And just like that I go from inquisitive to wanting to hide. He knows. Panic slides into my chest, hitching my breathing, racing my heart. What will he do? Will he turn us in? Blackmail? The coffee mug hangs frozen in my hand, halfway to my mouth. Frozen, like my body, like my mouth. My mind though, that traitorous mind, replays years ago events like they happened yesterday.
A breath full of liquor mingled with the stench of unwashed body. Pain flaring along bruised flesh. The knowledge death stood a step away. The feel of cold iron in my palm. The sound of metal meeting flesh. The rush of blood dropping against my skin.
“Gin?” Smythe touches my arm, his hand hot against my chilled flesh.
I swallow. “Sorry. Just thinking. I’m a nurse, not a killer so I have to think on it.” Liar, liar.
“You don’t look so good.”
“I’m fine. The question just caught me off guard. What about you? Why would you commit a murder?”
“If someone tried to kill me or the ones I loved.”
“Good answer.” Does that mean he thinks those reasons are okay?
I shake my head, stare at my mug, and make my eyes flare. “Look at that. I’m out of coffee. Would you like some?”
He shakes his head but eyes me as if my trembling limbs might fall off.
“Okay, then. Be right back.” What were the chances he’d forget about my reaction while I poured another cup of coffee? Slim? Or none?
I lean against the counter. Draw in a breath. And another. Pour the coffee into my mug. Maybe he’ll chalk my tremor to too much coffee. It could happen.
“You were right.” Smythe hollers from the other room. Right about what? Oh. The murdering twin remark. At least I hope that’s what he’s referring to.
Perhaps my luck will hold after all, and he won’t question me about things best left buried. I grab the mug and head back to the couch.
“I told you Stan killed his twin.”
“Looks like there are fingerprints for Stan in Dan Sheevers’s house. According to the police report, the brothers hadn’t seen each other in years. Stan is under investigation, but they haven’t been able to find him.”
“We’ve seen him, though, right? That would’ve been him we talked to at the med school.” A realization slams into my mind, hitching my breath. “What if he’s the one who stole the anthrax?”
Smythe clicks more keys, nodding at the result. “The police suspect him. Still doesn’t explain why you got it, or why the demon appeared. Or where the demon is.”
“Or what it is.” And please, oh, please, don’t let me see the thing again.
So much for being a demon huntress.
“Eloise thinks it’s a fear demon. One of the worst kinds.”
“A fear demon is one of the worst demons? Or this particular one is badder than most?” I need a demonology textbook to keep all these demons straight.
“Yes.”
“Which one?”
“Both. Either. Instead of discovering the mystery of the Sheevers twins, we should be working on a plan to stop the demon.”
“Stop him from what? Returning? Because hopping a portal to Hell is not on my to-do list for the day.”
He shakes his head. “Justitians do not jump portals to Hell. We wait until the demon appears. If it appears. This one isn’t following the normal parameters.”
“It doesn’t make minions from bad people.” That’s one demon lesson I learned early. “The students it’s hopped into had souls too good to allow the possession. A waste of the demon. Why bother?”
“Yep. That’s the question of the day.” He sets the laptop on the coffee table and stands. “I’m hungry. We can discuss the game plan over breakfast.”
Having a man around who can cook, rocks. I hate fixing breakfast. If it’s not cereal, coffee and the obligatory piece of fruit, then it doesn’t get made.
But Smythe loves his bacon and eggs. Being the gracious host, I hand him a skillet and let him go to town. Another cup of coffee and the paper, coming up.
I pull the protective sleeve off the paper, pitch it in the trash and plant my butt in my chair. Only to choke on a mouthful of coffee.
“You okay?”
I point to the paper. “We know where the anthrax went.”
Chapter Nineteen
Smythe abandons his skillet to lean over my shoulder. He lets loose a low whistle as he reads the headline: Anthrax found in City Councilmembers’ Mail. “Damn. How many city council members found an envelope in their mailbox?”
I scan the article, flipping pages to the continuation. “All of them in their home mail. Looks like the letters contained a false postmark. Stan Sheevers has been a busy man.”
“Provided he’s the perp.” Smythe squeezes my shoulder and returns to the stove.
“We’ve been through this. Of course he is.”
“Innocent until proven guilty. Not the other way around. And since now it’s a police matter, we can concentrate on the demon. Maybe we should look at other anthrax labs and see if it appears.”
“Why? Anthrax can be found in nature.”
“Not the purified kind.”
“Any kind is not a good thing.”
He snorts, his concentration taken by the bacon sizzling in the skillet.
I return to the paper. I’m right about Stan being the perpetrator. I know I am. I know I have the name of the person responsible for almost killing my twin with an anthrax-laced letter.
Unfortunately, he’s not a minion and I’m not a repeat murderer. I sigh. As much as I don’t want to admit it, Smythe is right. The police need to handle Stan. We have to concentrate on the demon.
For once my justitia fails to get excited about a potential demon hunt. And what does that tell me? Right. Maybe I should stay home and concentrate on something I can handle. Like cooking dinner.
Chances are good T and Jackie will show up and expect a meal. Either I cook, or Jackie will try her hand at not burning the kitchen again. Do I really want to tempt fate twice?
I grab my mug and head to the cabinet containing the cookbooks.
“Whatcha doing?”
“Trying to come up with something to cook tonight.”
“Preplanning meals now?”
“I don’t mind fixing dinner. It’s breakfast I hate to cook.”
“Lucky for you I made breakfast.” He gestures to a skillet of scrambled eggs and a plate of bacon on the stove.
“I knew I kept you around for a reason.”
A half-grin kicks one side of his lips. Does that mean he trusts me again? Asking would make me seem insecure. No sense in clueing him in.
I grab a plate, load it with bacon and eggs, pick up my mug, and carry everything to the table. Smythe follows, shoves the paper out of the way before sitting.
“I want to know why the demon wants the anthrax.” He amends the sentence as I shoot him a for-real stare. “I know the demon wants to wreak havoc with it, I’m not stupid. But why this anthrax? Why not another batch?”
“Why do demons normally appear on earth?”
“What does that have to do with anthrax?”
“Nothing. Everything. Why do they?”
His brow raise accents his disgusted tone. “I taught you that your first week.”
“Maybe I need a refresher course.”
“Your first week was a week and a half ago. You do not need a refresher course.”
“Are you going to lecture me or answer the question?”
His glare offers an icy one-way trip to hell. “Remember this—”
“Yes, O Master.”
“Mentor.” One side of his lip twitches. “Demons prefer not to appear on earth. When they do, they usually try to make minions to do their dirty work for them. When they appear, it’s brief.”
“And captured by the Agency’s computers, right?”
“Yes. As long as they are on earth for at least thirty seconds.”
Zagan pops into my mind. Did the Agency know he paid me a visit the other night? �
�Always?”
“Demons disrupt the space-continuum. The computer program picks up that rupture. At least it’s supposed to. It picked up the fear demon as a flock of birds.” He shakes his head.
“Yep, that was a bad mistake. A flock of birds? Really?” I’m pretty sure if I made a mistake like that in my job, Nurse Hatchet would fire me.
“The programmers will fix the bug. It works most of the time, or we wouldn’t use it. The computers picked up this recent demon. But the program doesn’t track where the demon goes, only when it appears from hell.”
“So it can appear, blend in, and the Agency would lose it?”
“Demons don’t blend in. But in theory, I suppose. Why?”
“No reason.” Zagan was safe. I refuse to give attention to why that matters. Even my justitia sighs in relief at the thought.
Smythe stuffs his last piece of bacon into his mouth and talks around it. “Do you think the demon is loose in the world hunting biological weapons?”
“Not really. I’m trying to understand why the thing wastes energy on making minions it can’t keep. It doesn’t make sense.”
“It’s a demon. That’s all the sense you need.”
I shove back my chair and grab my plate. “Okay then. Enough about demons. I’m going to prep dinner.”
“I’ll take a shower while you do that.”
Now why did he have to go and mention showering? My mind hops from cooking dinner to cooking of a whole other kind. Why can I not keep my mind out of his pants? What the hell is wrong with me?
One oversexed empath coming up.
Smythe leaves me alone with the dishes, a cookbook, and the hormone levels of a bitch in heat.
Damn it.
Instead of focusing on a naked, buff Smythe with water rushing over his rippling muscles, I turn my attention to dinner. A flip through the cookbook and shuffle of pantry items, and I place the ingredients for Virginia chicken casserole on the counter. By the time Smythe’s footsteps stride to the living room, I have the ingredients assembled, the oven heated, and the dish ready to cook.
A heavy squeak of the couch springs indicates my mentor relaxes with his laptop. I poke my head around the doorframe into the living room. Always nice to know my ears heard things correctly.
I put the dish in the oven, set the timer, and head to the bedroom.
And come to a complete stop. The bedcovers hang in a haphazard mess, the result of Smythe falling out of bed to come to the rescue of his laptop. I straighten the covers, plump the pillows. My hand lingers on his pillow, the same pillow Blake used. If I close my eyes, I can see Blake lying here, waiting for me, his smile a caress of love.
My fingers tighten on the pillowcase, skin blanching, memories of our time together playing through my mind. I grab the pillow, bring it up to my nose, and inhale. But it’s not Blake I smell, it’s Smythe. Like a dog, covering the scent of another, erasing memories from my heart.
Instead of smelling the pillow, I need to use it to whack some sense into my head. A couple of hits later, I return the pillow to its place. No sense damaging the thing on my thick skull.
Blake is dead. Smelling his scent, remembering his expression as he looked at me as if I was something precious, only leads to sadness. Remembering him for who he was, my friend, my lover, one of the few who understood me, then letting him go was the only way for me to survive his death.
Easier thought than done. I want him in the flesh. I have him as a ghost as long as T’s around. Where’s the fun in that? And shouldn’t he be doing something in the afterlife? Like twirling around on a cloud with a harp and a hot angel?
I giggle at the mental picture of Blake dancing on a cloud. Then slap both hands over my face and draw in a shaky breath. When my hands drop, I wish I’d left my eyes closed.
Zagan leans against the wall, his six-foot tall muscular frame looking good in a skin-tight white t-shirt and black jeans. Black hair pulled back in a tie at his nape and olive-toned skin gives my heart palpitations.
Where’s a defibrillator when I need one?
My justitia explodes into its happy-happy, joy-joy dance, its excitement a vibration of energy along my nerves. It wants me to draw closer, to touch, to…
Oh, hell no. I am not walking that road again. The bracelet can calm itself down.
Zagan raises a brow as if he sees inside me, as if he hears my internal conversation with the justitia.
Embarrassment mixed with wariness turns my knees to rubber and heats my face. “What are you doing here?”
“You did not listen to me last time. Do not let fear conquer you.”
Understanding dawns like rays of morning sun hidden by clouds. Fear. The demon. “That’s its name.”
“No. Fear is the type. There are many fear demons, but this one is the leader of them all. Agramon is his name. And you will kill him.”
“And how do you propose I do that? In case you weren’t watching we”—I hold up my wrist with the bracelet and shake it—“were almost annihilated by your fear friend.”
Zagan’s lips twist, his nose wrinkling in disgust. “He is no friend. You will conquer him. You will destroy fear the only way fear can be destroyed. I have given you what you need.”
Apparently Zagan takes lessons from Smythe in how to flap one’s lips and still be evasive.
Before I can ask what the heck he's talking about, Smythe yells, “What?” loud enough to wake a hibernating yeti. I turn, take a step toward the hall, in case he needs my help. Two thuds follow his yell, his feet smacking against the wooden floor.
“Gin! Get out here! There’s been a demon appearance.”
My head snaps around so fast I give myself whiplash. But Zagan is gone. Vanished. Not even a trace of his portal remains. Part of me thinks I imagined him. It’s a little part and quickly squashed by remnants of the justitia’s happy dance through my system.
Loud thumps of bare feet against the floor precede Smythe down the hall. “What are you doing? Get ready. Where are those leather pants I loaned you? Don’t just stand there, move!”
Captain drill sergeant to the rescue.
“What demon?” Please don’t say the one in my bedroom.
“Not sure, but it’s at the city courthouse. The Agency’s bringing in other mages to help contain it.”
“Any Justitians?”
“Just you.”
Do they have confidence in me? Or is this a mass conspiracy to kill me?
“Is Samantha coming?”
“No.”
Confidence, then. Or a hope I’ll fail even when set up to succeed.
I’m a conspiracy theorist at heart.
“Good.”
“Get dressed.”
He stalks to the living presumably to put on his shoes. Hard to fight a demon barefooted. Now to find those leather pants.
Not in the closet.
I dash into the bathroom and dig through the dirty clothes hamper. Crap. Guess I have to wear dirty pants. Good thing black leather hides minion blood.
I’m pulling on my thick-soled ankle-high leather boots—an inappropriate shoe choice for summertime in Texas—when Smythe pokes his head into the room. Little sparks of anxiety pop around his head as if he’s a firecracker. I blink and they disappear.
What the hell?
No time to think on it. He vibrates with enough energy to give a rocket a boost into outer space. His gaze rakes over me, professionalism morphing into heat. Which he banks as he holds out his hand.
“Ready?”
Halfway to his hand I realize the oven’s on. “Just a sec.”
He follows me into the kitchen, his boots thudding an impatient beat against the floor. By the time I turn off the oven, he has a portal open, warmth spreading through the kitchen like I left the back door open.
I grasp his outstretched palm and step into the icy depths of the in-between.
Chapter Twenty
Loud voices raised in fear and anger assail my ears as the portal spits us into a d
eserted hallway. Dallas City Hall, I’m assuming. At least that’s where we’re supposed to go. Smythe hits the ground running, but I take a couple of breaths before following, my shoes thudding a hesitant echo.
He darts around the corner, and I almost run into him when he stops.
“What the—”
“Fuck.” A strong hand grabs my wrist and yanks me to stand beside him.
No wonder he stopped. Chaos reigns in the atrium.
Stan Sheevers stands by one of the front doors, holding some object—I can’t tell what—above his head, a gun grasped in his other hand. Security surrounds him, guns pointed, fear written in the lines on their faces. People hover in the background, unable to escape, or too curious for their own good.
Smythe curses as Stan’s gaze lands on us.
“You!” Stan points the gun at me, causing the guards to turn our way. Smythe waves a hand and the guards return their focus to Stan. Unfortunately, his spell fails to stop Stan from continuing to yell at me.
“You should be dead! I left you a gift for poking your nose in where it didn’t belong. Just like Dan. Trying to stop me from doing what needed to be done. Refusing to give me a sample of his anthrax. I showed him, didn’t I? I did. So why aren’t you dead?”
“Hey, buddy,” one of the guards asks. “Who you talking to?”
Stan’s attention snaps back to the crowd of security surrounding him. “Her.” He waves his gun my direction at the same time Smythe mutters a spell.
This time the spell works to hide us from view, judging by the furrow between Stan’s brows.
I unclench my fists. Knowing I was right about Stan leaving me the envelope failed to bring happiness. The fucker almost killed my brother. And unless he turns into a minion, I can’t do one damn thing about it.
“Do you see the demon?”
Smythe’s words snap me out of my impotent rage. I can’t do a thing about Stan, but I can find the demon. I close my eyes, tap into the justitia, and activate the minion sensors in my eyes. An action which no longer seems odd.
When I open my eyes, I see nothing but a ton of concrete. Concrete walls rise stories above us, an architect’s delight of balance and modern art. Maybe one of these days I’ll return and gawk.
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