Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  I haven’t been hit by magical flashes of energy.

  It’s worse. I’ve been captured by a demon.

  Chapter 23

  Struggle! Escape! Oh yeah, right, self. I’m in a portal, a freakin’ demon portal. Who knows what will happen if the demon releases me in the middle of a port. Dying via lost-in-portal is not on my bucket list.

  But when we land...

  I collapse on stone flooring like a deflated balloon missing its helium. Probably due to the knock-me-on-my-ass stench of sulfur as opposed to something more ominous like bleeding-brain-induced-dizziness. Real elegant, Gin. Way to look strong in front of the evil demon disguised as a hottie.

  But then, it’s a little hard to look strong and capable when you’re huddled on the floor trying not to breathe through your nose.

  Or puke.

  How can I be dizzy lying on the floor?

  “Greetings, Justitian. I have looked forward to this day.” The demon sounds like an average man. Deep voice, but not too deep. Unknown accent. The stench of sulfur wafts from the stones, not the demon. Are demons able to turn the smell on and off? I didn’t notice it on his skin in the warehouse, but then Jezebeth had played whack-a-mole with my head so the possibility existed I missed the odor.

  Although how one can miss the stench of rotted eggs I don’t know.

  Wait a minute. Had the demon asked me a question? Or made a statement?

  Definite head injury.

  “Who are you?” And why did you drag me here, wherever here is?

  Laughter rolls across the floor, a malicious echo against stones that creeps into my marrow. Trembling spreads from inside out, a rage of excitement begging for freedom.

  Ecstasy floods my veins, the justitia’s response to the demon.

  As if meeting a friend after the passage of many years.

  Try a millennia or two.

  What the hell? Isn’t the thing supposed to fight demons, not give them the metaphysical equivalent of a hug?

  I give it a feeble whack against the stone floor. As if that will force it to work right.

  Nope. Still ecstatic about the demon.

  Shit.

  “Ah, I see,” and then he rattles off a word I could never hope to pronounce, “is pleased to be in my presence. It’s been so long, old friend. Too long.”

  I raise my eyes to the demon, whose outline blurs the longer I stare. Wetness stains my cheeks and I sniff. I will not lose it in front of a demon. I will not.

  But pain and grief paint my insides with a potent mix of unbelief. I cannot be lying on stones in a demon lair. Blake cannot be dead. I cannot be dying. I need to be fighting this thing, this demon masquerading as a man.

  Isn’t that what I do? Aren’t I supposed to fight demons?

  How? How do I fight when all I want to do is curl up and hide?

  Or admit myself to the nearest hospital.

  I’m pretty certain Jezebeth knocked something loose in my head that should remain unbroken. Like an artery. How long until I stroke?

  I can’t remember.

  Not good.

  And the traitorous bracelet seems oblivious to my anguish.

  But the demon’s not. He walks to me, looming large as I stare up at him. Squatting, his ungloved hand hovers a bit above my head and red-hot power cascades over me, a gentle wave soothing away the ache.

  My eyes close in bliss. Ah. His power feels similar to Eloise’s, and I drift in the same cloudless ocean of healing she uses. I shouldn’t allow a demon to heal me. I might have jumped off the turnip truck this week, but even I know that.

  And yet, his power entices, soothes, heals. I’m helpless to push him away. I don’t want to push him away. I don’t want to die. I want to live.

  Even if it means using a demon’s power to do so.

  With that thought something switches deep inside. Instead of absorbing his power to heal, it pools for future use, like I’m a reservoir for evil.

  I jerk and he withdraws his hand.

  “Better, Justitian?”

  I clear away the dry, dusty lump in my throat. “Thank you.”

  “It’s the least I can do for an old friend.”

  “Friend?” How crazy are demons?

  Maybe I’m not as healed as I think if I have to ask.

  “Expression of speech, I believe you say.”

  “You know the um—” Why can’t I remember these things? Duh. You don’t heal instantly from a head injury. “Um, the bracelet? I mean justitia?”

  The demon’s lips twist. A smile? A grimace? “My, my. You are new. They told me, but I did not believe them.”

  “Who’s they?”

  One eyebrow pops, condescension written over his face. Nice to know demons possess expressions.

  Demons possess more than expressions. Have I picked up another personality, or is the bracelet talking to me? How can a bracelet talk? And if it is talking to me, why the hell would it rather jump for joy upon seeing this demon than kill it? Answer that justitia.

  It doesn’t answer. Maybe I am going crazy.

  Or crazier.

  I clear my throat. My justitia might be malfunctioning, but the rest of me is feeling better by the minute. Demon healing is a good thing. Really. “Why did you bring me here? Why not kill me at the warehouse?”

  “Killing is so—” he waves a hand “—passé.”

  “Then why did you let me kill Jezebeth?”

  “Sometimes killing is necessary.”

  “And you thought it necessary for her to die.”

  He nods. “She outlived her usefulness.”

  “She killed my friend.” Oh, great Gin. Sob on the demon’s shoulder, why don’t you. Stop crying and try to figure out how to escape.

  He stands, takes a step back. “Some things cannot be helped.”

  “Thanks for the sympathy.” I sniff, run a hand under my leaking eyes. Pull it together, Gin. Sooner rather than later.

  “I think I see why,” another round of the tongue-curling word, “chose you.”

  Air I didn’t realize I held escapes in a breath of noise. Unlike Jezebeth, he’s not going to beat the sass out of me.

  At least not now. “Why’s that?”

  “Eager for compliments, are we?”

  “What’s that word you keep saying?”

  This time the bracelet reacts to the tongue-curling word, a fine tremor shaking the silver links.

  “It is the name of what you call your justitia.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have been around for many years and know many things. But this name,” that I still can’t pronounce, “is also written into the device itself. Have you not been taught how to read the runes inscribed?” He points at the bracelet.

  I sit up, eyeing my wrist. The sword juts from the bracelet, runes dancing down the blade, across the silver links around my wrist. “Nope. Haven’t had that lesson yet.” Does Smythe know about the meaning of the runes?

  “The symbols closest to your skin represent the original wearer—” he shivers “—the next set the name of the justitia, the set closest to the tip represent my name.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Zagan, commander of legions, general to the ruler of Hell. And now captor of a justitian.” Teeth flash white in his too-smug face.

  “Why did you capture me?”

  “Many reasons.” He sniffs the air, circles around me, predator to my prey. I twist my upper body, trying to keep him in sight. “Scared of me?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  He chuckles, the noise scratching like fingernails against the chalkboard of my spine. “Ah, little justitian. I think I’ll keep you. You make me laugh. And you smell good.” Zagan leans forward, sniffs, invading my personal space, but not touching. What’s his idea of smelling good?

  Fear-laced sweat?

  “I do?” My voice sounds more pathetic-squeak than strong and confident.

  He takes a step back, gives a little hum. “O
h yes. Like peanut butter. I love peanut butter. Great invention, that.”

  “Peanut butter?” Seriously? Peanut butter? Where does he smell peanuts?

  Then it hits me. The crackers in my pocket. My breakfast I no longer feel like eating. I’m pretty certain anything dropping into my stomach will do a u-turn out of there, so if the demon wants my crackers, more power to him.

  I pull out the package. So much for six round cracker sandwiches. Crumbs held together by peanut butter are all that remain.

  “Is this what you smell?” I hold the package to him, a peace offering.

  His eyes widen. “You give your food to me?” The lights in his eyes warn of an underlying meaning, but if a demon wants to eat my food instead of me, I’m down with the idea.

  “If you want.”

  He grabs the package. A rip later and he crams the crumbs inside his mouth. Chews. Swallows. “Mmmm. Delicious. Your gift is worthy.”

  “Worthy?” Of not eating me?

  “I will spare your life. You will become malleable.”

  “Malleable?” I sound like an echo.

  “Mine. Same difference.”

  Oh, I don’t think so, buster. I might be a lot of things, but being yours is not on the list.

  Note to self: demons are insane.

  Play along, drifts through my mind. The bracelet’s command? My own advice? Whichever, it sounds good. The game of pretend might just get me out of here.

  Or dead.

  “I’m yours?”

  “Did I not just say so? You and I are much alike. Very much alike. More than I thought at first, you see. You and I can do great things. Great. Things. If you will let me. Will you let me?” Soulful black eyes lock my gaze, draw me into their depths.

  I fight the pull. “You can’t make me a minion. I am not evil.”

  “Ah, humans.” He tsks, shakes his head. “Forever lying to themselves. But you should never lie to a demon.” He runs a glove-clad finger along my jaw, the caress sending an unexpected—and unwanted—jolt straight to my core. “We can see your soul. And you don’t have to be a minion to be my servant.”

  “I thought justitians were immune from demon influence.”

  Remind me, if nursing doesn’t work out to go into stand-up comedy. I never thought of myself as all that funny, but the demon chuckles like I’m the next late night show host.

  “Oh-oh-oh.” He straightens, slaps his leg with each chuckle. “I am going to enjoy being your master. Stand up.”

  The command stings, electricity forcing obedience. I roll to all fours, pushing back until I squat in front of Zagan. The bracelet screams, no longer happy to see the demon, as it tries to overpower the command. But what can it do? I’ve been commanded. I want to stand.

  But you don’t have to! Don’t listen to it!

  I have to listen. I’ve been told to stand. Standing is what I want.

  No you don’t. Don’t let it control you!

  Maybe I want to be controlled.

  No you don’t. You’ve already let that happen once. Remember?

  I don’t want to remember. Don’t make me remember.

  “Stand!”

  I shoot to my feet. I’ve done what my master wants. I’m pleased. My master is pleased.

  The justitia, not so much.

  Zagan circles around me. How could I ever have thought the expression on his face to be anything but joy? Beauty? He bends toward me, and I raise my face to his, a silent plea for his kiss. Which he grants me, firm lips moving over mine and when I open my mouth, his tongue thrusts inside, a lover’s kiss.

  At his touch, evil tangles of thoughts twist into my mind, show me a glimpse inside a creature I can never comprehend. It hurts. Agony blossoms, making a migraine seem pleasant in comparison. I should pull away. Instead I draw his tongue deeper into my mouth, run my hands across his shoulders. I am with my master. Why should I care about anything else?

  I sense a pop, like a plug pulled out of an outlet, and the agony in my head disappears. Only my conscious exists in my mind. No more tangles of demon thoughts. The realization comes as a dull reflection, background noise to the all consuming kiss.

  Pain slices through my mouth. Oh god it hurts! Barbs cover Zagan’s tongue, and they cut my lips, my tongue, my gums and the coppery taste of blood floods my mouth. My blood, swarming thick as a flock of gnats into my throat, choking me, killing me.

  And I want Zagan. I crave him. His kiss fills me like an aphrodisiac, a painful pleasure, a promise of coming delight. My nipples tingle, wetness floods my panties. My core throbs in time to my heart, a silent plea for his touch.

  Blood clogs my throat and I swallow. Wetness above. Wetness below. Arms band about my waist, pull me against a rock hard physique, a leg rubs against my core. Oh, God, yes. Please. More pleasure. Until I drown in it. Until you fill me. Rid me of me. Fill me with you.

  Goddamn fucking son of a bitch! T’s voice roars in my head, his cry a sharp drop into reality.

  Am I really getting off on a demon’s leg? What. The. Fuck?

  Before I can react, T shoves his way into my conscious, taking control of my body as if he owns it. His hands—my hands—shove away Zagan (nononono, I want the pleasure, don’t go, don’t go!). Forces my legs to follow through with a kick that misses its intended crotch target. Blood coats Zagan’s wide-eyed, brows-raised face, clotting around his lips like he overdid an application of hooker-red lipstick. As if T’s possession allows an opening, the justitia fires along my nerves, following the path into my brain T forges each time he drops by for a “visit.”

  T no longer controls me.

  Neither does the demon.

  Gin? What’s happening?

  Not to sound ungrateful because I’m really thankful, but you have to go now.

  I don’t think so.

  Bye, T. I—the justitia—slams the mental door on our conversation, thrusting my twin back into his own body.

  All this happens in the time it takes Zagan to go from surprised to pissed off. And let me tell you, a pissed off demon is not a creature you want to cozy up to.

  Unless you have an entity possessing you. Riding your nerves like it owns them.

  Which, at the moment it does.

  I’m one with the justitia, it’s so deep within me I feel its thoughts, understand its dilemma.

  It doesn’t want to kill Zagan anymore than Zagan wants to kill me.

  So why did the demon capture me?

  I run a hand across my lip. Ouch, ouch, ouch. Blood pools in my stomach, threatens a bout of nausea. Where was Eloise when I needed her?

  Something tells me Zagan won’t be so quick to heal me again after that missed kick to his crotch.

  The pain disappears. Courtesy of the justitia.

  Just like it blocked the demon’s thoughts from rupturing my brain.

  Clearly, being possessed wasn’t so bad after all.

  Since I know what to say to stop the oncoming demon annihilation session. “Master, it hurt.”

  Zagan’s eyes narrow, relax as he draws in a breath, as he channels his inner yogi. His tongue—his barbed tongue—pokes out, runs around his lips, gathering my blood for one last swallow.

  Yuckiness. But I, thanks to the justitia, keep my face schooled into a mask of passivity, the helpless servant, begging her master for aid.

  And Zagan falls for it.

  Score one for the justitia.

  “My apologies for your pain, Justitian. It has been some time since I kissed a human, and I forgot your intolerance for my true form. It will not happen again.”

  You got that right, buster. No more demon kissing for me.

  So why do I crave his touch? Want his hands touching my skin, calling my pleasure?

  Note to self: demons transmit insanity.

  “Thank you, Master.” Gag, gag, gag. Being subservient wears me out, and I’ve only started the act.

  “Now, where were we?” He runs a hand over his head in a gesture reminiscent of T. “Ah, yes. I was
extolling the virtues of enlisting you as my servant. Not a minion, you learned correctly there. I cannot take you as a minion. But I can take a justitian for my servant. Especially when they are too inexperienced to understand how to use their shiny new bauble.”

  He’s right. I don’t know how to use the justitia correctly. Until minutes ago I believed all I needed to know about the justitia was how to turn it into a sword and stab a minion. Or demon. But now that it forged a connection into my mind, embedded itself along my nerves, I realize wearing the justitia means so much more than stabbing a minion. Do other justitians feel the same?

  A question for another time. Like when I’m away from the demon’s lair.

  How do I escape? I can’t port. I doubt asking Zagan to take me home will work. The justitia has no inclination to destroy the demon, its reasoning beyond my scope of understanding. Does it really think of the demon as a friend? How can demons and justitias be friends? Isn’t that a conflict of interest?

  So much for thinking its control of my nervous system meant I understood its thoughts.

  And yes, it has thoughts. Scary, that.

  The justitia wants me to play dumb. Literally. To convince Zagan I’m his servant. Maybe then he will mention why he captured me as opposed to fighting me.

  Aren’t demons supposed to fight the justitians?

  Blake’s death seems to have slowed my thought process to a crawl. Or maybe it was having my ass kicked by Jezebeth. Or being captured by Zagan. Or his healing. Or other rather embarrassing things that really shouldn’t have happened between us. Yep, plenty of reasons to choose from for sluggish thinking.

  “Come, Justitian. Let me show you my home. Then we can talk business.” Zagan turns, heading toward a door opposite from where I stand.

  Huh. So that’s what he did with his sword. Back sheath. Just like the minions in the park. Must be an evil dead type of thing.

  And why did that thought pop into my mind? Talk about a case of nerves.

  I follow him, ever the role-playing obedient servant. He holds the door open for me, allowing me to step through...

  Into the cool comfort of a mammoth marble-tiled, Corinthian-columned, white-washed room. A mixture of antique and modern furniture gives portions of the room an eclectic feeling. Those were the nice portions. Other parts looked like a gaudy trip into a gigolo’s boudoir crossed with a BDSM trade show. Last but not least, rising a good five steps above the floor, stood a dais, demarking that portion as a throne room. And yep, there stood the throne, a monstrosity of twisted iron in the shape of writhing humans.