Devil Take Me

by Karilyn Bentley

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Neither do I, but it doesn’t stop me from meeting his gaze. Hopefully, he can’t see my heart pounding like a stampede behind my ribs.

  “Well, you should.” Smythe glares at his dad. “If she says she has no idea, then she has no idea. Come on, Gin. We need to leave.”

  He yanks open the door and I back through it, keeping one eye on David. His narrowed gaze trails across my skin as if looking for a path into my mind. I turn and quick-walk to the elevator, which opens as soon as Smythe hits the button.

  Charles Tweedy, the head boss of the Agency steps out. My justitia shivers, the silver links trying to twist into a sword but failing.

  Just like the last time I ran into the Big Boss. Just like it did earlier with David.

  What is it about the Agency that bothers my justitia?

  “Chuck.” Smythe nods.

  “Aidan.” Chuck returns the nod. He raises a brow at me. “Gin Crawford, isn’t it? Our mysterious Justitian.”

  I slap a hand over the jittering bracelet. “Mr. Tweedy.”

  Greedy, greedy, greedy, the justitia chants in my head, loud enough to almost obliterate the Big Boss’s next words.

  “Call me Chuck. Everyone else does.”

  “Okay.” I swallow. “Chuck.” Can my voice sound any more high-pitched? Talk about a dead giveaway for how I really feel.

  At least the damn justitia quiets. Although it continues to rattle against my wrist as if it wants to rub off my skin.

  “I’m meeting with your father.” He slaps a palm against Smythe’s shoulder. “Gotta run.”

  “Later.” My mentor raises a hand, but Chuck doesn’t notice, his back already turned to us.

  His leather loafers click against the marble tile of the foyer as he heads toward David’s still open door. David gives us one more glare as he steps out of the way for his boss. We watch as the door snaps shut on their meeting.

  As soon as he vanishes from view, my justitia resumes chanting, greedy, greedy, greedy.

  Don’t you mean, Tweedy, not greedy?

  Greedy, greedy, greedy.

  Annoying nonconversationalist. If it’s going to talk, it might as well do so in actual sentences a human can understand.

  “Gin?” Smythe pokes his head out of the elevator, one arm holding the door open, clearly waiting for me to get with the leaving program.

  Right. No use in standing around in the foyer of the penthouse.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Once inside the elevator, I slump against the wall, tremors wracking my limbs. At least my body waited until I was away from David and Chuck before sinking into a trembling mess. No sense in looking weak before the big, bad mage or his big, bad boss.

  I draw in a deep breath as I turn to Smythe. “Thanks for sticking up for me.”

  “He tried to compel you to tell him how you shot down those minions.” His eyes narrow. “Didn’t think you wanted to spill your guts.”

  “Good deduction. What do you think he knows? Do you think he tried to have me killed?”

  “No, I don’t think he did.” His lips flatten as he stares at the elevator buttons. “But he knows more than he’s letting on. I bet he knows who did it and doesn’t want to say.”

  “Okay, but it still doesn’t explain why. I thought Samantha wanted me dead because she had a raging case of jealousy. But—”

  His gaze meets mine, furrowed brows highlighting blue eyes. “Jealousy?”

  I look at the corner of the elevator, where the ceiling meets the wall, and clear my throat. “She likes you. Not that it matters—”

  “What? We’re no longer like that.”

  Heat slaps my cheeks as I meet his wide-eyed WTF gaze. I wave my hand in a never mind gesture.

  “Anyway, as I was saying—”

  “No, back up. You really thought she was jealous of you because you and I work together and she still had a thing for me?”

  I shrug, hoping the lighting prohibits him from noticing my apparently red face. It could happen. “It was a valid theory. You’ve got to admit, she hates my guts, and claiming I’m not good enough to wear the justitia is only half of it. No one can care that much about my background.”

  His look morphs from surprised to get-real. “Of course they can. But you’re right, Samantha’s issues aren’t the only thing going on here. Still can’t believe you thought she was jealous of you.”

  Once again, heat splashes my cheeks, but I verbally plod forward. “As I was saying when so rudely interrupted, jealousy and not thinking I’m good enough to wear the justitia only get you so far. I’m learning it’s more than just me. I now think it has to do with my justitia.”

  “Yeah, that’s my thought too. Finding the reason is going to be harder than finding out your past.”

  The elevator dings and we step into the hall. Instead of continuing our conversation, we silently agree to not speak of it until we get back to my place. At least that’s my assumption for why Smythe strides down the hall to the landing room without saying a word.

  Maybe he’s tired of my company.

  Nah. The building has ears in the form of eavesdropping devices or magical spells that channel all conversations to a computer for later review.

  Or so I imagine. The computer, that is.

  I follow Smythe into the lavender scented white-walled landing room and through a portal to my bacon, egg, and coffee scented kitchen. Ah, home.

  Smythe walks into the living room where he resumes his feet-on-the-coffee-table pose, laptop open on his thighs.

  “Want something to drink?” I lean against the wall, watching his fingers dance a jig across the keyboard, wishing they were dancing across my skin.

  So much for remaining mad at him. The longer I’m around him, the more pieces of my anger dissipate.

  His words snap me back to reality.

  “Water, please. Or tea if you have it. But not the sweet crap you Texans like.”

  Okay, then. No sweet tea. Water it is.

  After handing him a glass full of ice water, I plop on the sofa beside him, peering at the screen. A map of my neighborhood fills the page. What’s he looking at now?

  “You’re not pulling up anything to do with my justitia or why the Agency wants me dead.” I point at the map.

  “True. Those things are going to take longer than a day to uncover. So I decided to work on where Perdix might be hanging out. He must be someplace nearby or else he wouldn’t have been able to project to you. I’m looking at houses for sale. If they’re empty, he might have moved in.”

  “What about the other victims? Have you looked in their neighborhoods?”

  “No. Thought I’d start here since this was the last place he was. I looked earlier and no more suicides have been reported, so it appears he’s moved on.”

  “You mean he’s moved on to my neighborhood.” A shot of ice rushes down my spine.

  Smythe nods. “Since no more suicides have been reported and you saw him recently, your neighborhood is a likely place to search.”

  Great. Just what I wanted, a not-so-friendly neighborhood demon. Talk about an event to drop real estate prices.

  “What did you find?”

  “Still looking.”

  He takes a sip of water, then expands the map to street view in front of a house.

  “You recognize this house?” He points at the screen.

  I shake my head. “Not really. It’s not too far from me, though.”

  “And it meets the criteria of being close and for sale. Want to go check it out?”

  “Just because it’s for sale doesn’t mean it’s empty.”

  His raised brow stare indicates he doubts my intelligence.

  “What? Like I said, it doesn’t mean the house is empty.”

  One corner of his mouth twitches. He points at the screen.

  “We can land on the side of the house. It should be obscured from the street. Are you ready to check it out?”

  Time
to catch me a demon. Damn straight I’m ready to check it out.

  “We still don’t know why he killed so many people all at once.”

  Smythe puts his glass on the coffee table, sets the laptop beside it, and stands. “Like I said, maybe he’s gathering strength.”

  “Yeah, yeah, but we don’t know that for sure. Although it makes a hell of a lot of sense. Hell of a lot. Get it?” I grin.

  He closes his eyes, shakes his head.

  “Seriously. You really think something is going on in Hell to make Perdix go on a killing spree?”

  Smythe shrugs. “It’s a logical guess.”

  “You mean like a demon war? From what little I know, it seems like demon infighting is a common occurrence.” Clearly, I need to pay more attention to Demonology 101.

  Oh, right. No wonder I’m clueless. The class doesn’t exist.

  “It’s my best guess. When we catch him, you can ask him before you kill him.”

  “Right. Because I’m now Gin the interrogator, dishing up conversation with my slicing and dicing.” I roll my eyes.

  Smythe’s lips twitch as he huffs. “Ready?”

  He mutters his portal forming words, opening a passageway to the in-between in my living room. Warm air billows out, luring the unsuspecting traveler to expect beach-like weather on the inside. Once we step into its depths, the air turns brittle cold, stealing the breath from my lungs.

  We arrive on the side of the house, me cold and trembling while Smythe acts like air the temperature of space is equivalent to the warmth of a Texas autumn.

  He peeks in a window, while I shake my hands. At least the October air is pleasant, in the mid-sixties with partial sun.

  “Damn it. Looks like people still live here.”

  I step beside him, putting my nose close to the glass to see inside. “Looks staged to me.”

  “Staged?” His furrowed brow clues me in he’s apparently never been shopping for houses. Or seen home shows on TV.

  “You know, the owners make the place look like a model home because it attracts buyers.”

  His brow smoothes as he peers through the window. “You think we should go inside?”

  “If you want to do a B&E, have at. I’ll watch for police.”

  “And if the demon’s inside?”

  I take a deep breath, concentrating on the minion sensors in my eyes. No sense in breaking and entering for no reason. Minion sensors operational, I look through the window, releasing a relieved sigh.

  “No minion trails. No evidence of a demon. What else you got?”

  Smythe peers through the window again, brow furrowed. His face relaxes as he gives me a nod and half-grin. “Good catch. Let’s see where the next empty house is.”

  He pulls out his phone while I try not to stare at him like he sprouted a third ear. My mentor, the man who consistently asks me to look for minion trails, who already knows the answer before I give it to him, forgot to check for demonic evidence?

  Clearly, the conversation with his father bothered Smythe more than he lets on. He never, ever, ever forgets about the damn minion trails. I suppose learning there’s a high probability your father made some shady deals would stress out anyone to the point they forgot the usual aspects of their job. Provided they cared about their old man. Which Smythe does, despite David’s asshat tendencies.

  “Two blocks over there’s another house for sale.” Smythe points at his phone.

  “Lead the way, cowboy.”

  He raises a brow, his disdain with the nickname obvious without him uttering a word. Or at least uttering a word about “cowboy.” His portal forming words don’t count.

  We land on the side of another house, behind a fungus-tinged, in dire need of a trim, photinia bush. I risk branches tearing my clothes and step behind the leafed behemoth to peek in a cracked window.

  No staging furniture in this house. No furniture period. The place looks abandoned.

  Smythe steps beside me, brushing off a black-spotted leaf from his arm. His eyes widen. Which, of course, makes me activate the minion sensors in my eyes before he can tell me to do it.

  Bingo.

  Red and orange trails darkened with a black haze encircle the room, traveling over every inch of the place, a clear indicator of demonic activity. Hopefully, it’s the demon we’re hunting and not a minion lair full of not-so-well-off minions. And the chances of a minion with no money?

  I’ve learned it’s more common to find a pearl in your oyster dinner.

  Demons might be hellish to work for, but they make up for it in cold, hard cash.

  Unlike the Agency.

  Since my justitia remains as a bracelet, I assume the trails are remnants, no demonic presence currently on the premises.

  “Did you see the trails?”

  Smythe turns from the window, shooting me another raised brow, I’m-not-stupid expression.

  “What? It’s a viable question since you missed it the last time.” I smile and elbow him in the ribs. “I guess this means we need to go inside.”

  “Definitely need to check it out. Make sure no one is in there.”

  “The place looks abandoned.” I tap the window. “Do you think it’s Perdix’s hideout, or some random minion?”

  “The black haze surrounding the trails indicate a demon, not a minion.”

  I look back at the trails, at what I noticed the first time, but failed to correlate to a demon. You’d think after several months working this gig I’d know the difference between demon and minion trails. Sometimes I wonder about myself.

  “Right. I should’ve known that.”

  He shrugs in an “all good” manner. “Come on. We need to get in there and see what’s going on.”

  He leads me into the backyard, the unlocked, chain-link-fence gate squeaking on its hinges like a tract from a horror movie. The backyard is as overgrown as the bushes along the side of the house. Tall grass interspersed with weeds gives the impression of a jungle hike. All we need is a machete.

  Someone has beaten us to the back door. The thing hangs cracked open, one of its glass panes shattered. Not deterred, Smythe steps inside, shoving the door wider with his elbow.

  Demonic trails line this room, too. Thick and wide, the ribbons twine across the floor like streamers of blood. My nose wrinkles as I inhale a strong odor of mold.

  “Yuck. Where is that stench coming from?” I wave a hand in front of my face, hoping the motion will dissipate the smell. It doesn’t.

  Smythe mirrors my expression, right down to the hand waving under his wrinkled nose. “Probably a water leak no one noticed.”

  “How can anyone live here?”

  “They don’t.”

  “You sure? A minion—”

  “Still has a nose and wouldn’t stay here long.” He strides into the kitchen and points at something I can’t see. Until I poke my head around the corner and notice the large, black stain spreading down the wall in the space where a refrigerator once stood, clearly originating from the water supply.

  Double yuck. I can almost see the little spores of mold flying across the room to be sucked into my lungs where they would cause all sorts of hellish infections.

  I clamp a hand over my nose and mouth and back out of the kitchen.

  “Let’s make this quick.” Smythe strides past me, heading down the hall to the bedrooms.

  Nothing but demonic trails. Since the trails usually dissipate after a day or so, and these appear bright, I conclude we just missed the walking evil.

  “Looks fresh.” Smythe gestures at a hazy black, red-orange trail.

  “Yeah. We must’ve just missed him. At least we know where he’s staying.”

  “We can either wait or come back.”

  “If you think I’m staying in this smelly house you have another think coming.” I head toward the back door without waiting for his answer.

  He follows, pulling the broken door shut behind us, then uses a spell to wipe his fingerprints off the knob. Good thing he’s r
ecovered enough from his shock to remember to erase evidence of us being at a breaking and entering site.

  “I hoped the demon would be here.” He stares at the door as if by glare alone he could summon Hell’s emissary of death.

  “We can come back.” A thought wends through my mind. “Wait a minute. We can see minion and demon trails. Can demons or minions see mage and Justitian trails?”

  He shakes his head. “Not to my knowledge. We’d have known if they could. We’ve been doing this for centuries.”

  Whew. “Okay. Then they won’t know we’ve entered their domain and won’t be waiting for us.”

  “That’s the plan. Unless you wanted to sit out here and wait?”

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure there’s poison ivy out here. Just my luck I’d catch a case of it. Take me home, Jeeves.”

  He shakes his head, but does as I ask. The first thing I notice when we land in the kitchen is the sound of the TV. T should be at work, so who is in my house? Giving Smythe a quick there’s-a-burglar-in-my-house look I head to the living room, my muscles coiled for a fight.

  T sits on the couch, staring at “Ellen” on the screen. Ellen’s on? Geez, I’ve completely lost track of time. No wonder T’s home now. I take a step closer, about to say hi, when I notice sweat trickling down his pale face. His fingers ball into white, shaking fists.

  While knowing no burglar snuck into my house to watch TV relaxes my ready-for-action nerves, seeing my twin in full on freak-out mode fails to lower my tension. Surely the show wasn’t cause to look like he’d seen a ghost.

  Oh, wait. Maybe he had.

  “T?” I take a step toward my twin, Smythe right behind me. “T?”

  No response.

  I speed walk to my twin, touch his shoulder, startling him. “T, what’s wrong?”

  He turns to me eyes wide. “Our great-grandmother stopped by for a visit and you won’t believe what she said.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Is she still here?” I glance around the room, as if I can see a ghost. Wait a minute. I can if I touch my twin.

  I grab T’s hand, wrapping my fingers around his fist. A blurred figure appears between us and the TV. Female, shorter than me, maybe around five-two, and young. Clearly she died before reaching twenty. Her clothes remind me of what women wore in the late thirties, around the time of World War II.