Demon Lore

by Karilyn Bentley

  “Sometimes those help when you’re grieving a friend’s loss.” He catches the door, holding his arm out to keep it from closing. I walk through and lean against the wall, trying to pull things together. I refuse for the young ’uns in the white room to see me fall apart.

  Smythe steps into my line of sight. One hand runs down my arm, grabs my hand, gives a squeeze. “I won’t insult you by saying things will be okay. But do know that life goes on. It’s up to you to stand still or hop onboard.”

  I sniff. “I’m a hopper. You got a tissue?”

  “Just a minute.” He squeezes my hand before walking off down the hall, disappearing into a room.

  I sniff, run my fingers under my eyes, down my cheeks. Good thing there’s not a mirror around, I might scare myself. The elevator pings a warning before the doors slide open. I give the occupants a half-hearted smile and hold my hand between my cheek and them. No reason to scare others with my tear-stained blotchy cheeks.

  How long does it take to get a tissue? Does Smythe have to run to the drugstore for one?

  “Who’re you?” A snap of gum joins the voice beside my ear.

  I drop my hand. A young woman in her late teens stands before me, purple hair punked into a Mohawk, cherry-red lips smacking a wad of gum like a horse chewing hay. Knee-high leather platform boots hit several inches below her red polka-dot miniskirt. Her eyes narrow on me like I’m some bug needing to be squashed.

  I sniff. Politeness insists I offer a handshake, but I doubt she wants one of my tear covered ones. “I’m the new girl on the block.”

  “Cute accent. Where’d you pick it up?”

  “Hey, Laurel. What are you doing up this early?” Smythe holds a box of tissues in his hand as he walks toward us.

  Laurel flutters her lashes at him. Oh geez. “Who says I got up? Maybe I’m just coming home.”

  Smythe hands me the box. No more tears coming up. I grab a tissue and start dabbing at my cheeks.

  “If you were coming home, you’d be headed the other direction. Come on, Gin, let’s go.”

  Ignoring Laurel’s huff, Smythe half-drags me down the hall and into the white room.

  “In a rush to get away?”

  “She has a crush on me. It creates problems.”

  “Problems?”

  He waves a hand, clearing my question as he would a foul odor.

  “Who is she?”

  “A potential justitian.”

  “And that puts her off limits?”

  “Her age puts her off limits. Do you want to chat or go home?”

  “Home Jeeves.”

  He shakes his head, eyes closed as if asking for patience. Holding one hand toward the special portal-forming corner, he mutters under his breath until the portal appears. As he grabs my hand, leading me into the icy depths, I offer a quick smile to the computer geeks. Who ignore me. Not that I blame them. I’m not looking my best.

  The portal drops us in my living room. Warm air rushes across my skin from the ceiling air vent. It takes me a moment to realize the air only feels warm after the icy depths of the portal. Sunlight peeks under the blinds, bathing the room in a dull gleam. The air conditioner wheezes a needs-repair-work tune.

  Smythe heads for the kitchen. I start to follow until Blake’s picture on the card pops into my mind. I can’t go in there. I can’t see that picture.

  As if he reads my mind—which he probably does—Smythe picks up the card, folds it in half and slips it into the pocket of his jeans. Then he picks up yesterday’s paper, shakes it to get my attention.

  “Trash or recycle?”

  “Recycle. Out the back door.”

  Despite the kitchen’s current newspaper-less state, I can’t go in there. My feet freeze in the doorway, my heart hammering behind my ribs. Not good if I ever wanted to eat again. The food is in the kitchen.

  “Everything okay here?” Smythe picks up his laptop, turns to face me. “I need to take care of some things if you don’t need me.”

  “I’m fine.” Liar, liar, pants on fire. “T’s coming over.” Or he will be once I ask him to.

  “Good. I’ll come back tomorrow. I need to do a better job of training you.”

  “You’re doing fine.”

  “You have a lot more to learn. It’s hard to know where to start when you weren’t born into it.”

  “You’re telling me.” I lean against the wall, hoping to look nonchalant as opposed to fearful of my own kitchen. Hopefully he won’t notice. Stranger things have happened. “I work tomorrow. Don’t stop by until after eight. Okay?”

  “We’re going to need to do something about that. Justitians don’t hold other jobs.”

  “Either rig the lottery or pay me what I currently make. Until then stop by after I get off work.”

  “All right.” He forms a portal to the side. “Rest up. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Okay. And Smythe?” He pauses, turns to look at me. “Thank you. For saving me.”

  “That’s my job. See you tomorrow.” He steps through the portal, disappearing into the icy swirls.

  Chapter 27

  I walk backward, until the backs of my legs hit the arm of the couch. Still can’t go in the kitchen. Damn. I hate panic attacks.

  Leaning against the couch arm, I open the connection between our minds and call T. Once he promises to come over, I walk into my room. My tank top is torn and bloody, my shorts not much better. The shoes, though, look okay. I drop Smythe’s shirt and borrowed scrub pants on the bed. Stripped naked, I walk into the bathroom. Brush my teeth. Comb my hair. Pull it into a knot and hop into the shower.

  T’s sitting on my bed when I get out of the hot, humid bliss. My feet freeze in the doorway. But only for a second. Then I’m darting back into the bathroom to grab the towel, yelling over my shoulder.

  “What the hell? Did you learn to portal?”

  “I’ve been here for ten minutes. Thought you heard me holler.”

  Towel firmly in place under my arms and held there by both hands, I give him a glare as I head for the dresser. “You scared the crap out of me.”

  “You want me here or not?”

  “Dumb question. Turn around.” Once he faces the other way, I pull out a pair of panties, slip them on while holding the towel in place. “Where’s Jackie?”

  “Probably at work by now.”

  Oh, yeah. I forgot she’s a cashier at one of the big chain super-stores. Good thing the cash register tells her how much change to give.

  I pull on a pair of shorts, keeping the towel in place until they sit on my hips. Then I put on a bra and stick a tee-shirt over my head, pulling it into place as I drop the towel. Dressed and ready to go.

  Go sit in the living room that is. Not sure I can make it into the kitchen. The whole thought of walking in there speeds my breath and heart rate until I sound like an overheated dog.

  “You okay?” T runs a hand over his head, watching me towel-dry my hair.

  I shoot him a glance, walk back into the bathroom. “Yeah.”

  Floors squeak as he follows me. I hang the towel on the hook and start combing my hair.

  “Liar.” Nothing like having a mind-reading twin. “You wouldn’t have called if you were okay.”

  “Then why did you ask?”

  “Give you a chance to speak about it.”

  “You know what it is.”

  “Yeah, but it helps to talk about it.”

  “What are you now? Sigmund Freud?”

  “You’re the one that called me over.”

  I toss the comb on the counter, eyes tearing. “I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. He’s dead, T. What am I going to do without him?”

  T gathers me into his arms, holding me as I sob on his shoulder. I’m a mess. An ugly mess. A rotten friend. Despite my fancy new bracelet, despite my bond with the justitia, I couldn’t even save the one person that meant so much to me.

  “You still have me, Gin. You’ll always have me.”

  Peace flows through
me, quieting my sobs, calming my self-loathing thoughts. I did all I could to save Blake. Yes, I should’ve found the note the day before, but could we have saved him?

  He was already dead.

  T’s voice or my justitia? Or my own realization? By the time I saw his body, he’d been dead for at least a day. Was probably killed after they took the picture. Keeping him alive had never been the goal. Causing me to suffer like Jezebeth suffered was the end result.

  Am I going to let a demon win?

  A dead demon at that?

  I sniff, snuffle a hiccup. How do I grieve but not let her win?

  “Let’s get a bite to eat.” T strokes my back, my wet hair.

  “Not hungry.” Not to mention the kitchen thing. I can’t go into the room where Blake’s picture was. I can’t see his bloodied face, the fear in his eyes. I can’t.

  Which in a way is letting Jezebeth win. I’ll fight that battle another day.

  “Well, I am. Let’s go.” Still holding me, he backs out of the bathroom, crosses the hall, aims for the kitchen.

  I dig my heels into the floor, trying to halt the progress. My breath hitches in my throat, my pulse floods my ears, eliminating noise. T tightens his grip around me, lifting me up so my feet dangle.

  I try to shove against his embrace, try to run, try to fight, but I’m caught, a mouse in a cat’s jaws. He sets my feet on the tile floor of the kitchen, his grasp firm around my waist.

  I know what he’s trying to do, in the back of my mind I understand, but the kitchen holds memories I want forgotten. I don’t want to look at the table and see the paper. Don’t want to see Blake’s face on the card. Don’t want to remember how I felt upon seeing it. How I still feel now.

  T holds me. Always holds me. Always comes for me. Always loves me.

  The kitchen still frightens. It holds memories I’ll never forget. Maybe I’ll never be able to nonchalantly walk into the room to grab coffee, or cook a meal, but I’m not going to die in here either.

  At least not today.

  The peace of his touch streams through me, calming my runaway emotions. My heart-rate remains high, my pulse singing a tune of fear in my head.

  “It can’t hurt you, Gin. You know that, right?”

  Swallowing, I close my eyes. How many times in my past has this happened? Granted, not for years, not since I cobbled my life together with will and drive, but enough times for me to recognize, this too will pass.

  I refuse to open my eyes. The panic attack might pass, but it might also return if I pay attention to where I stand. T’s grip on my waist relaxes, as if he senses the switch in my emotions.

  “Better?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Stand here,” He leans me against the wall, drops his arms. “I’ll get me something and we’ll talk in the living room.”

  “Okay.” Not opening my eyes though. Drawing a deep breath through my nose, I focus on pulling the air down, down, until it hits below my navel. Then I release it, imagining the air traveling up my spine, throwing bad spirits out of my body. As I continue to focus on my breathing, my muscles relax, calming my senses.

  A whoosh of air passes me, followed by the scent of mustard, floorboards squeaking as T walks into the living room. He sets the plate on the coffee table, stoneware thunking against wood. More squeaking and his touch, feather-light against my arm.

  “Come on. Open your eyes and talk to me while I eat.”

  I can do this. I can open my eyes and see the kitchen. I can.

  Forcing my lids open, I stare into T’s eyes. And keep staring as he leads me out of the kitchen. Once I’m in the living room I step away.

  “Thanks. I’m better. I think.”

  “Sure you are. Sit down and tell me about things.”

  Somehow he managed to carry two glasses of water and a plate into the living room with only one trip. My brother, full of juggling skills.

  I pick up a glass, take a sip. Hold it in my hands, rubbing a finger over the perspiration beading down the sides. “I’m not sure what’s going on anymore, T. Neither’s the justitia.”

  “Go on,” he speaks around a mouthful of ham sandwich.

  “I’m supposed to fight minions. And the occasional demon who appears on earth. Which is rather disconcerting when you think about it, but okay, whatever. But I don’t think I’m getting the whole truth from the Agency.”

  “Why?”

  “Zagan, the demon who captured me...”

  “The bastard who was kissing you?”

  My cheeks heat. “Yeah. That one.” The less I say about that kiss the better. “Anyway, he told me about the runes on my justitia. The Agency claims they’ve never heard of it and that Zagan is a deceiver and I can’t believe a word he says.”

  “Then why do you?”

  “I don’t know. My justitia feels the same. Zagan’s a worthy opponent, but not a liar when it comes to certain things.”

  “You can’t always go by feelings. Cold hard facts are what you need.”

  “The only way to get those is to figure out what’s going on at the Agency.”

  “Get to know the others like you. What do you call yourselves?”

  “Justitians.”

  “Yeah, those. Ask around. Maybe Smythe knows something.”

  “I don’t think he knows anymore than anyone else. He doesn’t even know where my justitia disappeared to. Or how it disappeared. Or how I got it. He’s still researching the matter.”

  “You sure you can’t just take that thing off and return it to them?”

  “Yeah. And I don’t want to either. I like it right where it is.”

  “I don’t.”

  “I know.”

  After wiping his fingers on his shorts, he leans over, traces the former gash from my neck down to my collarbone. Warmth flows from his touch, settling deep inside.

  “He doesn’t control you, you know.”

  “No, I don’t. What if he does?” Cold creeps into my marrow at the thought, rattling my limbs like a seizure. T pats my shoulder, drops his hand to his lap.

  “Look inside. What do you see?” He takes the last bite of his sandwich, chewing while waiting for my response.

  I do as he asks, closing my eyes, searching inside for Zagan’s influence. Nothing. I don’t even notice the justitia and I know it lives along my nerves. I take a deep breath, try again. This time I see the purple glow of the justitia twining around my nerves. Creepy.

  But I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Nothing but the justitia entwines around my nerves. Nothing.

  A flicker of relief flares to life.

  I’m not controlled by the demon. Somehow, despite what I did and what should have occurred, I’m free of his influence. How did my justitia burn out his control?

  Do I really care the how as long as the end result is me thinking sans demon-influence?

  “Nothing but the justitia.” My eyes open and I can’t help the smile flirting with my lips. “He doesn’t control me!”

  “Glad you see it, too.”

  “Too?”

  “I didn’t notice anything but that damn bracelet inside you. Which is creepy enough. You just needed to believe you’re demon free.”

  Smart man, my brother.

  Except when it comes to choosing dating partners.

  T sets his plate down. Drains his glass dry. Puts it back on the coffee table. “You worried me. I don’t like to worry about you.” He grabs my hand, gives it a squeeze.

  I return the grip, squeezing as hard as possible, drawing his concern around me like a shawl. The peace felt from our clasped palms surrounds us, calms our hearts into one pulse, one union, one being. Like when we were in our mother’s womb, protected from the world, safe from harm. A wave of peace rocks against my skin, pulling me into its depths. With a sigh, I relax, letting the wave pull me into the darkness of its embrace.

  Chapter 28

  I flash my hospital badge at the staffer whose job it is to allow no more than two f
amily members at a time to pass into the ICU. Hospital staff don’t count as family, even if we’re the only family a patient has.

  Take Will for instance. No family left. No one but his co-workers. Since he woke from a coma yesterday, we’ve been taking shifts sitting with him.

  Today’s my turn. Good thing he’s awake from the coma. I have more questions than a reporter.

  I poke my head into the room. Sally Ann sits beside a sleeping Will, chomping on a bag of vending machine cookies. She waves a hand in front of her mouth, exaggerating her chewing, her head tilting from side to side as she waits to swallow before talking.

  Normally I don’t mind chatting it up with Sally Ann, but today I want to wake Will and let the questioning begin. I only have so much time before I need to be back in the ER.

  She swallows and stands, stepping beside me. “Gin, hon, haven’t gotten a chance yet to say, I’m so sorry about your friend.” Sally Ann pats my shoulder, her manicured nails scratching against my scrub top. “I saw it on the news last night. What a shame. He was such a cutie. I can’t believe someone would do that to him.”

  “Me either.” The police found Blake’s body yesterday morning, and the news splashed the find across the TV last night. Lawyer’s body found, throat slashed. Mugging gone bad.

  Little do they know. And it’s my job—or the Agency’s—to keep it that way.

  “I can’t believe it. Oh, honey, I’m so sorry. Here, have a tissue.” A tissue box appears under my chin, tissue fluttering as she waves the box.

  It amazes me how grief sneaks upon you at inopportune times, causing uncontrolled tears. I thought my mental deep breathing exercises on the drive in prepared me for questions about Blake.

  So much for that idea.

  On the plus side, Sally Ann is the only person at the hospital who’s met Blake. Maybe no one else will comment on the find.

  I can wish.

  “I’m sorry.” I swipe the tissue under my eyes, hoping to get things under control before speaking to Will. Hard to get answers while crying. “I’m having a hard time of it. It was a surprise.”

  “He was so nice. I loved talking to him at your party. I just can’t believe it. And don’t worry about the tears. If people don’t understand, they can just go to hell.”