Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  He glares at me. “No gun. But we will talk to her at the Agency.”

  “I’m coming with you,” T says.

  “No.” Smythe and I speak simultaneously. Under any other circumstance it would be funny.

  “Blake’s supposed to come over.” Although by this time, he’s probably not, but still. He might. “You can tell him I’ll be back.”

  “Babe—” T gives me a surely-you-didn’t-fall-for-that-line look “—he’s not coming over.”

  “He might.” I cross my arms.

  “He’s just using you.”

  “Is not. He’s my friend.”

  “Is too. He’s a guy.”

  “Okay, okay.” Smythe interjects. “Let’s go.”

  “I’m not going anywhere until I change clothes.” I’ve already been to the Agency once dressed like a hooker. The last thing I need to do is show up looking like I’ve been on the losing end of fight.

  Even if it is the truth.

  “Make it snappy.” To illustrate, Smythe snaps his fingers.

  “Quit being a smartass.” But I can’t stop the grin from turning my lip.

  “Quit stalling.”

  Flipping him the bird, I walk down the hall to my bedroom, leaving Smythe and T alone in the same room. Hopefully they’d both still be alive when I finish changing.

  The scrub pants are ruined. I pitch them into the trash. The top can be salvaged so it gets pitched into the laundry hamper. Beneath the clothing my skin is smooth, unblemished. Healed.

  Not a scratch on me. At least not on the outside.

  Blood cakes my left leg. Dried blood on my sock and shoe. I carry the sock into the bathroom, put it into the sink, and cover it with water. Grabbing a washcloth, I rinse the blood off my leg, the thin stripe on my arm.

  A pair of jeans, black T-shirt, and a quick swipe of the hairbrush and I’m ready to go. Sticking my feet into flip-flops, I march back into the living room.

  Which is still in one piece.

  T and Smythe sit on either end of the couch, mirror images with arms crossed, legs apart, staring at the blank TV screen. Neither looks happy.

  Oh well. At least they weren’t fighting.

  “It took you long enough.” Smythe looks me over from head to toe and back.

  I shrug. He likes what he sees. His words don’t matter.

  Gah! What am I thinking?

  “I should come with you.” T glares. It dawns on me his protectiveness stems from fear of losing me. Am I stupid or what? You’d think I would’ve picked up on this earlier.

  Say about thirty-two years ago.

  I walk to my twin, bend over, wrap my arms around his neck. A pause, and then he grasps me around my waist, holding me like I was a saving rope to a drowning man.

  Which I am. But only to him.

  I’ll be fine. Smythe’s with me.

  Not sure I trust him.

  He saved me. He’ll do it again if necessary. Besides I need to kick that blonde bitch’s ass.

  You sure you don’t want me to help?

  Doesn’t that break your vow not to hit a woman?

  A long pause. She lost her woman status when she set you up to be killed.

  “We don’t have all day. Or night as the case may be. Come on, Gin. Let’s go.” Smythe holds one hand toward me, palm up.

  T’s arms tighten, release and I straighten. “Keep my sister safe.”

  Smythe nods, keeps his mouth closed. But his gaze hops between T and me, eyes narrowing. I can almost see his brain turning things over, puzzle pieces falling into place, deducing things he shouldn’t.

  “Let’s go get that bitch.” I grab his outstretched hand.

  Smythe sighs, stands. Mutters words under his breath until a portal gapes in front of the TV. Tightening his grip on my hand, he steps into the wormhole. I glance over my shoulder, offer T a grin and a wave before the portal sucks me into its depths.

  Chapter 17

  We arrive in the white room of the Agency, freezing cold and not likely to warm up in this white icebox they call a computer room. Only a row of pubescent teenagers manning computers greets us, their gazes giving us the once over before focusing on their screens. No one speaks.

  The scent of lavender hangs in the air in sneeze-inducing quantities. I press my tongue against the roof of my mouth and hope the pressure wards off the sneeze. What’s wrong with pumpkin spice or apple cinnamon air freshener?

  At least I’m not allergic to those scents.

  Still holding my hand, Smythe gives a brief hi-how-are-ya wave to the row of teenagers and heads for the door on the opposite side of the room. He pulls it open, steps through and drags my gaping body into a hallway.

  Where I promptly forget to keep my tongue against the roof of my mouth. Applying pressure when one’s mouth resembles a newly formed sinkhole is a little hard to do.

  We stand in what looks like the hallway of an office building crossed with Trump’s apartment, minus suite numbers beside the doors. Gold knobs decorate the doors and instead of the standard office building overhead florescent lights, gold chandeliers with dangling crystal beads dot the ceiling, giving off a soft glow.

  “Wow!” I can’t help it. I’ve never seen such opulence in an office before. They sure don’t decorate this way at the hospital.

  “These are the offices.” Pride laces his voice. “Nice, eh? I doubt Dad’s here, so we’ll probably have to go to his apartment.”

  I meet his gaze. The same blue gaze David possesses. A gaze easy to get lost in, easy to be controlled by. “Your Dad’s David, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So why didn’t you just portal to his apartment instead of the white room?”

  “The white room?” His lips twist with obvious mirth as he gestures over his shoulder at the now-closed door. At my nod, he sets the grin free. “That’s the landing room. Wards around the building ensure you only portal into and out of that room. Only one entry point ensures security can monitor who comes and goes.”

  “Security? Those teenagers are security?” He nods. “So what do they do if an intruder arrives? Pop a zit on them?”

  A laugh barks out of his lips as his eyes twinkle. “Pop a zit? Gin, Gin, Gin. Those are guardians in training. At the least they can form a containment field around a demon until help arrives. Trust me, they aren’t as weak as they look. Now, come on and let’s find Dad.”

  He continues to hold my hand, but it’s probably more to keep me from running off than because he enjoys it. I’m so busy gawking at how rich people live I can’t think of anything else. Including the evening’s events and the emotions the minion’s words released.

  Some things are better off buried and left alone.

  We stop in front of a door, indistinguishable from the others lining the hallway and Smythe raps three times on its wooden paneling. Maybe three is the secret passcode around here.

  No one answers.

  The plush carpeting muffles all sounds except for a low buzzing, like a radio in-between stations. So this is what white noise sounds like. Guess that means we really are in spy central.

  “He’s not here. We’ll need to go to his apartment.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “On the top floor. He has the penthouse suite.”

  Oo-la-la. Smythe’s daddy is ri-ii-ich.

  “Do you live here, too?”

  “Yeah. Most guardians do.”

  “Do you share the penthouse suite with your dad?”

  “Not anymore. Apartment locations are dealt out by seniority.”

  “So that means you live...” I make a circling motion with my hand.

  “Third floor.”

  Hmm. Looks like my mentor fell off the turnip truck yesterday. Not sure what that says about me. “Where’s Samantha? Will she be there with David?”

  “Doubtful. She and her ward share an apartment so she’s only here when called.”

  Drat. Guess I won’t be getting my revenge tonight. “Didn’t realize she swu
ng that way.”

  “She doesn’t. Trust me.” He turns, heads back the way we came, stopping in front of a bank of elevators and hits the UP button.

  “Oh?”

  He shrugs, drops my hand, passes his over his head.

  I grin. “Why, Smythe. I think you have the hots for my would-be killer.”

  “It’s not the hots. We go, um, back a ways.”

  “Uh-huh. Whose back? Yours or hers?”

  The elevator chose that moment to arrive, its barely audible ding a prelude to the doors opening. Smythe ignores my verbal jab, gesturing for me to step into the elevator in front of him.

  What a gent.

  Who used to screw that blonde bitch I want to strangle.

  Wonder if he’s any good in the sack?

  Geez, Louise, Gin. Pull your out-of-control sex drive back to normal. Who cares? It’s not like I’ll be finding out the answer to that question anytime soon.

  Or ever.

  Smythe pushes a button for the 15th floor. After a pause, the doors close and the elevator whooshes upward.

  “Where are we? City-wise, I mean.” I face him, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. Has anyone in this building ever heard of setting the thermostat to conserve energy?

  “Boston.”

  “For real? I’ve never been to Boston.” At least not when I knew where I was. Being in the white room a couple of nights ago might legally count as being to Boston, but not to my way of thinking.

  “It’s nice.”

  “Did you grow up here?”

  His gaze meets mine, one brow raises as if in question. What? It was a perfectly logical question.

  Ding! The elevator sounds a warning we’ve arrived before sliding open the doors. We step into a small entrance room decked out in marble flooring with gold trim on the wainscoting. A small sconce with gas flames flickers the only light in the room. Hello, don’t these people know not to leave a fire unattended?

  Smythe steps the two feet to the door and knocks as the elevator doors slide closed. “Dad?” Another three knocks and he sticks his hand on the hand reader next to the doorframe. A click sounds and he turns the knob, cracking the door an inch.

  “Dad? It’s me. We need to talk.” He pushes the door open, motions me to follow.

  A breathtaking expanse of wall to ceiling windows opposite from where we stand captures my attention. David’s apartment overlooks the city and tall towers decorated in lights dot the night view. Shadows coat the room in dark imagination, the light flowing over furniture from the left side of the room. I take a step forward, squelching a scream when the door snaps shut behind us.

  My hand flutters over my chest in a futile attempt to calm my trying-to-run-a-marathon heartbeat. Smythe glances over his shoulder at my squeak with another one of those brow-cocking things he excels at.

  Voices sound from the left, toward the light, their hushed tones reminding me of children whispering as they try to avoid their parents’ notice.

  But unlike normal children’s, these voices creep across nerve endings and make me check the shadows for hidden dangers.

  Which is ridiculous. We’re in the Agency, which pretty much guaran-damn-tees a lack of demons and minions.

  A shot of joy fires through my system, a fighting adrenaline rush vibrating the silver bracelet links. A dose of confusion follows, squelching the joy, the vibration. What is a minion doing in David’s apartment? It’s the same feeling I had the last time I was at the Agency. Maybe all that white noise confuses the justitia. Makes it think minions infiltrate the place.

  “You know what you have to do.” The voice’s words warp, the distortion causing goosebumps across my skin.

  “Dad?” Smythe seems to grow, aggression sparking red bursts around his head and shoulders. One hand held in front of him, he strides into the middle of the living room, turning toward the light.

  I follow, a bit slower. Seeing as the justitia remains in bracelet form, I’m not too eager to jump into the middle of whatever is going on in the next room.

  “Aidan?” David steps into the room at the same time I do, a remote control in his hand. He’s wearing khakis and a white button down shirt, top button undone, sleeves rolled up mid-forearm. Behind him looks to be an office, complete with a hanging flatscreen TV over a cream colored marble fireplace. Oo-la-la.

  “I heard voices. One of them was pretty creepy. Are you okay?” Smythe lowers his hand, the aggression surrounding him fleeing into the shadows.

  David shakes the remote. “TV.”

  My justitia isn’t convinced. But since nothing moves in the room but shadows and an overall creepy feeling, I assign the unease to the white noise. Static makes me uneasy, so why wouldn’t it do the same to some nerve-joining entity?

  The fact I can think that thought with a straight face does not bode well for my sanity.

  “Why is she here?” The remote points at me. Part of me wonders if by clicking it he’ll make me disappear. Another part of me gets the impression he’d like to try.

  “We have a problem.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That bitch Samantha tried to kill me.” I take a step forward, stand closer to Smythe.

  “Nonsense.”

  A tic starts in my jaw and I force my teeth to unclench, my hands to uncurl.

  “I found her in a park in San Antonio fighting a league of minions.” A hint of anger creeps into Smythe’s tone.

  “Son—” David points the remote at Smythe “—that’s what she’s supposed to do.”

  “Not without me, she’s not. Samantha showed up at her house and took her to the park.”

  “And then left me there to die!” Anger releases the remembered fear of being setup, of fighting and losing, of thinking my death came sooner rather than later.

  My innards react as if dunked in ice, a deep quiver low in my belly, the ice of near-death spreading throughout my limbs.

  “Well, it didn’t work, now did it. Really, Aidan. It’s the middle of the night.”

  The tic starts again in my jaw. Or maybe that jaw-clench was due to the fear-chills shaking their way out of my body.

  “Shouldn’t you check it out?”

  “Are you sure she didn’t go herself?”

  Was he smoking crack or something? If I could pull a stunt like portaling, I would not be standing here talking to David. I don’t bother to smooth over my shocked expression.

  “San Antonio is a five hour drive from Dallas.” Smythe’s arms cross, his eyes narrow. “Her purse was on the table. Her car was in the garage with the engine hot. And her brother was there hollering about her being hurt. I tracked the justitia to the park. Do you really think she can form a portal?”

  David sighs, slaps the remote against his palm. Once, twice. “There has to be some other reason.”

  “Fine. Then you tell me how she got to San Antonio. Where I found her almost dead.”

  David’s gaze rakes me from head to toe. “She looks fine.”

  “I called Eloise.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me. Eloise?”

  What’s wrong with Eloise?

  “She was happy to help. Ask her what she saw. She’ll tell you Gin was hurt.”

  David points the remote at me. “So Samantha shows up at your house, takes you to a park, and leaves you.”

  “Yep. After telling the lead minion to remember their deal.”

  David freezes, eyes popping wide, his arm with the remote stretched out in front like he’s a conductor made of wax. His lips turn in a grin that would make Lucifer proud. A fine tremor flows south before I can stop it.

  “Did she now?” His arm pulls back, drops. “And what was the deal?”

  I shrug, swallow, try to get enough saliva in my mouth to form words. With that too proud for the Devil expression on his face, I almost feel sorry for Samantha. Almost. “I don’t know. I was too busy fighting off minions.”

  “How many did you kill?”

  “About six.” He nods.
Looks pleased. “Then Smythe came along and blew them up and took me home and called Eloise.”

  “Blew them up?” David faces Smythe, the pleased expression covered by white lines forming around his lips. “What the fuck were you thinking? You can’t weaken a demon by blowing up the minions. You know that. What were you thinking?”

  Smythe plants his feet, keeps his arms crossed. But a faint tint of color sweeps across his cheeks. “It just happened.”

  “Just happened? An accident just happens. Blowing up minions does not just happen. It’s planned. Damn it, son. If I said it once, I’ll say it a million times. Stabbing a minion is the only way to hurt the demon. This is starting to sound like Jennifer’s situation.”

  If Smythe’s jaw got any tighter, he could etch metal with his teeth.

  Ignoring his son, David turns to me. “What do you want me to do about this? Call Samantha?”

  I’d like to beat the snot out of her, but suppose I’ll settle with questions. And him believing me. “Please.”

  He walks back into his office, comes back out sans remote and with a phone in his hand. Hitting a couple of buttons, he soon has Samantha on video chat, Smythe peering over his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong, David?” Her voice comes across as clear as if she stands in the room. Isn’t technology grand?

  “Aidan and Gin claim you left her at a park to be killed by minions.”

  “That bitch! That’s why you should never allow someone not of the bloodlines to wear the justitia!”

  “Samantha, you know as well as I do that no one not of the bloodlines can wear a justitia. Now quit throwing barbs and state your side of the story.”

  She pauses, clears her throat. “There was a minion attack in San Antonio that Micah needed help with. I couldn’t find Aidan so I went to Gin’s house, waited for her to get home from work, which again, minion hunting should be a justitian’s only job—”

  “So you waited,” David interrupts.

  “When she got home I took her to the park and then left to get Micah. When I returned the minions were dead. I hardly think that’s my fault. She’s the one that killed them. Oh, wait. Most of those minions looked like they’d been hit by a blowtorch. Which means you need to speak with Aidan. Again.” Her tone suggests she’s fallen into a chocolate swimming pool. Judging by Smythe’s glare and teeth clenching, he fails to feel the same.