Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Please sit.”

  His voice snaps my mind out of the sack and back to the room. Busted. Heat splashes my cheeks, disappearing as I suck down a breath. No reason for embarrassment over simple biology. This type of thing plays out in bars all over the country every night.

  Although, admittedly, the almost overwhelming urge to do a little booty-bumping in a public place after experiencing a tragedy is a new one for me.

  Talk about having issues.

  He gestures to the chair, a subtle reminder to stash my hormones in the deep-freeze. Easier said than done. The hormones apparently like raging through my veins. But that doesn’t mean I can’t comply with his verbal request.

  I sit, crossing my legs at the ankle, hands folded in my lap, one hand covering the silver links circling my wrist. Just because I want this man to fuck me senseless, doesn’t mean I want him to check out the bracelet.

  Go figure.

  “Gin Champagne Crawford?” One black brow rises.

  How did he know my full name? No one up here knows my middle name since I left it off the application. The police department must have a super-computer to figure out that one.

  “Yeah?”

  “What kind of a name is that? Were your parents drunk or something?”

  “Or something.” Oh, right. As if I’m going to go into my parents’ drinking habits. It’s bad enough they named their children after their favorite drink, Gin and Tonic. At least I got the name Gin, which can be a diminutive of Ginger or Genevieve or even Jennifer if you overlook how it’s spelled. Once we graduated from high school, very few people ask what Gin is short for.

  T on the other hand. Poor T. Tonic Scotch Crawford. Talk about enduring years of teasing. It was clearly a WTF moment when we were born. Good thing we weren’t ice skaters. Announcing, Gin and Tonic Crawford!

  I grin at the good detective, who looks like he wants more of an answer. I hope he doesn’t mind disappointment.

  After a moment of staring, he clears his throat. “Tell me about the man who shot the doctor.”

  Memories slam into my mind, hurtful in their intensity, diminishing my libido. I swallow, shove the memories into a dark recess and focus on helping the good detective. “He was rather nondescript. I didn’t get a good look at him.” Which is true. I got a good glimpse into his corrupted mind, but the tangles of evil and ensuing shock prevented me from getting a good look at his face. “When he opened the door, all I saw was Will. Dr. Wunderliech.”

  “On a first name basis with the doctor?” His eyes narrow, as if hearing me say ‘Will’ makes him jealous.

  Right. My imagination is clearly hanging out with my hormones in overdrive.

  “We went to high school together.”

  “And that bracelet.” His gaze hits my wrist like a laser beam before bouncing to my face. “How did you get it?”

  The bracelet reacts to his words. Surprise. Fear. Or maybe those are my feelings. It’s becoming hard to tell.

  I definitely need a trip to Blue Shores. Stat.

  “It was a gift.” A surprise gift. Big on the surprise.

  “May I see it?”

  I hold out my wrist for his viewing pleasure. The bracelet is not happy. It does not want to be seen, does not want to be noticed. I pull my wrist back before he gets a good look. “May I go now?”

  “How long have you had it?”

  “Isn’t this an interview about how Will got shot? What does the bracelet have to do with that?” I can’t keep the hitch out of my voice, or the indignation.

  “That bracelet has everything to do with it. That bracelet is the reason your friend got shot. I need to know why you have it and when you’ll give it back.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It was a gift.” Are the walls moving closer? Walls don’t move. Really. They don’t. Maybe in an earthquake, but Dallas, Texas is not exactly earthquake prone.

  No matter, I want out. Out of this room, away from the detective with his animalistic stare, the way he makes me feel as if I’m prey to his predator. All those hormones pinging around my system morph from lust to fear and catching the fast horse out of Dodge becomes imperative.

  I stand, backing toward the door, willing my shaking limbs to function, to make good my escape. Detective Smythe moves faster, one strong hand grabs my wrist, right above the silver links.

  Flesh on flesh.

  And nothing happens.

  No flashes of insight, no reading his thoughts. Maybe he has no thoughts?

  Oh, right. Everyone experiences thoughts.

  Clearly, this man knows how to block his from people like me. Which is unheard of.

  And damn fucking frightening.

  I twist my wrist and yank it toward me, breaking his grasp. “Who the hell are you?” I take another step toward the door, but it seems far away. I take another step and he follows, once again trapping me into an unwanted dance complete with panicked breaths and racing heartbeats.

  Blue eyes narrow. “You don’t know what you’re involved in. You need to return the bracelet to me.”

  “I don’t think so.” The door handle hits my butt and I reach back, step to the side and yank it open.

  Noise slashes through the air, police talking to security, to staff, photographers snapping pictures of the pool of blood, patients milling around. I step into the cacophony, limbs shaking, adrenaline giving fuel to my motions. Not bothering with closing the door, I fast-step into the crowd.

  I hope he doesn’t see me, hope he doesn’t follow me. Don’t follow me, don’t follow me, don’t follow me. Loud cursing starts, the chocolate of Smythe’s voice turning into bitter darkness. I turn to see him standing in the doorway, head pivoting as he looks up and down the hall. For me.

  Darting around people, I yank open the first door I see and slip into the room.

  “Who’s there?”

  “Mr. Talley, it’s me, Nurse Crawford.”

  He screams, high-pitched and frantic, ending in a gasp. Shit, I just scared the bejeezus out of the poor old man. Forgetting about the gloves, I race to his side and pat his arm. Not long enough to get much of a reading, just a few flashes of sleepy thoughts.

  “Shh, shh. It’s all right.”

  One hand clutches the blanket to his chest. “I heard the door close, but didn’t see anyone and then you spoke and there you were. Right there. Appeared out of nowhere. Liked to have scared me half to death.”

  Diagnosis: hallucinations as a result of fluid loss. I needed to find the attending and get another bag of saline into the old fella.

  “It’s all right. I’m sorry to have scared you.”

  “What’s all the ruckus?”

  “Someone shot a doctor.” My voice hitches, forcing me to clear my throat. “It’s a mess. How are you feeling?”

  “You think they’ll come shooting in here?”

  “Of course not. No one is coming after you. I need to check on your orders. I’ll be back.”

  Don’t let the Detective see me, don’t let him see me. I slip into the hall, inconspicuous in the crush of sound and color. The no-longer-sexy detective is standing with his back to me, hands on hips and I crouch down, weaving until I arrive at the nursing station, away from his line of sight.

  “Are you okay?” Laura raises a brow at my crouched state.

  I straighten. “Sure. No problem. Just stretching.”

  Her raised brow informs me she doesn’t believe my words. “Really, Gin. I wouldn’t be okay if I were you. Maybe you should’ve left with your brother.”

  “Yeah. Probably. But I needed to talk to the police, and that detective started asking weird questions so I ducked out of there.”

  “What detective?”

  “Big, tall as the door, looked like a walking mountain. Kinda cute until he started popping questions.”

  She steps out of the station, into the hall crowded with the frantic voices of too many blue-suits and looks in the direction of Room 1. Her brows crease in puzzlement as sh
e turns to me. “What detective? There’s no one down the hall like that.”

  I step out beside her. She’s right. No tall, mountain of a man anywhere in the hall.

  “I think you need to go home, Gin.”

  “Maybe you’re right. Where’s Ruth?”

  Ruth is my supervisor. Nickname, Nurse Hatchet. I go out of my way to avoid her. But Laura is right. Seeing Will shot and bleeding replays through my mind, each repeat bringing a shock of tremors to ice the lining of my stomach. An emotional imprint on my memory. Detective Smythe’s questions add to the mix an unwanted wave of panic.

  How did Detective Smythe know about my bracelet? Why did he think he should have the thing? It belongs to me now. It wants me. I want it. Enough said.

  “Ruth is talking to one of the security guys.” Laura points in the opposite direction of Room 2. Thank god. “Go ask her. Good luck.”

  Chapter 3

  An hour later I sit on the couch in my living room, beer bottle in hand. At the other end, tangled up like a ball of Christmas lights, curls T and his girlfriend Jackie, the double-D wonder. I take a soothing sip of beer and let the liquid slip across my tongue and slide down my throat, while I watch Will’s face splash across the evening news.

  Not even beer cures the emotional chills shaking my core. Nothing in my training as a nurse prepared me to see my friend and coworker lying in a pool of his own blood, dying. And no class exists to train one on the aftereffects of looking too deep into another’s mind. I still hear the ragged breathing of a young boy listening to his mother die, knowing he’s the next victim of her killer.

  Another swig of beer washes away the lingering taste of terror lodging in my throat. Not that the disappearing act will last. It takes a lot more beer than is in the fridge to get rid of terror’s acrid taste.

  At least that’s my assumption, which is about to be put to the test.

  One beer down another twelve or so to go.

  I go to the fridge, get another cold one, pop the top, and return to my seat on the couch. A wet chill seeps into my hand from the brown bottle, and I shift the thing to my other palm. It’s been years since drinking half the case in a night made for a viable escape option. I’ve been good. No hard booze. No hard drugs. No excessive beer. And yet as I stare at the brown bottle leaking condensation onto my palm, it becomes evident the good run is not going to last.

  Unless I come up with a better option.

  And what better option is there than a good romp between the sheets? One, it saves me from getting my drunk on, thereby ending my good run of responsible alcohol imbibing. Two, it makes me think of something besides Will’s blood and memories. And three, it has the benefit of not frying the ole liver.

  And on that thought, my mind returns to the detective, to my first impression of him, to how my body reacted. Damn shame he started popping questions that scared me. More like he scared the bracelet.

  Okaaaay. I need my head examined. Bracelets don’t think. They don’t talk. They definitely don’t possess feelings. I did not hit my head. I do not smoke pot or drink excessively when I have to be at work. That left shock. Why didn’t I think of it before? I’m in shock.

  Shock would explain thinking I know what the bracelet feels, thinking I know what it wants. Shock. Not a one way trip to Blue Shores. Thank goodness.

  I take another swallow from my longneck. Good thing that’s settled. The knowledge should make me feel better. So why doesn’t it?

  Maybe since shock failed to explain the bracelet’s sudden appearance in my scrub pocket?

  Whatever. Bracelets don’t appear out of thin air either. Someone had to physically put it in my pocket.

  But who? And how?

  Will might have wished me to have it, but really, come on. I wish for a million bucks, and I don’t see any cash stacks hiding out in my living room.

  “We’re hitting the bedroom. You gonna stay home tonight?” T’s question snaps me out of my thoughts, returns me to the reality of life in the living room of Casa de Crawford. He’s looking at me, for all appearances concerned I might leave the house drunk and streak nude down the street.

  But I know the question beneath the concern, the question he refuses to voice aloud or in my thoughts, and shake my head. His eyes blink a slow open and close, his way of acknowledging my refusal. I take a swallow of the beer, keeping the end of the longneck in my mouth while I watch T stand, quite the feat seeing how Jackie hangs off him like a stripper on a pole.

  She slaps his arm, a feeble whack from an inebriated woman. “Silly. Of course she’s not leaving. Right?”

  Pulling the bottle out of my mouth with a pop, I level a stare at the happy couple. “Right. I’ll be in here. Watching TV. Keeping the beer company.”

  T winks at me. “Enjoy.”

  “Have fun.” I wave them away and slouch back on the couch, drawing my legs up to my chest. His bedroom door clicks shut, muffling a feminine giggle, and my white-knuckle grip on the beer bottle eases.

  For a moment.

  Like a dam bursting, images of finding Will lying in a pool of blood replay on an endless loop. Red blood blossoming on a white labcoat. A shiny red puddle smothering the white linoleum.

  The scent of copper rides a wave of suffocation, thick, like a smothering blanket. I gulp down the beer, tilting it back and swallowing it in a constant stream of fizz. So much for being good. The memories refuse to leave me alone, continuing to replay on a constant loop like a rolling video. They need to go away before they rouse deeper, scarier ones.

  I shake my head. Inhale. Draw my thoughts back to the present, back to my current freak-out session.

  The news continues to cover Will’s shooting. Really? Didn’t something else, anything else, happen today? Listening to the anchorwoman talk about how Will is currently still in surgery, struggling to survive, makes me want to drink.

  Lucky me. Beers are in the fridge.

  As I haul myself off the couch, I ignore the little voice inside my head howling not to get another beer. Until that little voice comes up with a way of obliterating my memories, beer it is.

  But even beer won’t stop the questions haunting me. Would Will live? How could he? Multiple gunshots to the torso and stomach tended to kill a person. What if I had gotten to him faster? Would he have a better chance of surviving?

  Silver links on my wrist reflect the waning sunlight creeping through the kitchen window, sending bright lights to bounce against the wall, catching my eye. Questions about Will stop parading through my mind as other questions take their place. What was so special about this bracelet that everyone wanted it? How had it gotten into my pocket? Why, why, why?

  Wasn’t I the toddler tonight?

  Setting the fresh beer on the cabinet, I bring the bracelet closer to my eyes to check out the dark lines etched into the metal. What language is this? At least I’m assuming it’s a language. For all I know, it’s pretty designs etched into the silver, not a whole new writing system.

  Ms. Indiana Jones I am not.

  Discovery of new languages might befuddle me, but one thing I know: if I want a cold beer instead of a warm one, I need to pick that bottle up and start drinking instead of focusing on unsolvable thoughts.

  What a shame all problems weren’t as easy to solve.

  Grabbing the beer with a shaky hand, I walk to the couch and park it, bringing my legs up to sit cross-legged. The pictures on either side of the TV start to rattle. Thump, thump, thump.

  What in God’s name was I thinking to invite T and Jackie back to the house? Oh, yeah. I wasn’t.

  Months ago this was a daily routine, back when T lived with me and brought over a string of sketchy girlfriends for the night. Then he met Jackie and moved in with her and rattling walls became a thing of the past.

  Until today.

  I take a sip of beer and crank up the volume on the TV in what proves to be a vain attempt to drown out the bedroom noises. A little hard to ignore the wall shaking, but I give it the good ole
college try.

  ‘Breaking News’ flashes across the TV in orange and yellow and red, electric colors to catch my eye. The newscasters sit in front of their desk, wide-eyed and trembling with excitement.

  “Earlier we brought you the story of Dr. Wunderliech’s tragic shooting at Blue Forest Hospital. We have just learned that his wife, Lara Wunderliech, has been attacked and killed in the house they shared in Highland Park. Our reporter is on the scene now.”

  From someplace far away comes the crash of a glass bottle against a wooden floor, the release of liquid lost in the rhythmic thumping of a bed against the wall. My eyes lock on the TV screen showing Will’s house, on the flashing emergency lights reflected off the windows. Reflecting morbidity and horror. Lara was dead?

  Sure, I never liked the greedy, blowjob-queen bitch, but to wish her a savage death?

  I am not that cruel.

  Not even if it meant for certain Will fell into my arms.

  The news segment ends, and my gaze drops to the broken bottle, to beer splattered across the floor. Life is like that bottle. Fragile. Breaking into pieces by accident. And as I do with the broom and paper towels, someone needs to come along and clean up the mess. Although in real life, that someone is yourself.

  Deep thoughts of a semi-buzzed nurse. I need to write that down and publish it. I’d make a million bucks.

  Yeah, right.

  After dumping the broken shards of glass in the trash, I return to the couch sans beer. Breaking one is a sign from above to keep to the straight and not quite so narrow. Finding another way of forgetting the day’s work heads up the to-do list. But how?

  Rhythmic thumps continue to shake the wall, sparking jealousy and desire, reminding me of a better option than a drunken stupor.

  Getting laid.

  Guess I need to call Blake again.

  ****

  Blake is my friend with benefits. No commitment. No jealousy. He does his thing. I do mine. We see others. Well, okay, he sees others. Touching people presents somewhat of an issue with me. I’ve known Blake for years, since we met in college at a frat party, back when I did things I’m a bit ashamed of. He knows about my touch-and-see problem, but doesn’t let it bother him.