Demon Kissed (A Demon Huntress Novel) Page 10

  Another glance in the mirror proves leather pants are not my friend.

  Neither are mirrors.

  Time to stop wishing I’d paid more attention to my butt at the gym and get this party started.

  I open the bathroom door and step out into the living room of Smythe’s apartment.

  My mentor stands arms crossed, face bunched into we’re-running-late creases. He’s dressed in identical black leather pants, but his pair highlights muscular thighs and ass and makes women in a five-mile radius drool. A black tee, shitkickers, and a dangerous aura round out his outfit. Mr. Lethal with a killer bod.

  I sure wouldn’t mess with him. Fuck him, yeah. Mess with him, not likely.

  Since the Agency doesn’t pay me to imagine Smythe’s muscular body thrusting into mine, I lock those thoughts away for another time.

  Like when I’m alone in my bedroom.

  “Are you ready?” Irritation slides off his words. “We’re almost late.”

  “Just trying to figure out how to move in these pants. Speaking of, since when do you have women’s clothes lying around? Something I should know?” I waggle my brows, trying for teasing to cover the green tinge of jealousy wending around my heart.

  Being jealous of Smythe having a potential girlfriend ranks up there with banging one’s boss.

  Stupid, stupid, stupid.

  But I can’t help how I feel.

  He freezes, color slipping off his face. Crap. Him telling me about a friend with benefits pops into my mind. A former friend. One currently keeping company with Blake in the afterlife.

  Damn. And here I had to go remind him of her.

  I step closer, give his shoulder a squeeze. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”

  He waves a hand in a no-big-deal motion as color returns to his cheeks. But the look in his eyes belays his casual tone. “I got rid of all her clothes but the fighting ones. The pants, the shoes, the shirts. Thought another mentee might need them.”

  Another mentee? His last fuck buddy was his mentee? Clearly Smythe has never heard of the eleventh commandment.

  “Smart thinking.” Saving the clothes, that is.

  He shrugs, holds open the front door, gestures me in front of him. “They look good on you. You should wear them more often.”

  “That would imply a lot of minions. And I’m not sure my girlie parts can take this for long.” I yank on the crotch, wiggle my ass. Ah. Relief.

  A chuckle escapes his lips, low and throaty, as his gaze rakes my body. “Better not hurt those things. Now get a move on.”

  He strides to the elevator and punches the button. Within seconds we’re gliding down to the first floor and fast stepping it to the landing room. The clock above the row of computers shows one minute to the hour, but we’re the last to arrive.

  No one talks. Maybe it’s some sort of mage ritual to remain silent before a demon fight. Or maybe they’re just as nervous as me.

  David speaks as soon as the clock strikes the hour. “May your spells strike true, and may many minions fall. See you when it’s over.”

  Samantha steps forward, hand held toward the wall, palm glowing hellfire red. Her words wrap around my ears like cotton batting, thick and muffled. Latin? Or something older?

  A portal opens in the corner, a huge, warm air-belching wormhole big enough for the twenty of us to walk through. I grab Smythe’s hand. I don’t trust Samantha. For all I know her portal would drop me into the space between time where I’d drift in nothingness forever.

  Smythe grips my hand hard, letting me know he won’t let anything happen in the portal. En masse we walk into the in-between. The icy chill sinks into my marrow, catches the breath in my lungs. A zinger of panic explodes in my chest. What if I die in this cold space between places? What if…

  The stench of sulfur assaults my nose a second before a flash of light illuminates the exit, the combination soothing the burgeoning panic. Unfortunately, it fails to help me breathe. Was the stench of sulfur this overpowering the last time? I don’t remember it being this bad.

  Trying to survive a head injury, a demon capture, and the grief of losing my lover apparently dampened my sense of smell. Who would’ve thought?

  We step into a small room, walls and floor paved in gray stone. I remember this room. Zagan healed me here, tried to turn me into a servant three paces away from where I stand. Kissed me.

  I shudder. Not diving into that embarrassing memory.

  Samantha stands by a metal door, the door leading into Zagan’s throne room/bedroom/study of bad interior decorating. Her hand raises in a fist, the other grips the knob. One, two, three, her fingers count down. She points at the door while yanking it open. Twenty mages and I storm through the doorway and into the middle of the room before stopping. Where was everything? Even the tacky, clichéd throne was missing.

  Nothing stood in the large room except the pillars and white marble. A shimmy of joy shakes my bracelet and reverberates through my system.

  Safe, safe, safe, safe, safe, chants through my mind.

  My lips tug upward, and I fight to keep the grin off my face.

  “Damn it,” Samantha slams a palm against the nearest pillar. “He escaped.”

  The metal door slams shut and we all jump. Tension saturates the air like humidity before a storm, thick and suffocating. None of us stands near enough to the door to have closed it. Maybe a strong draft no one noticed blew through the room. Better guess: we just walked into a trap. A bead of sweat trickles down my spine.

  One of the mages strides to the door and tries the knob. “Locked.”

  A chorus of expletives echoes against the cold marble. And then the door on the opposite side of the room opens, a contingent of minions spilling into the room, each wearing a shit-eating grin and a sword strapped to their back in a harness.

  Back-harnesses-R-Us for evil beings must be making a fortune.

  A couple of mages crack their knuckles, while others grab their swords. With a battle cry that would make a Viking proud, Samantha leads the mages, swords clashing as the two sides meet. I press my back to the wall and hold out my wrist.

  Come on, come on, form a sword already.

  Since when does my justitia not go into sword mode when a minion is around? Damn malfunctioning thing.

  I close my eyes and imagine the entity attached to my nerves then send it a signal. A loud, start working right signal.

  As if it suddenly becomes aware of its surroundings, the links tighten on my wrist then release with a pop, the sword extending outward two feet. Finally. Nice to know the thing has no problems with killing minions, even if the evil humans do belong to Zagan.

  Now for a test run of the leather pants.

  I dash into the melee and engage the nearest minion. Stab, slash, and his head rolls. Must be a newly made one. Or a lucky strike on my part. Gray mist hovers in the air like smoke in a club, the demon’s essence escaping dead minions. I should stick my justitia into the middle of the mist, killing the essence, weakening the demon.

  But I can’t. The gray mist belongs to Zagan.

  Clearly I have problems. And they have nothing to do with the minion rushing toward me.

  I raise my sword, step back into a defensive posture, waiting for his attack. Before he gets to me, a rush of warm air blows onto my back and a strong-arm bands around my waist, pulling me against a broad chest. Too short for Smythe. My justitia shakes a greeting a second before the minion’s eyes widen. He pulls his swing, skidding to a halt, a mixture of shock, disbelief, and fear streaking across his face in alternating waves.

  Then he bows. Oh shit. My heart jumps as if shocked by a defibrillator, my breath and limbs freeze. My only movement the justitia happy dancing along nerves.

  Nice to know one of us is thrilled.

  “My apologies, master.” The minion speaks to the floor, bent over in the middle of a fight. How is everyone missing this scene? A quick glance shows minions and mages engaged in a battle, not a one paying me a lick of attention.


  “Never,” Zagan speaks, his accented words rumbling from his chest into my back, “harm this one.”

  “Yes, master.”

  “Go.”

  The minion rises from his bow, his eyes locking on mine, his gaze searing my soul. A tingling starts in my feet, and the minion vanishes, left behind as a kaleidoscope of colors and Arctic temperatures swallows me into its depths. A portal. The damn demon snagged me in a portal. Again.

  This time I’m uninjured and not frightened. Relatively speaking. Aw, hell, I really need to stop lying to myself. Despite the justitia’s happy vibration, I’m scared. Maybe not as scared as the last time but scared nonetheless.

  I will not pee my pants. I am an adult. Pulling these pants off will be enough of a challenge dry.

  We land in another marble hall complete with Zagan’s things. Antique wardrobes and four-poster beds mixed with modern furniture gives an eclectic feeling. Those were the nice parts. The rest looks like a cross between a BDSM trade show and a blast into the 70s. A green and yellow plaid couch sits on red shag carpet overshadowed by a table containing chains and shackles. The table looks familiar. Kind of like the one Samantha blasted my ass into the last time we paid the demon a visit.

  Almost the exact same furniture arrangement as the last time I was here. Including the throne. Twisted in the shape of writhing humans, the iron monstrosity sits on a dais at the end of the room.

  Remind me not to hire his decorator.

  “Mmm,” Zagan’s lips brush behind my ear, over the rune of his name, and an unwanted shot of lust drives into my core. “I like my mark on you. It smells good.”

  I shove against his strong arm, wanting to be free, wanting to be wrapped in his arms. Conflicted is not a state I enjoy. He chuckles and drops his arm from my waist.

  As soon as he releases me, I step forward, putting as much distance between us as possible without running to the opposite side of the room. When I turn to face him, I’m greeted by a wall of glass overlooking the fight.

  As if we stand in the same room as the fight, but out of sight. I run my damp palms along the sides of my hips.

  “Where are we?”

  One brow raises, his tone that of dealing with a toddler. “My home.”

  “But there wasn’t a wall of windows the last time.”

  He tsks. “Don’t you sense what is happening? Or has your guardian not shown you illusions?”

  “Demons can cast illusions?”

  His laugh tightens my skin, shivers goosebumps out of hiding. “Some demons. You of all people should know things are not always as they appear.”

  I swallow. “So we’re in the same place but you made it look different.”

  “I’m good, yes? Do you think they are fooled? Yes? Good, good. I have plans.”

  I cross my arms. Who’s pretending to not be afraid of the big, bad demon? “You always have plans. I’m not going along with them. I refuse to be your servant.”

  One side of his mouth kicks up. “Ah, yes. I believe you’ve mentioned that before. This refusal confuses me. But it is what it is. For now.”

  “For all time.”

  Demons must take classes in how to give shit-eating grins guaranteed to twist a human’s innards into soft spaghetti. “We shall see. For now, you must kill me.”

  I stiffen, my justitia freezing my nerve endings. My head shakes before my mind weighs in on the movement.

  “No? I see,” the name rolling off his lips belongs to my justitia, ancient and unpronounceable by the human tongue, “hates the idea. Do you know why?”

  “It considers you a friend. Don’t ask me why.”

  He laughs. “I like your mouth.” He eyes my lips as if he remembers the taste of my blood. The taste I accidentally gave him. An experience I hope to never relive. “More lore the esteemed Agency forgot to tell you.”

  “They don’t know half of what you told me the last time. And I’m not going to help you.” I lick my lips but manage to straighten my shoulders. Fake it until you make it. I will not be afraid of the hot demon. I will not. “I’m a demon huntress. Demon killing is my specialty.”

  Dark eyes open and close, his lips twitching. “Demon huntress?” One hand slices through the air. “Another day. Time is short. My plan must be completed. You will kill me.”

  I shake my head. I can’t kill him. I can’t.

  “Pretend to kill me.”

  Okay, now that I can do. I no longer question why I can’t kill him. I should question many things about him, about us. But standing in this gaudy throne room, next to a demon I don’t want near me and yet can’t get enough of, I hesitate. Refuse to voice the million questions dancing through my mind. Refuse to wonder why I want to help him. Refuse to tell him no.

  How can I be a Justitian and work for the Agency if I can’t destroy this demon?

  Maybe he really does control me.

  Help him, help him, help him, my justitia chants.

  Do I have another choice?

  “Pretend to kill you? Why?”

  “Curious little human aren’t you? I find I like that about you. But I need you to act, not question. Here’s what will happen.”

  When he finishes speaking, my breath catches. Can I do this? Can I lie to the people I work with? Can I deceive Smythe?

  It beats the alternative of killing Zagan.

  “Okay.”

  Before I can blink, he’s by my side, a portal forming around us, popping us back to the fight. It takes less than a second to realize no one missed me, and two seconds after that for everyone to focus on Zagan. Including the minions.

  Do they know his plan?

  I find Smythe in the now-still crowd, his eyes narrowing on the demon standing beside me.

  “What?” My voice squeaks as I slow turn toward Zagan, as if I’m clueless and don’t realize he stands beside me.

  Now my eyes widen. He’s there, but not there, light fading through and solidifying on snarling features. He looks mad, but I see through the illusion, see Zagan standing feet away, not beside me. The image projected raises a hand, forms a fist. My justitia releases a laugh that streaks across my nerves, fuels my strike.

  My sword stabs through the illusion’s chest, blood streams in a fall of red as the fake Zagan drops to his knees, hands clawing at the sword before face planting on the hard white marble with a meaty thud. Flames explode, the body incinerating into ash. The minions disappear, vanishing as if they never lived.

  Shit. Didn’t see that one coming. Zagan must have cloaked them in his illusion.

  Smythe’s eyes remain narrowed, his gaze bouncing from me to the downed fake Zagan. Everyone else claps. Amend that. Everyone else except Samantha. You’d think she’d be happy. As far as she knows her plan worked. Unless she saw through the illusion.

  I’m pretty certain Smythe knows a fake when he sees one.

  Several things happen at once. I’m surrounded by congratulatory mages patting my shoulders, offering praise for a job well done. Samantha stands to the side, arms crossed, her face a mask of emotions impossible to read from this distance. Smythe stabs his sword to the side as if he sees a minion standing there. As it requires effort for him to yank the thing back, maybe he does.

  Above all else, I hear Zagan whisper in my ear.

  I spin and, yep, the damn demon stands next to me, invisible to all the mages surrounding me. A shot of joy pounds my heart into a happy-happy rhythm, tempered only by the realization I’m a worse person than I thought. I let a demon live. Helped him create an illusion.

  What kind of person does that?

  Friend saved, friend saved, friend saved. My stupid justitia chants a mantra of my deceit.

  “Good job, little Justitian. My grateful thanks. I’ll see you later.” His farewell touch on my arm burns against my skin through my shirt and I shake it off as he forms a portal and disappears.

  But I can’t shake off the six five mound of muscle elbowing the mages out of his path.

  “Smythe. Di
d you see?” I point to the burning pile of fake Zagan and hope he thinks my shaking hands are due to the fight and not a byproduct of lying.

  “We need to talk.”

  “I’m sure we do, but not now.”

  Did you think you could get away with this? Did you think I wouldn’t see?

  Uh-oh. If he resorted to a telepathic accusation, he’s madder than he looks. And he looks like a Texas spring storm, a black fury complete with bursts of lightning warning of a potential disaster. On the plus side, he’s not yelling. Out loud, that is. So much for Zagan’s illusion being foolproof. Time for an attempted redirection. See what?

  Don’t play games with me. The growl in his words vibrates through my mind like a slap.

  My gaze drops to my feet as I struggle to stand still and not run. He’s not going to hurt me. This is Smythe I’m talking about. Smythe. Not a memory, not a learned response to an angry voice. Smythe. My mentor.

  I will not run. I am strong. He’s just upset. And can I really blame him?

  I clear my throat. Raise my eyes. Pitch my voice to a barely audible level. “Can we do this later? No one else noticed.”

  His jaw locks, fingers flexing, and once again I freeze. Only to shake it off. Smythe is not a character from my past. He would never hurt me.

  I really need to work on my reaction to his anger.

  “Let’s go.” Samantha kicks the pile of smoldering ash, interrupting our silent conversation.

  This isn’t over. His words leave a sour trail of anger in my head, my stomach echoing the response.

  I swallow the urge to puke. I accomplished my goal of getting out of this fight alive and without killing Zagan. But was hiding behind an illusion worth angering Smythe?

  Chapter Eleven

  We march behind the pack into the stone walled room that smells like sulfur, Smythe’s hand like a heavy stone on my shoulder, weighing me down with guilt.

  Would he interrupt the exit? Tell the mages I didn’t really kill a demon? Or tense his jaw tight enough to grind his molars into dust?

  I glace at him. Option three it is.

  Samantha forms the portal home and part of me wants to take my chances with her instead of trusting Smythe to get me there safely. He keeps his mouth shut, but anger roils over the edge like a boiling pot with a tight lid.