Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  And yet it does.

  Memories surround me. Pain. Terror. Sounds of flesh smacking flesh. Blood, a coppery taste filling my mouth, clogging my nostrils.

  “You’ll never be worth nothing. You’re a wasted piece of human flesh!” Whose voice? Past or present? Dead or alive?

  Maybe the voice is right. Maybe I am worth nothing.

  Gin! T’s voice screams through my mind, painful enough to stop the wisps of memories from congealing into reality.

  I shake my head, trying to clear the memories from my vision. T! Get me out of here!

  My head snaps back, the force of the minion’s punch sailing me around.

  Where are you?

  The ground rises to meet me. I smack it hard, but manage to roll. The minion’s foot stomps where my body was.

  I don’t know. Some park. Get Smythe.

  Nausea sneaks in, a sucker punch to the stomach. Apparently the bracelet has no way of counteracting memories and any feelings those memories might cause. I risk a glance at Minion Number One.

  Where the fuck is Smythe?

  My house. I close my connection to T. Talking creates too much of a distraction. Not as much of a distraction as the minion’s words—holy shit, how did he know to say those words—but an unneeded distraction nonetheless.

  A shit-eating grin plasters across Number One’s face, widening into a showing of teeth that foretells my death. The hairs on my nape stand at attention as despite my best intentions, memories creep across the edges of my vision.

  A kick to my leg snaps my attention to the fight. A fight I’m going to lose if I don’t get my mind in the game. My thigh turns into a screaming ball of agony, throbbing with each heartbeat.

  “Worthless tramp! You are nothing! Nothing!”

  I feel my body shut down like it had all those years ago. Before I learned to fight, to overcome.

  But I learned, hadn’t I?

  My attention snaps back to the present. I focus on the pain beating through my body, focus on each agonizing breath I take. Allow it to drive me back into the fight.

  And once I return to the present, the justitia overrides screeching nerve endings, shutting down the pain better than a dose of morphine. Go team Gin.

  Striking out with my legs, I catch the kicking minion’s feet and twist. The bastard lands on his back, an overturned turtle. Then I’m on top, stabbing into his chest, into the heart.

  Another one bites the dust. Only to be replaced by his comrade.

  I kill it, but not before it slices a thin gash in my left arm. More blood. More nausea shut down by the bracelet. My breath comes in shallow pants. Spots dance along the edge of my vision. It hurts to stand. Hurts to move my arm. Hurts to move my jaw, my head.

  Yet another one engages me.

  I fight. I always fight. It’s part of my core strength to never give up. Never. Not since that day...

  “You are nothing!”

  Bam! Another minion’s fist slams into my already bruised jaw, and I feel something crack. My vision grays, black spots appearing at the edges, insects swarming carrion. The ground slaps against my back, my mind screams to move, the justitia joining its cry, my body unable to obey.

  A brush of warm air caresses my going-numb arm, driving away the chill creeping through my veins, the knowledge of imminent death. The swarming black dots overtaking my vision recede as the bracelet tries to get me to move, to fight. I lay staring up, one eye swelling shut, one open wide, so I see the minion, sword raised, when he aims the weapon straight at my heart.

  Roll! My body refuses to obey my mind’s command.

  Death descends, and I can do nothing but watch.

  Chapter 16

  Before the sword makes contact, the minion flies backward, a possessed human bowling ball as it topples several of its buddies like pins on a lane. My breath freezes in my throat then rushes out in an expression of relief. No judgment day for me.

  At least not today.

  A cry of an enraged animal slams through the park, coating the trees with its anger until leaves drip with its agony, until the ground vibrates under its wrath. The scream condenses into one word, gaining in intensity, distorted until almost unintelligible. “Noooooo!”

  It hurts to move. Hurts to turn my head and see who yells, whose rage blankets the park with a sulfuric stench. And then it hurts to see as the mass of minions explode into flames. Fire consumes their bodies, the screams of death and the stench of burning flesh filling the clearing, eradicating the sulfur stench of rage. I roll onto my side and retch, gagging on bile, my stomach empty of all but the knowledge I’m saved.

  “You fucking son of a bitch!” Smythe, my hero, my savior, moves into my line of vision, a sword at the ready, engaging Minion Number One in a dance to the death. Since when does he carry a sword?

  And damn me for a fool, but can the man move. The minion is no match for him. None. It’s like watching Ray Park fight Liam Neeson in The Phantom Menace. In the end, the minion’s head flies in one direction, his body in the other.

  Smythe stumbles to me, drops to his knees, his face a mask of grief overlaid with rage. Shadows from the now-dying minion bonfire dance across his skin, his clothes, dance but come no closer. One hand reaches toward my face, draws back. “Oh, Gin.”

  I blink, or try to, the swelling in my left eye—the eye on top—prohibits much movement. But he notices. Grief vanishes in a rush of anger.

  “What the fuck did you think you were doing? Taking on a troop of fucking minions by yourself? Goddamn it, Gin!”

  Hey, it wasn’t my idea. But I can’t form the words. My only movement the open and close of my right eye, the flicker of my left. I want to thank him, but my mouth is full of blood, of pain, my tongue thick against my teeth. My lips fail to work right, moving with the motions of a grounded fish. I reach a hand toward him, fingers brushing against the denim of his jeans.

  “You were supposed to be at home.” The words hiss as he pulls a knife from somewhere behind him. Light flashes on metal, bathing the blade orange, as he cuts off two strips of material from my scrub bottoms. His hand holding the knife reaches behind him—maybe he re-sheaths it, maybe he drops it on the ground, I can’t see what happens to it—he then grabs a strip of fabric and wraps it around the cut in my arm. The other strip he wraps around my leg.

  He’s shaking as he ties the knots, as he lifts me into his arms.

  I cry out at the movement, then force my lips together and my eyes shut. I will not act like a baby. I will not. But I want to cry, to shake, to wail with agony. Whatever the bracelet does no longer works. and my body throbs in time to each heartbeat.

  A moment of warmth followed by the frosty air of the portal, the cold freezing my blood like an ice pack on a bruise. For once it feels good, being inside the cold agony as it eases my pain, but all too soon we arrive in my living room.

  Smythe lays me on the couch. Darkness shrouds the room, the hum of the overworked air conditioning a relief. I’m home. I’m alive. I’m going to kill that blonde bitch.

  Provided someone can stop the leak in my leg. Judging from the way I feel lightheaded lying down, that someone is not me.

  “Gin! What the hell happened?” T storms in from the kitchen, shoes thudding against wood.

  My lips refuse to move. Not a problem. Telepathy to the rescue. Samantha set me up.

  The overhead light flips on as Smythe finds the switch. I squint in the sudden brightness, head throbbing. Being hurt sucks.

  Who’s Samantha?

  Some guardian bitch.

  The floor squeaks as Smythe walks back into my line of vision. You know there’s a problem when the two stand beside each other without puffing up on aggression.

  I must look worse than I feel.

  “Who the hell,” T grabs Smythe’s shoulder, “is Samantha, and why did you leave her alone with my sister?”

  Oops. I spoke too soon.

  Men. I swear. It’s a wonder they survived evolution.

  Smythe
shrugs out of T’s grasp, the air around him vibrating his rage. He sucks down a breath, then another one, tension melting down his frame.

  “Do. Not. Touch. Me. Again.”

  T, leave him alone! He just fried a dozen minions with a word! The last thing I need is for my twin to become a testosterone-fueled shish kabob. For a second I thought T would take a swing, but he raises both hands, takes a step back.

  “Sorry. She said Samantha set her up.”

  “What?” Smythe turns to me, all surprise-surprise until his gaze fastens on my face. “Oh, shit. Don’t move.” One finger points at T as he reaches into his pocket with his other hand, drawing out his cell phone. Fingers flash and then he slams the thing against his ear. “Eloise, I need your help. Gin’s injured. Yeah. Please,” his voice breaks, he clears it, “if you don’t mind. Okay.”

  The phone remains next to his ear, but I see the portal form next to him, feel the dash of warmth followed by the appearance of Eloise, hear T’s indrawn breath. Smythe turns to her, pockets his phone.

  “She’s hurt. Took on a whole contingent of minions by herself.”

  “Show me.”

  Oh yeah. Blind. Smythe takes her hand, leads her to the couch where he shoves the coffee table out of the way.

  “Here.” He reaches her hand toward me, pressing down until she squats beside me.

  T kneels by my shoes, one hand touching my lower leg. I’m hurt so bad the usual comfort his touch brings remains elusive.

  Eloise’s hands touch my face, cool, impartial, no emotions running into me this time. Fingers probe my swollen eye, jaw, run across my arms, down my thighs.

  “Hmm. Shallow cut on the arm. Stings more than anything. The left leg’s slice is worse. Right leg has massive bruising. Blood loss. Broken nose and maxilla. Not sure about loose teeth. Why weren’t you with her?”

  “I show up here for training and she’s gone. Her brother here—” he gestures toward T as if Eloise sees his hand move “—states she’s in the middle of a fight and I need to find her.” Surprise, surprise, words really can come from a jaw clenched tighter than a death grasp. “Lucky for her I can track the justitia.”

  He can?

  “You can?” Eloise’s hands rest on my upper arm, head cocked to the side. Her brow furrows then smoothes.

  Smythe shrugs, but she doesn’t see it. “Will you heal her?”

  “Of course. But her brother needs to remove his hand. Other energy fields interfere with the healing.” She looks at T who stares at her with a mixture of an ogle, awe and wariness. But he does as she asks, stepping backward until she motions him to stop.

  If I’m not mistaken, my twin is smitten by the healer.

  Once T steps far enough away from me, Eloise moves to kneel behind my head, placing her hands over my forehead. “Close your eyes, Gin. Just relax.”

  A rush of warmth flows over me, across my chest, down my legs, taking with it my pain. And then I’m floating in a sea of bliss, where nothing exists except fluffy clouds and turquoise waves. Time is meaningless here, a minute is like an hour, an hour like a minute. I float. Water befriends me, keeps me adrift, alive. Waves break over sand somewhere close, the in and out of the tide comforting to hear.

  I drift.

  The tide grabs me, pulling me into the shore, away from the bliss. I fight it. I want to float. To drift.

  I have no choice. Clouds crumble, falling like thrown sand into the waves. Even those disappear. Instead of a blue sky, I’m staring at my living room’s ceiling, remnants of peace clinging to my skin, a spiritual surgical strip.

  I flex my jaw, wiggle my toes. All pain free. And I’m looking out of both eyes.

  Eloise rocks.

  “Thank you.” I tilt my head back, locking gazes with her. Her eyes are unfocused, unseeing, but I get the impression she sees more than she lets on. “I feel much better.”

  “You’re welcome.” A tight smile pulls her lips. “You need to be more careful. I cannot heal you every time.”

  “Thank you.” Once I roll to a sit I realize her words aren’t just meant for me. She’s looking at Smythe.

  “Glad to see you up.” Relief saturates Smythe’s expression, crinkling his eyes, twitching his lips upward.

  “It’s all Eloise’s doing.”

  “How did you do that?” Awe saturates T’s voice, flows into his wide-eyed pole-axed-bull expression.

  Eloise rises from her crouch, faces T. “I am a healer with the Agency. This is what I’ve been trained to do.”

  “Thank you for making her better.”

  She takes several steps toward him, placing her hand on his arm. For a blind woman she navigates well. Perhaps she sees shadows. Because I get the distinct impression she’s returning T’s ogling with a bit of her own.

  Her expression remains peaceful with a hint of a smile, but tension flows around her and T and not the aggressive kind either.

  Interesting.

  She turns to Smythe, breaking contact with T. Who still looks like a pole-axed bull. Or maybe a love-sick fool?

  “He’s valuable. Untrained though. Have you done more research on their linage?”

  “Valuable?” T blinks and I get a peek inside his thoughts.

  And fight to keep my lips from twitching.

  His idea of valuable and hers are undoubtedly different. I sincerely doubt she wants to use him as her own personal stud.

  She might. And stay out of my head.

  A chuckle bursts free, turning all gazes on me.

  “Sorry, nothing.” I give a dismissive flip of my hand.

  Smythe cocks a brow, lowers it as he speaks to Eloise. “Haven’t been able to turn up anything. But I will. How valuable?”

  “He’s a ghost talker.”

  “I am not. I don’t talk to those things.” The tan slides off T’s face, leaving behind a sickly gray.

  I know why he no longer speaks to them. Know what memory he fears and why that fear controls his actions.

  With that thought, I’m pulled back into the minion fight, into the memories bursting free from Number One’s words.

  Maybe the minion’s right. Maybe I’m not good enough. I sure couldn’t stop the memories from overwhelming me. From causing mistakes that lost me the fight. Maybe I need to stay home and train more.

  Or stop hunting minions altogether.

  The justitia howls, a sound for my ears only. Giving up is not in its vocabulary. But how can I fight when I’m so easily distracted by memories?

  Why do I want to fight? Because the bracelet tells me I do? What do I want in this?

  “You are?” Smythe’s words return me from the land of Gin’s head.

  “I see them. I don’t talk to the fuckers.” T’s head shakes in negation.

  “Why do you care if he speaks to ghosts?” I ask, trying to draw the attention off my twin.

  “It’s a rare talent,” Eloise says. “Plenty of people can see them, but the number of those who can speak to them drops off significantly.”

  “No. You are not getting your claws in me like you have my sister.”

  Eloise inclines her head. “Very well. We cannot make you do what you don’t want to do. But if you ever change your mind, we are very interested in your talent.”

  “It’s not a talent, it’s a curse.” His biceps bunch as he crosses his arms, but the aggressive stance falls flat in the wake of his pale face.

  Eloise makes a non-committal noise. “Well, then, it was nice meeting you. Gin, endeavor not to be on the losing end of a fight again. Aidan, I’ll see you soon.”

  Smythe touches her arm, shows her an area to form a portal. She raises her hand, but before she forms the portal, I move to stand beside her.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  She tilts her head toward me. “I find I do not mind healing you. Call me anytime.” With a wave of her hand, she forms a portal and steps into it, vanishing from view.

  T gasps. “That is one freaky-ass way of tra
veling.”

  I place a hand on Smythe’s arm. “Thank you.”

  His jaw moves, tension lacing the muscle as if he wants to speak but thinks better of it.

  For all of two seconds.

  “What were you doing in the park, Gin?” His voice takes on the tone of baker’s chocolate, deep, dark and bitter.

  “I told you, Samantha set her up.” T glares at Smythe, pale face gone in a rush of anger.

  “I heard you the first time. I’m asking Gin.”

  “He’s right. She set me up. Came over here, all I-need-help like and took my ass to that park. Where she promptly left. After reminding the minion of their deal.”

  “What deal?” Smythe’s eyes narrow.

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not saying I don’t believe you, but I can’t picture Samantha setting you up like that. She’s a guardian. And a damn good one.”

  “She’s a bitch. Who hates my guts.”

  “That’s only because—” his voice trails off into silence, a splash of red dotting his cheeks.

  “Because?” T asks.

  “No offense, Gin, but she’s a purist. She doesn’t think you should wear the justitia. Which doesn’t mean she wants you dead.”

  “I beg to differ. She clearly wants me dead. You think I get my jollies having the shit beat out of me?”

  A tic starts in the muscle of Smythe’s jaw. “You think I get my jollies seeing you with the shit beat out of you? You. Could. Have. Died!” For a second I thought he might help me out in that regard. His fingers clench into fists, rage pours off him like a wave, hitting me with a tangible force. No, not rage. Fear.

  Seeing me hurt scared the shit out of Smythe.

  And my damn traitorous body fires off tingles of glee at the realization he cares. Stupid tingles. Of course he cares. I’m his freakin’ mentee.

  “You think I don’t know that? That bitch set me up. I need to even the score.” My hands slam against my hips as I let anger sweep away desire.

  Smythe glares, nostrils flaring as he practices deep breathing exercises, clearly trying to get control of his emotions. A couple of breaths later he runs a hand through his hair. “Let’s go see.”

  “Go see what? Samantha? Because I need to get my gun if that’s the case.”