“Must’ve been a trick of the light. Did you see? The justitia caught the demon bolt.”
“And your eyes turned red.”
His grip tightens. Hurts. “Smythe, stop it. Are you okay?” I try to yank my arm from his grip but only manage to put a twinge in my shoulder. “Let. Me. Go.”
He releases me. “Sorry. You look fine now. I thought…never mind.”
Noise from the Stan show draws our attention. One of the guards yanks Stan to his feet. No longer a minion, Stan flinches when handcuffs snap onto his wrists. Looks like he won’t meet the sharp end of my justitia today. My vengeance will come in the form of the courts. Stan better get a good look around, for this is the last daylight he’ll see in a long while.
Team Agency regroups around the pile of demon ash.
“Doesn’t look like anyone noticed your fight,” James says as another team member waves a hand at the ash, disappearing the silt. “Good job. That was one scary-ass demon.”
“Thanks.” This time my grin feels normal, not a sinister thing about it. The earlier sensation must’ve been a fluke. A leftover feeling from fighting Agramon.
Smythe grabs my arm as if he fears I might run. A shock of lust rockets through my veins, centers in my core. He startles as if he feels it too. As if he wants me.
Definitely an after effect of the fight. We lived. We want to fuck. No biggie.
And not gonna happen either.
“We should report this to the Agency. Looks like the police have the crazy guy under control.” Chris waves at Stan. Good thing no one stands close enough to overhear our conversation. I’m pretty sure calling a suspect ‘the crazy guy’ would not look good in a court of law.
Even if it was true.
“See you there.” Smythe grabs my arm and escorts me around the corner, out of sight.
“Aren’t they coming?”
“Yep. But they need to clean the scene first. Shouldn’t take them long.” Ancient words flow over his tongue as he holds out his hand. When the portal opens, he slides his hand down my arm, grasping my palm. “Come on. Let’s get this over with.”
He tugs, and we step into the in-between for one breath-stealing moment until the portal spits us out into the bright white landing room of the Agency. The line of computer geek teenagers raise their eyes, a brief once-over to make sure we aren’t the boogie man, I mean, a demon.
I’m still not convinced the mages-in-training can do anything but scream or pop a zit on a demon if one did decide to appear. But whatever. I’m not in charge of security.
David stands from where he sat in an overstuffed white chair as soon as the portal closes. Great. More fun with the big boss.
At least he shows concern for Smythe. That’s one point in his favor.
“Where’s the rest of the team?” The tone of his voice hints at Smythe being the cause for Team Agency’s tardiness.
Maybe I should subtract that point for starting the wrap-up with an accusation.
“Cleaning the scene. In case you’re wondering, I’m fine. Thank you for your concern.”
David’s eyes narrow. “Good. Don’t like to see you hurt.” He clears his throat. “Tell me what happened. The demon blipped off the radar. Don’t tell me it escaped.”
“I—”
“The demon is dead.” Smythe rolls right over my words, giving my hand a squeeze, a silent command to keep my mouth shut.
Since when do I obey? My justitia fires a warning, a subtle vibration as if it senses a demon. The same reaction it always has at the Agency. A reaction that cements my mouth closed. Not obedience, per se. More like a quiet assessment of the situation.
Smythe launches into a blow-by-blow of how Agramon went down. I tune him out, focusing on the puzzled warning emitted by my justitia. Why does it think demons roam the Agency hallways? The fancy row of computers and their demon finding programs nix that idea.
Maybe all the white noise? A hidden machine generates static, white noise prohibiting conversations from being overheard. Static gives me the jitters, why not my bracelet?
The justitia hums a negative note. It senses demon where no demon is. Or has been.
A brush of warm air snaps my attention to the present, to Team Agency arriving. Chilled bodies fill the room with an excitement only a win can bestow.
I caused that excitement. I won the fight.
The smile no sooner turns my lips than David pulls his attention from the arriving team to me. A ridge forms between his eyes, then he shakes his head, blanking his face.
“Any problem?” His crossed arms and widened stance obliterate the concern in his voice.
“Nope.” James shakes his head. “The demon’s dead. The scene’s been wiped clean. The crazy guy with the anthrax has been arrested. All is right with the world.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” Was that a grin making an appearance on David’s lips? Stranger things have happened. I think.
“I’m assuming Aidan told you about the fight?”
“Of course.” Smythe’s voice bristles like porcupine needles.
“Do we need to debrief?”
“You just did. Nothing more to say.” David uncrosses his arms and starts the male back slapping routine. “Good job. Until next time.”
The men file out, shaking David’s hand, performing some more back thumps. I want to go home too, get out of these clothes. Crash on the couch. Let T know I’m okay.
One of those I can do now.
But before I can contact my twin, David interrupts the attempt.
“There’s something different about you.” He points a finger, as if there’s any doubt to which ‘you’ he refers.
I shrug. “I won.”
“It’s called confidence, Dad. She’s more secure in her abilities.”
David nods. “Good job, son. Guess you can teach well after all.”
“Was there ever any doubt?” I impale David with my best nurse’s glare.
Smythe squeezes my hand. Shut it, Gin.
“Of his teaching or your ability to absorb it?”
Yeah, I should’ve known he’d turn this back around to me. Samantha isn’t the only one at the Agency not happy with my status as a Justitian.
“Dad.”
“Just sayin’ son. She’s new. Didn’t know a damn thing about us. It’s hard to train someone like that.”
“I’m a quick study.”
“I’m sure you are. Run along now. Get home and enjoy knowing you won.” He sticks out his hand then withdraws it right before my fingers grasp his. “Sorry. Forgot you were an empath.”
“No problem. Wouldn’t want to see inside your head.” Actually I would, maybe he can explain why my justitia thinks this place crawls with a demonic presence.
He ignores me, turning to Smythe. A back slap and half hug later, we step into the portal and out in my kitchen.
A sweating T clutches a beer bottle by the kitchen sink, staring at the table. No one sits at the table, but a row of beer bottles march across the countertop like a drunken army.
“T?”
“Damn fuckin’ ghosts.” He points his bottle at the table. “Why can’t they just stay dead?”
Chapter Twenty-Two
A chill slides down my spine as I stare at the table. Is Blake there? I grasp T’s arm and light coalesces into a transparent figure. Blake leans against the wall behind the table, arms crossed, staring down T in a way he never did in life.
“What?” Smythe steps behind me, close enough for me his body heat to warm my back.
“Blake is over there.” I wave at the wall.
Blake smiles, his arms dropping, his pose relaxing. You won.
“You know that already?”
News spreads fast. Blake steps closer. T steps back, my grip on his arm the only thing stopping his retreat. My twin gulps the rest of his beer, smacks the bottle on the countertop, and reaches for another one.
“And you? How are you?”
I am free. You are safe.
You know. You’ve always known. This plane is not mine to inhabit.
“But you’re doing a good job of it. Why can’t you stay?”
A smile curves his lips. He reaches for my cheek, the touch of his transparent fingertips against my skin a brush of cold. I only stayed for you. And now that you are safe, I must go.
“Will you come back?”
He shakes his head. Good-bye, Gin. I always loved you. His lips stroke mine, once, twice and then he’s gone, vanished as if he never existed.
“Blake? Blake? Blake!” My wail knocks the men back a step.
But only for a moment. And then T’s arms surround me, the peace of his touch flowing over me, through me. Or trying to.
Blake is gone. Gone. Gone. Gone. I know this. I do. But seeing him again made me wish he could stay. It wouldn’t work. I know it. How would I talk to him without T around? What kind of private conversation would that be? It wouldn’t.
But the heart wants what the heart wants, no rhyme or reason to logic. Which leaves me sobbing on T’s shoulder, Smythe patting my back in those small circles men do when confronted with a hysterical woman.
What seems like hours pass as my grief subsides, switching into acute embarrassment. Smythe heard my one-sided conversation; T heard both sides, and both heard my whiny plea for a ghost to stay on earth. Geesh, could I get any more embarrassed?
I shove T’s chest until he releases me. He swipes fingers across my wet cheeks, his gaze catching mine.
Are you okay?
“It’ll be okay, Gin.” Smythe gives me a pat on the back as I nod and answer T.
I will be. I guess I, well, it’s silly.
Yeah. He wasn’t good enough for you.
Doesn’t matter now.
Stick to the living. The dead will only get you in trouble. His eyes grow haunted, his memories mine. I swallow and drop his gaze. Any more private talk and Smythe might grow suspicious and butt in.
Which would be more awkward than him overhearing my chat with Blake. Guess there is something more embarrassing after all.
“I’m gonna go change. Be right back.” Without looking Smythe in the eye, I dart into my room, shut, and lock the door.
As if that will keep out my mentor. Or T for that matter. Locks are not an impediment to either of them.
I rest my forehead against the door, lean on the wood as if it gives moral support. Blake is gone. I won’t see him again. And the knowledge twists a knife in my heart almost as bad as seeing him dead.
Grief settles like a heavy blanket on my chest, the weight pressing tears out of my eyes. The door offers a support of sorts, a way of avoiding reality. If I turn, if I face my room, the pictures of Blake and me, the memories, I’ll have to face reality.
I’ll have to stop crying.
The air vent above the door rattles a tune, that and a blast of cold air lets me know the A/C still works. I sniffle one last time. Remove my head from its resting place against the door. I can’t stay here forever, hiding behind a door, wallowing in grief.
If my life has taught me one thing, it’s that I have to be strong. I have to go on. Face the future, not the past.
Easier said than done, but I have to do it. I draw in a deep breath, wipe the tears off my cheeks, and turn around.
The instant I turn, my blood freezes, the beat of my heart a loud throb in my ears. My breath hitches. I swallow but nothing happens.
What an ending to an otherwise good day.
Zagan stands by my bed, arms crossed, stance wide, looking hot in his standard outfit of a pair of jeans and a white t-shirt. And judging by the wide grin he sports, he’s happy to see me.
Can’t say I feel the same about him. Although I no longer want to cry. Fleeing takes priority.
“You did well.” Zagan’s smile extends to his black eyes, igniting them with a red hue of Hellfire.
A tingle starts low in my gut, spreads through my limbs, igniting a dose of confusion. Scared with a chaser of attraction. I clearly have bigger problems than I thought.
Zagan’s smile grows wider as if he reads my mind. Which he can’t. I hope.
“Yeah. Thanks, I mean.” No use in telling the big baddie about the freaky red light when my justitia absorbed Agramon’s energy bolt, dealing the demon a dose of his own medicine.
“I like you. It is odd. But no matter.” He waves a hand in dismissal. “You and I can do great things together. Even without you as my servant.”
“Um, yeah, about that. I don’t think so.”
He chuckles, the sound like silk sheets against my skin. A shiver lodges deep, spreads a prickling foreboding.
“Little Justitian. One day I will learn how you avoid my spell. Then you will be my servant. Until then, I enjoy our arrangement.”
“What arrangement? You sneaking into my room? Why are you here anyway?”
“You invited me in.”
“I did no such thing. A closed door means keep out.”
“Ah, yes. Humans.”
I wait for him to finish his thought, but apparently I’m to take a wild guess at his meaning. Good luck understanding a demon. “What about humans?”
“They think a closed door keeps out a demon.” He winks. Steps closer. I try to step back, but the door stops me. I opt for a deep breath and slam my hands against my hips. Fake it until you make it.
“Stop right there, buddy.”
“Buddy? I do not believe I have ever been called buddy before. I find I like it. You will call me buddy again.” He waggles his brows. Teasing? Or serious?
“Yeah, Zagan,” I draw out his name, watching as his eyes flare. “Not happening. On all counts.”
“You are injured. I only mean to help.”
“Huh?” His topic changes spin my mind.
“Your head. It hurts.”
Okay, so it does. Not that I’m admitting it. The headache probably stems from my crying jag. Along with the red blotchy cheeks.
I reach a hand to the back of my head, to the spot I cracked my skull against the wall when Agramon bolted me across the atrium. A knot the size of a golf ball causes me to jump when I touch it. Ouch. Guess I am injured. Either adrenaline, the justitia, or seeing Blake numbed the pain.
“And you want to be nice and heal me?”
“Just heal you. If you’ll let me?”
I’ve been around the block a few times since the last time Zagan healed me. His gaze locks with mine, a plea to let him help, to let him heal. My head nods as if not connected to my brain. I’m pretty certain my brain knows better.
But before I can stop him, Zagan stands beside me, one hand over the lump, the other gripping my shirt-covered shoulder, holding me in place. Red hot heat pours out his palm, spreads down my body, igniting the justitia into a raging fire of glee. The entity leaps with excitement, as if seeing home after many years gone, but despite its shaking a happy dance, I sink into a wave of bliss.
Healings rock, whether given by Eloise or a demon, a drug as addictive as the ones I used to use. The blue skies of a Caribbean ocean beckons and I float on gentle waves. A wave crashes over me, drawing me down, spitting me out into reality.
An expanse of off-white floats into my vision. I blink. And again, before it dawns on me I stare at my ceiling. Specifically the ceiling over my bed.
So much for the feeling of bliss. Knowing Zagan carried me to my bed creeps me out. At least he left on my clothes.
“Do you feel better, Little Justitian?” His hand on my shoulder avoids contact with my skin. Lucky me. Seeing into his mind shorts out mine. Something I learned. Something my justitia compensated for by blocking my empathic abilities. It was either that or let my brain explode in pain. Not an experience I want to relive.
“You picked me up?”
“Consider it part of the healing. How is your head?”
“Much better. Thank you.” Southern manners insist I thank him
. Some things are too deeply engrained to rip away.
“You are depleted and need a replacement.”
“Wha—” I can’t get the word out.
His finger touches the mark behind my ear, his mark, his brand and with his touch tangles of evil course through my mind.
My body arches, but the justitia blocks his connection, allowing me to draw in a breath, allowing my brain to not hemorrhage. All that happens in one breath. His gaze locks mine, as a wave of red power, like the power flowing out of me during the fight with Agramon, flows into me. The same reservoir deep inside swells, absorbing the power he gives me, filling me until I buzz with an unholy energy. My girly parts tingle, my nipples harden in anticipation. I’m three seconds away from an orgasm, and his fingers are nowhere near my core.
Right when I reach for him, to place his hand where it’s needed, right when my body overrules my common sense, he removes his finger, his lips curling into a satisfied grin.
I lay panting, my body prickling in all the right places for all the wrong reasons. Did I actually consider fucking Zagan?
I need a mind transplant.
“Get away from me.”
“Humans. You always say what you do not mean.”
I shove upright, avoiding his hands, his talented fingers. Damn me for a fool. “What did you just do?”
“What needed to be done.”
“You loaded me with power. Why?”
He shakes his head. “One day you will understand. I am helping. In return, you will be mine.”
“Never.” My words stand in contrast to what races through the back of my mind, what tries to gain footage, what I refuse to release from my sub-conscious.
“You are mine, Justitian. Never forget it.” He waves a hand and an obsidian portal swallows him into its depths.
I unclench my hands. Rub them along my leather pants. My insides shake like I’ve been stuck in the Arctic. While disturbing, my do-me-now reaction to Zagan is not what I fear. I fear what I know. What I don’t want to be true.
The demon of deceit speaks the truth on occasion.
A word about the author…
Karilyn Bentley’s love of reading stories and preference of sitting in front of a computer at home instead of in a cube, drove her to pen her own works, blending fantasy and romance mixed with a touch of funny.
Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 22