Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Sure, if the killer wasn’t a minion. That’s where you come in. You need to be shown the ropes, and this is the perfect situation. Low risk.”

  “Are you crazy? It’s my day off. I go to the gym and run errands on my day off.”

  “It’ll be like going to the gym. Just a bit more strenuous.”

  Yep. He’s crazy. Bona fide.

  “Whatever. I didn’t do so well against the minion last night.” I point to my almost healed jaw.

  “You killed it didn’t you?” A touch of pride sparks the ice-blue of his eyes. “And justitians heal fast. As I’m sure you’ve noticed.”

  Ah. That explains the almost healed bruise. Nice to know.

  “What about mages?” Will he be able to protect me if another minion attacks?

  The lip twitch grows into a full-fledged predacious smile. “We have our own set of skills.” He walks back to the table, leaning over his chair to pull up a map on the screen. His eyes scan the page before turning to me. “Ready?”

  “I haven’t finished my coffee.” I take a sip, looking at him over the rim of the mug.

  “Bring it with you.”

  I should argue the point. Insist he wait. Not allow him to think I’ll do whatever he asks as soon as he asks it. Show a bit of steel backbone.

  But the bracelet hums with excitement, a beckoning to hunt, to destroy. I want its excitement, its joy to permeate my senses like an extended high. So yeah, I’ll do what Smythe asks, let him think I’m the obedient mentee. Why do I need to tell him the reasoning behind my action?

  I smile, taking another sip of my happiness liquid. “Only if you’ll answer my questions.”

  “Haven’t I already?” One brow pops a query.

  “I have more.”

  “I’ll answer whatever. Just move your ass.”

  “Aye, aye, master.” I bury my lip twitch behind another sip of coffee.

  “It’s mentor, not master.”

  “What about Aidan?”

  He glares at me, thrusting his outstretched hand toward the wall behind the table, murmuring words under his breath. A slash of light forms where the wall stood, a warm breeze drifting out to allure the unsuspecting journeyer into believing the passageway resembles the temperature of a beach. I know better than to fall for its charms.

  “I changed my mind. Leave the coffee.” He flips the laptop closed, grabs my hand, and pulls me into the swirling colors of the deceptively warm portal.

  Chapter 10

  This time, the trip between places takes no more than the speed of a blink. For once, the thought ‘I’m going to pass out before exiting’ doesn’t occur. Dare I say the trip was pleasant?

  Okay, I won’t go that far. I’m chilled, but not bad, more like walking under an air conditioning vent during the heat of a Texas summer.

  We’re standing in the deserted area behind a store, materializing behind a dumpster. No one is back here, thank goodness. Try explaining that one to a homeless guy.

  Really, sir, we didn’t appear out of thin air. We’ve been standing here the whole time. Right.

  “Where are we?”

  “By the crime scene.” He gestures toward yellow police crime tape waving in the air like a broken antenna.

  I jump, banging into the metal gang symbol decorated dumpster. Standing in the same spot as the victim gives me the creeps. And the chills. Can’t forget about those.

  Rubbing my hands over my upper arms, I look around, spotting bloodstains not far from where I stand. I take a step away from the discolored concrete. Will flashes through my mind, a pool of red encircling his torso, his eyes pleading with me for help.

  Flashbacks are a bitch.

  I swallow and face Smythe. “You think the attacker is around here?”

  “No. But a clue to his identity is, and you’re going to track him.”

  Oh, great. “What do I look like? A bloodhound?”

  “Are you always this much of a smartass?”

  “Only to people who don’t let me drink a third cup of coffee.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” His hand touches my bracelet, the remnants of a smile fading under his mask of serious determination. “Your justitia can track minions. You just need to activate it.”

  “Okay, oh, wise mentor. How do I do that?”

  He scratches his head, licks his lips, stares at the cracks meandering through the brick wall of the building. “My last justitian just did it when asked.”

  “Last justitian? Did she graduate and no longer need you as a mentor?”

  “I’d rather not talk about it.” His hand grips my wrist, a painful tightening sure to leave a bruise. For the first time since we met, a crack forms in the shield he locks over his emotions, allowing me a glimpse into a world of orange pain and gray sorrow overlaid with red anger. The twisting colors ball in my stomach, bile fleeing into my throat, saliva flooding my mouth. And then the crack seals, throwing me out of his mind, shaking me to the marrow. He drops my wrist like it’s a snake, his eyes narrowing, fingers curling and releasing.

  Despite the heat bouncing off the concrete like white-hot lasers, I cross my arms, rubbing my hands against my goosebump-covered flesh. No wonder he keeps his emotions locked down like Fort Knox.

  Their bitterness threatens his sanity.

  What the hell have I gotten myself into?

  A rush of calming thoughts sweeps through me, dispelling the ice freezing my blood, leaving me warm, happy. Able to manage the confusion threatening my sanity. Maybe one day knowing an entity living inside my bracelet managed to fuse to my nervous system and control it will bother me. Alien, anyone?

  Smythe sucks down a deep breath and focuses on my bracelet. “Try talking to it.”

  Oh, right. After that insight he wants me to strike up a cheery conversation with the links of silver? I’d rather discover what happened to his former mentee.

  Instead I hold my wrist up, bracelet level with my nose. “Go track a minion.”

  I’m not sure, but I think the thing laughs. It wants to hunt, but needs something else from me. What?

  It can’t, or won’t, tell me.

  I shrug, lower my wrist, and stare at a no longer seething Smythe. “Nothing.”

  “Try again.”

  I’m pretty sure this will turn into an exercise in futility, and it gives me no pleasure when after three more tries, I’m proven correct.

  “Why don’t you ask someone?”

  His eyes widen. Apparently, it’s not only driving directions men refuse to ask about. “We’ll figure it out. Why don’t you try closing your eyes and communicating telepathically.”

  I fail to stop the eye roll. “Fine.”

  Closing my eyes, I picture strands of nerves running through my arm, down to my wrist, connecting to the bracelet. Visualizing my nerves attached to the entity helps me imagine my thoughts connecting to it. Asking for its help.

  Electricity shoots up my arm, deep tingles rolling into my brain on a wave of pleasure. My eyes pop open. But instead of seeing the world as it normally appears, I see colored lines overlaying everything.

  It reminds me of a tactical display.

  The target in this case being minions.

  Lines fill the crime scene, colors intersecting, only to shoot off in different directions. Not different colors. Shades of the same color. Variations.

  And the darkest, strongest, colors lay over the blood-stained concrete like a suffocating blanket.

  I point at the nearest red strand. “Here.”

  “Really? Never would’ve guessed.”

  I turn to him, giving him my best go-to-hell look.

  His eyes pop wide, his lips turning upward in a grin that pulls years off his expression. “You did it! Good job! What do you see?”

  “Strands of colors. Different shades of red.”

  “Where do they lead?”

  “Here.”

  “No. Where away from here?”

  It takes me awhile to discern the trail leadin
g to my left. The colors closest to the dumpster glow stronger, more vibrant, than either color-strand leading into and out of the area.

  “The trail to the right is slightly stronger than the one to the left. And I know from reading the paper he came from the street to the right, so,” I point to the left, “it looks like he went thataway. Why are the colors over here so much darker?”

  “Because the evil is so much stronger. It’ll fade after a day. That’s why we need to track it now before it goes away.”

  An overwhelming sense of urgency breaks through Smythe’s words. The bracelet telling me to get the lead out and start tracking.

  I’m nothing if not obedient.

  I gesture to Smythe and start walking in the direction of the lighter colored strand, following it onto the sidewalk of a busy street lined with stores and cracked asphalt parking lots.

  I hook a left at the stoplight, continue walking down a busy street, then hook another left leading to my old stomping grounds. Smythe follows like a stalker. Not that I mind his stalking. Nope. He can stalk me back to my house, where we’d...what the hell am I thinking? I just had sex. Mind-blowing damn good sex, too. Why on earth am I fantasizing about Smythe?

  I glance over my shoulder. Face forward. Okay. So I understand the appeal of the fantasy. But understanding why doesn’t stop the hormones from pinging around my veins like balls in a pinball machine. Bing, bing, bing, the buzzers lighting up at a touch.

  Or a glance.

  Dealing with obnoxious hormones makes me feel like a horny teenager. Not a decade I wish to return to for a myriad of reasons.

  Obviously I need to make more of an effort to ignore whatever horny spell he’s cursed me with.

  And if ignoring my overactive libido doesn’t work, a hike into the neighborhood I grew up in will do the trick. Lust slides away, revealing memories of pain, fear and resolve best kept hidden. Please tell me the strands don’t lead to my old house. Please.

  A higher power I no longer pray to for once hears my pleas as the colored ribbon crosses over my childhood street, continuing toward the high school. Unease skitters across the damp flesh of my nape. My heart beats a terrified rhythm as my mouth turns into what feels like the Sahara desert. The fear becomes a fist squeezing my insides into a tangled mass. I refuse to look down the street, not wanting to glimpse the house where...

  No! Not remembering. Not going there. If I don’t think about it, then it didn’t happen.

  Sounds from the past refuse to obey, creeping around my mental barriers, pulling me backward in time.

  Screams.

  Thuds of fists on bruised flesh.

  The deep voice of an enraged bull.

  No! No! No!

  I’m not listening. Am. Not. Listening.

  I’m hunting minions. With my shiny, new bracelet.

  Focus on the strand. Focus. Focus.

  But the strand disappears into the dappled shadows of overhanging tree branches. Despite wishing to focus on the colored ribbon, my mind stutters in an effort to block out memories, to keep the remembered terror at bay.

  A multi-tasker I am not.

  Smythe runs into me when I come to an abrupt stop.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s gone.” Hopefully he won’t ask why.

  “Hmm. Where exactly?”

  I stand by the last place I saw the thread of color and point. Don’t ask why, don’t ask why, don’t ask why.

  Smythe raises a brow, but keeps his curiosity to himself. “That’s not half bad for your first time. It goes up one more block and then crosses the street.”

  “You mean you can see the strand?”

  “Of course.” His tone implies I possess half a brain. Which at the moment I do, so getting mad at him is out of the question. “Let’s go.” Now it’s his turn to lead my addled ass on our minion-finding journey.

  I glance behind us at the street sign. The voices in my head fall silent, fretful entities waiting for another chance at freedom. Terror sits on my tongue like the taste of spoiled milk. I need a bottle of Jack to wash it away. Instead, I shake my head and start walking after Smythe. The taste fades the farther I walk, disappearing with a swallow.

  Thank goodness.

  Oak tree shade covers the street, branches reaching toward the opposite side. A relief from the hot Texas sun. Cicadas sing a symphony, the vibrations of their wings an accompaniment to the heat of the day.

  And it was only morning.

  As we walk farther away from my old house, I begin to see the colored strands indicative of a minion. It goes without saying if I want to learn how to use this bracelet, I need to control my emotions. Need to let the bracelet’s emotions control me.

  Now where did that thought come from?

  I glare at the silver links surrounding my wrist. What does it think I am? If it controls me, I’m no better than the minion we chase.

  “It doesn’t control you. It guides you.” Smythe continues walking, speaking over his shoulder.

  “How the hell did you know my thoughts?”

  “You spoke that one out loud.”

  “Oh.” Whew. For a minute there I thought he read minds.

  “The trail leads into the cemetery.” He points to the entrance, to the open iron gate, curved bars forming a sign over the entrance, proclaiming Pecan Grove Cemetery.

  Dear God, not this cemetery. “I’ll wait out here.”

  He stops, turns, one brow asking a question. I shrug.

  “You’re the one that has to find the minion.”

  “You’re doing a good job. Go on now.” I flick my fingers toward the gate, shooing him in. He cocks his head.

  “Afraid of the ghosties?”

  “Ghosts won’t come out of their graves in broad daylight.” They’ll be happy to haunt your house anytime of the day, but walking in the sun is a whole other matter.

  He blinks. “Study up on ghosts much?”

  I shrug. “Everyone knows that.” Especially if their brother has a ghost du jour keeping him company.

  “Then what are you afraid of?”

  Memories. None of which I’ll tell him. I shrug again. It’s been years since I walked through those gates, under the pecan tree guarding the entrance, clutching T’s sweaty hand in a death grip. My eyes flick in the direction of the grave, return to Smythe’s. A puff of breeze ruffles the hair on my nape, sending a shiver down my spine.

  It doesn’t help to note the minion trail leads toward the grave I’m hell bent on avoiding.

  “I’m not going in there. Feel free to chase out the minion, and I’ll be happy to sword him, but I’m not going in there.”

  Clearly a mentee has never told Smythe no.

  His eyes blink a slow open-close, his arms cross, biceps bunching under the cotton of his t-shirt. If possible, he seems to grow, expand, the silent challenge rolling off him like a wave of thunder, vibrating through my skin.

  “If you are tracking a demon, you cannot stop for your sensibilities or fears. You must push through.”

  Yeah, sure, if my fears are the garden variety of death or pain. Past fears and hidden knowledge are way scarier.

  All that aside, he has a point. I can’t shake in fear from memories. I need to push past them, not let them control me.

  Easier said than done.

  “I’m here.” His voice gentles, turns warm like melted chocolate. “If you run into trouble.”

  “That’s not...” my voice trails off, refusing to speak of why I stand in front of the cemetery instead of marching inside it. Better he think me frightened of cemeteries. Some things are better left lying dead.

  Literally.

  I suck in air. Release it through my nose. I’m a big girl. I can walk through the gate. I can. Really.

  Swallowing the nausea flooding my throat, I march toward the gate. One step. Two.

  See? Nothing to it.

  Inhale. Exhale. Remind myself that as an adult, I’m potty trained. I will not pee my pants.

&n
bsp; Three steps. Four.

  And I’m in.

  Nothing happens. No loud trumpets. No shots fired. Just the stillness common to all graveyards coupled with singing cicadas. Heat presses sweat from my pores, dampness clogging my skin as if caught in a rainstorm.

  I no longer see the minion trail. It’s hidden by thorny emotions slipping past my control.

  “You okay?” Smythe steps beside me, arms at his side, posture relaxed except for excitement shining in his gaze.

  “Yeah. Where to?”

  “It leads that way.” He points to the right, to where...nope, not thinking about it.

  “What do we do once we find the minion? Call the police?”

  “Kill its ass.”

  “But...”

  “No buts. That’s what you do. You kill minions.”

  “What if it wants redemption?”

  One brow skims upward. “They are beyond redemption. You touched one. You know what its thoughts were.”

  “Yeah, but are they all like that?”

  He shrugs. “Does it matter?”

  “Of course it matters! What if the minion didn’t want to become a minion? What if it wants to rid itself of the demon?”

  “Demons only choose those who have threads of evil to begin with. They don’t possess those who have a good soul.”

  “Can they possess me?”

  “Not to my knowledge. The justitia protects you.”

  I release a breath I didn’t know I held. Nice to know I don’t need to worry about being possessed while I’m killing the minion.

  I nod.

  “Why? You think you’re evil or something?” Smythe speaks with a smile, curiosity bleeding out of his pores.

  “Or something. Let’s go get the bastard.”

  Doing something beats standing here lost in memories.

  The minion trail leads past The Grave. I refuse to look, focusing on the colored ribbon as it makes a beeline to the east.

  “Looks like it heads out of the graveyard. Right over the fence. How did he get over a six-foot iron fence?”

  “Jumped, probably.” Smythe’s jaw tenses. “The fuckers get prolonged bursts of adrenaline. Kinda like certain drug users. Super-strength and such.”