Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  Not that I’ve ever done anything like that to him. Nope. Not me.

  “Heya, T.” Blake holds out his hand, acts like nothing happened, like slipping me the tongue at the door was an every day occurrence.

  T plays nice, shakes Blake’s hand, manages to glare without looking too threatening.

  “Let me get the table set. Dinner’ll be ready in a minute.” On my way to the kitchen, I grab T’s arm, tug. No sense leaving him alone with Blake. God only knows what will happen.

  You can do better than him.

  He’s my friend. And the sex is good.

  Dark thoughts move in T’s mind, thoughts I understand and sometimes share. For now, I ignore them, ignore the implication.

  “Here.” I shove three plates into T’s chest, holding on until he grabs them. “Set the table. Please.”

  The lasagna sits on the stove, steam rising, circling a dance before it dissipates into the air. I cut it into squares, lay a spatula on top, put on mitts and carry the dish to the table. Without being asked, T placed a trivet in the middle of the table, and I set the casserole dish on top of it. No sense burning the table. It might be cheap, but so far it still looks nice.

  Blake strides into the kitchen, sans jacket and tie, grabs a beer from the fridge and sits in the chair closest to the back door. I place the salad on the table and wave my hand over the food.

  “Dinner is served.”

  It doesn’t take long for the men to consume half the lasagna, three-fourths of the bread and the entire salad with only mild complaints. Yes, chicken and spinach are better for you than sausage and ground meat. No, you may not complain and expect to be served again tomorrow.

  Want a man to stop complaining? Deny him food.

  Works every time with these two.

  After dinner T leaves to hook up with Jackie, stating he’ll return later to salt the doors. Apparently doors require him to remove the threshold and pour salt underneath. Then he has to replace the threshold and poof, no more ghosts.

  Not that I’m having a problem with the invisible buggers, but pouring salt seems to make him happy and who am I to complain about his happiness.

  The door clicks shut behind him, leaving Blake and me alone. Yeehaw. Ride ’em cowboy.

  Although the practical, neat side of me screams to clean the kitchen first.

  Damn practical voice.

  “So, what’s going on with you?” Blake pushes his chair back, hands cradling his beer, fingers slick with the bottle’s sweat.

  Where to start? With the obvious or a lie?

  Since when do I lie to Blake?

  “You won’t believe me.”

  “You said that last night.” He waits, twisting the bottle in his hands.

  I lick my lips, swallow. Grab the plate, the ceramic cool against the pads of my fingers, and shove my chair back. “It’s rather hard to believe.”

  “Worse than empathic abilities?”

  I turn on the water, let it wash over my plate, food particles swirling down the drain. Like my life, the nicely built lie swirling away in a rush of discoveries.

  “It’s a long story. And confusing.”

  “Hey, I’m a lawyer, remember? I specialize in confusing.” He smiles, his eyes getting in on the happy action, his demeanor willing me to confide.

  What’s the harm? While I wouldn’t tell just anyone about my new bracelet and the powers joined to it, Blake was my friend, my lover.

  Sharing went with the territory.

  “It’s weird.”

  “You’ve said that.”

  “Fine.” And I tell him, turning to face him, watching the emotions, the surprise, play across his features as he struggles to grasp the idea of evil walking among us.

  He’s silent as I grab the lasagna, cover it with foil and stick it into the fridge. Maybe he doesn’t believe me. Maybe he thinks I’ve finally slipped into la—la land.

  Maybe he’s reciting poetry in his head.

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “I gathered that.”

  A swig from his bottle, his Adam’s apple bobbing in desperation. I continue to clean up, letting him stew over his words, his emotions. Learning evil exists and walks among us, that women wear bracelets which turn into swords to fight minions, that a war is being fought—and lost—daily, takes awhile to grasp.

  If ever.

  “You kill these, um, minions, was it?” He looks a little pale.

  “They’re evil cloaked in a human’s skin.”

  “How do they get in there?”

  “I think some humans are more susceptible than others.”

  He swallows. “What’s it like to kill one?”

  The justitia comes to life, filling me with pleasure, with pride. It likes killing, enjoys the hunt, longs to rid the world of evil.

  “I dunno,” liar, liar, “I just do it.” As if I’m the poster child for a pair of running shoes.

  “What happens to the bodies?”

  I explain the cleanup crew. Should I even explain these things to a lawyer? Even if he doesn’t do criminal cases?

  My fingers itch to touch him. Itch to see if he really believes me or if he’s planning a way to get me admitted to Blue Shores.

  His lips twist, eyes blink. “You’re telling me, some crew comes along and makes it look like something besides that thing’s—” one finger points at my bracelet “—sword killed the guy?”

  “Yep.”

  “Damn. Imagine the crimes you could commit with a crew like that.”

  “What? Are you some sort of psycho killer now?” I lean against the counter, arms crossed, offering him a grin.

  He laughs. “Nah. You’re right, that’s pretty unbelievable.”

  “But you believe me, right?” You don’t think I should spend the rest of my life at Blue Shores?

  He upends the bottle, swallows several times. “Love, I believe whatever story you say.” He sets the bottle on the table, focuses on my eyes. “Tell me you want me to stay the night, and I’ll believe that, too.”

  I catch his gaze, my grin disappearing under a layer of seriousness. “It’s easy to believe things you already know for truth.”

  His lips twitch. “Yeah, well, what can I say?”

  “Are you sure? What about Jordan?”

  “Eh.” His hand gives a dismissive flip. “She probably won’t notice.”

  “Bad times at the Okay Corral?”

  “It’s about time to end it. Besides, I think she’s found someone else.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not.” He gets up, leaving the bottle on the table, and walks toward me. Gathers me into his arms. “I have more believable things planned.”

  “Oh? Do tell.”

  “Why don’t I show instead?”

  A man of action. What more could a woman want?

  Chapter 15

  I drive into my driveway a bit before eight at night. I half expect to see Blake’s car in front, parked like a diamond on a hooker’s finger, but the road in front of my house sits empty.

  Guess he’s not stopping by tonight.

  A seed of disappointment roots in my chest, spreads outward. I shake it off. He promised last night to stop by and stay over, but men will promise most anything in the middle of doing the dirty, so I shouldn’t have taken him seriously.

  But I did. And now I’m disappointed.

  Boo-hoo. Ah, well, several more hours remain before I need to go to sleep. Blake still has time to get his fine ass over here and sex me up.

  Oh, crap. Smythe was due over, too. And not in the three’s company type of way either.

  Great. Just great. After the day I had, the last thing I need is a lesson in demon killing and justitia powers.

  Flipping down the visor, I punch the garage door opener, waiting not so patiently for the door to rise. I need to eat, but all I want to do is prop my aching feet up. Preferably around Blake’s waist, but I’ll take sitting on the couch with the feet on the coffee table.r />
  Thinking about sex with Blake puts me in my happy place. Although, after the news we received today, I’m pretty much already Miss Happy-happy-joy-joy.

  Will stabilized, amazing the ICU doctors.

  And the entire ER staff. None of us thought he’d live. Although we’re still holding our collective breaths on the matter. A lot could go wrong between now and full recovery.

  The open garage beckons, and I ease my foot off the brake. A rope with a STOP HERE sign attached to it hangs from the ceiling, letting me know how far to pull my car forward. Tonight the hanging rope reminds me of a patient, and I chuckle as I hit the button to close the garage door.

  The rope looks like a vine. And why is that funny? I get out of the car, grab my purse, slam the door shut, all the while thinking about that ER patient. The woman walked stiff-legged into the ER, the gait of a newly broke-in cowboy or someone with a stick up their ass. When I went into her exam room to ask what problem brings her in, I’m informed her jojo has vines growing out of it.

  After seeing the blank look on my face, she gestured toward her crotch and yanked down her pants and panties. Yep, definitely vines growing where no vines should grow.

  My lips twitch as I reach into my purse, grab out the keys to the back door, remembering Dr. Patterson’s face as he saw the vines in the patient’s “jojo”. Someone had informed our patient potatoes worked as a type of birth control. Insert one in and they stop sperm from fertilizing an egg.

  Unfortunately they forgot to tell her to remove the potato after use.

  Chuckling, I stick the key into the lock on the back door, twist then turn the knob. Throwing the deadbolt with one hand, I flip the light switch with the other, bathing the kitchen in a nice glow. When I turn, the laughter dies in my throat as it’s a bit hard to laugh while sucking in a gasp.

  The cold shot of fear drenching my system turns into anger bathed in wariness.

  “What are you doing in my house, Samantha?”

  She leans against the sink, arms crossed, back to the window, the dying sunlight a dull gleam on her bleached locks. Her eyes narrow into small slits of ire. “You’re late.”

  Oh? Since when am I on her schedule? Since when is she supposed to have anything to do with me? Clearly interacting with the new white trash justitian is not her idea of a fun time.

  “Excuse me? I didn’t hear your answer. Why are you in my house?”

  A blast of hatred coats me, tendrils threatening suffocation. My memory jumps back to when I touched her arm and saw her inner essence. Not evil in the sense of a minion’s vileness, more like bitterness and disgust weaving a tangled mess through her soul.

  Bitterness and disgust now directed at me.

  Pushing off from the counter, away from the gasping rays of sunlight, her arms drop to her sides, her combat boots thunking against tile. The door hits my butt as I reach behind, fumbling for the doorknob, my damp palm slipping off the metal.

  I should not fear her. I wear the justitia. I fight and kill minions. A bleached blonde bitch should not make me afraid. And yet as I watch her come closer, drawing out her steps as if she enjoys seeing the fear spreading through me, none of those thoughts stop an irrational jolt of full-body shivers from coursing through my veins.

  Damn shame the sword only appears around minions. Whatever else Samantha was, a minion was not it.

  She stops an arm’s reach from me. “You’re needed. There’s been a minion outbreak in San Antonio. A big one. We’re taking all the justitians in the States to fight.”

  “Why didn’t Smythe come?”

  “He’s busy. And you’re later than I thought you’d be. We need to get going now.”

  “Can I change?”

  “Are you kidding? Put your purse down and get your justitia ready.”

  “How do I get it ready?” I put the purse on the table, face the bleached blonde bitch.

  One fine brown brow rises. “Damn. You are so freaking new. I’ll need to talk to Smythe about his training. Again.”

  She sticks her hand out, palm facing the door. Before I can blink, a portal forms, a rush of air beckoning, deceptive in its warmth.

  “Come on.” Grabbing my upper arm so her palm rests against my scrub top sleeve, she yanks me into the portal.

  It happens so fast I fail to react, fail to resist, fail to do anything but follow. The ice chill of the wormhole sucks my breath away, a plunge into the North Sea would be warmer. The trip seems longer than normal. Due to distance? Or Samantha’s portal forming skill?

  And then I’m stumbling onto solid ground, tripping over grass strands as my body tries to adapt to re-entrance into reality. Stillness surrounds us, not the sounds of chaos I expect, but the quietness of an evening stroll along a tree-covered trail. Insects chirp their twilight sounds as pinks and oranges splash across leaves and grass, bathing the park in peace.

  A park? What the hell? Where’s the fight?

  “Told you she’d come. Don’t forget our deal.” Samantha’s voice carries over the insects, quieting their chatter.

  A man steps out from the trees, only a man, but the justitia reacts. Fire shoots along my nerves, sending my body into fight mode. My bad. Not a man. A minion. Dead ahead. And about to just be dead.

  And then another minion joins him. Followed by another and another and another until the park resembles an overcrowded stadium waiting for a sporting event.

  Or a set up.

  I knew I shouldn’t have trusted that bitch. What had I been thinking?

  Hoping to get an emotion hit from touching Samantha, I whip around, reaching for her arm. But the bitch evades my grasp, jumps into another portal without even a fare-thee-well. I leap, but the damn thing shuts before I make it, and I crash into the ground, skinning my palms. Jiminy Christmas that hurt.

  “Little Justitian.” Minion Number One’s voice scrapes across my skin like a dull razor, tearing goosebumps into my flesh. “Where’s your guardian?” He walks toward me, each step sending a jolt of panic through my system not even the justitia’s joy can erase.

  I stand as the others fall in behind him, a vee of death directed my way.

  Shit, shit, shit. Why did I believe Samantha? Because I didn’t think she’d plan for my death. Hate me, yeah. But kill me?

  Now I knew better.

  The justitia springs to life, the sword shooting outward like flames from a blowtorch. The first minion reaches over his shoulder, pulls a sword from a hidden back sheath, twisting it so the remaining sunlight reflects in flashes which dance around the park. If he thinks one of those light flashes is going to blind me, he has another thing coming.

  I jump to the left, out of the way of light flashing off his sword. A glance shows the other minions standing back, unarmed, a waiting mass of evil. Maybe they decided to be sporting and only take me on one at a time.

  Even so, twenty or so to one was not sporting at all.

  If I get out of this—when I get out of this—Samantha is dead.

  Minion Number One rushes me, sword swinging. Despite my lack of training, my arm counters his swing, metal screeching against metal. He disengages, kicks out, but I sidestep the blow, my body’s movements not my own. Under normal circumstances knowing I’m controlled by an entity fused to my nervous system would bother me.

  But these circumstances were far from normal.

  Control away bracelet.

  Number One steps back, gesturing for another minion to take his place. The next one obeys, pulling his sword from another back sheath. Really? Some outfitting store must have made a fortune off these guys.

  I don’t have time for thoughts, they fade away under the onslaught of blows. Blows which I block. Block. Parry. Thrust. The minion grabs his stomach, drops his sword, falls in slow-mo to the ground.

  One down. The rush of adrenaline spikes through my blood, giving me an expectation of survival. I will win.

  No other choice exists. My vow to see Samantha dead remains a strong motivation to live.

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nbsp; Following some minion attack rule, they engage me one at a time and one at a time they die. It’s as if adrenaline supercharges my body, hyping it into a killing machine. Invincible. Unstoppable.

  And then one of them gets a slice in, their sword cutting through the muscle in my thigh. Pain explodes along sensitive nerves, stiffening my breath, quickening my heart rate.

  I stumble, almost fall. Blood runs down my leg, into my sneaker, bringing with it a good dose of nausea. Yep, I can assist in emergency operations, stabilize mangled bodies, but the sight of my own blood makes me gag.

  The thought no sooner arises than the bracelet squelches it, overrides the nausea and pain, forcing both to recede.

  Bitchin’.

  Score one for the justitia.

  It might stop the nausea and pain, but can do nothing for the leak. The cut missed an artery, but still manages to soak my scrub bottoms.

  I’m so busy looking at the slice in my leg, that I miss the minion’s uppercut until I’m flat on my back, staring at a darkening sky. Another round of pain rushes in, dances a jig on my jaw, my head. My eyes close and when I force them open, the minion stands over me.

  His sword raises, descends. I roll, then jump to my feet, stumbling as weight lands on my injured leg. A quick adjust to my posture. A swing of my sword. The sharp metal blade slices through his neck easy as cutting through chocolate pudding. Body and head drop in two different directions.

  Gross.

  “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?” Minion Number One’s voice snaps through my conscious, pulling me into better off forgotten memories. That voice. The tone. Those words.

  I shake my head. It’s nonsense. Just my imagination playing tricks.

  Dropping into a fighting stance—one foot back, knees loose—I raise my sword, facing the nearest minion.

  “You’re nothing but a whore. A split-tailed whore!”

  Number One might be standing on the edge of the fight, but his voice slams into me with the force of a tornado and I stumble. Buried memories burst free of their confines, swamping me in a rush of emotion, a thick terrifying fear.

  A fear even the justitia can’t control. A fear of a ghost, of an evil killed well over a decade ago. It should not control me.