, I will it to calm. Memories surge, its memories, ancient and cold. Warm rocks. Bright fires. Multi-hued demons plotting, scheming. Words escape me, the language rolling in syllables I could never hope to pronounce, yet I understand the gist. My justitia ensures I understand.
One demon wants control of Hell. One demon will do anything to conquer, even if it means waiting millennia for the perfect occurrence of events. And all the other demons will do anything to stop him.
Hot tears press against the back of my eyes. Zagan abandoning me should make me happy. Being free of him, knowing he no longer attempts to make me his servant, should bring me pleasure.
All I want to do is cry.
First T. Then Smythe. Now Zagan.
I’m not crying over the demon. I’m crying over my fuckups.
I dash a hand under my eyes. Crying never got me anywhere. I need to suck it up, pull on my big girl panties, forget about this awful evening.
Kicking off my heels, I stand. Tingling shoots through my limbs, a desire to make it all go away. Leaving my bedroom window cracked tonight won’t work, won’t soothe me. One thing
will.
I swallow. Ten years ago I promised myself I’d never touch another drop of whiskey. I broke that promise a week ago in the club. Which was bad, but not the drink that counts. It wasn’t the bottle I stashed in the pantry, on the top shelf behind a box of trash bags. That bottle represented me giving up my habit, not allowing a substance to rule my life.
Starting a new life, one without hard liquor.
But that bottle would soothe the pain gnawing a hole in my heart, spreading fire through my limbs.
On numb feet I walk to the pantry. Pull down the box of trash bags. Stand on my tiptoes, fingers grasping the bottle. In my palm, the glass feels smooth, a calling to imbibe.
Ignoring my inner voice informing me of bad decisions, I twist open the cap, take a large swallow. Heat burns my throat, swirls in my stomach. A second swallow spreads the heat to my cold limbs. Falling off the wagon never felt so good.
Two more swallows and I’m in T’s room, rummaging through his nightstand until I find what I need. With shaky hands, I light the blunt, inhale a deep breath. Relief courses through my veins, chasing away the cold.
So much for my new life on the straight and narrow. I’m worthless. Zagan’s right. I killed Donny.
Taking another hit, I let the smoke soothe my raw nerves.
The room spins. Why am I standing? I lean against the headboard, drawing my knees to my chest. The heat from the bottle coupled with the smoke eases the ache residing against my heart.
I look at the bottle, at the amber liquid swirling behind clear glass. I take another large swallow, then another and another before dropping the bottle on the nightstand. Sometimes the worst demons aren’t the ones throwing punches or energy balls, they’re the ones hidden inside, invisible to the world.
Tomorrow, I’ll get my act together. Tomorrow, I’ll find T and Aidan. Make them see reason. Nothing will ever be the same, but tomorrow dawns another day.
A word about the author…
Karilyn Bentley’s love of reading stories and preference for sitting in front of a computer at home instead of in a cube drove her to pen her own works, blending fantasy and romance mixed with a touch of funny.
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 nicknamed The Kraken, a silly puppy, and a handful of colorful saltwater fish. Find out more about Karilyn at www.karilynbentley.com
Thank you for purchasing
this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.
If you enjoyed the story, we would appreciate your letting others know by leaving a review.
For other wonderful stories,
please visit our on-line bookstore.
Demon Cursed Page 20