Devil Take Me Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley

  Devil Take Me

  Copyright

  Dedications

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  A vision of an auburn-haired man

  dressed in dark trousers and a gray button-down, appears in my head. He sits on my closed toilet lid, watching me sleep in the full tub, watching as my head slides closer to the waterline.

  It must be a dream. How else can I be asleep and still see the bathroom, my sleeping self and the man? A dream. Only a dream. His voice is nothing more than my imaginings.

  And yet I feel the need to answer. To deny his words.

  I’m not listening to you. I make an effort to rebuke the voice, refusing to take what it offers, refusing to admit its enticing pull.

  Oh, but you are. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze firmly affixed to my face. You contemplate my words. You seek the rest only I can give.

  Yeah, right. Not buying it, buster. Although I’m starting to want what he offers. I’ll never admit it to Mystery Man. What can a figment of my imagination really do?

  I am not a figment. He smiles, his lips pulling away from straight, white teeth.

  Despite the warm water, a chill runs down my spine. He holds out his hand.

  Come. Take my hand. Rest. Leave your problems behind.

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley

  “[DEMON LORE is an] action-packed tale of demons, guardians and magical abilities.”

  ~Linda Green at Fresh Fiction

  “Fantastic start to a new series.”

  ~Annetta Sweetko at Fresh Fiction

  ~*~

  “…the story [in DEMON KISSED] is a snarky, fast-paced romp that kept me reading straight through the afternoon…”

  ~Katie O’Sullivan at Read, Write, Repeat

  “The world is interesting and is explained well and the story is full of action, suspense and a bit of romantic drama.”

  ~Urban Fantasy Investigations

  ~*~

  “I also love how the author paints a picture in my mind by these spellbinding sentences [in DEMON CURSED].”

  ~Booktalk with Eileen

  Devil Take Me

  by

  Karilyn Bentley

  A Demon Huntress Novel

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Devil Take Me

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Karilyn Bentley

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: [email protected]

  Cover Art by Diana Carlile

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Mainstream Paranormal Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1890-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1891-2

  A Demon Huntress Novel

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  A big thank you goes to Kathy Ivan

  for her wonderful plotting help

  as well as to Carrie Hamlin and J.C. McKenzie,

  beta readers extraordinaire.

  Without you, ladies,

  this book would never have come about.

  ~*~

  And to my husband for his feedback and support.

  I love you more than words can say.

  Chapter One

  Whoever said tomorrow is another day must never have awakened to the mother of all hangovers. Unlike me. Which happens when you drink half a bottle of whiskey and smoke your twin brother’s weed to escape your horrible screw-up. I swear sand coats my mouth, swelling my tongue, drying my throat. Light trickles through the blinds, digging painful holes into my brain.

  I need water.

  But getting it would defeat the purpose of punishment. And punishment is what I deserve. Punishment for killing a human.

  I, Gin Champagne Crawford, killed a fellow human being.

  Killing demons and minions is one thing. As the world’s newest Justitian, or demon huntress as I call my new gig, I’m expected to blast those things back to Hell, or wherever it is they go once their bodies disintegrate. Humans, though, humans I’m supposed to leave alive.

  Donny isn’t alive. Not at all. His body is, well, probably at the morgue by now.

  A tear escapes my squeezed shut eyes. Donny. Mr. Football. A player known for his charitable contributions and face-time with the media. And the man who slept with my twin’s ex-girlfriend. Still, he didn’t deserve to die.

  Although Donny did align himself with Rahab, the demon of pride. Well, sort of align himself. More like Donny considered becoming a minion. Strongly considered. Which means I might have needed to end his life one of these days, but he wasn’t a minion when I accidentally shoved my sword through his heart.

  I killed a human who might have been saved.

  Another tear squeezes past my closed eyes as the events of yesterday flood my mind.

  To start things off, my twin, T, said he never wanted to see me again and stormed out the door. Then Smythe, my mage-guardian and most recent lover, thought I had a thing going on with Donny and pulled a disappearing act.

  Okay, maybe Donny did deserve a sword through his heart for forcing a kiss on me right when Smythe walked in Donny’s private room at Club Monster in Dallas.

  To cap the day, my hidden stash of whiskey, the bottle I kept to prove I could avoid hard liquor and stay on the narrow road of only beer, sits on the nightstand almost empty. Last night, the smooth slide of liquid down my throat pushed back the memory loop of my terrible, horrible, no good, fucked up day faster than my sword cut into Donny.

  Until I woke.

  Now, my memories threaten my sanity, along with a healthy dose of bruised pride and complete shame, made worse by the raging headache and roiling stomach.

  What kind of person kills a human?

  The kind who’d down half a bottle of whiskey and a couple of blunts rather than face her mistakes.

  I am a horrible person.

  Maybe you should end it all. Maybe you should drink the rest of the bottle, ensuring complete oblivion. Drink. Come to me.

  The deep voice slithers across my mind, soothing frayed endings, calming my racing heart.

  What. The. Fuck?

  My eyes pop open, searching for the source of the voice. Bad idea. Another dagger of sunlight attempts a lobotomy, f
orcing me to slam my lids shut. Why am I in T’s room instead of mine? A question which isn’t nearly as important as, is someone else in the room with me?

  I hold my breath, trying to discern if someone broke in, but the only noise I hear is the throb of my heartbeat pounding in my ears.

  Right. As if a burglar would break into my house and watch me sleep. A demon, though…

  My eyes try for another round of open and squeeze shut. Then open and squint. No one in front of me, standing next to the bed as I lie on my side. Maybe behind me? I roll. Huge mistake. My stomach contents threaten a reappearance. Clapping a hand over my mouth, I roll back the other way, fall off the bed and heave onto the floor.

  At least the floor isn’t carpeted, which makes for easier cleanup.

  Like some effed-up perk, the fall shakes loose the memory otherwise known as the cherry on top of my fucked-up day. Zagan, my demon “friend” telling me I’m a loser. I look at the puddle of puke and decide the demon had a point.

  Only a loser pukes all over her brother’s bedroom floor. Speaking of brothers, why am I in T’s room?

  A memory spins into my mind, a memory of me cradling my whiskey bottle while sitting on T’s bed, smoking his joints. Yeah, definitely a loser.

  Drink. Come to me.

  The deep voice again echoes inside my head. Not in the room. Inside me.

  A hallucination? After last night’s pot-and-booze-a-polooza I wouldn’t be surprised.

  Both T and Smythe can talk to me telepathically. Should someone else be added to that short list?

  Which option is scarier? Whichever one, I’m pretty sure it’s the winner.

  I rest my head against the cool wood floor, immediately wishing I hadn’t. Yuck. Smelly. I need to clean up.

  Using the bed as leverage, I shove upright. The room spins, then stabilizes. I push to my feet, clap a hand over my mouth and high-tail it to the hall bathroom. After flushing, washing my hands, throwing water on my face, and sipping the cool, over-chlorinated liquid straight from the faucet, I stare in the mirror.

  But only for a second. Enough to see streaked makeup, sleep lines on my cheek, a bad case of bed-hair and bloodshot eyes. Double yuck.

  Or maybe quadruple? Math never was my thing.

  I stumble out of the bathroom, down the hall to my bedroom, strip off my clothes and climb into my shower. Upright proves an unsteady adventure, so I turn off the shower and stop up the tub. Once the water fills the tub, I sit down and lean my head against the rim, letting my eyes slide shut.

  How do I move past what I’ve done? I’ve messed up in so many ways, all in one day. Is there a reset option to start yesterday over?

  Of course not. Yesterday is done. Finished. The past is written in stone.

  How do I scratch away the writing? How do I move forward?

  Come to me. This time when the voice speaks, I keep my eyes closed, sinking into the deep timbre as if it were my own personal floatation device. All your problems will disappear. Just relax. Let the water bring you to me.

  Maybe I should do as the mysterious voice says. Let go. Slip away. Never worry again.

  Wait a minute. Since when do I listen to mysterious voices? Hell, I didn’t even listen to my own internal voice last night telling me drinking half a bottle of whiskey might be a bad idea, why would I listen to some hallucination?

  Not a hallucination.

  A vision of an auburn-haired man dressed in dark trousers and a gray button-down, appears in my head. He sits on my closed toilet lid, watching me sleep in the full tub, watching as my head slides closer to the waterline.

  It must be a dream. How else can I be asleep and still see the bathroom, my sleeping self and the man? A dream. Only a dream. His voice is nothing more than my imaginings.

  And yet I feel the need to answer. To deny his words.

  I’m not listening to you. I make an effort to rebuke the voice, refusing to take what it offers, refusing to admit its enticing pull.

  Oh, but you are. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his gaze firmly affixed to my face. You contemplate my words. You seek the rest only I can give.

  Yeah, right. Not buying it, buster. Although I’m starting to want what he offers. I’ll never admit it to Mystery Man. What can a figment of my imagination really do?

  I am not a figment. He smiles, his lips pulling away from straight, white teeth.

  Despite the warm water, a chill runs down my spine. He holds out his hand.

  Come. Take my hand. Rest. Leave your problems behind.

  His fingers beckon, a gentle call to relax. I shouldn’t take him up on his offer, but maybe he’s right. Maybe resting is all I need. Maybe I should listen to a mysterious man sitting on my toilet lid, begging me to take his hand.

  Maybe he really can take me away from myself, from my pain, from the knowledge I majorly screwed up.

  I open my eyes, meeting the man’s gaze. Yep, the man sits on my toilet lid, but I’m still not convinced this is anything more than a dream. And in my dreams, I can have all the relaxation and relief from my screwed-up life I can get. I reach out a hand to him. His smile widens into a sinister grin.

  Right before he grips my palm, the bathroom door slams open, ricocheting against the wall. The man disappears as if he never existed, leaving my hand hanging mid-air. My twin, T, stands in the doorway, his icy glare chilling the room.

  I let loose with a little squeak and yank the shower curtain closed while the anger in T’s low voice reverberates against the walls.

  “What the fuck are you doing, Gin?”

  “Taking a bath?” I poke my head outside the curtain.

  “Like hell.” His fingers whiten as he grips the doorknob. “Who was talking to you?”

  “You came back.” Maybe things aren’t so bad. My twin returned.

  Of course he still looks as mad as when he left.

  Things apparently remain bad between us.

  His jaw flexes. “Who were you talking to?”

  “No one was here. Just a dream.”

  “Again. Like hell. You think I couldn’t hear him too, calling to you? His voice came right through our mental link. Was he the fucking grim reaper, or what?”

  I focus on my twin’s words, which is a little hard to do with a stupid hangover.

  Could T be right? Was the grim reaper chatting me up while sitting on my toilet? What were the chances?

  Slim or none?

  “Gin?” T’s voice slides lower, calm and steady, a virtual growl. Not a good sign. His next words confirm it. “Why does the house reek of weed and booze?”

  Damn. Busted. I swallow in a vain attempt to clear away the sand-like substance coating my throat. It doesn’t work. I hang my head, my voice little more than a whisper.

  “Don’t go in your room. I need to clean it.”

  “Shit. What the hell, Gin? What the hell?”

  My twin, short on words, but what he does say, sums up things nicely.

  T slaps a palm against the door jamb, making me jump. “Get out of the bath, get dressed, and get your punk ass to the kitchen.”

  With those words, he slams the door shut behind him.

  A tear slides down my cheek. I scrub it away. Why did I think grabbing a dream man’s hand would make all my problems disappear?

  And why did T think my dream was of the grim reaper? Would a grim reaper appear as a dream man instead of a spirit? Wasn’t the creature nothing more than a fantasy made up to explain how people died? I didn’t die. I’m pretty damn messed up, but nowhere close to dead.

  So why did my twin get so upset over a dream?

  Chapter Two

  By the time I stumble into the kitchen, T has started the coffee brewing. Usually I love coffee, drinking several extra-large mugs of the liquid gold, stopping only when the pot runs dry. Today, instead of its normal welcoming smell, the odor turns my stomach. This time, nothing makes a repeat appearance.

  Thank goodness.

  My brother stands with hi
s hands resting against the counter in front of the sink, staring out the window as if the neighborhood street holds all the answers. Tension tightens his muscles, radiates into the kitchen in a warm rush of energy. T upset is never a good thing.

  Why was he back? Perhaps he realized he was wrong to blame me for his ex-girlfriend Jackie’s death?

  After all, it wasn’t my fault a crazy serial killer minion stalked her. Nonetheless, his actions yesterday hurt all the same. My twin and I are—or should I say, were—close.

  “Hey.”

  At the sound of my voice, he turns, eyes narrowed, jaw tense. “Are you punishing me for leaving yesterday?”

  “No, not you.” I pause, stare at my feet for a second before meeting his eyes. “What you said hurt,” a hell of a lot worse than I’d ever say, “but me getting trashed is not your fault.”

  Never his fault. Only mine. Playing the blame game gets me nowhere.

  Something I should have realized earlier in my screwed-up life.

  His gaze drops to the ground before meeting mine. “I shouldn’t have stormed off.”

  Damn straight. An opinion I keep to myself. Instead, I shrug and squint, wishing for a pair of sunglasses. I never realized how bright this kitchen really was until a team of painful, light-induced jackhammers took up residence in my skull.

  “It’s okay. I don’t like us to be mad at each other.”

  He steps forward, wraps me in his arms. As soon as he enfolds me in a hug, a sense of calm flows through me, through us. A perk of being twins, our touch gives each other a peaceful relaxed feeling. One of the few times in my life I feel this way is when T gives me a hug.

  Or Smythe wraps me in his arms.

  Nope, not gonna think about Smythe and how we could have been a couple. My damn mentor wouldn’t listen to reason. I don’t want him back.

  Despite T’s arms around me, what feels like little shards of glass shatter my heart, giving evidence of my lie.

  T steps back, eyes narrowed. “What happened? If it wasn’t me, what caused you to slip?”

  I sigh, step around him, heading toward the bottle of ibuprofen in the cabinet. Do I want to tell him what a loser I am?

  As if he doesn’t already know. The house smells like pot, spilled booze and puke, a clear giveaway.