Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley’s

  Demon Kissed

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  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

  A word about the author…

  Other Books You Might Enjoy

  Also Available

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

  The scent of sulfur hangs in the air

  like a demonic stink bomb. I want to slap a hand over my nose, but no one else seems affected by the stench.

  Must be a demon huntress thing.

  “Justitian,” Smythe mutters. “Not demon huntress.”

  “If you don’t like my new title, then stay out of my mind.”

  He glares. I swallow. Cross my arms. Refuse to take a step back. I’m learning not to be intimidated by his anger. Go me.

  My justitia vibrates, throwing me out of my internal battle, pulling me back to the land of death and minions. The blob of colors pulsates, a glowing reminder of a moment of terror.

  The moment the demon appeared to the grad student.

  Granted, I’m still taking Demons 101, but I thought demons formed minions in private. Usually after the human committed a crime, not before. A tryout, so to speak. And maybe that happened, but it sure seems to me like the black blob of demon force appeared to the grad student smack in the middle of the hallway.

  Or maybe that always happens, and I just now noticed it.

  The justitia’s vibration grows stronger, trembling my arm, my veins. Not its normal excited tremor upon seeing a minion or demon. A rush of images spikes through my mind, scenes of terror coupled with blood and death, memories of the justitia’s former wearers captured in time by the entity in the bracelet.

  I’m not the only one freaked out by the colored blob. How bad was this demon to scare a justitia?

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley’s

  DEMON LORE

  “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

  Demon Kissed

  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.

  Demon Kissed

  COPYRIGHT © 2016 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 Black Rose Edition, 2016

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-0561-5

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-0562-2

  A Demon Huntress Novel

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my husband:

  Thank you for believing in me

  and not minding (much)

  when I disturb your video games.

  I love you!

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my wonderful beta readers J.C. McKenzie and Carrie Hamlin for your excellent advice. You ladies are awesome!

  I’d also like to thank Phyllis Middleton and Bob Williams for all things police.

  As usual, all mistakes are mine.

  Chapter One

  The other woman never gets invited to her lover’s funeral. That’s why I’m wearing large sunglasses and a floppy black hat.

  And super strong antiperspirant for summer in Texas.

  Sweat beads on my chest, pools in my bra. Despite an application of an antiperspirant promising to “never let you down,” I feel as though someone shoved me into a damp armpit and then spitted me over an open flame.

  Some days it’s hard to tell the difference between Texas and hell.

  Blake Calder’s family sits on a row of padded chairs under a green awning, directly in front of his closed casket. I stand on the periphery of the crowd, tears staining my cheeks, listening as the pastor intones the virtues of heaven while seeming oblivious to the sun tap-dancing on his scalp. My heels sink into the dirt and make little popping noises when I shuffle to a different spot.

  I pull a tissue from my purse and rub under my eyes. Blake and I met eleven years ago in college and were off and on lovers ever since. I never expected to find myself standing by his grave, waiting for his coffin to be lowered into the packed clay that passes as earth here in Dallas. Then again, I never expected to be a demon huntress, a Justitian, the wearer of a bracelet that turns into a sword. A killer of demons and their minions.

  Or for a demon to kill my lover.

  Life is full of twists and turns. What happened to staying on the straight and narrow?

  It’s my fault. If I hadn’t put on the bracelet, the justitia, which bound the entity in the silver links to my nervous system, then none of this would have happened. Blake would still be alive. I’d only have my empath abilities to deal with, not the demon-slaying powers.

  But noooo. I had to fasten the shiny silver bauble around my wrist.

  Not that I’d take it off. I’ve only worn it for a week and a half, but that’s enough to know it’s mine until death do us part.

  Literally.

  Jordan sobs over the droning voice of the pastor, snapping my attention from my thoughts and back to the graveside service. Jordan. Blake’s girlfriend. Blake’s nose-candy using, tanning-bed-blonde bitch of a girlfriend.

  Unfortunately, Blake’s mother Cecily preferred Jordan’s anorexic-looking self over my white trash heritage. Something about Jordan being a better match for her precious son. Something he and I were about to set straight. Something that no longer matters.

  Cecily might have stopped Blake from officially tagging me his girlfriend, but her attempt to bar me from his funeral failed. Thank goodness for online obits.

  A shadow draws my attention to the other side of the graveyard where a stand of trees drapes the ground in shade. My mentor, Aidan Smythe, leans against a tree, arms crossed, his black t-shirt pulling across muscles seen despite the distance.

  Smythe is my guardian. A mage who pulled the short stick and ended up being my mentor. He’s been following me around for the last week, ever since Blake’s death, staying in the shadows, spooking little old ladies’—along with some not-so-old ladies’—hormones out of hiding.

  I’d trade his sexiness to see Bl
ake’s athletic physique one more time.

  I dash my tissue under my leaking eyes. Grief dulls with time, but Blake’s death is recent enough my chest still aches at his memory. If only he’d lived long enough to see me attempt to avenge him. To know I came for him. Fought for him.

  Grieved for him.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Draw in a ragged breath. I can deal with his loss. Really. I can.

  Liar, liar.

  “Amen.”

  Blake’s family stands, accepts condolences from the guests while the pastor steps out of view. I glance to where Smythe stood, but he’s gone.

  I pull my heels out of the dirt, square my shoulders and stand in line for condolences. Not what I want to do, but for Blake’s sake, I need to apologize to his mother.

  She doesn’t need to know the demon Jezebeth killed Blake as revenge for me killing her minions or that the Agency, my new demon-slaying employer, cleaned the scene to make it look like he’d died in a mugging. But she does need to know how much he meant to me. That I was more than a booty call.

  Cecily stiffens when I draw near, years of inbred good manners forcing her to accept my presence. White lines bracket her mouth. Grief or annoyance?

  “I’m so sorry. Blake meant so much to me. I can’t believe he’s gone.”

  She nods, her gaze lingering on my hat. “He enjoyed your friendship.” Her lips purse in disagreement with her son, and in polite dismissal, she turns to the next in line, reaching out a hand to the person.

  I turn, intending to bypass Blake’s father who is talking to another middle-aged man. But his dad notices me and grabs my bare upper arm. With his touch, blue overlaid with red slam into my mind, a mix of grief and anger. I jerk back, and he releases me. The thought colors dissipate in the humidity. Mr. Calder raises a brow as I rub my hand where he touched my arm.

  Maybe he should try being an empath. See how he feels when someone grabs his arm.

  “Gin. Thank you for coming. Blake thought a lot of you.”

  I stop rubbing my arm and force a smile. “And I him. I’m so sorry for your loss.”

  “Thank you, my dear. Have you met my neighbor, Professor Dan Sheevers?” He nods toward the man he was talking to. "Dan, this is Gin Crawford, a friend of Blake's."

  Dan Sheevers sticks out his hand. “Dr. Sheevers. Nice to meet you.”

  I suck in a breath, releasing it on a hack that I cover with my hand. The good doc drops his palm like I carry a disease. Mission accomplished.

  “I’m sorry.” Fake cough. “Don’t want to give you my cold.” What does it say about me that lying is second nature? “It’s nice to meet you.” Now what do I say? I cough again to fill in the silence. Unfortunately, the professor takes the fake cough for a real one and pats me on the shoulder.

  And his hand slips to my bare upper arm, red and black flash into my head, circling him as he lies on beige carpet, black blood surrounding his head, eyes staring the blank gaze of death.

  I jerk, dislodging his hand, my stomach a ball of ice. Note to self. No matter how hot it gets, never wear a sleeveless dress again.

  “My dear, are you okay?”

  I blink. Swallow. “I’m okay. It’s just the heat. Not good for a head cold, you know. Better get going. I’m so sorry about Blake.” In more ways than Mr. Calder will ever know.

  Dr. Sheevers’ eyes narrow as if he knows what I saw. But how could he? I try to swallow the lump in my throat.

  “I do hope you feel better. That West Nile virus is going around.”

  I make a noncommittal noise, offer a smile, and hightail it out of line. Since when did my empath abilities become prophetic? I’ve never seen future events, only the past a person thinks of the moment I touch them. So what did I see?

  Where’s Smythe? Maybe he knows what’s wrong with me. A quick glance toward the trees only proves he no longer stands there. I turn toward the one lane road winding through the cemetery and freeze.

  Talk about the day from hell.

  Two obviously plainclothes detectives stand in front of a brown sedan, talking to each other while they watch the crowd as if they don’t notice who leans against the car, close enough to them to touch.

  The detectives aren’t the cause of a chill snaking its way down my spine. No, that privilege belongs to the demon next to them. The tall, black haired, olive skinned demon leaning against the sedan’s side as if modeling his tight fitting white t-shirt and jeans. A demon masquerading as a man. With any other demon, my bracelet, my justitia, would be going nuts, forming a sword, forcing me to fight the walking evil.

  But not this demon. For some reason my justitia is happy to see Zagan. As if they’re long lost friends.

  Apparently I have a defective justitia.

  My hand slaps against my neck, to the mark behind my ear. The mark he gave me. Makeup coats my fingers, the cover-up sticky in the humid summer air. Zagan waggles his fingers, touches one to his eye, and points it at me as if to say I’m watching you. I swallow.

  I haven’t seen him since the day I found Blake’s body. Since the day he marked me as his servant.

  The servant thing was an accident. How was I supposed to know giving a demon a snack and some blood bound me to him? In my defense, I believed handing him a snack would save my life. Better he nibble on crackers than me. The blood was an accident. His tongue sliced mine when he spelled me into kissing him. Luckily, the justitia broke whatever bond he tried to create, so Zagan has no control over me.

  I hope.

  For a demon, he’s not all bad. He saved me right before Jezebeth dealt me a death blow then let me kill her. On the downside, he captured me, which led to the aforementioned snack and attempted conversion of me into his servant. On the plus side, he healed my injuries from the fight with Jezebeth, probably saving my life.

  In a way, that makes me indebted to him.

  But not indebted enough to want him following me.

  He smiles, gives another finger wave, and vanishes, no one the wiser to his presence. The detectives continue to scan the dispersing crowd as if they never saw Zagan. Great. A demon with cloaking powers.

  Shit, shit, shit.

  The last thing I need is to be stalked by a demon only I can see.

  A hand slaps against my shoulder, startling the ice ball lodged in my stomach up into my throat.

  “Sorry.” The low chocolaty purr of Smythe’s voice chases away the chill. I must be getting used to him. My hormones no longer explode like fireworks when he’s near. Thank God. Lusting after my mentor while attending my lover’s funeral would be the epitome of bad taste.

  “Bad day.”

  “It’s hard to lose a friend.” His gaze drifts to the right, memories hidden in the depths of his eyes, creeping out to his face. He also lost a friend with benefits. One of these days he’ll explain how. “Must be doubly hard for you to be at a graveside service. I know you don’t like cemeteries.”

  A full second passes before I realize what he’s talking about. My only go at tracking a minion took us to a cemetery. Not just any cemetery, but the one guaranteed to freeze my blood even more than a demon on a hot summer day. The one with The Grave. That part of my past is better left dead and buried. Literally. But keeping my secrets means lying to Smythe, who now believes I possess a cemetery phobia.

  “A girl’s got to suck it up sometimes.” Part of me wants to come clean with him—it’s a small part and easily smothered.

  His eyes narrow. Does he realize I’m lying?

  “It’s not all cemeteries, is it?”

  Damn it. He knows. Time for a distraction. “Did you see Zagan standing by the cops?”

  Suspicion morphs into surprise as he turns his gaze to the detectives lounging against their unmarked brown sedan. “What?”

  “Yeah. He was standing with them right before you walked up.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “What? You don’t believe me?”

  He raises a brow. “You wouldn’t lie about a demon. So why didn’
t your justitia react?”

  I shrug. “Maybe it doesn’t want to kill him?”

  “That’s what it was made for. Killing demons.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course I’m sure. The purpose of a justitia is to kill demons and their minions. You know this.”

  “Yeah, but I’m telling you, it doesn’t want to kill Zagan. It thinks they’re friends.”

  “Justitias don’t think. Or have friends.”

  “Try telling that to it.” I hold up my arm with the bracelet and give it a shake.

  Smythe grabs my arm. Flesh on flesh but without the emotional flash. He’s the only person besides my twin, T, who can pull off that stunt. I knew there was a reason I liked having him for a mentor.

  “This is not the place to have this conversation. Where’s your car?”

  I point, and he loosens his grip on my arm as he escorts me toward my car. We don’t make it far before Dr. Sheevers cuts in front of us, walking fast as if cemeteries creep him out and he can’t wait to leave.

  He gives me a glance and a nod as he hurries to his car. The vision of him lying in a pool of blood pushes into my mind. Should I tell him to be careful? Mind my own business? Experiencing a vision of things to come is a new one. Maybe the justitia gives me new abilities.

  What a thought.

  “What’s wrong?” Smythe’s voice draws me back to the present.

  “I met him.” I point to the good doc’s car as he revs the engine. “And saw a vision of him lying in a pool of blood.”

  “Do you do that often?”

  “No. I only feel what others feel or if their feelings are strong, I can see what caused the emotion. I don’t see things to come. Maybe something changed?” Please God, don’t let anything have changed. Being an empath was bad enough. Being an empath who had a fancy demon-slaying bracelet was worse. Being an empath who sees the future failed to excite me.

  “No other Justitian can see the future. But you tend to be the exception to all the rules, so maybe something is different with you.”

  “Thanks for pointing it out.” Why am I not surprised none of the other women who wear a justitia lack psychic abilities?

  “You know what I meant.”