His shoulders raise then lower as he sucks in a deep breath and releases it with a noisy puff of air. “Healers age slowly,” he tells the computer screen, “so she’s older than she looks. And something’s off. That’s what I’m looking up.”
“Off?” Lots of things are off in my life. Which one is he referring to? Healers aging slowly? Demons inhabiting humans, turning them into minions? Bracelets turning into swords? Plenty of weird and wacky things to choose from, yet I’m sure he’ll answer with none of the above.
And he fails to disappoint.
“Don’t take this the wrong way,” Smythe turns in the chair so he faces me, “I’m proud of your kills today, but minions don’t normally congregate in one house. And two kills in one day by a newbie is unheard of. Something’s off.” He glances at the computer screen, taps it, meets my gaze. “I’m going to find what it is.”
“Well, before you do, think you can answer a question?” One of many, but one I’ve been meaning to ask and keep forgetting in the rush of learning the new job.
His raised brow subs for a response.
“What’s the gray mist coming out of the minion when I stab them?”
“You haven’t figured that out yet?”
“If I had, you think I’d be asking?”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “It’s the part of the demon that animates the minion. When you stab the minion, the demon’s spirit tries to return to its host, but the sword damages it, which causes injury to the demon. Enough damage and the thing dies. That’s why you only want to kill a minion with a justitia.”
“Oh.” Interesting. That explains why the Agency has a team of justitians to hunt minions instead of giving the job to their guardians.
“Any more questions?”
I shake my head, and he swings back around, fingers flying across the keyboard. Good luck to him. I have better things to do. Like change clothes and grocery shop. Eloise’s healing took care of my bruises and the beginnings of a sunburn, but did nothing for minion blood splattered on my clothes.
I need another shower.
Smythe still sits in front of the computer when I finish dressing and return to the kitchen. A quick glance at the clock shows three thirty. I should be hungry. Instead, I’m hyped with energy.
And curiosity.
“I’m going to the store. Are you staying here? How does that work?”
“Going to the store?” He turns, one arm draped over the back of the chair, face a mask of seriousness. “You get in the car—”
“Now who’s the smartass?” His lips turn, eyes crinkle, as I cross my arms. “No, silly, since you’re my guardian, are you with me twenty-four-seven?”
Smythe in possession of a smile is a sight to behold. Aaannnddd, there went the libido, all fired up and ready for some horizontal action.
As if that will happen.
You’d think it would’ve given up by now.
“Why? Do you want me to be?”
I give him a glare and hope to god he can’t read my hormonally-induced fantasies of us getting down and dirty.
“Okay, okay.” Why do I get the feeling he read my mind and finds humor in it? “I have an apartment. I’ll stay there, you stay here. But when demons or minions strike, we’ll need to work together to defeat them.”
“Okay. How often is that?” How disrupting is this new gig going to be to my life?
“It depends. Lately there’ve been a bunch of outbreaks and the justitians have been busy. In general though, maybe about once a week.”
“And my job?”
“What about it?”
“If I’m at work, I can’t just up and leave.”
“Most justitians don’t have jobs.”
“Yeah, and I bet they’re all independently wealthy, too. Some of us have to work to live, you know. Unless this gig pays?”
“It’s not a gig. And it doesn’t pay.”
I shrug. “No problem. Until it pays, I work my job. Which means if you have a demon or minion outbreak while I’m at work, you can find someone else.” The words barely leave my mouth before my justitia reacts. Emotions ping through my system, distress racing a sprint through my veins. It does not like my decision. It thinks I should stay home and only hunt minions.
It needs to get over itself.
“You’d rather work a job than fight evil?” Of course Smythe agrees with the justitia.
“I didn’t say I wouldn’t fight minions. What I meant was some of us plebeians have to work for a living. I can’t fight evil and expect to pay the bills.”
A hint of red stains his cheeks. “Ah. We’ll see what we can do.”
“You do that.” My job is my identity. I worked hard to get into nursing school, to graduate, to overcome enough shit to give a therapist nightmares. I’m proud of what I do, how I help people. I’m sure I’ll be proud of conquering minions and taking down demons too, but until it pays, you can find my happy ass in the ER.
“Give us time. It’s new for us, too. We’ve never had a justitia go missing and then appear on someone else’s wrist. Which makes you a learning curve.”
I nod. Makes sense. Maybe they will pay me, eventually. Even if they do fork over the money, do I really want to quit my job? “I’m going shopping.” Because I need time to think, to process too many things thrown at me at once.
“I’ll be here.”
The ol’ hormones leap with happiness at that announcement. Down, girls, down. Is there such a thing as a hormone-ectomy?
I shut the back door behind me, take a step to the right on the back porch, and open the garage door. Three stairs down and I’m beside my car.
My butt no sooner hits the seat of my car than Will’s face flashes into my mind, bringing with it a healthy dose of guilt. Some friend and co-worker I am. Had I even spared him a thought today?
Picking up my phone, I make a quick call to the ER and speak with Sally Ann. No changes. But he was still alive, which was pretty amazing considering the number of bullets he took to the chest.
Guilt assuaged, I drive to the grocery store, buy groceries, and return home. The trip was supposed to help me think and process my getting-crazier-by-the-day life. Instead I spent all my time driving the cart up and down the aisles looking for deals. Deals I found. Thinking and processing? Not so much.
I lug my deals and groceries into the kitchen. Smythe remains parked in front of his laptop, jaw tense enough to crack nuts. Guess he didn’t find what he wanted.
And where was he looking anyway? Minions for Dummies? Website of the Walking Evil? Minions-R-Us?
“Un-fucking-believable. There is nothing on here. Nothing!”
Fists slap against the table and I freeze mid-reach into the pantry. Taking a deep breath, I put the mac & cheese on the shelf and shut the pantry door. “Maybe you’re looking in the wrong place?”
His glare ices my skin and I squeeze my hands until they blanch. But manage a grin. He’s frustrated, not crazy angry. I’ve dealt with worse.
“Huh. I don’t look in wrong places.” The fingers of one hand drum a beat against his laptop. “I’m missing something.”
I continue to put away the groceries. Milk on the top shelf of the fridge. Apples in the crisper. Tension dissolves from my neck as I work. You’d think after all this time, I’d stop reacting to certain sounds.
Facing him, I lean against the pantry door, trying to appear nonchalant. “Maybe you need some rest.”
One blink. Two. “Yeah. Maybe.”
I cross my arms, willing myself to come across as his equal, not some simpering mass of irrational fear.
“Yeah.” His eyes take in my posture, narrow. “Well, then. I’ll stop by tomorrow.”
“I’ll be at work. Make it around eight in the evening. After I get off.”
“Okay.” He snaps the laptop closed, drums his fingers on top of the case. His mouth opens, closes, eyes focus on me as if they see through my skin into my psyche. Maybe he does.
Scary thought.
A grin turns his lips as he opens a portal against the wall behind the table. “Good night.”
“See ya.”
He steps into the opening, laptop clutched under his arm. Warm air gushes out like a wave, before the portal sucks it back like an uber-vacuum. A small pop later and I’m alone in the kitchen.
Nothing but me and my thoughts.
Great.
Might as well get dinner started. Comfort food coming up. Putting a pot of water on to boil, I begin the prep for chicken and spinach lasagna. Homemade. Lasagna might not be the healthiest thing, but neither is minion killing. Healthy no longer seems to fit in the playbook.
I’m putting the lasagna in the oven when I see T drive up, parking in the driveway. He pulls out two plastic bags and heads toward the front door. I set the oven for an hour and begin to rinse the dishes, which is where T finds me, dish mid-way between the sink and dishwasher. He gives me a noogie as he talks.
“How’s my favorite sister doing? Is that asshole still around?”
“I’m fine.” I put the dish in the rack and give him a hug. “It’s Smythe, and he’s gone home for the day.”
“Don’t think I like him much.” One finger tilts my chin back, turning my head from side to side. “That bruise is gone. Cover-up?”
“Nope.” I hold up my wrist. “The bracelet makes me heal fast.”
“Impossible.”
“Believe it.”
“Humph. Your day good?” He speaks into the open fridge as he pulls out a beer.
I turn back to my dish clean-up, wondering where he put the bags. Definitely not in the kitchen. “Yep.” What do I say? Killed a couple of nasty minions today and oh, by the way, saw the old house and graveyard. Remember that one?
Yeah, right.
I snap my mental shields in place on the off chance he gets a notion to snoop around in my head. “You?”
He shrugs. “When’s dinner gonna be ready?”
“An hour. Where’s Jackie?”
“Home.”
“Then why are you here?”
“What? A brother can’t stop in and check on his hurt sister who harbored a grade A asshole on the couch?”
“Course he can.” I grin. “Whatcha got in the bags?”
“A bit of this and that for a project. Unless you need help, I’m going to go watch the Rangers and work on the project.”
“What project?”
“You’ll see.” He tweaks my nose as he saunters into the living room. A moment later the sound of the Rangers’ ballgame fills the kitchen.
Project? I hear plastic rustle over the roar of cheering fans. Leaning back, so I have a clear visual shot into the living room, I see T by the window, something in his hand. I squint, trying to see what he’s holding, what he’s doing.
Then my cell rings, snapping me out of spy duty. I scramble across the kitchen, hands dripping water, trying to find the thing on the table. The screen flashes Blake’s picture as I swipe my finger across the talk symbol.
“Hey, babe!”
“Hey yourself.” Blake’s rich chocolate baritone reaches across the airwaves, soothing, relaxing. “Whatcha doing?”
“Cooking dinner.”
“Which is?”
“Chicken and spinach lasagna.”
“Mind if I stop by?”
“Of course not! T’s here for dinner, too.”
A long pause. “All right. I’ll be there in thirty depending on traffic.”
“Where’s Jordan?”
“Does it matter?”
I should feel guilty about being the other woman. About wanting more out of our relationship than the occasional sleep over. But I don’t. “I guess not.”
“See you in thirty.”
He hangs up before I respond. Now that was interesting. Blake doesn’t usually offer to drop by when he’s dating someone. It might make me a bad person, but I don’t care. His relationships are his own problem.
I return to rinsing the dishes, then move on to buttering the loaf of French bread and making a salad. Got to have those greens for health.
Or so they say.
Mid-way through the salad prep, T walks into the kitchen and opens the door under the sink, pitching two salt containers into the trash.
I place the knife on the cutting board, turn to face him. “Salt?”
He shrugs, closes the cabinet door. “Bad ghost last night. Thought salt and iron around the windows would help.”
“Oh. Thanks.” You know you live a bizarre life when you don’t bat an eye at a comment like that. “You didn’t do the windows in here.”
“Not finished yet.”
“You think it’s coming back?”
He shrugs. “No idea. Figured it’s better safe than sorry.”
“Good thinking. By the way, Blake’s stopping by. Going to join us for dinner.”
Emotions play across his face, flit then fade, too quick to identify. A soft touch brushes against my mind, a whisper of a thought. Blake doesn’t bother him like Smythe does, but he’d prefer me not to get involved with either of them.
Fat chance.
Another shrug, shoulders rolling as if he doesn’t care. Name me a person who likes their sibling’s significant other on first sight and I’ll show you a Blue Shores client. T thinks Blake jerks me around, promises me forever and then leaves me high and dry. I think Jackie’s too dumb to live.
As long as we keep our mouths shut, we all get along fine.
“Okay. I need to finish up the window in here.”
“Have at.” I wave my hand toward the window and turn back to the cutting board. Sliced tomatoes coming up.
T finishes coating the windowsill with salt the same time I finish the salad. No Blake and the lasagna still has another ten minutes. Our gazes meet, my thoughts reflecting in his eyes. Beer, couch, game. The comfort of the others’ touch.
I put the bread in the oven, the salad in the fridge, grab two bottles and follow him into the living room.
Chapter 14
Ding-dong! The peal of the doorbell yanks me from where my imagination floats on a peaceful sea, depositing me into reality. My beer sits untouched on the coffee table, sweat beading off the bottle, rolling down to sink into the thirsty-stone coaster. I blink a couple of times for good measure before releasing my hand from T’s.
The loss of his grip disorients me, shakes me free of that sense of grounding which binds us together in our own private universe. Reality slaps me in the face, nauseating, prickling my awareness with an overwhelming sense of unease. Unease at leaving his side, at venturing out on my own. Touching the other brings us a sense of calm, of peace, a bliss missing in our daily lives. Especially when one or both of us has had a lousy day. Killing minions might be part of my new job duties, but seeing them dead qualifies as pretty damn lousy.
Ding-dong!
“Coming!” I yell, ignoring T, who rubs his ear like my scream damaged his hearing.
My feet hit the ground, and I grab onto the arm of the couch for balance. Withdrawal from bliss-land is a bitch. Dizziness crashes over me, drenching my sense of balance. But like a receding tide, the feeling of vertigo slips away, giving me a temporary reprieve from uneasiness.
It will return. It always does.
The oven buzzer sounds right when I grab the doorknob. Cacophony in House Crawford.
“I’ll get it,” T mutters, drawing a hand over his head, rubbing the millimeter long hair strands as if they bring good luck. He staggers into the kitchen holding our beers as I twist the knob.
Then release it as a shot of adrenaline races across shattered nerves. Ohgodohgodohgod what if it’s another minion come to kill me? Opening the door lets in evil guys on a vengeance mission. WhatdoIdowhatdoIdowhatdoIdo?
Get a fucking grip, Gin. You’ve killed every minion you’ve come up against, what’s another one? But the fear mind-fucks my nervous system, overriding my common sense. My hands shake, palsied flesh covering fragile bones. Get a grip, Gin. D
eep breaths. In and out, in and out.
Ding-dong!
“Gin?” T stands in the doorway between the living room and the kitchen, brows furrowed, concern stamped on his face like a tattoo. T’s in the room. T won’t let the evil minion get me.
T being in the room knocks the panic back a notch, allowing me to think. Stupid panic attack. I know better. There’s not a minion on the front porch. And even if there is, I wear the justitia. No reason to panic.
But just to be sure it’s not Evil Guy Part Two, I put my eye to the peephole and spy Blake loosening his tie, pulling the knot away from his neck. Sweat beads on his forehead, a side effect of standing in the hot Texas sun.
See, Gin? All that panic for nothing.
The rapid fluttering of an over-excited heart smoothes into a more normal rhythm. Hard to believe I killed two minions today and one last night, and yet I allow a panic attack to overwhelm me.
Some demon slayer I am.
I yank open the door, plastering a grin on my lips, hoping it masks the last remnants of fear.
Blake stands on the porch, looking spiffy—albeit a touch overheated—in a charcoal gray suit. A red and white striped tie hangs in a loose knot over a white shirt, top button undone. Oh, yeah. Mister Sexy has arrived.
And all traces of the panic attack disappear.
Score one for the lawyer.
“Hi, lover. It took you long enough.” He bends, gives me a kiss, his tongue slipping past my lips.
Gotta love a man who isn’t afraid to show passion in public. Not that I saw any neighbors on the street, but still, it’s the action that counts.
“Sorry.” I mutter as my arms wrap around his neck and I take a step backward, silently encouraging him to follow me into the house. His arms snug around my waist, tighten, lift. I break the kiss, let out a small screech as my feet leave the ground. His dark chuckle ripples like chocolate waves across my skin, delicious and sinful. Very sinful.
“Blake!” My voice trails off on a giggle.
His lips find mine as his foot kicks the door shut.
“Dinner’s ready.”
Blake and I startle, take a step away from each other as T’s words pierce our greeting. I swear my brother spoke on purpose, interrupting our passion for his own personal glee.
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