For now.
“What does the FBI want with my husband’s death?” Mrs. Luckey asks, gesturing us to sit on the couch.
I plop onto the overstuffed sofa sinking into its depths. How the hell people can get comfy on these things is over my head. I scoot forward, trying to get comfortable without seeming obvious while Smythe sits next to me, upright and all business. Mrs. Luckey lowers herself into a chair next to the couch, worry and exhaustion written into the lines on her face.
“Your husband was the first of several suicides since Friday. We’re investigating the cause. Was he taking any new medication?” Smythe uses his soothing, open-up-and-talk-to-me voice, the one that lulls an unsuspecting person into spilling their guts.
She shakes her head. “No, not that I’m aware of. I looked.”
“Any strange behavior the day of his passing?”
Her eyes widen before she looks at her hands clutched together in her lap. She shakes her head.
“Mrs. Luckey.” I look at her until she glances up at me. “How did you get your bruise?” I point to my own eye as tears well in hers.
“He went nuts,” she whispers, as if mentioning this fact aloud will send her straight to Hell. “Nuts.” She clears her throat, voice strengthening as she talks. “He was in his office,” she points down the hall. Smythe looks, but I keep my gaze on her.
“Yelling to leave him alone. Over and over. But no one was in the house except me. After about three or four times, I went to see what was wrong. And he hit me!” Her palm rests against her bruised cheek, surprise flitting through her eyes.
“I take it that never happened before?”
She looks at Smythe, eyes narrowing to make a point of defense for her husband’s character. “Never. He was a good man. He’d never hit me. When he saw it was me, he stopped yelling, his eyes big as a serving platter. He said he was sorry, so, so sorry, then he ran out of the room. I thought he was going to get ice or something, but the next thing I hear is a gun firing.” Her breath hitches as tears stream down her face. “Please excuse me.”
Leaving us sitting in the living room, she walks into the kitchen to grab a tissue. Smythe drums the fingers of one hand against his leg, rolling them pinky to thumb, pinky to thumb. He draws in a breath before she makes it back to her chair. I interrupt whatever speech he plans.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Luckey. I know this is hard for you.”
“Thank you.” She nods. “I never expected…” her voice trails away as she gestures her hand toward the hall.
“Had anything happened this week to upset your husband?”
“Not that I’m aware of. He seemed happy and normal at dinner. Then, he just went nuts when he got to his office. He was working on his Sunday lesson.”
“May we look in his office?”
She nods, a puzzled look crossing her face. “Wouldn’t you rather see where he shot himself?”
“I’m sure the police have thoroughly covered it. We’d rather look at his office.”
“This way. But I warn you, it’s a mess. I haven’t been able to bring myself to clean it.” She leads us down a short hall to a room on the right. One hand points at the room. “He did all his church lessons in there.”
The deacon’s office holds book shelves along the walls, a desk with a computer, two chairs and enough papers scattered around to keep a maid busy for a month. No wonder she hasn’t cleaned it. The task would be daunting enough if she were the maid and not the grieving wife of the deceased.
“Can you let us into the computer?” An undercurrent of glee at the prospect of looking into the deacon’s files edges through Smythe’s voice. Hopefully Mrs. Luckey doesn’t hear it.
“It’s not password protected.” She waves a hand at the machine while giving a little shrug. “Help yourself. Do you need me to watch?”
Smythe shakes his head. “I’d prefer you didn’t.”
“Okay. I’ll be in the kitchen. Want something to drink?”
“No, thank you.”
She’s no sooner taken two steps down the hall than Smythe has accessed the computer. I activate the minion sensors in my eyes, looking for red or orange trails left behind as evidence of a minion presence, but nothing out of the ordinary appears. Unless one considers the copious amount of paper spread over every surface.
“No minions.”
“I didn’t see any evidence either.” Smythe taps on the keyboard, staring at the screen.
Mages can see minion trails as well as Justitians. Which begs the question of why they don’t take our bracelets and fight the demonic hellions themselves.
Only you can wear us, my justitia chants in my head. You are special. Mage is not.
While I’m not surprised at the truth it speaks, it continues to surprise, and please, me by speaking in my mind. Until the other day, the thing limited its communications to memory fragments and one-word responses.
Me like you. Me say more.
Great. Then why don’t you start by telling me where you disappeared after my ancestral line died out and if the line was dead, how did I get to wear you?
No response, except for the impression of a shrug, as if it’s a teenager refusing to talk. So much for a conversation.
One of these days, I’m going to learn the answer. My ancestral line died when the last Justitian who wore my bracelet tried to kill Hitler. We all knew he was evil, the fact he was a minion comes as no surprise. What is a surprise? My ability to wear a justitia from a dead ancestral line.
I grab a stack of papers, intending to sit in one of the chairs. My gaze focuses on the scrawled handwriting. Someone clearly made a F in handwriting class. I squint, trying to read the almost indecipherable writing. When I finally make it out, my breath hitches. I pick up another piece of paper, then another one.
“Smythe?”
“What?” He continues to stare at the computer as his fingers tap-tap-tap against the keys.
“Look at this.” I hold a piece of paper out to him. “Every page is the same.”
Smythe pauses, grabs the paper, his eyes widening as he reads.
Get away from me Satan is written over and over on each page, the scrawled writing a glimpse into a distraught mind.
Smythe lets loose a low whistle. “What do you think he saw? It wasn’t a demon; I checked before I came. At least not one the Agency’s demon identification program picked up.”
I suppress an eye roll. The program is about as accurate as a meteorologist’s forecast. “We all know how correct the thing is.”
He raises a brow, otherwise ignoring my snarky remark. “As I was saying, no one was in the house except his wife. No minion. No demon. So what did he see? And why?”
“No clue. But something was definitely going on with him.” Good job stating the obvious, Gin.
Smythe pauses, gathering his thoughts or wishing I would gather mine? “We need to know why he was targeted. Why they all were.”
Before I can say, “No clue,” the slam of the front door alerts us to a new arrival.
“Hey, Mom, how are you?” A familiar male voice yells from the entryway.
I freeze in surprise, turning toward the door as if it would help me better process who walked into the house. I know that voice. What was Will doing here?
Will. Dr. Will Wunderliech. My high school friend and current ER coworker. He originally had my bracelet until he was shot by a minion and the justitia found its way into my scrub pocket. His mother was killed by a minion when he was a child and Smythe suspected Will’s father met his death the same way.
How Will’s parents came into possession of my justitia is a mystery. Smythe and I suspect they absconded with my justitia years ago, somehow stealing it from a magically locked vault in the Agency. Pure speculation. It makes sense, though, how else would it have fallen into their possession?
At any rate, Smythe determined Will’s father was a mage, which makes Will a mage. He’s not yet accepted his destiny. What’s he doing here and why is he
calling Mrs. Luckey “Mom?”
Smythe raises a brow as he gestures toward the door. He shares the same what-the-heck expression I’m sure my face mirrors. “I thought he said his mom died.”
“She did.”
“Is she,” he gestures at the office doorway, “his foster mom?”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“I thought you guys were friends.”
“It doesn’t mean I hung out at his house and got cozy with his foster parents.” But still. I should know the answer. Lesson learned? We don’t always know our friends as well as we think.
Smythe grunts. “Pick a piece of paper to take with us. I’ll tell you what I found when we get back to your place.”
He taps a few more strokes on the keyboard as I grab a couple of sheets of paper, folding them in half for easier carrying. I’m halfway to the door, folded paper in hand, when Will pokes his head around the corner. Warmth floods my body. I offer him a grin while thrusting the folded paper behind my back. As soon as he recognizes me, his eyes widen then shrink into narrow slits.
“What are you two doing here?” His tone stings, a slap of accusation. “Mom said the FBI was looking through Dad’s things.”
I don’t blame him for being mad. I’m pretty sure the last thing he wants is to run into me. No, make that the second to the last thing. The last being running into Smythe.
“We are investigating Richard Luckey’s death.” Smythe steps around the desk to stand by me. “Are the Luckeys your foster parents?”
“They are.” Will leans against the door jamb, arms crossed. “Again, why are you here? This was a suicide, not a demon invasion, or whatever it is you hunt.”
I glance at Smythe, who stares at Will as if debating whether to tell him our suspicions. My mentor might disagree, but Will has a right to know what happened to his foster father.
“We think a demon influenced a large number of suicides over the last several days. From what we can tell, your father was the first one.”
Smythe glares at me, a warning to keep silent. A little late to seal my lips. Not like I would’ve listened. Not on this matter.
“But Dad was a church deacon. How could a demon possess him?” Will’s brows draw tight, yet a gleam in his eyes hints at his curiosity. “We didn’t say he was possessed.” I shake my head, negating the possibility, even though strong odds existed. I’d seen a demon possess a good person with dire results for the victim of the possession. “We’re not sure what’s going on. That’s why we’re here. Investigating.”
“This is what you do? I thought you blew creatures to smithereens.”
Smythe shifts like he has something to say. I place a hand on his arm, silent talk for I’ve got this covered. For once he obeys me, even if his jaw tenses hard enough to break teeth.
“Not quite. I mean, we do that too, but we also investigate. Have to make sure we know the reason behind the crimes and who’s committing them before we make an arrest.” I put finger quotes around “arrest.”
Will’s eyes narrow. “Is ‘arrest’ the new term for killing them?”
“Arrest sounds less violent.” I shrug.
“And you really think Dad killed himself because of some demon?”
“Maybe,” Smythe says, no longer able to obey my silent, I’ve-got-this-covered request. “We’re here to determine if a demon was involved.”
Will clamps his lips together as he looks at the floor. After a long pause, he raises his head, his eyes glinting with determination. “Okay. I’m in. You can train me as a mage. But only if I can help kill the bastard who did this.”
Smythe blinks away surprise, a half-grin turning his lips. “Deal. I’ll inform the Agency you want to be trained as a mage.”
A good dose of shock wends through my veins. The last time we talked to Will, he refused to become a mage. Of course, he was grieving over the death of his wife, but still. He refused.
And to top it off, he’s all but ignored me at work, keeping things professional instead of our usual cross into friendship. By professional, I mean chilly. As in, he only talks to me when necessary and then only if he can’t find another nurse for the task.
Now he suddenly decides to embrace his birthright?
“So you’ll do this for your foster dad, but not your parents?” I slap a hand over my mouth five seconds too late.
Good job, Gin. Only a worthless friend blurts out something so hurtful.
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
Will covers the hurt with a go-to-hell glare. “His death is the proverbial straw on the camel’s back. Everyone I loved has been killed by those damn demons. I need to do something about it.”
I nod, too embarrassed to try to speak. Smythe answers for me.
“Good. We can always use another mage.”
“I assume since you’re here as the FBI, I’m not supposed to tell Mom any of this?”
“Correct. The less normals know, the better.”
Normals? I’ve never heard Smythe use the term, but it fits. T doesn’t count—he’s about as normal as I was pre-justitia.
“What am I supposed to tell her?”
“Tell her the FBI was here—”
“No, I mean about being a mage. How long does the training take? I’d like to keep my job while training.”
Smythe’s jaw tightens while I bite the inside of my lip to keep from laughing. The Agency hates that I work at the ER, but at the same time, they refuse to pay me for being a Justitian. I have to live, so until they ante up, I’m continuing my job in the Emergency Department at Blue Forest. Nice to know Will feels the same. The Agency is going to love it.
Sarcasm is my middle name.
“Of course.” Smythe might not like it, but clearly the man knows if his employer won’t pay me—one of its demon-killing huntresses—the chances of it paying a new mage are slim. “I’ll be in touch once we solve this case.”
“Here’s my number.” Will rattles off his number to Smythe, who loads it into his phone’s contact list.
“I’m glad you’ve had a change of heart.” Smythe claps Will on the shoulder, a show of solidarity, while offering him his hand.
Clap, shake, and we’re good to go.
Men.
My emotions ping around the room like a wayward pinball. Glad Will wants to be trained. Shocked Will wants to be trained. Mad Will treated me like an outcast for the last few months.
I’m about to get whiplash from emotional overload.
I pat Will on the shoulder too as I follow Smythe down the hall.
“Gin.”
At my name, I stop, turn, give Will a raised brow.
“See you at work?” He mirrors my look, raised brow conveying a request for forgiveness.
I swallow away a snarky retort. “Sure. I’ll be in tomorrow.”
“Okay. See you then.”
Flashing him a smile, I catch up to Smythe, who stands in the entryway, saying our thanks and good-byes to Mrs. Luckey.
A surge of happiness joins the wave of emotions pinging through me. Maybe everything will be okay between Will and me. Maybe our friendship will continue as it always had.
Hopefully, he feels the same.
Chapter Six
Smythe portals us back to my living room.
“What? No more demon hunting?” I drop the folded paper with Mr. Luckey’s disturbing scrawl on the coffee table and rub my arms in an effort to erase the chill of traveling the in-between.
“We have several clues I want to upload.”
“Like what? Besides the Get away from me Satan written on every piece of paper in his office?” I shove the papers toward Smythe who sits on the couch waiting for his laptop to power up.
He glances at them, a small shudder running through his limbs. “That is creepy. But, I was referring to his brokerage accounts.”
Brokerage accounts? “What do brokerage accounts have to do with demon hunting? And how do you know he had some?”
Smy
the raises a brow. Oh, right. He’s an ace hacker. Which explains what he was doing on Mr. Luckey’s computer.
“As I was saying, he lost a bunch of money. Not enough to wipe them out, but enough to upset anyone of retirement age. I wouldn’t think it would be enough to cause someone to want to kill themselves.”
“But maybe it was enough to upset him and the demon saw an opening and struck.”
“You mentioned earlier about a dream man.”
Icy blood wends through my veins as the memory replays. A cold bead of sweat tickles my spine. I cross my arms, trying to appear nonchalant.
“Yeah? What about him?”
“Why was he visiting you?”
“How the hell am I supposed to know?” More like no way in hell am I going to tell you. “He visited. End of story.”
“Were you going to take his offer?”
Heat slaps my cheeks while my stomach shakes as if my innards were dipped in ice. Should I tell him? I rub cold hands against my arms.
“I wanted to.” My voice drops to a whisper. “I wanted to really badly.”
A muscle by his eye twitches. “Do you think the same thing happened to Richard Luckey?”
“How should I know?” I shrug. “Maybe. Maybe not. I’m not even sure what talked to me was real.”
“I felt it in your head. Earlier. It’s real.”
Shivers course through me and I wrap my arms around my waist in a vain effort to hold them inside.
“Thanks. That makes me feel so much better.”
“Think, Gin. Does your justitia know?”
“It won’t say. I asked.”
“Try again. Maybe it knows. While you attempt to talk to it, I’ll look up despair demons. See if one of them has the ability to project itself into a human’s mind.”
“Okay. But first I’m going to get some warm tea. The portal was cold.” Little white lies never hurt anyone. And it wasn’t a total lie—the portal really was cold. But the chills wracking my body have little to do with the portal and a lot to do with the dream man. Who wouldn’t get the shivers imagining something invading their mind?
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