I pull out a glass, fill it with water and down the round, brown pills.
“My life fell in the shitter after you left.”
He gestures to the steaming pot of coffee. “Pour yourself some and tell me about it.”
Even though the smell makes my stomach roll, I do as he says, working on the assumption what worked in the past for hangovers will work in the present. Filling my extra-large mug, I head to the living room couch where thankfully the blinds remain closed. The couch’s springs squeak as I sit.
T sits on the other end, turned toward me, leg bent at the knee.
I take a wary sip and a swallow. My stomach settles a bit. Actually, more than a bit. As if it’s been an entire day after a binge as opposed to hours. No doubt a perk of wearing the justitia, a fancy name for the bracelet attached to my wrist.
Justitias give their wearers super-healing powers. Which doesn’t mean we can’t be hurt or even killed. While healing us faster than we’d normally heal on our own, life-threatening injuries still require outside help. The Agency, the organization in charge of the Justitians and their guardian mages, employs dozens of healers for demon and minion induced injuries.
But not even the healers can save every injured Justitian who walks through the doors.
T clears his throat.
Right. Stop wandering down rabbit holes of avoidance, Gin.
“After you left yesterday, Smythe was called to the Agency. He told me to wait for him before we confronted Donny.”
“Why would you talk with Donny? So he fucked Jackie—” At my wide-eyed expression, he interrupts himself. “What, you thought I didn’t know? Why do you think we broke up?”
I ignore his question, opting to get to the heart of the matter. “I killed Donny.”
His eyes round, mouth agape. Yeah, it might not have been the best way to tell him, but the confession popped out before I could stop it.
“Say what?”
I swallow while staring at my white fingers clutching my mug. “I killed Donny Merryweather.”
My voice hitches on the last syllable of his name. I swallow again.
“Damn. Over Jackie?”
My gaze meets his. “Don’t be ridiculous. I was aiming for a demon and he got in the way.”
“Where was Smythe?”
“He got mad at me and stormed out.”
T stiffens. Son of a bitch slams into my mind, courtesy of our telepathic link. He swallows as if the motion will wipe away his projected thought. When he speaks, his voice shows none of his anger. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”
Once again my gaze drops to my coffee mug, to the steam spiraling out the top. Reliving my horrid day out loud makes me feel like an even bigger loser.
Although, don’t they say talk therapy helps purge one’s conscious?
Purging hurts.
“You left. Then Smythe got called to the Agency. He said for me to stay put, but I knew I could get the info out of Donny.”
“What info?”
“Sorry. We thought Donny had something to do with the serial killer. The one who targeted Jackie. Are you sure you’re okay? You two were together for, like, a year. I thought you cared about her.”
T’s jaw tenses as his gaze skitters everywhere but on me. “I’m cool.”
“T…” I don’t need to hop into his head to know “cool” is not his current state of mind.
“Okay, fine. It hurts. Bad. I was pissed off she left, even though I knew the relationship was over. But I didn’t want her hurt. God. She’s dead. Dead, Gin. That hurts.” He pauses. Runs a hand over his head. “I guess this is how you felt after Blake died.”
Blake. My on-again-off-again friend with benefits. Until Smythe came along, Blake was the one guy who understood me. Or should I say, sort of understood me. At any rate, we became good friends despite my empathic touch-and-see problem/ability, which didn’t faze him in the slightest. He even learned to project a beach scene when I kissed him. Which was wonderful not to have a glimpse into another’s mind while enjoying an intimate moment. The demon Jezebeth killed him as revenge for me killing her regiment of minions shortly after I became a demon huntress.
Damn demons.
“Yeah. It hurts to lose someone you care about.” Real deep thought there, Gin. Geez. But it’s the only comforting thing my hungover mind spits out.
“Yeah.” He massages the bridge of his nose, a quick gesture meant to soothe his mind. Or buy time while he thinks of what to say next. “Back to Donny. You really took him out? Damn it, the Armadillos are gonna suck this year.”
I shoot him a brief glare, but otherwise ignore his prediction about our local NFL team’s chances at the Super Bowl. While watching the steam circle my mug, I continue my tale.
“As I was saying, I thought I could find out what Donny knew about the serial killer. Smythe,” my voice hitches and I swallow, “Smythe thought Donny was the killer.”
“Donny might be a man-ho but he’s not a killer.” T shakes his head.
“Yeah, that’s what I said. And I knew I could get him to talk. All the dead women were with him before dying. Anyway, when I got to the club, Donny had his guard bring me back to his private suite. When I got there, he was all flowers and proposals and trying to get me into bed. Like I’m going to nail him at the club. Or anywhere for that matter. And Smythe and I are,” another hitch causes me to clear my throat, “were together. And I don’t—didn’t—think of Donny that way. I went to shove his flowers back in his face, when he grabbed me and planted one right on my lips.” I take a deep breath as I tell T what happened next. “Smythe walked in and saw us.”
“Oh. It didn’t go so well, eh?”
“That’s the understatement of the month. The jackass wouldn’t even listen to me. He assumed I wanted Donny over him, told me I was an adult and could do what I wanted and stormed off. Naturally I started to go after him and explain, but then Rahab, the leader of the pride demons, strolled in with his minion, who happened to be the actual serial killer, so I had other things to do besides chase down Smythe.”
T’s eyes widen. “Did you nail the bastard who killed Jackie?”
“Yep.” I draw a line across my throat, indicating my justitia’s sword chopped the minion’s head right off. “Unfortunately, the demon started to turn Donny into a minion, but when I went to stab Rahab, I missed, and killed Donny instead.” A memory returns: Rahab offering me to Donny in exchange for him becoming a minion, which led to Donny accepting the minion status. Maybe the prick did deserve to die. Nah, I take it back. He deserved to be bitch-slapped, but not killed.
“Oh, man, I’m sorry.” T pauses, brow wrinkling and relaxing. “I don’t understand why Donny would want to be a minion. He’s already famous.”
My jaw tenses. “Donny wanted me. And since I wouldn’t have him, he made a deal with the demon to become a minion in exchange for me. Rahab must feed off pride. You can’t tell me Donny wasn’t full of himself.”
T nods. “Okay, then. Donny was more of a bastard than I thought. You offed the minion. Missed stabbing the demon. Then what?”
“The demon got the upper hand and knocked me out.”
T’s eyes widen then narrow. I rush to continue before he can voice his usual I-don’t-like-you-getting-hurt comment.
“I’m fine.”
He raises a brow.
“Really. I was fine. But Smythe wouldn’t answer his phone, so I had to call the Agency’s emergency cleanup crew who made the scene look like someone else killed Donny.”
“You saying you aren’t going to be a suspect in his death?”
“Yep. They blamed everything on the guy who helped the serial killer minion hunt and kill the victims. You know, the dude who tried to kidnap me? Well, he got what was coming to him. And it got a potential killer off the street.”
“And Smythe? Did he ever call you back?”
I shake my head. “Never.” I swipe a tear off my cheek.
T grunts. “Told you h
e’d hurt you. He’s not good enough for you.”
I sniff. “In your opinion, is anyone?”
T blinks, once, twice. A crooked grin turns one corner of his lips. “Damn straight. No one’s good enough for my sis.”
“Uh-huh.” I return his grin. “Keep that up and I’ll be living a lonely life.”
He chuckles before turning serious. “I see why you had a bad day.”
“And it didn’t end at the club. Zagan, my justitia’s friend,” and in a weird way, my friend too, although I don’t want to admit it to T, “said I was a loser since I failed to kill Rahab.”
“Yeah.” He rolls his eyes. “That would definitely push you over the ledge. Having a demon call you a loser.”
“I killed a human, T. I killed Donny.”
“And Smythe acted like an ass.”
“Yeah. I thought we had something. Something…” my voice trails into nothing as tears escape my eyes. I hate crying. But I can’t stop.
The look of betrayal turning Smythe’s face into hard stone. My sword thrusting into Donny’s chest. The shocked look on the football star’s face as he dropped dead on the floor.
I’m stronger than this.
But the tears refuse to go away. My breath comes in little hitching sobs as T wraps his arms around me. This time, not even his embrace brings peace.
****
Hours later, after calling in sick for my shift at Blue Forest ER, being written up for calling in late—my first write-up damn it—and cleaning the mess in T’s room, I sit on the couch alone, watching the news coverage of Donald Merryweather, aka Donny Football’s, untimely death at Club Monster. I should turn it off. But I leave it running on the off-chance repeat exposure dulls the pain.
The expression on Donny’s face as my sword slams into his chest replays in my mind. Shock. Horror. Fear.
In my effort to save him from becoming a minion, I ended his life.
Can I ever forgive myself?
At least T and I are solid again. And he’s making me dinner, although I’m not sure I can choke down food. The justitia healed me, so I am no longer hungover, but the entity living along my nerves can’t touch the emotional turmoil in my head or the sickening ache in my chest.
Some demon huntress I am.
The news changes from coverage about Donny to some Dallas deacon who offed himself, surprising his friends and family. What a joyful broadcast.
“Hey, turn that shit off and come keep me company,” T yells from the kitchen.
After a pause, I do as he says, hitting the off button on the remote while getting to my feet with all the speed of a cold slug. If only Smythe were here. Maybe he could make me feel better about Donny. Provided there was a way to feel better.
But noooo. Smythe refused to listen when I tried to explain why he caught Donny giving me an unwanted kiss. Which meant my mentor wasn’t there when I fought Rahab. When I killed Donny. Instead, Smythe was off having a pity party.
Quicker than I could take a step toward T and the kitchen, my anger ignites, morphing from sorrow into rage.
How dare Aidan Smythe leave me alone to face a demon. His job as a guardian mage is to protect his assigned Justitian—me. Not abandon me to fight a demon alone because of some misplaced sense of betrayal.
Bastard.
I stomp into the kitchen. Rage I can deal with. Rage washes away my sense of loss, my despair. At least for the moment.
Looks like I have a to-do item not involving self-doubt and pity. Call Smythe and give him a piece of my mind.
“You seem better. Less sad.”
“Just realized Smythe is being a self-centered bastard.”
T opens his mouth, immediately snapping it shut, as if afraid to voice his thoughts. “Mmmm.”
“He left me to deal with things on his own. He refused to let me explain what he saw. He thought the worst of me.” I bang a hand on the counter. The sting only serves to ratchet up my anger.
As if it can get any worse.
“He was hurt.”
I raise a brow at my twin’s serious expression. “Wait. Are you actually siding with him?”
“Of course not. Just pointing out the obvious.”
“Doesn’t excuse him from acting like a jerk.”
“True.” T turns to the stove, stirring what looks like a pot of bagged vegetables fresh out of the freezer. “But maybe he was hurt. Sounds like something I’d do.”
“Be an ass? Leave me to defend myself? I think not.”
“I meant it’s something I’d do if I saw my girlfriend kissing another guy.”
“I’m not his girlfriend.” Which isn’t to say I wouldn’t mind the position. Before he left me alone in a fight against a demon, that is. Now I’m not so sure.
“You’re his something.”
I cross my arms and lean against the doorjamb. “Not anymore. Thanks for the reminder.”
T looks at me, a contrite expression crossing his face. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to upset you. Just pointing out the obvious.”
“So you’ve said. And it’s fine. I never stopped being upset at him. You know what? I’m going to call him again. Maybe he’s cooled off.”
“Mmmm.”
T turns back to the stove as I march into my bedroom. After finding my phone in my purse, I unlock the screen, hoping for a message from my absentee mentor.
No such luck.
Damn him.
My finger jabs the phone icon. I pull up his number and hit dial. The phone rings three times before dropping me into voice mail.
“Leave a message.” Smythe’s recorded voice requests.
Happy to oblige.
“Smythe, it’s Gin. Again. We need to talk. Did you get my other message? Did you hear you left me to deal with a demon on my own? On. My. Own. What kind of mentor leaves his Justitian to deal with a demon ON HER OWN?” I draw in a breath, pulling my shrill voice back to a normal tone. “You need to call me. We need to talk. You hear? Call me. Or pick up my calls.”
I yank the phone away from my ear, stabbing the end button like it’s a demon. Like how I should’ve killed Rahab last night.
Like I killed Donny.
My knees give out as I collapse upon the bed. Anger spent, sadness swamps me like a tidal wave of anguish.
I killed Donny.
“Gin?” T yells. “Dinner’s ready. You finished reaming Smythe a new one?”
I swallow, dash the tears away from my eyes and clear my throat. “Yeah. Be there in a second.”
Dropping the phone on the nightstand, I drag my feet to the door. No use in appearing anything other than what I feel. T reads me like a book. A perk of being twins I never minded before.
Now I want to be left alone to deal with my grief.
No such luck.
Chapter Three
The weekend drags. Smythe continues to ignore my calls. T continues to baby me. Grief continues to assault me. Monday morning finds me red-eyed from too many thoughts and not enough sleep. Despite my lack of a good night’s rest, I manage to haul my ass into work early and not so bright, due to the morning sun hovering at the horizon. A dull ache in my chest continues to remind me of my losses.
Perhaps a day in the Emergency Department will give me some relief from the unending pain.
After locking my purse in my locker, I report to the nurses’ station for a debriefing. Jon, the night nurse, shakes his head when I ask for a status update. Never a good sign.
“You want the good, the bad, or the ugly first?”
Yep. Definite bad sign. And it’s not even a full moon.
“Start with the good.” I need something uplifting.
“All right.” He leans forward, tired brown eyes focusing on my face. “Mr. Ripley in room one came in with fever, cough, and shortness of breath. Come to find out, he has pneumonia and they’re admitting him for IV antibiotics.”
“And he’s the good one?”
“Oh yeah.” He pushes back in his chair, shaking his head. “It’s been
crazy.”
I glance around the calm ER, the only noises the beeps of machines and the whirl of the HVAC system. “Sounds quiet to me.”
“Because the dead don’t speak.”
Unless you’re T. They’ll speak to my twin. A tidbit I keep to myself.
“What happened?”
He clears his throat, the tiredness in his gaze morphing into a conspiratory glee, as if patient gossip gives him a high. “It started Friday evening. Maybe you saw this one on the news? The Dallas Baptist deacon who committed suicide?”
“Unfortunately, yeah.”
“The others aren’t high profile, so didn’t make the news. At least not that I know of. But there were several suicides on Saturday and five more came in last night. And that was just at our hospital. Other hospitals experienced the same thing. And not a one of the dead were depressed. At least not according to family members. It’s like demons possessed them or something.”
I blink. Demons? The word jerks me back to the dream man sitting on my toilet lid. The man T claimed was real. The man I insisted was a dream.
A dream man who offered me relief from my troubles.
What if the man wasn’t a dream? What if it was really a demon? But if that was the case, wouldn’t my justitia have turned into a demon-killing sword?
“Gin?” Jon snaps his fingers in front of my nose.
I blink. Good way to look inconspicuous, Gin. “Sorry. Was just thinking of those poor families. It’s horrible.”
“Yeah. All those suicides were the bad part of the evening.”
“You mean there’s more?”
“I’m telling you, it was like the whole city went psycho or something. There was also this hideous car wreck. No survivors. The bodies? That was the ugly.” He stands, shoving his chair under the desk. “Well, I’m off. Enjoy the crazy ER.”
Jon raps his knuckles twice on the desk and strides to the break room, clearly eager to get the hell out of here.
I don’t blame him. After an evening like he described, I kinda want to leave too.
No such luck. The little thing called “bills” keeps me chained to this place.
By the time seven in the evening rolls around, I’m exhausted, emotionally drained, and still thinking of how I screwed up at Club Monster. So much for leaving my worries at the door. Perhaps it had to do with the number of suicides along with their distraught family members.
Devil Take Me Page 2