Demon Cursed Read online

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley

  Demon Cursed

  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

  A word about the author…

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

  I shake my head at him

  before straightening my shoulders. And slapping a hand over my mouth and nose. Yuck. Hours-old death in humid Texas weather makes for a smelly situation. At least I’m not the only one with their hand, or handkerchief, over their mouths.

  “What happened?” Smythe meets the gaze of each guard and the hyperventilating janitorial women who clearly found the body.

  One of the women points to where the body lies in front of the Dumpster, flat on her back, hands resting in classic death pose on her bloody stabbed chest, a red rose clasped in her fingers. Her open eyes stare into the night, her mouth curled into a grimace of pain and death. Her clothes look like she came from a club: tight, short, and low-cut, with spiky heels. At one time, I would’ve been jealous of her hot-to-trot figure.

  Now all I notice is the pain and terror stamped on her face and the unfurling anger deep in my core. Fucking murderers. I might be a fancy-assed demon huntress, but I destroy minions, not human killers. Lucky for me, I can tell which type of kill this scene belongs to with little effort.

  Closing my eyes, I start to take a deep calming breath, think better of it, and focus on activating my minion sensors. Tapping into the power of the entity lying along my nerves, I open my eyes to a tactical grid display of reds and oranges, a clear indication of a minion’s presence at the scene.

  Looks like I’ll get my wish to annihilate the fucking bastard who killed this poor woman.

  Praise for Karilyn Bentley

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

  ~Linda Green at Fresh Fiction

  ~*~

  “[DEMON LORE is a] fantastic start to a new series.”

  ~Annetta Sweetko at Fresh Fiction

  ~*~

  “…the story [of 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 [of DEMON KISSED] is interesting and is explained well and the story is full of action, suspense, and a bit of romantic drama.”

  ~Urban Fantasy Investigations

  Demon Cursed

  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 Cursed

  COPYRIGHT © 2017 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, 2017

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-1342-9

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-1343-6

  A Demon Huntress Novel

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedications

  To the best beta readers ever,

  J.C. McKenzie and Carrie Hamlin.

  You help me out in more ways than I can say.

  ~*~

  And to my wonderful hubby.

  Without your encouragement,

  these books would not exist. I love you!

  Chapter One

  My stomach slams into a metal railing as surgically enhanced double D’s press into my back. Cheap beer soaks my arm. A not-so-feminine yell shatters my eardrums. For a second, a similar incident during my whiskey-fueled college years flitters in my mind. I shove the memory back into hiding, and return to the present. Quick reflexes stop me from tumbling over the railing to land on the pissed-off crowd below our box seats. Jackie lets loose a string of obscenities directed at the ref on the field below us, but at least she moves her body off mine.

  Thank God. Death by double D’s at a football game is not the way I thought I’d go.

  The crowd goes wild as I suck back air, trying to recover from my near-death experience. Jackie, my twin brother T’s blonde bimbo girlfriend, along with everyone else, screams at the ref’s call. Only a ref would call a catch that phenomenal in the last five seconds of the game a missed pass. A call which caused our NFL team, the Arlington Armadillos, to lose.

  Which in turn causes a crowd of beer-drenched, adrenaline-pumped humans to scream in anguish.

  “Here, Gin.” T hands me a beer as I straighten, rubbing my stomach. Good thing I wear a justitia, a demon-fighting bracelet that gives me quick healing powers. By the time I finish the beer, the pain and bruising in my stomach will be gone.

  I take a swallow of cheap beer. If only the tickets T won off the radio included better beer instead of the watery version filling my cup. Not that I’m complaining. Beer is beer, after all.

  “Is the ref smoking dope?” T asks, sloshing beer over the rim of his cup as he uses it to point at the field.

  “Sure seems that way.” Clearly the refs were in cahoots to prevent us from winning.

  The woes of being a die-hard football fan: seeing conspiracy theories at every call.

  I glance over my shoulder, into the suite, where mage Aidan Smythe sits on a sofa, his feet propped on the coffee table, surrounded by empty beer bottles and cups. Smythe’s fingers fly across the keyboard of his laptop. Only my mentor would show up to a football game and perform Internet searches for demon activity instead of watching the game.

  Mages. Impossible to understand. Impossible to slap out their crazy.

  “Hey, babe…” Jackie sashays to T, boobs first. “When do we get to meet the team?”

  “It’s not the whole team. Only a couple of them. And the DJs are supposed to get us.”

  With a lucky call, T won game tickets from the local radio station during a contest for a Thursday night home game. Access to a private suite, all the beer we can drink, and a buffet were included in the package. A photo op with the morning show DJs occurred prior to the game. The highlight of the evening was coming after the game: meet-n-greet passes for some of the team.

  We hadn’t been told which team members were participating. Jackie wanted to meet Donald Merryweather, aka Donny Football, the wide receiver known for his face time in the media for everything from children’s charities to animal rescue. Organizations lined up to use him as their spokesperson.

&nb
sp; What a nice guy. Someone not afraid to give away money to special causes—even if he required media exposure to be generous.

  So what if he wanted people to know he’s the face of certain charities instead of donating anonymously? As long as he catches the ball and scores touchdowns, who cares?

  “Guess I need to tell Smythe to put away his laptop before the DJs arrive.”

  T shakes his head at my mentor. When I first slipped on my demon-killing bracelet—the justitia—I was assigned a guardian mage, my mentor Smythe, whose main job seems to be saving my ass.

  Not that my ass has needed saving lately, but when I first started this gig I almost died. A lot. Smythe always swooped in to save the day, ahem, I mean my life. A girl can do with a little life-saving action. Especially when the life saver is six foot five inches of black-haired, blue-eyed eye candy. Yep, he’s pleasing to look at, but so are plenty of other men.

  None of whom cook for me, save my life, or listen to me grouch. None but Aidan Smythe, mentor extraordinaire.

  His only fault being an unhealthy attachment to his laptop.

  “Man…” T gestures at Smythe with his beer. Smythe glances up from the interesting info flying across his screen. “Who the hell plays around on their computer instead of watching the game?”

  “Not my team.” Smythe shrugs.

  “Who the hell lives in Dallas and doesn’t cheer for the Armadillos?”

  “I don’t live in Dallas. I’m on permanent loan here.”

  “Po-tay-toe, po-tah-toe.” I wave a hand. Offer him a grin. His eyes twinkle, and my middle sinks into an unwanted puddle of desire.

  I clearly have problems. Bosses, including mentors, are off limits for a reason. Namely potential workplace problems if the relationship ends. At least that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But over the last three months of working together, the reason grows fuzzy, and tries to rationalize itself right between the sheets for some horizontal action.

  I lock down my thoughts, build barriers around them, as Smythe’s lips turn into a grin. As if he reads my mind. He shouldn’t be able to do that anymore unless I project my thoughts. He’s taught me well.

  And yet I get the distinct impression he sees right into my mind and reads my inner desires, secrets, and lies.

  I shudder. Nope. Not going there. Not thinking it. Am. Not. Thinking. It.

  “So, how much longer—” A knock interrupts my sentence.

  Saved by the arriving DJs.

  T opens the suite door, ushering in Crazy Larry, who lives up to his name, and Little India, who is neither little nor Indian. Instead of a petite Indian woman, Little India stands over six feet tall with bone-china-white skin, black hair, and enough piercings to set off a metal detector from fifty yards away.

  “Hey, hey, hey.” Crazy Larry slaps T on the shoulder. “Sorry the game was a bummer.” Two steps later and he fills up a cup with the beer on tap. We all watch as he swallows it down in one gulp like he’s a college frat boy instead of a sixty-something gray-haired skinny little fella.

  Can you say refusal to grow up?

  I plaster a smile on my face as he does a shimmy, whooping and hollering like the crazy DJ he is. Seeing him gives me even more incentive to stay on the straight and narrow. I set my beer on the counter.

  “Well, now that the game’s over, let’s go meet the team!” Crazy Larry pours himself another beer and starts for the door.

  “Will Donny Football be there?” Jackie grabs T’s arm, eyes wide with anticipation.

  T glares as if he’s shocked she finds someone besides him attractive. Not sure why he’s surprised, I know for a fact he finds other women attractive. Mainly one woman. Eloise. A healer for the Agency, my employer for the new demon-killing gig. Eloise rocks.

  Unfortunately, large boobs and a ditzy smile sway T more than brains and the ability to heal injuries.

  Stay out of my head. T turns his glare to me.

  It doesn’t take a telepathic twin to know how you feel about Eloise.

  One of the perks of being twins is using telepathy to talk to each other. Not sure if other twins can do this, I never bothered to ask.

  T wraps an arm around Jackie’s waist, yanks her closer, and plants a kiss on her cheek. As if to give me the middle finger.

  Brothers.

  Little India answers Jackie since her radio partner walked out the door as if he didn’t hear the question. “We’re not sure which players will be there. I hope Donny will. He’s hot.” She winks, her lids getting a workout from the excessive mascara coating her lashes.

  Little India waggles her fingers as she follows her partner out the door. A click of a laptop closing followed by the squeak of couch springs tells me Smythe follows. I let T and Jackie go before me as I wait for my mentor. He puts his hand on the back of my neck, steering me out the door.

  His skin-on-skin touch elicits no insight into his emotions, unlike the readings I get from every other person on the planet. Being an empath while trying to maintain a relationship never works out well.

  Well, almost never. It worked with Blake. Until he was murdered by a demon.

  Nope, not going there. Three months after my on-again off-again lover and full-time friend died and I’m almost adjusted to not having him around. Thinking about him makes things worse.

  I focus on T and Jackie instead.

  As if he reads my thoughts, which he can’t due to my hard-as-steel mental barrier, Smythe drops his hand. The imprint of his touch leaves a warm spot on my skin that sinks into my core like…

  Gah! Am I actually going to make some sort of lovesick comparison between a romance novel and us? I need to get laid as a way to erase a bad case of stupid hormones, but my empath ability makes that a little difficult. Okay, a lot difficult. Unless I’m high or buzzed. Which I no longer do. Usually. Go me.

  Being on the straight and narrow has never been so hard.

  “I’m so excited. This is going to be so much fun!” Jackie slurs, hanging on to T like he’s a support beam.

  Smythe sighs. I pat his shoulder. One side of his lips turns up. Solidarity in the face of ditziness.

  We walk to the elevator, which takes us to ground level. When the doors open, we are directed down a long, concrete-walled hall into what I can only describe as a press room. Or a party suite.

  Crazy Larry heads toward the bar and pours himself another beer while Little India presses her lips together and shoots him the stink eye. All is not well in the land of radio.

  “Where are they?” Jackie looks around the room crowded with other back-stage pass holders, over-stuffed couches, plush chairs, and a bar with enough booze to keep a professional drunk happy for weeks. Liquor abounds, but the promised players are missing.

  “They’ll be here. Don’t you worry your pretty little head none.” Crazy Larry hands her a fresh beer while ignoring T’s overprotective boyfriend glare.

  But I really can’t blame T. Jackie might be a couple of sandwiches short of a picnic, but hearing some skinny middle-aged guy patronize her with the “pretty little head” comment rankles.

  Lost in his own beer, Crazy Larry remains clueless to the stares and glares. Before the tension ramps up another notch, the door crashes open, and a wall of security guards, followed by ten of the most popular team members, along with a handful of others I don’t recognize, flow into the room.

  Noise dominates, turning the quiet, tension-filled room into an after-party. Make that a pissed off after-party. No one likes to lose.

  My justitia vibrates with a subtle hum, as if sensing a minion, the same buzz it gives when Smythe and I go to the Agency, a supposedly minion-free building. Confusion rattles the silver links, but at least it doesn’t form a sword, its usual response to a minion. So what does it sense?

  Over the last couple of months of being a Justitian—or as I like to refer to myself, a demon huntress—I’ve gotten used to knowing what my justitia thinks. The entity in the bracelet is fused to my nervous system and occasional
ly allows a glimpse into its memories of the Justitians who wore it before me. Usually when it senses a minion—a human playing host to a demon’s essence—it forms a sword and I give the minion payback.

  Which in this case typically ends in a loss of life for the minion.

  But sometimes, like at the Agency and right now, my justitia senses what isn’t there. I’ve yet to figure out why. Clearly there’s a demon presence, minus the demon or minion. But where? Or who?

  I should spend more time observing the players for demon influence, but hey, I’m a fan and would rather get their autographs and meet them than attempt my form of exorcism.

  An excited squeal from Jackie snaps me out of my thoughts.

  “Donny Football!”

  Before I finish turning toward her, she’s at the football star’s side, giving him a hug. Not that he seems to mind her double D’s pressing into his chest. T’s right behind her, hand stuck out, arm wrapping around her waist as she releases Donny. The football star shakes T’s hand and ignores my twin’s she’s-mine glare.

  My opinion of Donny just went up a notch. His classic dark skin, black hair, and brown eyes might have helped. Along with a lean, muscular body.

  He’s like looking at art hanging on a museum’s walls. Meant to admire from afar, not take home.

  His gaze meets mine, and everything stills.

  Okay, not really, but judging from how his gaze roams my body, he likes what he sees too.

  Smythe steps beside me, extends his hand toward Donny, his jaw tense. As if he’s mad. Or jealous.

  I can dream. He probably just wants to get this meet-n-greet over with, so he can stare some more at his laptop screen.

  Donny shakes Smythe’s hand but keeps his gaze on me. Heat licks my cheeks.

  “Hi. I’m Gin.” Unlike the others, I clasp my hands together at my waist. I want to remain in fantasyland about how nice Donny is, not learn otherwise by an unwanted empath reading.

  “Hi Gin. I’m Donny.”

  “I know.” Way to fumble with words, Gin. I give a little finger wave in hope he fails to notice. “I mean, nice to meet you.” Can my cheeks get any hotter? Geez.

  He smiles. “The pleasure is all mine.” The deep tenor of his voice rubs against my skin.