Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel)

by Karilyn Bentley

  “You sure you don’t want to go home? You look like shit warmed over.”

  “Thanks. You really know how to make a man feel good.”

  “That’s my specialty. Really though. You must’ve burned through a ton of magic.”

  “You try erasing over ten cameras while fuzzing out a sword and casting an invisibility spell. See what you look like afterward.”

  “Thank you. I was afraid I might go viral.”

  “Not today. Go on. I’ll be here when you get back.”

  One look at his face, and I bit back the are-you-sure comment hanging on my tongue. Shit warmed over only begins to describe him. Maybe it’s the florescent lighting, but a pale green tinges his skin like a prelude to the explosion of a certain green comic book character. The faster I check out the demon energy blob, the faster he can return home to recover.

  Giving him a jaunty salute, which he counters with a head shake, I circle around until I reach a spot a stone’s throw from where the knife attack just occurred. No guesswork on where the demon appeared.

  Not far from where I stand, the CSI unit, detectives, security and a spattering of witnesses mills around like overactive bees at a nectar convention. My attention darts from them to the black blob of energy floating at the end of the hall. Dark ribbons encircle the blob, strands of fright woven into the fabric. Like the first time I saw it, I swear the blob mocks me. My justitia shivers, silver links rattling an eerie vibration up my arm.

  I’m no expert, but I’m going with the theory this is the same demon as before. Ole Cracked Flesh. Shivers cascade along shuddering nerves. I want nothing more than to run.

  Since no one tells me otherwise, I give into the urge, darting around corners until I see Smythe. Only then do I slow to a walk.

  “Feeling better?”

  He nods a lie. The green tinge has faded but dark circles ring his eyes with exhaustion. “Ready for the office?”

  “Are you?”

  Instead of answering, he pushes to his feet, his strides shorter than normal, his hand avoiding the wall. Nothing like proving he can walk on his own. We avoid the crime scene, heading the opposite direction. When we get to Dr. Sheevers’s office, Smythe pulls a lock-pick out of his pocket. The last time I saw him use the tool was when we broke into a warehouse. Where Blake died. Where Jezebeth tried to kill me. Where Zagan kidnapped me and took me to his lair.

  My chest aches as if a hand squeezes the beat out of my heart. My breath comes in fits and starts, little punches of air insufficient to send oxygen to my brain. Black spots dot the periphery of my vision. The lock clicks open, and Smythe pushes the door wide.

  “What’s wrong?” His eyes flare as he takes in my hyperventilating.

  “Panic attack.”

  “Okay. Can you have it inside the office instead of in the hall?”

  He grabs my arm, hauling me inside before shutting the door and throwing the lock. For a mage who burned through enough energy to almost pass out, his grasp rivals that of a vise grip.

  “What started it? The demon?”

  “Your lock-pick.”

  Smythe looks at the offending tool, one brow rising as if to say what the fuck.

  “You used it to pick the lock on the warehouse. Where we found Blake.”

  “Oh.”

  One minute I’m focusing on calming my hyperactive breathing, and the next he’s slapped the lock-pick into my upturned palm. Warmth floods from the tool and his hand on my wrist, peace vying against panic.

  The metal lock-pick looks and feels innocuous. Normal. Not a reason to panic.

  I squeeze my eyes shut and haul a deep breath through my nose. There is no reason to fear the thing. It’s not my door its picking. Another breath in and out, and my heart slows from marathon fast to a lazy jog. Am I really panicking over a stupid tool? Sure, that tool could get my ass thrown in jail for breaking and entering, but a little jail time is no reason to freak out in front of my mentor. Panic attacks are so irrational.

  Using a move Smythe taught me, I twist out of his grasp, slapping the lock-pick against his chest. He steps back as if I punched him, forcing me to grab his arm to keep him from falling.

  “Sorry.” How bad off was he? Usually he offered a glare instead of a stumble. “You okay?”

  “Fine.” Sticking the tool in his pocket, he walks with the speed of an elderly man, stiff-legged and shuffling. Not good. He nails the landing into one of the chairs facing the desk, flopping like a kid off a diving board. “Why are we here?”

  “Demon—”

  “I mean the office. What did the demon want in this office bad enough to make a minion for?”

  “I don’t know.” I walk around the desk and sit in the professor’s chair facing Smythe. “Cracked Flesh isn’t acting normal.”

  “Gin.” The growl in his tone rubs bumps along my skin. “It’s a demon. They specialize in not normal.”

  “Duh. I mean, why did it try to convert Mason, the grad student, into a minion? Probably to get into the lab. Then it appeared in the lab. Why not just portal in, grab the anthrax and leave? But no. It waits until the anthrax is stolen before popping in. Same thing today. Why not just portal into this office? Why make a minion?”

  “Good point.” He rubs the bridge of his nose. “Unless it’s not after the anthrax?”

  “Okay. Then what’s it doing in the lab? I’d bet good money the knife-wielding woman works in Dr. Sheevers’ lab.”

  “She shouldn’t have the key to the office.”

  “Maybe he gave it to her because they were having an affair.”

  “Watch daytime programming much?”

  I shrug. What was the demon up to? If it didn’t want the anthrax, then what was it after? My gaze drifts to the pictures huddled on the desk, sticking on the one of a younger professor on his wedding day.

  “What happened to his wife?”

  Smythe stops rubbing his head. “None of the info I found stated anything about a wife.”

  I hold up the wedding photo, turn the smiling couple to face him. “See? A younger prof.”

  “Are you sure that’s him?”

  “Who else would it be?”

  “A brother? A cousin?” Smythe shrugs.

  “Maybe she died. Or divorced him. And he still loves her and kept their wedding picture.”

  “Never pegged you for a romantic.”

  “Hey, we all have our faults.”

  He shakes his head. “We still don’t know why the demon wanted in this office. Do you see anything out of place?”

  “Just us.”

  Ignoring my smartass response—as if he’s used to it—he looks around the room, gaze lingering on the bookshelf behind the desk. I spin my chair around, trying to discover what holds his attention. Microbiology journals line the shelf, clearly demonstrating someone’s abhorrence for online reading. A variety of microbiology textbooks sit interspersed among the journals.

  Nothing out of the ordinary for a professor’s office.

  “Notice anything odd?” The gravely tone of his voice causes me to turn.

  Screw the demon’s quest. Smythe needs medical help. Or whatever mages do when they burn through magic. “Yep. You look like you’ve been ridden hard and put up wet. We’re going home.”

  He opens his mouth to object, and I hold up a hand, giving him my best nurse’s glare. “Not going there. Do I need to call T to pick us up?”

  His glare strikes me like a physical blow. “Don’t be ridiculous.” He shoves to his feet, grasping the desk with one hand while thrusting his other forward, palm facing the wall to my left. A roll of ancient words drips off his lips in an angry rush, opening a slash of light in the fabric of space, a method of travel older than the words used for its construction.

  He lowers his hand, his glare speaking for him: See? I’m not as weak as you think.

  His stumble and near fall belies his I-am-man-hear-me-roar glare.

  I raise a brow. Yeah, right.

  Smythe’s eyes n
arrow as he holds his hand to me. For my support or his? I step around the desk and grasp his forearm. Less chance of him taking a tumble. The deceptive warm air billowing out of the portal greets us like a forbidden lover’s caress, spitting us out in my living room chilled and shaken.

  And that was before I noticed several cops and a scattering of firemen dressed in hazmat suits milling around my front yard. Crime scene tape rings my yard like a sweat stain on a white shirt.

  What the fuck.

  Chapter Sixteen

  I’m halfway to the front door before Smythe grabs my arm, stopping me from announcing our presence. A fine tremor runs through my mentor, a warning bell signaling an impending collapse.

  A bad sign. What does he need to replenish his magic? What should I—

  “We need to portal down the street and walk back.”

  “There’s something wrong in my yard. We need to get out there now. And you’re too weak to portal anywhere.”

  His glare frosts my skin, and before I can apologize, he opens a portal and yanks me through it. He stumbles as the portal spits us out along the side of a neighbor’s house, and I wrap an arm around his waist to keep him from falling onto a patch of dead grass and paving stones.

  “What were you thinking?”

  He leans against the house, sucking down air like a man saved from drowning, his face ashen. “They were in the backyard.”

  “How did you know that? I didn’t see anyone.” Not that I looked. Seeing emergency responders in my front yard blocked out everything else.

  “Standard protocol. We need to find out what happened.”

  “No problem. It’s my house. I’m headed over there right now. Wait here.” I make it two feet before a heavy body lurches into me. “Didn’t I—”

  “You might need me. I’m fine.” His ashen face speaks a different story.

  Men.

  Smythe manages to walk—or should I say stumble—beside me as I stride two doors down to my house. A shiny red fire truck sits in front of the driveway, fencing in T’s car. My brain and feet stutter to a stop in my next-door neighbor’s yard, next to my driveway. Oh my God. T was in the house when whatever happened, happened. Is he okay?

  As if he hears me, he steps out of the way of a hazmat-covered fireman, gaze sweeping left and right until he spots me. His eyes flare, a smile tinges his lips before vanishing, and he offers me a half-wave.

  What the hell happened? Are you okay?

  A grim expression sits on his face like a shroud. Did someone die? In my house?

  Before he can answer, a cop walks to me. “You can’t be here. This area is cordoned off.”

  “That’s my house! My brother! What the hell happened to my house?”

  “How did you get here? The street is blocked.”

  I look over my shoulder. Sure enough the street is barricaded by a police car complete with two sweaty and chatting cops. Good point. I doubt the man would believe I appeared in a flowerbed.

  “I, uh, I—”

  “She’s allowed inside the perimeter.” One of Smythe’s hands waves an arc in front of his face while he performs his version of a mind trick on the cop.

  Who blinks, once, twice, his surprised face returning to a normal expression as he nods.

  My mentor rocks. Now I need to figure out why my yard looks like the training ground for a chemical spill. And help Smythe sit before he falls.

  I grab my mentor’s waist and lower him to the ground. The cop shoots him a quizzical look, but only for a second. Smythe waves his hand in an arc and the cop’s stare fuzzes as if he sees a magic-depleted mage all the time. No biggie.

  By the time I straighten, T stands at my side, his skin color giving Smythe’s a run on palest face of the year award.

  “You’re not supposed to be over here.” The cop glares and T glances to the ground like a contrite child.

  What the heck?

  “She’s my sister.”

  “Oh. She’s allowed in. But get back to the yard.” He points, and T steps back until he stands on my patch of withered lawn.

  Again. What. The. Hell.

  Leaving Smythe sitting next to my driveway, I follow T to my yard. “What happened?”

  T sends me telepathic visuals of what happened, a method faster than speech. On the downside, it leaves me gaping like a student in a dunce hat, which never looks good when faced with a gaggle of cops and white suited firemen. And T has to answer me out loud so as not to cause suspicion.

  If they thought my sudden appearance strange, no telling what they’d do when faced with telepathic twins.

  “I found an envelope leaking white powder on the front porch.”

  While he speaks, I run through his memories. T arriving, planning on pouring salt and iron flakes around all the windows and doors to keep out ghosts and other evil beasties, but instead finds an envelope sitting on the porch, white powder escaping the corners.

  Stolen anthrax + demon = unwanted gift for Gin.

  I might have flunked math in school, but it doesn’t take a genius to add up those facts. Would a demon really bother to leave me an envelope when it could appear for another round of energy ball pitch practice? What were we dealing with?

  A demon? T’s voice mixes anger with fear.

  I return the telepathic favor, slamming my memories of the day into his mind so he gapes like an idiot, too.

  Since the cop stares at the two of us as if we sprouted a third eye, I might want to act scared about the possibility of anthrax.

  Wait. There. Is. Anthrax. In. My. Yard. Is it in my house too?

  Act scared? I don’t need to act. A douse of metaphorical cold water freezes my back straight. I go from slightly worried to totally freaked out in under a second.

  “What? An envelope? Is it anthrax? Is there anthrax in my freaking house?” My voice lifts into the outer atmosphere, loud enough for the space-station to hear. I can’t stop my hands from trembling.

  And here I thought drinking coffee close to Dr. Sheevers’s lab freaked me out.

  T grabs one of my flailing hands, his touch a soothing balm. For a moment. The cop makes soothing noises.

  “Gin!” Smythe’s voice snaps like a rubber band; hard and fast and stinging. If he intends to calm me, he succeeds. Huh. “T left it on the porch and called the police from the yard. It’s not in your house.”

  My breath hitches, and I force it into my lungs. On the porch. Not in the house.

  “The level one responders are handling it,” the cop says, gesturing to a cluster of white-suited firemen on my porch. “But it’s now a federal crime scene, and the FBI will be here soon.”

  My house a federal crime scene? Oh my God.

  I glance to Smythe. He still looks mostly dead. Both of his palms are planted on either side of his crossed legs, his eyes are closed as if he’s concentrating. While T pales further at the thought of the FBI, Smythe doesn’t flinch.

  So much for him performing his FBI impersonation.

  “The FBI? My house is a federal crime scene?”

  “Yep. We also called the CDC. No one except your brother touched the letter. And he dropped it once he saw the powder.” All memories now shared with T.

  Oh my God. T touched anthrax. One hand covers my mouth as I stare at my twin. What if he gets ill? What if he dies? His pale face mirrors my thoughts.

  “He’ll be monitored. Don’t worry.”

  Yeah, right, Officer. Not worry? He’s my brother, my twin, the other half of my soul. Worry is all I can do.

  Worry and kill the bastard who threatened T’s life.

  “Can I see the envelope? Maybe I’ll recognize the writing.”

  “I don’t think that’s possible. At least not the real envelope. I’ll see if someone took a picture and maybe they’ll let you look at it.” He heads toward a lone fireman standing by the truck.

  T clears his throat. “There’s nothing on there but your name.”

  “No address?”

  “Nope. Just
your name. And before you ask, I didn’t recognize the writing.”

  The cop gestures me over to the fire truck, interrupting our conversation. When we get to the truck, the fireman holds out a camera, displaying a picture of the envelope. White and legal-sized, the envelope glares like a LED billboard at night. Gin Crawford is scrawled across the front in a neat font I usually associate with my mother’s generation.

  Who the hell left me this?

  I shake my head at the picture like it contains a one-way trip to Hell. Which it very well might.

  Hell and anthrax. What a combination.

  “Recognize the writing?” The fireman asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Don’t worry,” the cop adds, his platitude not stopping the worry molecules bouncing through my veins. “The FBI will get to the bottom of this.”

  Not if there’s a demon involved, they won’t. But what are the chances of that? Demons would rather throw energy balls or turn you into a minion. Sending an envelope full of anthrax powder isn’t their modus operandi.

  But then again, what do I know about demons? It’s not like I passed demonology 101. Maybe anthrax- sending demons are par for the course.

  “Thanks.” I wave at the camera and head toward Smythe.

  “Don’t leave this yard!”

  Thank you, Mr. Policeman.

  T steps beside me as I stop beside my driveway and stare at a closed-eyed Smythe. His coloring looks a bit better but that could just be sun exposure. A Texas summer will do that to you. Step outside, and it’s like you’ve been dunked in an armpit.

  “What’s wrong with wonder boy?” T crosses his arms and stares at Smythe.

  “Burned through too much magic.” I turn to face my twin. “Aren’t you worried? What if you get sick?” I reach for his hand, his flesh warm under my palm. Peace, clouded with worry, flows between us, the touch not bringing the usual comfort.

  For the first time in a long time, a thick clot of fear runs through his veins.

  “I shouldn’t have picked it up, but I thought it was important.”

  “How could you have known?”

  “You think it’s related to what was stolen this morning?”

  “I don’t know.” Why would the thief of Dr. Sheevers’ anthrax want me dead?