He gestures toward my neck. “Pull back your hair.”
“Excuse me?” The request is a new one for a demon.
“Pull back your hair.”
What the hell? I do as he asks, grabbing my hair with one hand. It’s not like he can go all vampire and bite me. He’s not physically present in the room, he’s merely a projection.
I hope.
He stares a bit too long at my neck. Okay. Maybe he can bite me. I drop my hair, scoot toward the other side of the bed.
“You carry his mark.” He snarls.
Now it’s my turn for the surprised face. “You recognize Zagan’s mark?”
When I first became a Justitian and met Zagan, the freakin’ demon marked me as his with a small black tattoo on my neck close to my hairline. For any other human, it would mean becoming a servant of the demon. For me, it’s just a mark.
Or so I’ve convinced myself.
“You are his servant.” Perdix grins. “Until I kill you.”
“You can’t. Not as you are now.” I gesture to his non-corporeal body.
He raises a brow, shooting me a condescending look. “Are you so stupid to think I’m always in this form? When we meet, I will kill you.”
“Bring it, bud. Hey, why don’t you tell me where you are now so you don’t have to wait.”
“You are too well protected.” He sneers. “By a filthy half-breed. We will meet again.”
After uttering his B-movie line, Perdix vanishes without a sound, leaving behind more questions along with a pounding heart and adrenaline rush.
I still don’t know where he’s located or how he sends out his spirit or whatever to assault unsuspecting victims. And what the hell did he mean I’m too well protected? By Zagan? By a sleeping T? Or did Smythe demon-proof the house? And who was the filthy half-breed? Half-breed of what?
Who was he referring to? Definitely not T. While one could consider our father a mongrel, he was human. Smythe? Nope, same thing. Human parents. Zagan? Were demons half-breeds? Even if they were, I’m not convinced Zagan currently protects me. Sure, I wear his mark, but the last time I saw the demon he was mad enough to incinerate me so I highly doubt he threw some protective mojo my way.
Who else would protect me?
One way to find out.
I close my eyes, tapping into the entity lying along my nerves. A bright purple glow appears in my mind.
Who was the demon referring to? Who’s the half-breed?
A long pause.
Abomination. Other.
Abomination? Other? What the hell do you mean?
Not hell. Wrong.
Wrong? What’s wrong?
Abomination.
Who is an abomination?
Half-breed.
Yeah. This conversation is going nowhere fast. Who was a half-breed abomination? What made them an abomination? Their half-breed status?
Geez Louise, would I ever have answers or only more questions?
Words pop into my mind, courtesy of my circuitous conversation-making justitia. Angel-human abomination.
My eyes snap open. Angels?
Huh, demons exist. Why not angels?
I get the impression the justitia snorts. Other than its disdain, silence reigns.
And the conversation, if one could call it such, ends. Despite my prods and requests, the justitia clams up, refusing more information. Even though the damn thing knows good and well who the angel-human abomination is.
The next Agency member who shows up at my house will get asked the same question: who the hell is my justitia calling an abomination?
****
I finally fall asleep around four in the morning, only to be awakened at eight by thudding footsteps in the kitchen. Never a good way to wake. My heart races in an uneven rhythm until I smell the distinct aroma of sizzling bacon and brewing coffee. Since T has to be at work by seven, the only other person who would be making me breakfast would be Smythe. Unless a benevolent alien landed in my kitchen and decided to cook for me.
Yeah, and those chances are zilch.
What was Smythe doing in my house? Besides the obvious? Wasn’t he pissed at me? Felt betrayed by me? Behaving like an ass?
Yep, yep, and yep.
Nothing to it but to drag myself out of bed.
After a quick shower and clothes change, I follow the delicious aroma into the kitchen. Smythe stands at the stove scrambling eggs, the wooden spoon hitting with a soft thud-thud-thud against the side of the pan.
My heart beats a staccato rhythm as I draw in a deep breath. Calm, Gin, calm. Do not go nuclear on his ass. He’s making you breakfast.
I draw in another deep breath. Coffee and breakfast first. Argue later.
“Hey.” See? I can sound calm and collected. Fake it until you make it. At my greeting, he turns. Swallows.
“Hey.”
“Whatcha doing?”
He gives me a quick brow raise. “Cooking breakfast.”
“I mean besides the obvious.”
A long pause ensues as he looks at the ground, punctuated by the crackle of sizzling bacon and the hiss of gas under the pans.
Several deep breaths later, his gaze meets mine. “I’m sorry.”
I blink a couple of times. Well, you don’t hear him saying those words every day. So much for coffee and breakfast first. I should be happy about it. Instead, while relief eases through my veins, it’s swamped by a large dose of righteous indignation.
Apparently I can’t take an apology.
“Thank you.” If he’s going to man up and apologize, the least I can do is thank him. No matter what I really feel. “What brought this on?”
His gaze flicks to the ground, only to return to mine. “I read the cleanup crew’s report on the matter.”
I can’t stop my brows, or my voice, from rising. “And you believed them when you wouldn’t believe me?”
“I’m sorry.”
Don’t be a bitch, Gin. Don’t be a bitch.
I draw in a deep breath through my nose. Hold it for a ten count then blow it out while relaxing my clenched fists.
“So you finally believe me?”
“I do.” He turns off the burner under the eggs. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t kiss him willingly. But in all fairness, you kept defending him against all odds.”
Anger drains from my body. While his previous attitude was wrong, I did continue to defend Donny long past the time I should’ve faced the obvious facts. My gaze drops to the floor for a second, the tone of my voice soft to cover a wrong. I should’ve seen through Donny. But…
“I didn’t want him to be guilty. He seemed…nice.”
“Seriously?” Smythe waves a hand. “Whatever. He wasn’t and you now know.”
“Yeah. I do.” I clear the lump of guilt from my throat. “He didn’t deserve to die though.”
“True that. And you didn’t deserve for me to walk out and leave you to fight Rahab alone. When I saw the two of you, all I could think of was”—he shakes his head as if clearing an old memory—“well, I shouldn’t have let jealousy blind me to what was going on.”
His gaze strokes across my frayed spirit, soothing the unraveled ends, pulling me into his spell. But I don’t want to fall again. I’m not ready to fall again. As petty as it seems, I’m not done being mad.
“I’m not sure if I’m ready to forgive you.”
“Fair enough.” He twists off the burner under the bacon. “Breakfast is ready.”
Because nothing erases guilt and shame like a good breakfast.
I grab two plates, hand him one and fill mine with bacon and egg goodness. After pouring myself an extra-large mug of coffee, I sit across from Smythe at the table. Except for forks clicking against the plates, silence reigns.
He did what I wanted: apologized. So why do I still feel upset?
Probably because it takes awhile to get over the man you cared about accusing you of cheating on him. While I can’t control what I feel, I can act like an adult
instead of a petty child.
Because rising above things is what adults do. Even when they’d rather throw hot coffee on a person and scream at the top of their lungs.
“The man from my dreams, the despair demon, has a name: Perdix. I know this because visited me again last night.” Might as well talk about demons. It beats sitting in silence wanting to act like an uber bitch.
Smythe coughs, choking on a piece of egg. “Come again?”
“The despair demon visited me last night. Or his projection visited me. Tried to get me to come to him. As if I would. Then he saw Zagan’s symbol,” I point to my neck, as if Smythe forgot about the mark, “said he was going to kill me but couldn’t right then because I was too well protected. Then he vanished.”
“He knows you won’t fall for his charms.”
“Charms?” I snort. “Whatever. Anyway, he said my protector was a filthy half-breed so I asked the justitia what he meant by a half-breed. Catch this, it said the half-breed was an angel-human abomination. Wanna let me in on who the hell it is? Because it isn’t you. Or T. Or Zagan. And there wasn’t anyone else offering me protection.”
Bacon hangs from Smythe’s fingers, paused halfway between his plate and his mouth. He blinks several times at me as the bacon falls onto his plate, his face draining of color.
Ah-ha. He knows who my justitia meant.
He clears his throat. “How did your justitia know?”
“Wouldn’t say. The thing talks oddly and in a circle. Who is it?”
“It’s not my place to say.” The color returns to his cheeks as he grabs his dropped piece of bacon and pops it into his mouth.
“Aw, come on.”
“No.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Mages and their damned secrets. “Then how do I find out about my mysterious hybrid protector?”
“You don’t. Just know you’ve been protected. It doesn’t happen to everyone.”
“Fine. Then how did they protect me? If there’s a spell to protect from demons, then why don’t they cast it over humankind? Show the demons who’s boss?”
“That’s not how it works. Did Perdix give you a clue where he was projecting from?”
As someone who changes topics whenever a question hits too close to home, I recognize a topic avoidance when I see one. And I know my mentor. If he won’t disclose something, no amount of wheedling will get it out of him. Best thing to do is go along with his topic change and try again later.
I will learn who the heck the angel-human abomination is. And how they managed to protect me.
Demons and angels. Until I took this job, I didn’t believe either existed.
“The demon didn’t answer my question regarding his whereabouts. Rather like you’re doing.”
Good thing frosty glares from Smythe fail to make me squirm.
“He has to be close. A despair demon can’t project from too far. About the distance of a block or two according to the research I did.”
“What else did your research turn up about despair demons?”
“They don’t normally cause a person to commit suicide. While they will project themselves to a person who is dying and can feed across distances through their projection, they normally appear in the flesh to feed. On someone who has already made the choice. This is one of the few instances I could find of one projecting to victims who are sad and upset but not depressed. Not sure why this is happening.”
That makes two of us. Two unsure Agency employees trying to learn the rationale behind demon behavior.
No wonder we have no idea on the matter. Since when is demon behavior rational?
I clear my throat. “You talked before of demon leaders. Maybe leaders have extra abilities.”
“Or a despair demon hasn’t tried to kill this many people at once so it has never been noted in the history books.”
“Okay. If that’s the case, why is he doing it now? What does he gain?”
Smythe shrugs. “What all demons gain, I suppose. A boost in power.”
“Yeah, okay. But why? Why now? What’s going on now to make this demon need a power boost?”
“Something in Hell?”
“Hell yeah!” I slap the table with a laugh while Smythe rolls his eyes.
“Be serious. Something could be going on in Hell. Why don’t you ask Zagan?”
“Because he’s no longer speaking to me.”
A wrinkle appears between Smythe’s brows. “Did you tell me this?”
“Not the whole story.” My breath hitches. Telling Smythe about Zagan is like pulling a scab from a wound. My words escape in a jumbled rush. “He got mad the night I killed Donny. Said his red energy would have killed Rahab, but I wasted it on blasting those minions who shot up the Agency at that mandatory meeting. He didn’t buy the argument that saving mages was a good deal. Something about demons and mages not liking each other? Yeah. Anyway. He called me a loser and portaled away. Haven’t seen him since.”
I neglect to mention how much this bothers me. How I feel bereft without Zagan’s occasional presence. How—either because of the justitia or some personal deficiency—he’s become somewhat of a friend. Who would’ve thought I’d grow accustomed to visiting with a demon. Definitely not Smythe.
And since my mentor just apologized and is trying to act like we’re all good, I’ll cut him some slack by conveniently forgetting to mention my wayward feelings. Even if a hollow, painful ache takes up residence in my chest at the thought of the absent demon.
“I guess that’s a good thing.” Smythe leans back in his chair, his fingers drumming against his jean-clad leg. “But it’s still strange. He marked you. He thinks of you as his servant.”
“No, he thinks of me as his friend. Or the justitia as his friend. Or maybe he thinks we’re one and the same. Me and the justitia.” At Smythe’s brow-raised expression, I clamp my lips together to stop rambling.
After a two second pause, he continues. “As I was saying, you wear his mark. Humans who wear a demon’s mark are the demon’s servant. And yet, you aren’t. Maybe he grew tired of not being able to turn you and gave up. You should be thankful.”
So why wasn’t I?
Chapter Eleven
After breakfast, we sit at the kitchen table, me with the newspaper and a cup of coffee and Smythe with his ever-present laptop. Much to my surprise, Smythe lets me drink three cups of coffee without complaining about my habit. Good thing too, seeing how I need it to wake up. Despite a kickass healing combined with sleeping for a day, only four hours of rest the night before left me groggy. You would’ve thought I’d be awake and ready to catch a demon, but nope, I’d rather catch another four hours of z’s.
Newspaper rustles as I flip the page. Fingers tap-tap-tap against keys. Smythe and his love for his laptop. I swear, the man is never far from technology.
The tapping stops. I look up from the cooking article to see Smythe staring at me.
“What?”
“I have good news. I discovered how Samantha paid those minions who tried to kill you.”
When I first started this gig, Samantha—a blonde-bitch mage—fooled me into going with her to fight minions. Sure, there were minions, but only because she hired them to kill me.
Smythe’s dad, David, believed her story over mine so Smythe has been hunting for how she paid off the minions. He discovered a bank transfer from her account to another, but needed to further flesh out the details. I guess he found the trail.
A “gotcha, bitch” smile turns my lips. “You were still looking?”
His gaze flicks to his laptop and back to mine. “I found it this morning. Right in front of me. It took me a while to find the account’s owner who received the transfer. One Lars Sigmundson. A little more research including pictures and Lars isn’t really Lars. Try Jezebeth.”
Cold rushes through me, replaced by heat. Jezebeth killed Blake. At least I killed the demon bitch.
And now we have proof Samant
ha paid the demon to use her minions to kill me.
“Why would she pay minions to off me?” Why would Samantha hate me enough to hire minions to kill me? Samantha is a mage. A mage. Mages fight demons, not hire them to kill newbie Justitians.
“It gets worse.” He shoves the laptop out of the way and leans forward, elbows on the table. “The money in Samantha’s account came as a single deposit from the Agency. It looks like she was the middleman. Or woman as the case may be.”
I blink. Once, twice. As if the action will make the news improve.
It doesn’t. I knew most people at the Agency agreed with Samantha about me not deserving to wear the justitia because I wasn’t born into the life, but I didn’t think they hated me enough to kill me.
“Are you sure? I mean, are you sure it’s not a coincidence? Like they were going to pay her anyway and she used her paycheck to finance a murder?” Yes, Samantha was a bitch, thought I was white trash, and didn’t think me worthy to wear the justitia.
I also suspect she still had a thing for Smythe. All of which made her anger toward me somewhat understandable. But to learn the Agency, my employer, tried to have me killed without even letting me learn my job, hurt. I knew they didn’t like me, maybe even agreed with Samantha’s no-good, white-trash conclusion, but to have me killed?
I knew the Agency was up to no good. Just didn’t realize their ‘no good’ was directed at me.
“It’s not a coincidence.” Anger snaps around Smythe, flashes in the depths of his eyes. “Her paycheck isn’t anywhere close to the amount deposited.”
“So not only does someone at the Agency want me dead, they also refuse to pay me when they pay others?” Really, what was wrong with me? I should be focusing on the “someone wanting me dead” part of this conversation and instead I’m pissed at the lack of income in this gig. If I’m dead, the income, or lack thereof, won’t matter.
Breathe in and out, in and out.
“All mages get paid.”
“And Justitians don’t?” So much for calming effects of deep breaths. “What the hell? We’re the ones who can permanently put the hurt on a demon.”
Devil Take Me Page 9